Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only a few insignificant side characters belong to me.

Acknowledgement: my heartfelt gratitude goes to Cirdan for our discussions, for the beta work and for our shared love for “The Book of Lost Tales”.

As Professor Tolkien would say, “this tale grew in the telling” until it became something entirely different than what I intended to write. Originally, it would have been another missing chapter to my ongoing serial titled “Innocence”, but as there are no spoilers whatsoever, people could have read it independently. Chronologically, it would come right after Chapter 23: The Fading of the Silver Queen.

Originally, this was written as a birthday gift for my dear friend Nemis, some six years ago, before I ran into a massive writer's block with it – therefore it has Celebrían as one of the main characters. The other one has been borrowed from “The Book of Lost Tales” (HoME 1-2) and is a genuine Tolkien character, albeit one that was later rejected. Most other characters (or, at least, their names) were also created by the Great Maker himself – I only gave their relations a mighty twist.

As you will see, I have tried to reintegrate parts of the old mythology as it is presented in “The Lost Tales” into the Third Age. I am well aware of the fact that Tolkien never meant these parts to be part of the later Silmarillion, or even the LOTR-times. But I have been very fond of the fairy tale-like style of “The Lost Tales” for some 25 years by now, an I felt the sudden need to do something with a few of its parts.

If “creative” use of canon offends you, this is the right time to hit the Back button. I won't be offended at all.

Further notices can be found – or ignored, whatever makes you happy – at the end of each chapter. And now, on we go!

In all her life she had only visited Mithlond once before – which was not surprising, as her parents had dwelt deep in the inland for most of the last two Ages; first at Lake Evendim, ruling over the Green-Elves, then in the woods near Eregion, and finally, in their last and most permanent dwelling, the Golden Wood. But there was a time, shortly after the war against Sauron in Eriador, when her mother decided to move to the southern shores, and Círdan offered to sail with them along the west coast into the South Haven of the Elves, known as Edhellond – a small settlement ruled by her cousin Gildor.

There her mother chose to settle next to the town on a rocky promontory jutting into the bay called Tirond Aear⁽¹⁾, and despite some long-held family grudges, Gildor had the decency to send some of his best craftsmen to help them erect a tower for their family and household; and for a while they lived in Tirith Aear⁽²⁾.

Those were good years. She loved the ever-present murmurs of the Sea that blended so seamlessly with the music of their people; the beautiful sight when the great Swanships came shimmering home to sail into their haven, the Elven mariners singing and winking from the high masts. She often accompanied them on short sea journeys, and enjoyed the frequent visits in the town that was built upon a green hill, surrounded by a low wall and a ring of silvery oaks. Often did she seek escape from her own much too sober home in her cousin’s merry house where the feasts were celebrated with song and music and dance and great amounts of the finest food and the best wine.

Yea, sober and too quiet her own home was, for her father was unhappy there. He disliked the Sea, finding it cold and distant and barren, and yearned for the great woods of his youth that were no more. Yet there still were huge forests in Middle-earth that could give shelter to the Lord of Trees, and thus they moved again, this time to Laurelindórinand, the Golden Wood, where her father’s kin dwelt of old. Her mother brought many silver nuts from the mellyrn that had been brought from the West and grew and flourished in the mild climate of Edhellond, and planted them in the rich soil of Lórinand, so that soon (at least as Elves count time) the Golden Wood truly became golden with the autumn leaves of these wondrous trees. And though their dwellings in the tree-top seemed rustic compared with the comfort and elegance of Tirith Aear, for a while they lived happily and contentedly… ‘til war came upon them once again, and many of their people were killed, including her cousin, the King of the Golden Wood – and even more left for the West afterwards.

Often did the eyes of her mother turn westwards with sorrowful yearning, but like her father, she never felt the call of the Sea. She loved the lands of her birth, and though she had enjoyed the life in Edhellond, she was just as content under the trees. Thus she never visited Mithlond again, not even later when she married Elrond and moved to Imladris with him.

And yet now she was riding to the Havens for one last time. For this time the great Swanship will not sail southwards with her. This time she will embark upon a journey from which there will be no return.

Elrond and their children had accepted her decision, out of fear of losing her – for she was fading, and they could see that. They begged to accompany her on this last journey, but she asked them to let her go alone. The children had the blood of Eärendil in their veins – seeing the sea could have awakened the longing in their hearts, and it was too soon for that. Thus she spoke her farewells to them behind the closed doors of their home and rode forth in the company of Thalion, captain of the Home Guard, and a dozen of his best warriors.

They spoke little while they rode along the Weather Hills and across the land of the Halflings, for Thalion was still feeling guilty that his guards had been unable to protect her at the Redhorn Pass; and he still grieved for his fallen people. So they travelled in nearly complete silence, and riding about the south skirts of the White Downs they came at least to the Far Downs and to the great, white tower of Elostirion that looked on the distant Sea, shimmering like a pearl in the twilight.

There the Guardians of the Tower came forth to greet them and asked her if she would look into the Seeing Stone – the one that looked always towards the West – before her departure, for the news that she was leaving had spread already. But she only wanted to go on as quickly as she might, therefore she rejected their offer. And so they bode her farewell and wished her smooth sailing.

Thus they rode down at last to Mithlond, to the Grey Havens, the realm of the most ancient Elf-lord in Middle-earth – Círdan, the Shipwright, beloved by Ossë and the Lady Uinen and a trusted vassal of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters himself.

Mithlond lay at the Gulf of Lhûn, not at the shores themselves; still, it was a marvellous sight to behold. It was surrounded by a wall, just like Edhellond – but that was about all they had in common. Edhellond was a small town with a harbour. Mithlond was a pair of cities, founded right after the War of Wrath and settled by the surviving Falathrim of Brithombar and Eglarest, who kept their old customs and even their old tongue, all which had separated them from the rest of the Elves in Middle-earth. And though the reign of High King Gil-galad Forlond might have been the most important city of Lindon, due to the present of the court, after the Last Alliance Edenalphond⁽³⁾, the white castle of the King that stood upon a steep rock at the northern entrance of the Gulf, had been abandoned and fell slowly to ruin.

But Mithlond remained, with its great harbours, shipyards, long, lamp lit quays, workshops, walled courtyards, orchards, gardens and adjoining woods. And so did its ancient Lord who had seen all three Ages of Middle-earth, yet was still not weary of it.

Círdan was waiting for them already in the gates that were cut into the wall where the road coming from the Tower Hills ended, and she greeted him with a forced smile. She had not seen the Shipwright since her early childhood, and now she was shocked of how much he had changed. She had memories of a very tall Elf with noble and beautiful features, with long hair of pure silver (like that of her father’s), a neatly trimmed, short silver beard and deep eyes as keen as the newborn stars above the dark waters of Cuiviénen, where he awakened before Time had begun to be measured on this part of Arda.⁽⁴⁾

Tall and keen-eyed he still was, but now his beard was long and grey like his hair that he still wore in a tight knot wound low upon the nape of his neck, and there were deep lines around his mouth and in the corners of his eyes – eyes that looked at her with understanding and great pity. And though it had shaken her badly to see an Elven face marred by age, she had to admit that even as an old Elf, Círdan still was a majestic sight. This was the same Elf who – out of his love to Elwë – tarried so long, looking for his friend in the enchanted woods, that he missed the last ferry to Valinor, way back in the Age of the Trees, when the Sea was not yet bent and Anor and Ithil were not even born.

“Mae govannen, my Lady,” the Shipwright greeted her in a voice that was deep and rumbling and melodious like the never-ending song of the Sea. “All has been prepared for your journey, but the ships of Mithlond do not leave the Havens at nighttime. You will rest in my home tonight and depart by daybreak.”

She nodded her agreement. A mere year ago she would have been excited to visit the famous Sea Palace, built in the likeness of Lord Ossë’s home of old, back in Valinor, and with the help of his vassals, the spirits of the foam and the surf of the ocean, for wondrous tales had been told about it, every time after one of Elrond’s messengers had visited the Havens. Yet now, though Círdan’s home still shimmered pearly white and grey-green like the sea-foam, despite the Age and half that had gone by since it was built, she only wished for the night to be gone swiftly so that she could leave the shores of her birth.

Círdan saw that she wanted to be left alone, and thus servants came and showed her to a comfortable room and asked if she wanted to eat or drink something; but she politely rejected the offer and they withdrew, not wanting to disturb her solitude. Yet sleep eluded her – or else, she was too frightened of by the nightmares that might come should she fall asleep – and so she got up again, donned a robe and left the Palace to take a stroll through Círdan’s extensive gardens.

These stretched along the Gulf of Lhûn, opposite the port itself, and unlike the orchards that lay further behind, protected by stone walls against the quirks of the weather, they stood wide open – as they ever had during the last two Ages – and descended in wide, flat steps to the Sea. There were evergreen trees and bushes, some of them hundreds of years old; and fountains, with basins formed like rare seashells, and their falling water, due to their strange shape, formed a soft harmony with the ever-present murmurs of the Sea. A wonderful peace lay upon the gardens of the Shipwright, even in these troubled days, and she found that she could breathe a little easier, as if the salty breeze had lifted some of the burden off her tormented spirit.

She detected a steep, narrow path between two rows of tall evergreen bushes, and understood that they would lead down to the Sea; so she began to descend the hidden path, feeling the Call for the first time. She came to an open terrace, the tall, glassless windows of which looked at the sandy shore. The once white stone of the slender pillars had long become grey-green from the sea-spray that the waves kept throwing at them, whenever they came up ‘til a few feet’s distance during the time of high flood, but this only gave the whole structure an even more ancient, more intricate look.

Pulling her robe more tightly around her weary self, she sat down on the edge of the terrace, leaning against one of the pillars, and looked out, far above the white crest of the dancing waves. Vaguely, she could remember a dream she had once shared with Elrond, about him sitting somewhere at the shores, thinking of the harsh events of his childhood. It never occurred to her – until now – that it might have been less of a dream and more of a memory⁽⁵⁾.

But now she felt with relief the memory of Elrond’s presence still lingering over this place. And so she remained there, clinging to this small comfort, until the night was over and the time of her departure came.

(1) Sea-spire (Sindarin). As to Galadriel’s different dwellings, I tried to sort them chronologically, based on the “Unfinished Tales”, but the Professor left us with too many holes in the whole fabric to be sure.

(3) New Swanstone (Sindarin). Gil-galad’s castle in Forlond is the product of my over-active imagination and was created using Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany as a model.

(5) Actually, it was. The event is described in “Twisted Paths of Fate”, Chapter 5. Celebrían was not even born yet at that time.

Author’s Notes: Obviously, some details have been borrowed from LOTR, where Frodo’s departure is described.

Círdan was mildly disapproving when he learnt in the next morrow that she had spent the whole night on the cold and wet terrace – but seeing that she was somewhat less troubled than at her arrival mollified him soon enough. They broke their feast together, and then the Shipwright led her to the port, where a white ship, great and breathtakingly beautiful, was lying at the quay.

For a moment, she almost forgot to breathe indeed, for she had never seen a true Swanship before. Certainly, the artfully-crafted barges in her father’s woodland realm were made in the likeness of Ossë’s great sea-birds, too, but those were but little elflings’ toys compared with the majestic vessel that was waiting to be boarded, with its tall, slender masts pointing skywards like the royal mellyrn in her parents’ home. Not even the strong and quick ships of Edhellond would have been a match for this one.

Upon the quay, beside the ship Galdor stood, one of Círdan’s close kin and his best captain; for the Alquarámë⁽¹⁾ was his ship, and Círdan had chosen him to take the Lady of Imladris safely to the West, as he trusted him the most. Like most of the Falathrim (save their Lord), he was of a somewhat sturdier build than other Elves, and had a neatly-trimmed silver beard in the fashion as Círdan used to wear his an Age or so earlier. He wore the simple, rough grey garb that the mariners of Mithlond preferred on their journeys, and his hair was bound to a tight ponytail to keep it out of his face.

“Él síla lúmena vomentienguo⁽⁵⁾ (a star shines upon the hour of our meeting)”, he said in the peculiar dialect of the Falathrim that was spoken no-where but in Mithlond any longer, and bowed deeply before her. “All is ready for your departure, my Lady.”

Having no family accompanying her, parting was short and blissfully painless. She spoke her farewells to Thalion and his guards and allowed Círdan to embrace her and speak the traditional words of blessing (that were always spoken when someone departed over the Sea) in his soft voice. Then she went abroad, and Galdor called out an order in a clear, ringing voice that echoed long over the waves.

The mariners moved up the tall masts quickly and gracefully, and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, swelling the white linens to perfect globes ‘til the ship looked like a great swan in full flight, indeed. In that moment Galdor raised his strong voice again and gave another order; and slowly, the great ship slipped away down the long grey firth, and the light of the lamps that were hung upon slender pillars along the quays glimmered and was lost.

And when not even the fading shores of Middle-earth could be seen any more, Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn of Doriath and Galadriel of Finarfin’s House, wife of Elrond Half-elven and mother of three grown, beautiful, headstrong children, turned away from the railing and towards the West, where the High Sea was waiting, and over the bent Sea the Blessed Realm – and, mayhap, the hope for healing.

Long and lonely was her journey, for she was the only passenger of the ship, and she felt great need for solitude. The mariners bothered her not, as they had to look out for the right way, or else the ship could get lost in the Shadowy Seas. They all had made this same journey many times, being the only people who were allowed to sail back and forth between Middle-earth and the Lonely Island – never setting foot on the Isle themselves – where many of those who had returned to the West after the War of Wrath still dwelt. But it was forbidden for them to go any further than Tol Eressëa – unless they wanted to remain in Valinor for ever.

Thus they only brought those who wanted to depart from Middle-earth ‘til the haven of Avallónë and turned back – for there were few of them in Mithlond who could find the Straight Path, and they were needed at home, in case the Elves would need to flee over the Sea once more. Círdan had promised to Eönwë that he will remain in the Grey Havens ‘til the last of the Eldalie departed, and so his people remained, too – for never had one of the Falathrim broken a solemn oath.

Therefore she spent her days alone, in the dark comfort of her cabin or standing on the deck and looking westwards over the grey Sea that was always the same and yet constantly changing. Until at last, on a night of rain, she smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came from afar over the water. Grabbing her cloak, she hurried out to the railing, and lo! The grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and she beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.

“We are approaching Tol Eressëa, my Lady,” said Galdor, stepping up to her, and there was a light in his grey eyes as if he waited for something wonderful to happen. “The tall, white building you can see from afar is the light-tower of Avallónë, the easternmost haven of the Island. That is as far as we can bring you.”

“That I cannot say,” replied the Sea-Elf with a shrug, “but many of our people live on Tol Eressëa who can help in this matter – I think not that King Finarfin will leave his granddaughter stranded on the Lonely Island without aid. Soon enough you will be brought to him, I deem.”

This predicament made her frown. She did respect and admire her powerful and strong-willed mother, the Warrior Princess of the Noldor – who would not? – yet in all that mattered she came after her father and his people. The thought that she might have to live in the court of the High King of the Noldor was not an appealing one.

“Are there no Sea-Elves anymore?” she asked. “Legends say this was their island once, before they were moved to Valinor like the other kindreds.”

“Oh, there certainly are,” replied Galdor with another shrug. “After all, someone has to maintain the ships and the havens; and who could do that better than our people? But I cannot say aught for sure, my Lady. As you know, we are not allowed to leave our ships, as long as we still want to return to Middle-earth. But I have seen other ships, larger and more beautiful even than ours, sailing back and forth between Tol Eressëa and the outmost West all the time, which means that people can come and go as they please.”

“Except returning to Middle-earth,” she added softly, and Galdor nodded in agreement.

As they were speaking, the Alquarámë was swiftly approaching the great bay of Tol Eressëa, and she could se now the far off Mountains of Elvenhome and the lights of Avallónë dancing upon the waves. The singing became louder, though still sweet and merry, and she could even catch a glimpse of the city of the Elves on the green hill beneath the Mountains, a glint of white far away.

“There!” Galdor said, pointing out that glint of white to her. “That is the region called Alalminórë or ‘the Land of Elms’, which the Noldor, who dwell on the Island, call Gar Lossion, or the ‘Place of Flowers’. Now this region is accounted the centre of the Island, and its fairest realm; but above all the towns and villages of Alalminórë is held Koromas, or as some call it Kortirion, in remembrance of the First City of Elves that was destroyed by Udûn’s fire.”

“Why is that city so important?” she asked. It did not seem particularly big, not even from this distance.

“Because it stands in the very heart of the Island,” answered Galdor, “and from the height of its mighty tower, erected by Ingil son of Ingwë after the War of Wrath in memory of those who had fallen. Yet more reason is thereto than even great love, for all the Island looks to the dwellers here for wisdom and leadership, for song and lore, or so I am told. And here, in a great korin of elms, dwells Meril-i-Turinqi.”

“I never heard of her,” she admitted, shaking her head a little ashamedly. “Who is she… and what is a korin?”

“I cannot tell you more than Meril is the Lady of Tol Eressëa,” replied Galdor, “and that she comes of the blood of Ingwë, High King of all Elves in the Blessed Realm. Aught else is hers to tell, yet she only shows herself to those who will remain; thus little about her is known among those who do not. Yet since ‘tis custom to bring all newcomers who ask for it before her presence, I am certain that you will have the chance to meet her and ask whatever questions you might have, my Lady.”

She felt a little disappointed, but understood that Galdor was not able to tell her any more. The Sea-Elf smiled and continued⁽³⁾.

“As for a korin, ‘tis naught but a great circular hedge, be it of stone or thorn or even trees, that encloses a green sward. Meril’s house, as I said, stands in a korin of elms. They say that after the War of Wrath many Noldor, who were allowed to return, felt themselves unworthy of living in Valinor, even though they were forgiven – thus they decided to make their new home here, in this very place, seeing it to be very fair. And Ingil son of Ingwë built a great tower, like that of his father’s in Tirion upon Túna that was called Mindon Eldaliéva, to remind them what they had gained and what they had lost.”

“But were you not one of those who sailed to the West after the War of Wrath?” she asked. Galdor nodded again.

“Aye, I was. But I grew restless all too soon, and ere Eönwë finished his labours in Middle-earth and the paths that led back were closed, I asked to be sent back to help Círdan, and the Lords of the West allowed it. Still, just like the others, I must not leave my ship when we dock in Avallónë, or else I, too, had to remain here, for ever.”

“Do you not wish to remain?” she asked in surprise. “How can you look at the peace of the Undying Lands from afar and still return?”

“I am not ready to leave my home yet,” he answered simply, “even though there is someone in Avallónë who has been waiting for me since the last Age. We see each other every time I sail into the haven here – and yet I cannot tear my heart away from Middle-earth. Not yet.”

“’Tis hard for both of us,” said Galdor, “but we are Elves. We have all the time ‘til the end of Arda. For which I am eternally grateful.”

In this moment the Alquarámë finally reached the lamplit quays of Avallónë, and Galdor had to go down to the steering wheel to maneuver his ship safely into the haven. Then the anchor was thrown out and the sails were rolled together, for the ship had to rest and be resupplied ere turning back to Middle-earth.

There was laughter and the sweet music of flutes upon the quay, where a cheerful crowd was gathering already, and as soon as the wooden planks were thrown over the deck, many of them came aboard, greeting their friends of old with joyous voices and with jests and affectionate claps on the back.

Celebrían, however, spoke her farewells to Galdor and his mariners and left the Aquarrámë all by herself.

(2) This is basically the same polite greeting that Frodo offered Gildor Inglorion (there: Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo), but in Telerin instead of Quenya; quote taken from Ardalambion – thank you kindly, Mr Fauskanger! Of course, we cannot say for sure that any Telerin dialect was still used in Mithlond in the Third Age – I just wanted to make the Falathrim different from other Elves.

(3) Some of Galdor’s answers are modified quotes from “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, from the chapter “The Cottage of the Forgotten Play”.

Author’s Notes: I took some liberties here both with “Laws & Customs” and concerning Voronwë’s family. I still do not consider this story an AU, though that is debatable. Let us say this is my free interpretation. :)

This chapter has been slightly edited, in order to match site requirements. Nothing terribly important has been cut, though.

The crowd that greeted her upon the quay was not very different from the people of Mithlond – or even those in Edhellond, if memory served her well. Fishermen were strolling towards their barges, with rolled-up nets on their shoulders, mariners were readying other ships, docked in further away, for departure, various craftsmen were going after their own business, all of them giving her a welcoming smile but addressing her not.

She was beginning to think that no-one had truly taken notice of her arrival, when she finally detected him who seemed to wait just for her. He was rather small for an Elf, not even reaching her own height, and very slender; and he had a weather-worn face that always pointed out mariners – even Elven mariners – among their own kin, and blue eyes full of merriment, but his hair was of the same changeable auburn colour than that of the Silvan folk. This surprised her, for Wood-Elves rarely knew the call of the Sea and she had not expected to find one of them here, right at the beginning.

‘Twas hard to tell if this particular Elf might be fifty or then thousand years old, for though his face showed the traces of much joy and also much pain that he had known during a long life, there was an air of utter, childlike innocence about him, as if he had been reborn. He approached her with a joyous smile and bowed before her deeply and spoke in a clear, lyrical voice:

“Welcome, my Lady, on the Isle of endless summer. Ilverin, son of Voronwë is my name⁽¹⁾, and I was sent to escort you to our Queen⁽²⁾.”

“You knew that I was coming?” she asked in surprise. Ilverin nodded as if that were the most natural thing.

“Word has come from Aman, from Lord Ingwë himself. The High King hears much what is happening in the Outer Lands from the Powers themselves. And our Lady has other means to learn of events that happen far away, even in the lands that are affected by the Shadow. Would you not come with me? She is waiting for you.”

She was still a little confused, gazing in awe at the merry face of this strange Elf who seemed ancient and yet so young at the same time. Somehow, he looked familiar nevertheless, and after a moment she understood why – he had a fleeting similarity to one of the Elves who had just gone aboard the Alqarámë and was greeted by the mariners with heartfelt hugs and friendly slaps on the back.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Ilverin smiled at her and nodded. “Yea. That was my father.”

“But why has your mother not come with him?” she asked, forgetting even tact in her confusion. “Is she perchance nurturing grudges toward those who are tarrying in Middle-earth still?”

Barely had he spoken, she felt ashamed already for her tactlessness. But Ilverin seemed not offended at all.

“My mother was slain when Gondolin fell,” he replied, and now there was deep sorrow in his merry eyes. “She was one of the Hisildi⁽³⁾ and refused to follow the summons of Mandos, for she could not leave the lands of her birth – and now that they are gone, she, too, is lost forever, just like our home of old. The bond between my parents is no more, and I am grateful that my father found such friendship and support among the Falathrim, or else he would have withered away from grief.”

This made her think of Elrond again, and she was worried once more, for Elrond truly had been devastated over her departure, no matter how hard he tried to suppress his own despair for their children’s sake. She remembered the love that still bound them with great fondness, hoping and wishing with all her heart that he, too, might find some comfort, enough to save him from fading – until they could be reunited.

Ilverin left her to her thoughts and they walked through the harbour and out of the haven in companionable silence.

Long was their way from Avallónë to Koromas, for the main city of the Isle lay in the very heart of Tol Eressëa – fifty leagues as the birds fly did it take, and even more on foot. But Ilverin proved to be good company, and though he spoke little, he sang a lot, mostly songs about Elvenhome, songs so ancient that Celebrían had never heard them before, and their journey seemed to her swift and light, even though it lasted a day and a half. For they walked during the night, too, under the starlit trees of Alalminórë, with few and short rests in-between.

Ilverin sang softly, bursting into song once again when they rose from their resting place for the last march of their journey. And though his song had an underlying sadness like all the others before, Celebrían felt a slight easing of her burden. She was not in Aman yet, not entirely anyway, but it seemed as if her healing had begun already.

“Are you a minstrel?” she asked Ilverin, for though the small Elf came no-where near Lindir’s unique gift, it still seemed that song and music came straight from this heart. But Ilverin laughed merrily as if it had been the funniest jest she could have made.

“Me? Oh no, my Lady, I am but the Gong-warden of Meril’s house. Once I sailed in Wingilot with Eärendil in that last voyage⁽⁵⁾ when we sought for Aman – and I was kept there when we found it, for I was too young to go to war, being but a ship’s boy aboard the vessel of the evening star.”

“And yet you have the brightness and ancient wisdom in your eyes like those who had seen the Light of the Two Trees themselves,” she said; “even though you were born in Middle-earth and not even from the greatest of the Eldar.”

“’Tis true that I come from the lesser Elves,” Ilverin nodded, not offended at all, “yet birth is not all that counts. I dwelt in Irmo’s gardens for a long time and was taught much that not even the Wise of the Eldar know; and when the Exiles returned and settled on Tol Eressëa, I was sent here to teach them what they had forgotten among their labours and sufferings: the joys of the heart and the songs about things old and simple that once all the Quendi had known.”

“But how can lost innocence be regained, unless one goes to Mandos for healing and is remade?” she asked anxiously, for ever since that ambush at the Redhorn Pass she had been in fear that she might never be completely healed, not even in the Blessed Realm.

“It takes time, like all healing does,” Ilverin replied, giving her a compassionate look, “and the help of a draught that can make our hearts young again, without the need to shed our hröar first. Yet I am not allowed to tell more of this, for Meril alone may give it those who require. Once you have met her, all decisions are hers to make.”

To that she had naught else to say, and they walked in silence once again, and leaving the shadow of the trees at last they came to the white city of Koromas, the very heart of the Lonely Island, and to the house of Meril-i-Turinqi in her korin of elms⁽⁶⁾.

Now the house of the Lady of Tol Eressëa was in that very city, for at the foot of the great tower which Ingil had built was a wide grove of the most ancient and beautiful elms of all that the Land of Elms could offer. High to heaven they rose in three lessening storeys of bright foliage, and the sunlight that filtered through was very cool – a golden green. Amidst of these was a great green sward of grass, smooth as a web of the finest Lothlórien cloth, and about it those trees stood in a circle, so that shades were heavy at its edge but the gaze of Anor fell all day on its middle.

There stood a beautiful house, and it was built all of white and of a whiteness that shone, but its roof was overgrown with mosses and with houseleek⁽⁷⁾ and many curious clinging plants, so that of what it was once fashioned might not be seen for the glorious maze of colours: golds and red-russets, scarlets and greens.

Birds unnumbered chattered in its eaves; and some sang upon the housetops, while doves and pigeons circled in flocks about the korin’s borders or swooped to settle and spun upon the sward. Now all that dwelling was footed in flowers. Blossoming clusters were about it, ropes and tangles, spikes and tassels all in bloom, flowers in panicles and umbels or with great wide faces gazing up at Anor. There did they loose upon the faintly stirring airs their several odours blended to a great fragrance of exceeding marvellous enchantment, but their hues and colours were scattered and gathered seemingly as chance and the joy of their growth directed them. And a hum of bees there went among those flowers: bees fared about the roof and all the scented beds and ways; even about the cool porches of the house.

Ilverin now led her to climb the hill, and it was late afternoon already, and Anor shone brazen upon the western side of Ingil’s tower. Soon they came to a mighty wall of hewn stone blocks, and this leaned outward, but grasses grew atop it, and harebells and yellow daisies.

A wicket they found in the wall, and beyond was a glade beneath the elms, and there ran a pathway bordered on one side with bushes while of the other flowed a little running water, whispering over a brown bed of leafy mould. This led even to the sward’s edge, and coming thither Ilverin halted and said, pointing to that white house:

“Behold the dwelling of Meril-i-Turinqi; and this is where I must take my leave from you. For I have to tend to my other duties now. But fear not, for lo! Evromord, the door-ward of our Lady is coming already to escort you before her presence.”

And indeed, looking up she saw the tall and solemn figure of a dark-haired Elf, undoubtedly of Noldorin descent, approaching across the sunny lawn. Unlike Ilverin who wore the simple garb of the Sindar in the old-fashioned custom of Beleriand (which she only knew from Elrond’s memories but recognized at once nevertheless), this one was clad in white and wore the Emblem of Fingolfin’s House upon his breast, as it was done among the servants of the great Noldorin Houses in the Elder Days.

The Emblem showed a winged sun in bright golden and white and red colours, positioned before a square of sky blue. This was the device of Finwë of old, of whom all Kings of the Noldor descended, and its sixteen points signified his position as one of the eldest of the Quendi and the High King of the Noldor. At the same time, it was the symbol of High Kingship itself, and it was reached over from Finwë to his son Fingolfin and then to Fingon and Turgon, even though they all created their own emblems as well when they came to power ⁽⁸⁾.

It seemed strange to her that this old emblem, which she knew only from Elrond’s history books (as Elrond considered himself but the Master of Imladris and no King) would be worn here in Tol Eressëa, more so since the High King of the Noldor was Finarfin now, her own grandfather, but she thought better not to ask. Surely, there will be time enough to learn the rules by which life in the Blessed Realm was led.

“Well met and welcome in Koromas and to the house of Meril, Lady of the Isle,” the Elf, whom Ilverin had named Evromord, said with a deep, formal bow. “I shall bring you to our Queen now, if you would follow.”

Then, turning to Ilverin, he added: “Your presence is required in the Hall of Songs and Tales, Littleheart. For many tales are about being told and many songs are to be sung soon, and Rúmil the Sage⁽⁹⁾ has come to share them with you and choose the proper ones.”

Hearing this, Ilverin’s face lit up in joy like that of a child’s, and hurriedly he took his leave from Celebrían, running up to the house at once in joyous expectation. Evromord, however, led her to the porches of the front door, where the sound of music came from, a music mayhap sweeter even than what young Lindir was able to share, back in her home that she would never see again.

(1) Ilverin aka Littleheart, the son of Voronwë (called Bronweg in the early mythology) was an important character of “The Lost Tales” who did not make it into the later versions.

(2) Usually, Meril-i-Turinqi is simply called “the Lady of Tol Eressëa,” but on at least one occasion Lindo and Vairë call her “our Queen.”

(4) See: “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, p. 37. This original Tolkien poem is called “The Trees of Kortirion” and I quoted here but the last verses that have the title “Mettanyë”.

(6) The description of Meril’s house is quoted more or less directly from “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, pp 101-102.

(7) A fleshy plant that grows on the walls and roofs of houses, according to the glossary of obsolete, archaic and rare words in “The Lost Tales 1.”

Now we finally get to meet the mysterious Lady of Tol Eressëa. Please remember: I am trying to reintegrate a part of Tolkien’s earlier mythology into the more or less finished version of his universe. These very different strings of canon were never meant to co-exist, and this combination is entirely my take on the Tolkienverse.

Also, the colour of Meril’s hair is not an oversight (as a descendant of Ingwë, she should be expected to have golden hair) but a conscious choice. The reason will be obvious, once her ancestry is fully revealed.

Evromord opened the front door, and through a dimly-lit hall he led her to an airy chamber with high ceiling and tall windows that looked out to the hillside. And amid of white-clad maidens, chosen apparently from all three kindreds of the Eldar, a fair lady sat behind a loom; but seeing her guest’s arrival she rose and stepped forth as if she had been eager to meet Celebrían for a long time.

“Welcome, daughter of the Lord of Trees and of the House of Finarfin,” she said in a voice that was deeper than Celebrían would have expected; indeed, almost as deep as that of her mother’s. “Irmo has foretold your arrival in my dreams, and glad am I to offer you the pleasure of my quiet gardens and the peace of their gentle noise. For it seems to me that you have been touched by much pain and sorrow, and it is my wish to help you in any way I may.”

For a while Celebrían said nought, for she was overwhelmed by the loveliness of that place and the beauty and strength of its Lady. Tall and strong the Lady of the Isle seemed, yet as graceful as any Elf she ever met. Meril had the deep blue eyes of the Vanyar and a slight golden hue of skin that was so unique to the First Kindred, though hers was less visible than Glorfindel’s or even Gildor’s. Her hair, smooth and glossy like heavy silk, was as black as the starless night, and she wore it unadorned, tied up in a simple knot while working. Plain and simple was her gown, too, though made of a silky stuff of dark blue; and it was girdled with a chain of gold, shaped like a chain of flag-lilies set with the pale-blue eyes of forget-me-not.

“I thank you for the kind words of welcome, o Queen of Flowers⁽¹⁾,” Celebrían finally said, “yet I fear that the peace of your gardens will not be enough to heal the wounds that have been inflicted upon me, both hröa and fëa alike. For though the skills of the one who has my heart in his keeping were great enough to mend my broken shell, there are hurts that not even a born healer can make undone; and I was hoping that the light of Valinor would be enough to heal the darkness that had befallen my soul. Can you be of any help, so that I may go there, soon?”

“I can,” said Meril, “and I shall do so if that is your wish. Yet it seems to me that it would be wise if you rested in the pleasance of our Isle for a while, ere you embark upon another journey, however short it may be. For living in Valinor could be demanding, too, more so for the only descendant of the Noldorin King than for someone of common birth. Are you certain that you want to take up your duties right away?”

At this Celebrían only shook her head in defeat, for Meril had addressed her most hidden fear – the very same that had made her delay her journey this long in the first place. She had no desire to take over her mother’s duties in Finarfin’s court – not now, and in all honesty, not even later. She only wanted some peace so that she could heal.

When the unspeakable happened, she refused to flee her body, for she could not bear the thought of being separated from Elrond and their children and wait in the Halls of Mandos for healing and re-making. Yet it proved impossible to remain with her family in Middle-earth as well – she felt tainted, unworthy, barely able to face them… and completely unable to face any others in the long run. She had become a shadow of her own self, and she could see how much it hurt Elrond and the children to see her like this.

Therefore, departing for the West seemed the best way to spare them – all of them – further anguish. But for the same reason, she felt not at all like taking part in the life of her kindred in Valinor, either. Court life was never to her liking, not even when she had been whole and happy. In her present state it would be pure torture.

Meril looked at her with understanding, and bidding her maidens to depart, she prayed Celebrían follow her to a space nigh to the house – and this was a glade of cool grass but not very short. Fruit-trees grew there, and about the roots of one, an apple-tree of great girth and age, the soil was piled, so that there was now a board seat around its bole, soft and grass-covered. There sat Meril, gesturing Celebrían to be seated beside her, and she said gravely:

“There are other means of healing a wounded heart, and I might be able to offer them to you – but doing so is not without consequences, thus ere you make your choices, I wish you to consider them carefully.”

“Ilverin spake of some sort of draught on our way hitherto,” Celebrían said hesitatingly; “a draught that might help find healing without the need to shed one’s hröa… unless I have mistaken his words.”

“You have not,” Meril replied in a most solemn manner, “for indeed, I was speaking of the very same thing. I was speaking of limpë⁽²⁾, the drink of the Eldar both young and old. ‘Tis a drink given to us by Irmo himself, and drinking it, our hearts keep youth and our mouths grow full of song – for it was made to save us from growing weary of our lives and to return the joy and the innocence of the youth of the Quendi to our hearts. This is the only way to achieve that, unless one walks the paths of the dead and waits ‘til they are re-made.”

“Why, then, is this wondrous drink not given to the Elves in Middle-earth as well?” Celebrían asked in confusion. “No-where do our people suffer as much as in the Outer Lands – why is healing denied them?”

“I know all too well what our people have suffered and are still suffering beyond the bent Sea,” answered Meril with a deep sigh; “for I, too, have chosen the path of the Exiles once and dwelt under the Shadow for a whole Age. And I have seen war and death and losses enough for even an Elf to wither and break under its burden. But, you see, ‘tis not that simple. We cannot carry limpë over the Sea – for even if it were allowed (which it is not), it would go bad in Middle-earth, which is tainted by evil. It could only work its miracles here, on this very Island; therefore those that drink it must dwell always with us in Elvenhome until such time as they fare forth to find their lost families – or until their loved ones arrive for them and they can go on to Valinor, where they will not need limpë any more.”

These words gave Celebrían much to think about, and for a while they remained silent, listening to the music that came from the house and mingled with the song of the many birds that nestled in the eaves of the great hedge. Finally Celebrían looked up again and spoke in sorrow:

“I know not how to choose, Lady. For though I yearn to see the lights of Valinor, I also dread the busy life in my grandsire’s court; and I miss the peace that only a life under trees can provide. Cannot you tell me what I shall do?”

“I cannot; and even if I could, I would not do so,” Meril replied. “’Tis dangerous to make decisions for other people rather than let them decide; and it has long-lasting effects that can be quite unpleasant. The Valar themselves had to learn this in the hard way – for hastily did they summon the Quendi to Aman, ere they had had the time to make Middle-earth their own. Too young our people had been when they were forced to choose between the Light of the Trees and the Shadow of the Outer Lands; and they chose without fully understanding their choices. And thus the sundering of Elves – that began at the waters of Cuiviénen when Oromë found – them continued in the enmity between the Exiles and the Ilkorin, and it reached its peak in the three Kinslayings, causing a breach that cannot be undone any more, unless Arda is re-made, and mayhap not even then. For even though forgiveness had been asked for, and given in most cases, the deep wounds will remain ‘til the end of Arda, and who knows what might come afterwards?”

“Mayhap, indeed, had the Valar decided otherwise, the world would be a happier place now and the Eldar a happier folk,” said Celebrían thoughtfully; “but never would they have achieved such glory, knowledge, and beauty, as they did of old, and still less would any of Melkor’s redes and deeds have benefited them. For living under the Shadow of Middle-earth, they also lived in ever-present peril, and we cannot know what evil turn their fate might have taken.”

“Now I hear Nerwen⁽³⁾ speaking with your voice,” answered Meril with a smile. “Of all of Finarfin’s children, she was the one who hungered for power and glory and wisdom the most. ‘Tis a pity that her stubborn pride allowed her not to return to Aman with the rest of us when the Exiled had been forgiven. She still hoped to find a kingdom to rule, after Morgoth had been defeated. Yet it was not hers to have – not when she followed Fingolfin over the Grinding Ice, nor in any later Age. A pity indeed. She would have made a great Queen.”

“She certainly reigns in my father’s realm as if she were one,” Celebrían said, surprised by the sudden bitterness in her voice. “I fear that after three Ages she’s still is not able to understand the woodland folk, even though she had no other choice than to learn to live in the trees like them.”

Meril looked at her intently, and Celebrían had the feeling that those blue eyes could lay her very soul bare and read it like an open book.

“You have but a little of her in you,” the Lady of Tol Eressëa declared, and Celebrían could not tell if she was relieved or disappointed. “You come after your father, I deem. Truth be told, we were all astonished when Nerwen chose to marry Celeborn of Doriath. ‘Tis hard to imagine two Elves more different than they are.”

“She loves Father very much,” Celebrían shrugged. “Their bond is true and strong. And they have learnt how to give in if needed – both of them. Still, sometimes I wonder if she chose wisely when she remained in Middle-earth. Had she followed Eönwë’s summons and accepted forgiveness, mayhap she would be a queen right now. Just like you.”

“Oh, but I was a Queen already while I dwelt still in Beleriand!” she said merrily; then her smiling face grew grave again, and she solemnly added. “Besides, even though at times my people fancy calling me their Queen, I am truly not one. Nor is Elvenhome in truth my realm.”

But however Celebrían begged her to unravel the meaning of these strange words, she was not willing to tell her more. Not yet.

“This is not the proper time to tell old tales full of sorrow,” she said. “You need to rest, first and foremost. I shall send one of my maids to prepare a room and a bath for you, and to bring you refreshments. But in four day’s time Samírien⁽⁴⁾ will come; and though that is a feast of Valinor, we celebrate it just as well – in Ailios’ house. There many tales will be told and many songs sung, and mayhap you shall find counsel to help making your choice.”

With that she rose from her grassy seat and walked back to the house, leaving Celebrían no other choice but to follow her.

(2) Needless to say that originally the drink of the Eldar had a wholly different function than the one I gave it here… one that would not match with the later versions of mythology, so I needed to use it differently.

Gilfanon of Tavrobel (or, with a different spelling, Gilfanon a-Davrobel) is another rejected character from “The Lost Tales” – a highly interesting one, and we can only regret that he did not make it into the later versions of the mythology. He was not related to Meril in “The Lost Tales” – this is entirely my invention. Ailios was his earlier name; one I decided was only used in the family in later Ages.

After the conversation with Meril, Celebrían spent two peaceful days in the Queen’s fair house. Tirannë, one of the Queen’s handmaids had been told to look after her needs but not to bother her otherwise, and she had come to appreciate Tirannë’s quiet tact and gentle care. She spent her days in the gardens, for these had many lovely enclosures where she could avoid Meril’s visitors – who were numerous, for just as Galdor had said, the whole Island looked to her for wisdom and counsel and leadership. Yet no-one ever bothered Celebrían, obeying Meril’s wishes, and she was grateful for it.

On the third morn, however, Ilverin sough her out in the gardens and spoke to her with delight: “My Lady, ‘tis time for you to get ready. Meril and her household leave for Tavrobel later in the afternoon, yet the Queen thought that you may prefer travelling separately and quietly.

“Lady Meril is right,” Celebrían answered with a sad little smile. Nay, she was not ready to face the Queen’s whole court yet. She would gladly remain here, yet Meril clearly wished her to go, thus she was relieved that she at least could travel alone. Ilverin gave her one of his radiant smiles that could clear up a rainy day and clapped merrily.

“Then I am glad to offer you my guidance once again, my Lady,” he said. “I promise you a swift and pleasant journey.”

And thus they set off later in that morn and walked westwards, for the home of Ailios, the host of the Feast of Double Mirth, stood nigh the bridge of Tavrobel, where the river Apros joined the Gruir, and it was near the western shores of Elvenhome, about as far from Koromas as Avallónë was, only in the opposite direction.

This time, though, Ilverin seemed in a more talkative mood, and when Celebrían asked him about Ailios, he readily told her all he knew. And know quite a lot he did, for as she learned later, he used to spend part of the year in the ancient tower of Tavrobel, which was the dwelling place of Rúmil the Sage – at least in those times that this great lore-master spent in Tol Eressëa, for often did he travel back and forth between Valinor and the Lonely Island. Ilverin, however, had been Rúmil’s pupil ever since he returned from Irmo’s gardens and found great delight in learning ancient lore.

“Ailios is a kinsman of our Lady,” he explained; “Indeed he is the father of Lady Mavoinë⁽¹⁾ of the Noldor, the one who married Ingil son of Ingwë, and they are the grandparents of our Queen. Inwithiel was their only daughter, and she married Lindelos, one of the Noldor again, and our Lady is their only child. Ailios, though, is called Gilfanon a-Davrobel by all but his closest family in the ancient dialect of the Noldor, for ever he dwelt in Tavrobel, where the Noldorin folk dwells still as one people, naming the places and people in their own tongue: the one they spoke among themselves ere they learnt to speak Sindarin in the Outer Lands.”

Celebrían frowned a little, for all those names Ilverin counted down with great ease were a little confusing for her. Also, she had always thought that the Noldor had spoken Quenya in Valinor; but Ilverin most likely meant some older fashion of the Elven-speech⁽²⁾. Yet she chose to not ask about it, for she was more interested in the person of Ailios… or Gilfanon… what ever his name might be.

“He must be very ancient then,” she said, the curiosity that she once shared with her husband stirring below the dead weight of her pain and grief.

“He is,” Ilverin agreed, “for he came to Aman with the Great Journey of the Eldar as a close friend of Finwë, and fled after Finwë’s death with the host of Fingolfin, driven by vengeful grief. Yet once in the Outer Lands, long had he dwelt away from the Noldor, faring with the Ilkorin in Hisilómë and Doriath, and thereto had he become as few Eldar did a friend and companion of the Dark Elves of those days⁽³⁾. To their legends and their memories he added his own knowledge, for he had been deep-versed in many lores and tongues once in the far days of Tirion, and experience had he beside of many very ancient deeds, being indeed one of the oldest of the Eldar; and since the death of Finwë he also has been the eldest of the Noldor.”

“Your pardon, lady,” he said, blushing. “Sometimes I become too excited about things and people I know well.”

Celebrían could not help but laugh quietly. In some things Ilverin reminded her strongly of Lindir, which she found a little strange, considering Ilverin’s age. ‘Twas hard to remember that he was actually older than Elrond, having sailed with Eärendil himself.

“I do not mind,” she replied in kind, “for I found all that you told me quite intriguing. But do tell me one more thing, will you?”

“If I can,” Ilverin promised earnestly, in the manner of a child that was asked an important question.

“Oh, I am certain that you can,” she said, still smiling. “For I wish to know why Meril is Queen of Elvenhome, if Ailios is so much older and so very wise.”

“That he is,” Ilverin agreed amiably, “but he is not of the blood of Ingwë, while Meril is one of the Inwir⁽⁴⁾; and Koromas was founded by her grandsire, Ingil. Besides, she had been Queen of the Noldor already, back in the Outer Lands where the Exiles lived under Morgoth’s shadow in Beleriand.”

“She mentioned that much two days ago,” Celebrían remembered, “yet no matter how much I asked, she would tell me no more.”

“Then it is not my place to say more, either,” replied Ilverin apologetically; he clearly disliked the necessity to deny an answer. Then, with a bright smile, he added: “Unless you want to hear more about Ailios.”

His merry mood was truly infectious; she had the feeling as if a dark cloud had been lifted off her heart just by being in his company.

“I would gladly listen to aught that you have to tell,” she answered with a smile of her own, which seemed to delight him even more.

“Shall I tell you the tale of his house?” he offered, and when she nodded, he went on eagerly. “Now, that is a truly wondrous place, different though it is from the dwelling of our Queen. ‘Tis called the House of the Hundred Chimneys, for many rooms it has, housing all the people who dwell under Ailios’ roof, who are numerous, indeed. They say it was the very first house that had been ever built in Elvenhome – long before the Darkening of Valinor, when the Solosimpi, as the Teleri were called back then, had not moved to Aman yet, but dwelt on the coasts of Tol Eressëa. And here Ailios dwelt with them, for just as Finwë was friend with Elwë, their King of old, who got lost in Nan Elmoth, so was Ailios the friend of Olwë, their new King. Afterwards, when he went to Valinor with the Solosimpi, the house stood quiet and empty and dark for the whole First Age, ‘til the Exiles returned from the Outer Lands and settled in Elvenhome permanently.”

“It has to be a great house indeed, when it houses so many people that hundred chimneys are needed to heat it properly,” said Celebrían.

“It is certainly big enough,” answered Ilverin, “even though there is no need to heat the house anymore since Elvenhome has become part of the Blessed Realm and is no longer disturbed by cold winters. But in the early times, when the Exiles returned, those of common birth were unwilling to face their brethren in Valinor, and they looked to Ailios for guidance. Thus many of them did not even begin to build a house of their own but asked to live under his roof, so accustomed they had become to living close to their Lords. And many old friends of Ailios came from Valinor to support him: some of the fairest and the wisest, the merriest and the kindest of the Noldor who did not left the Blessed Realm with the Exiles. Here among those came his oldest friend, Valwë, and also Tulkastor, a great craftsman, and their children. And Tulkastor was of Aulë’s household but had dwelt long with the Shoreland Pipers, the Solosimpi, and so he returned among the earliest to the Island; and he helped Ingil to build his great Tower in Koromas ere he joined Ailios’ people⁽⁵⁾.”

“But why did Ingil not join the people of Elvenhome?” Celebrían asked. “For was he not the one who founded this very realm for the Exiles?”

“He was indeed,” Ilverin replied, “but he had no part in the rebellion of the Noldor; none of the Vanyar had, even though some joined their quest, out of love to their friends or spouses, like Glorfindel or Turgon’s unfortunate wife. Thus he saw no need to abandon his family who live in Aman still… well, mostly. Meril is the only one of his descendants who chose to dwell in Elvenhome.”

“What a sad thing it is,” said Celebrían, “that she must be separated from her loved ones, even though they all live in the Blessed Realm.”

Ilverin looked at her thoughtfully, as if he wanted to say something yet dared not to do at the end.

“Sad indeed,” he finally answered, “for unlike yours, her parting was not willingly done but accepted out of duty and forgotten by most, save her own people. A good and wise queen she is, as she had been long ago in the Great Lands, where her name has faded already from people’s memories.”

He fell silent, and Celebrían thought better not to ask him for any more details, for it seemed that a strange secret there lay in Meril’s past, one of which her people were unwilling to speak. Thus they continued their way down the western slope of the hill upon which Koromas was built, and wandered afterwards during the rest of the day and deep into the lovely, starlit night, ‘til they reached the western borders of Alalminórë, and there they made finally a longer rest.

The night went by peacefully, while Celebrían slept and Ilverin watched her sleep and sang softly under the stars – not that there would be need for keeping watch, but the part of him that was Dark Elf loved the night and the stars more than he ever loved the bright golden light of Anor. And singing to the stars, so his mother had told him once, was something the Quendi did even before Oromë found them at the dark Waters of Awakening.

At daybreak they rose again and continued their journey towards Falassë Númëa, the Western Surf of the Lonely Island, where the Solosimpi of old had once dwelt – but now it was mostly abandoned, like an empty shell, washed ashore by the never-resting waves of the Shadowy Seas.

But shortly before the next sunset, Ilverin suddenly turned away from the main road and took a lane on the right, a lane of deep banks and great overhanging hedges, beyond which stood many tall trees wherein a perpetual whisper seemed to live. The whispered conversation between the leaves and the wind, between the wind and the unseen birds in the tree-branches it seemed to Celebrían, and yet she had the uncertain feeling that there was something more. Something she could not name, but it filled her heart with anticipation.

And Ilverin turned his face to the trees, and a light of pure joy and excitement shone upon his features as he was listening to the whispering voices, and he said in joyous recognition:

“Double the mirth on our feast will be indeed! For lo! the Súruli⁽⁶⁾ have come to partake in our joy, and they are dancing among the tree-branches already!

And Celebrían, who only knew the familiar whispering of the wind and the leaves from her home of old, long stood there in the middle of the lane, listening to the breezy laughter all around her in awe.

(2) Needless to say that the Elven tongues went through as much change as the names or the tales of the mythology themselves. And no, I cannot say what dialect that might be. I am no linguist.

(3) The “Lost Tales” actually says that he became a friend of Men, but considering the changes the mythology went through, that seemed a little unlikely to me. As for why he went with Fingolfin’s host, the reason for that will be told later.

(5) Believe or not, all these people actually existed in the earliest mythology – of course, they had a different role in it than what I gave them here.

(6) Spirits of the winds, attendants of Manwë and Varda. Apparently, most of them never got embodied.

Now we get to see the House of the Hundred Chimneys. Christopher Tolkien states that he could find no hints what that place was supposed to look like, so in order to keep true to the overall style of “The Lost Tales”, I took the Cottage of the Lost Play as my model. I also adopted Lindo and Vairë, originally the master and mistress of the Cottage and made them the seneschal and chatelaine of Gilfanon’s house. This Vairë, of course, is not identical with the Vala who later became Mandos’ wife. At this stage of the early mythology Mandos’ wife (rather than his sister) was Nienna, also called Fui (and half a dozen other names).

For long moments, Celebrían could only stand as if rooted and listen to the fey, barely audible chatter and laughter of the wind spirits. As a child, she had heard strange tales of the lesser spirits attendant on the Valar, of course, but she thought them just that: bedtime tales for little elflings, naught more. Now it seemed to her as if she had become part of those tales herself… and she was not even in Valinor yet!

Or was Elvenhome more indeed than just an island where some of her people settled? Mayhap the fairy tales of mortal Men had some small seed of truth in them? Could Tol Eressëa truly have something in common with that imaginary realm that Men called Fairie? Was it a place where magic became more than the strange powers of the Istari that were shown rarely enough as they were?

The light touch of a hand upon her arm shook her out of her reverie. Ilverin smiled at her in apology.

“Your pardon, Lady,” he said, “but we must go on. News of your arrival have reached Gilfanon’s house, and we are expected already.” Seeing Celebrían’s saddening face he added with another smile. “I promise you that the Súruli will not leave so soon. Rarely do they attend to our feasts – but when they do come, they also stay ‘til the last moment.”

It seemed as if near-soundless laughter answered him from the tree-branches, and Celebrían smiled, too, and followed him up the lane, to a great gate cut into a high hedge of withered grey stone. And before the gate a somewhat sturdy, dark-haired Elf stood, dressed up in white for the upcoming feast already, and with him stood a lovely Elven woman who had long, thick russet hair, put into an intricate coronet of braids. And seeing the newcomers, they both bowed deeply, but it was she who spoke the words of welcome, saying in the Ancient Tongue and in a soft, pleasant voice:

“Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo, Lady of Imladris! Vairë is my name, and this is Lindo, my husband; we run Gilfanon’s house. Enter and be merry, for the Feast of Double Mirth is only a night away from now – but first we must bring you to Gilfanon and his wife, who have long wanted to meet you.”

This surprised Celebrían a little, for she could not imagine why and how the Master of the House might have heard of her. Even though many Elves had left for the West during the recent years, why would they talk about her to the dwellers of Elvenhome? She was not a terribly important person back in Middle-earth, unlike her own mother. Or her husband. She knew her lore and was a skilled enough healer as well, yet first and foremost she was mother and wife. Unlike Galadriel, she never really wanted to be aught else.

Setting her questions aside for now, she nodded in agreement, and Lindo opened the beautifully-carved gate with a light touch. Behind it, there was a wide mould – large enough, but still too low to be called a hill – and atop that mould stood the most intriguing house she had ever seen.

Vastly different it was from all the graceful Elven dwellings she had known so far, having naught in common with Círdan’s Sea Palace or with Gil-galad’s now ruined castle. Strange as it might be, it reminded her of the Last Homely House as it had been back in the Second Age, while the war between the Elves and Sauron was still going on and Imladris was still more of a fortress than a hidden refuge.

Low and huge the house was, spreading over the whole hilltop, built once from white stone which had become grey and weather-worn from its extremely high age, yet still fair and venerable. Seven high gables it had and a high, red-tiled roof, and small balconies overall in a pattern that she could not quite figure out; and the trees that grew around it inside the hedge – not elms but beeches and oaks, and even the odd holly tree – were high and strong and incredibly old, too.

Vairë and Lindo led her on the stone-paved path under the trees to the house – Ilverin vanished somehow from her side – and while they walked, Vairë said:

“We shall go straight to the Great Hall, for you arrived just in time for the evening meal that is being set out in this very moment.”

Thus they led her into a wide room with a high ceiling; and in this hall, despite the never-ending summertide of Elvenhome, were three great fires – one at the far end and one on either side of the table, burning upon low hearths made of smoky stone – and save their light, as Celebrían entered all was in a warm gloom, and she shivered for a moment, for fire in darkness called very unpleasant memories back to her mind.

But at the same time many folk came in bearing candles of all sizes and many shapes in sticks of different pattern: many were of carven wood and others of beaten metal, and there were set at hazard about the centre table and upon those at the sides⁽¹⁾.

Celebrían looked around with great curiosity and saw Gilfanon’s household, all dressed up in white and wearing colourful jewels in their hair or upon their breasts, filling the hall and all its benches and chairs. Meril-i-Turinqi was among them, wearing a thin, elaborately-woven circlet of mithril set with white diamonds upon her long, raven hair that was braided and interwoven with white pearl strings, and in this moment she verily looked like a queen of the Elder Days.

She was seated in a canopied chair at the end of the centre table, with her ladies on both sides; and at the head of the same table a tall, raven-haired Elf sat with a noble face that showed the slight hardness of very high age just as Círdan’s did. But the dark tresses of this Elf were not touched by snow, and as she looked into his bright eyes, Celebrían knew at once that he was one who had seen the Light of the Two Trees.

On his left (the heart-side) a venerable lady sat, and all could see that they were husband and wife, for the bond between them had grown so strong during the Ages that it was almost visible. On his right there was an empty chair, and to this chair Vairë escorted Celebrían, and bid her to be seated. She did as she was asked and gave her host a polite nod, not knowing the customs of this house, and wondering whether she was supposed to greet him or to wait to be greeted.

At the same moment a great gong sounded far off in the house with a sweet noise, and a sound followed as of the laughter of many voices mingled with a great pattering of feet⁽²⁾. Then the Master of the House turned to Celebrían, and seeing her face filled with wonderment he said:

“This is the Great Gong of the Noldor, wrought by Tulkastor’s hand in the smithies of Aulë himself; its ringing announces the beginning of all our major feasts, and Littleheart is its warden and the only one allowed to strike it. Where ever in Elvenhome a feast is celebrated, the Gong is brought thereto; and so is Littleheart. ‘Tis said that its ringing can be heard over the Shadowy Seas ‘til the Twilit Isles themselves in quiet night.”

He paused, then with a smile that made his stern face remarkably kind-looking he added: “Welcome, my Lady. May your time in Tavrobel be a happy one. As Littleheart no doubt told you already – for he is known for his nimble tongue – I am called Gilfanon among the Noldor. But since you descended from my dear friend Olwë through his daughter Eärwen, you are as family to me and may call me Ailios if you want.”

He paused again, then he continued, with a respectful nod towards the woman on his left: “And this is Vainóni, the Lady of my heart. Our bond has been forged at the Waters of Awakening, under the light of the stars, when neither Anor nor Ithil sailed upon the sky yet, and it continued through good times and bad times, through joy and sorrow, ‘til this very day.”

Celebrían murmured the customary greetings that decency demanded, but her eyes were on the room itself, rather than on the Mistress of the House, for it strangely reminded her of the Feasting Hall of Elrond’s house in its earlier, rougher form, way before that house became her home. From the very first day on it had been Elrond’s custom to dine with his whole household every evening, and he kept this even after their wedding. She always knew that for Elrond his people were part of his extended family, and now she was wondering about the similarities, for neither her husband nor most of their household had ever been to the West, unless…

A faint smile touched her lips fleetingly. Glorfindel. Who else could have described this ancient house to Elrond, who wanted not a hidden city like Turgon, not a palace like Círdan, not even a castle like Gil-galad, but something he never truly had – a home? Glorfindel, due to his ancient wisdom and his restored innocence knew unerringly what Elrond truly needed.

Certainly, new designs had been added to the Last Homely House during the nearly two Ages of its existence, yet it remained all the same what it had been intended to do: a home, not for their immediate family alone, but for all those who had no home anymore or never had one in the first place. Like Erestor, or Lindir, or other Elves and Men who sought refuge under its roof for a time.

She looked around at the guests and the members of Gilfanon’s household. Most of them were Noldor, of course, but she also saw a few Teleri (or Solosimpi, as they still were caused here), and even a Silvan lady on Meril’s side. In one thing, though, they were all alike: that a look of great joy lit with a merry expectation of further mirth lay on every face, even on those that still kept the faint memories of hidden pain. The soft light of candles, too, was upon them all. It shone on bright tresses and gleamed about dark hair, or here and there set a pale fire in locks silver like her own.

Even as she gazed, the Lady Vainóni arose and all followed suit, and with one voice they sang the song of the Bringing in of the Meats in the Ancient Tongue, albeit in a much older fashion that she had been taught. Then, under the guidance of Vairë, the food was brought in and set before them, and thereafter the bearers and those that served and those that waited, Master and Mistress of the House and guests alike, all sat down⁽³⁾.

Yet before they would begin to eat, Ailios blessed both food and company, much in the same manner as Elrond used to do when their household gathered to evening meal. And a great sadness overcame Celebrían’s heart again, for she missed Elrond already terribly, and she missed their children even more, and those who were like family to her back at home. And she knew that a long time will go by ‘til they can be seated around the same table again – if ever.

Ailios must have felt the darkening of her mood, for he began to ask her about the Outer Lands and about old friends who might still be alive beyond the Sea. And so as they ate Celebrían fell in speech with him and his wife, telling them a few things about her own life and about her parents whom both seemed to know rather well – which was not truly surprising, as Ailios had lived in Doriath for a while, and Vainóni had met Galadriel (whom she kept calling Nerwen) in Finwë’s court many times.

And thus the evening meal was eaten in pleasant conversation, and when the empty dishes had been taken away and sweet, pale golden wine was brought forth, Ilverin, who had been absent during the entire meal entered through the front door and announced in a clear, ringing voice:

“May then Samírien begin,” Ailios answered, and all arose from their seats and strolled towards the door, singing:

(1) The description of the house is quoted loosely after “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, pp 3-4.

(2) Quoted from “The Book of Lost Tales “, p. 4. I gave the gong a wholly different function, though.

(4) For continuity’s sake I supposed that this means the Súruli. (Yes, I know it does not.)

(5) Quoted from the oldest version of Tolkien’s poem “Kortirion under the trees”, The Second Verses – “The Book of Lost Tales “, p. 27.

Author’s Notes: Celebrían gets introduced to a very old tradition, now largely forgotten by the Elves of Middle-earth – and makes an interesting acquaintance.

The original description of the Feast of Double Mirth (without the changes and edits I made for my own purposes) can be found in “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, pp. 197-198, at least in my 1992 Del Rey edition.

The procession of Ailios’ household went around the house, where a road had been laid towards the back gate in the hedge. It was paved with white stone and continued on on the other side of the back gate, towards a great forest of ancient oak-trees that lay southwest from the House of the Hundred Chimneys.

Many a gentle stream flowing from the far mountains crossed its path, and there it would leap into slender bridges, gracefully fenced with delicate balustrades that shone like pearls. At places the mighty trees grew close enough on either side to overshadow the road itself, or at places it would open to a glide and fountains spring, as if by magic, high into the air, shimmering like liquid silver in the starlight.

As they went on, still singing, more and more people joined them, coming through small, hidden paths from both sides of the road. Following the white-robed people of Ailios’ household, the throbbing of whose congregated harps beat the air most sweetly, came other Noldor, and the music of their viols and other instruments was sweet but sad like a memory of joys long gone.

And last came the people of the shores – the few Solosimpi who chose to remain on the Falassë Númëa after most of their kin had left – and their piping blent with voices brought the sense of tides and murmurous waves and the wailing cry of the coast-loving birds thus inland deep upon the plain… for the road led away from the shores and deeper into the forest with every stride.

“Where are we going?” asked Celebrían Ilverin, who once again chose to accompany her on their walk.

“To the dwelling of the Nos Galdon⁽¹⁾, the Tree People,” he answered readily. “The few of them who escaped the Fall of Gondolin chose to settle together in the oak forest of Eglavain⁽²⁾, and we use this road to their woodland home when ever we celebrate one of the great feasts with a procession.”

“What kind of feast is Samírien?” asked Celebrían, and Ilverin gave her a slightly bewildered look.

“You never heard of it? How can it be? If no else, the Lady Artanis must have known of it. She attended Samírien often enough in her youth, or so Vainóni says.”

“That might be,” said Celebrían slowly, “yet she never spoke of her time in Valinor, not to me. I was not even taught the Ancient Tongue ‘til I married Elrond who is very good with languages, thank his foster father. And I could always talk to Glorfindel, of course – even though he likes to use very old words sometimes that no-one understands, just to tease the others.”

“Ai, Glorfindel!” laughed Ilverin merrily. “It seems he changed little, even during his time in the Halls – for he used to be the heart of every merry feast in Gondolin and no-one knew songs merrier and bawdier than he. Oh, those were great feasts in the halls of his House, if I may trust my grandsire’s memories. I hope when Glorfindel chooses to return to the West he will not forget to pay us a visit,” he blushed slightly and changed the topic hurriedly. “But you were asking about Samírien, my Lady.”

“I was indeed,” replied Celebrían mildly, though the image of Glorfindel as a boisterous warrior was a little… disturbing. Ilverin smiled, a little embarrassed over the slip of his tongue, and hurriedly went on explaining.

“Now, this was one of the greatest feasts in Valinor in the Time of the Trees, and I am surprised that it is now forgotten in the Outer Lands; for in the days of Gondolin it was not so. For know that the Eldar in Valinor made merry on one day every seventh year to celebrate their coming into Aman; and every third year a lesser feast to commemorate the coming of the white fleet of the Solosimpi to the shores of Eldamar. But every twenty-first year when both these feasts fell together they held one of the greatest magnificence, and it endured for seven days, and for this cause such years were called ‘Years of Double Mirth’; and these feasts all the Eldar wherever they might be in Arda still celebrated in the Elder Days.”

“Is this year one of Double Mirth then?” Celebrían asked. Ilverin nodded.

“It is, indeed… and it is a shame that no-one in the Outer Lands remembers it – or that those who might chose to forget.”

Celebrían thought of her mother and sighed. As much as she could understand why Galadriel chose to speak very little about her youth in Aman, she disliked being so clueless. She wished she had asked Glorfindel more about the Elder Days – at least the ancient Elf never avoided any questions. But she had not counted on leaving Middle-earth so soon, and now she had to find out everything on her own.

“Why certainly,” he answered as if he had been asked whether Anor would rise in the next morn or the stars would return by nightfall again. “There will be long processions, and dancing and singing under starlight; and the oldest tales of the Elder Days will be told. It will be as it has been since the Time of the Trees, and our hearts will be rejuvenated with joy once again.”

“But you, too, were born in Middle-earth,” said Celebrían. “How can you know of the great feasts of the Elder Days, unless your father’s father has the gift of the minstrels: to make the events they sing of visible for those who listen?”

“He has not,” laughed Ilverin, “nor does he need to; for this feast had been hold in the same fashion in Gondolin, and I attended to it many times in my youth. And there were true minstrels among Turgon’s people, who had marched before the Gate of Valmar, singing of their utmost joy beholding the face of the Valar and their renewed desire once more to enter Valmar and tread the Valar’s blessed courts. The Song of Light this hymn was called, for it told of the longing of the Elves for light, of their dread journey through the Dark of Arda, led by the desire of the Two Trees. They say it was made and taught them by Lirillo⁽³⁾ himself, whom some call Noldorin, because of his great love for the Noldor.”

“Is this song still sung during your feasts?” asked Celebrían, wishing very much to hear the ancient hymn created by one of the Maiar. But Ilverin shook his head in sorrow.

“Nay, not on the Lonely Island; not ‘til all the Exiles return. For how could we burst into a song of pure, untainted joy as long as many of our kin still live under the Shadow? Nowadays we sing a different song on Samírien – one full of longing and melancholy and sorrow. ‘Tis said that it was made by Finrod in the days of his exile and brought us through those few who escaped the Fall of Nargothrond; for they taught it Lintári, the wife of Inglor son of Finrod⁽⁴⁾, and she taught it those who chose to remain on this Island. But this, too is said: that one day, when all the Exiles have returned, the Song of Light will be sung under the trees of Tol Eressëa again.”

He became silent and Celebrían asked no more, for she could see the longing on his face and understood what Ilverin had not spoken of – that during his years spent in Irmo’s gardens he must have attended to the great feast, the true one, once or twice, and though the Trees had been gone for Ages, the Feast in Tol Eressëa could never be compared with the Feast in Valinor. But Ilverin must have felt his curiosity and his longing to hear more, and after a while he continued.

“’Tis till custom in Aman that on the third day of Samírien all robe themselves in white and blue and ascend the heights of Taniquetil – after having long and merry feasts in all the great halls of Valmar, in the company of the Mánir⁽⁵⁾ and the Súruli and even Varda herself – and there would Manwë speak to them of the Music of the Ainur and the glory of Ilúvatar, and of things to be and that had been. And on that day would Tirion and Valmar be silent and still, but the roof of the world and the slope of Taniquetil shine with the gleaming raiment of the Valar and Elves, and all the mountains echo with their songs and laughter. But afterwards, on the last day of merriment the Valar would come to Tirion and sit upon the slopes of its bright hill, gazing in love upon that beautiful town, and thereafter blessing it in the name of Ilúvatar would depart ere Ithil sails up to the sky; and so would end the days of Double Mirth.”

“Compared with that, the feasts of Tol Eressëa cannot be but pale shadows,” said Celebrían, slightly disappointed. Ilverin nodded.

“’Tis true, my Lady. But the dwellers of Elvenhome chose to be content with what they have here, as long as there still are Exiles in the Outer Lands. And at least this time we shall have the Súruli among us – oh, the merriment will be great during this year’s feast!”

While they were talking, the procession came to the edge of a great korin of huge and very ancient oak-trees, and Celebrían’s trained eye at once discovered the magnificent tree houses among the branches – beautifully-made telain in various shapes and sizes that blent so well with the trees themselves that one truly needed Elven eyesight to detect them. Her parents’ dwelling in the Golden Wood was like a simple hut of the woodland folk compared with these artful constructions.

The procession came to a halt, and at the word and sign of Ailios as one voice, all Elves burst as one into a sad an beautiful song that sounded strangely familiar to her, though the words she could not understand, for they were in the same old dialect of the Ancient Tongue that Glorfindel used sometimes and that no-one but Elrond still understood in Imladris⁽⁶⁾.

There was a symbolic gate, made of interwoven tree-branches, and under the arch of those living branches a tall Elf stood, clad all in white, with the crest of the Nos Galdon upon his breast: a long and tapering forest-green shield with the image of Silpion in the middle⁽⁸⁾. His stronger build and long, pale golden hair marked him as a Nandor Elf⁽⁹⁾, though his eyes were grey like a cold winter morning – and he extended his hands towards Ailios in a gesture of welcome, and he smiled and spoke:

“Welcome and well met once again, Gilfanon a-Davrobel, Master of the House of the Hundred Chimneys! May your time here be a pleasant one and may our feast be as merry as we had them back in the Elder Days!”

“Well spoken, Lord of the House of the Trees,” replied Ailios. “Let the merriment begin!”

The ash blond Elf sang a short song softly, and while he was doing so, the arch of branches slowly unfolded itself above his head, as if the gate to the korin would be opened; and the bright company passed through, followed by the whispery laughter of the Súruli who were dancing around them unseen. Celebrían watched their host with interest.

“Who is this?” he asked Ilverin, for she had the strange feeling that she should know the blond Elf. Ilverin shrugged dismissively.

“Him? Oh, ‘tis just Legolas,” he said lightly, strolling forward to the middle of the lawn where long tables already had been set for the feast.

(1) The people of Galdor in Gondolin. Originally they were conceived as Noldor, too, but I made them Sindar in my earlier stories, assuming that Turgon would not have enough Exiles to populate a whole city and thus sought allies among the Grey-Elves.

(2) A discarded name for Eldamar, which I recycled because I cannot make genuine Elven names all by myself.

(3) Salmar, a Maia of Ulmo. According to the Appendix of “The Lost Tales 1”, he dwelt with the Noldor in the Great Lands for a while, and it was he who brought them to Valinor. Of course, not much of this remained in the later incarnations of the mythology.

(4) Inglor son of Finrod (born from Amarië after Finrod left Valinor) and his Vanyarin wife, Lintári, are my own characters – and the parents of Gildor Inglorion from LOTR.

(5) Spirits of the air – attendant on Manwë and Varda, just like the Súruli.

(7) This early version of Galadriel’s song was taken from “The Treason of Isengard” (HoME 7), pp. 284-285.

(8) As the emblem of the House of the Tree (unlike several other Houses of Gondolin) is nowhere described, I had to improvise a little. I chose Silpion (=Telperion) for I associate the silver Moon with the Elves rather than the Sun, but that is purely personal.

(9) There is no canon fact that would support the idea that Nandor Elves would be generally ash blond. I developed it when I made Haldir & family Nandor Elves, because I found movie-Haldir interesting and wanted to keep him.

Yes, I know it was mean to bring the original Legolas into the game. But he is such an interesting character, who played an important role in Idril’s (and therefore Eärendil’s) escape from Gondolin, and it is a shame that he rarely even gets mentioned (except in Cirdan’s stories). All relations between him and Legolas Thranduilion from LOTR are purely my doing, not canon.

This chapter has been changed in places to match the requirements of the site. The original can be read in the TFF archive or in the Silmarillion section of FF.Net.

“Legolas?” repeated Celebrían in confusion, for the venerable Lord of Eglavain had little to no resemblance to the fiery, auburn-haired, exotic-looking Prince of Northern Mirkwood who had been a frequent and much-beloved guest in Elrond’s house for the last two thousand years.

“Legolas of the House of the Trees, also called Greenleaf, or Laiqalassë in the Ancient Tongue,” someone answered, and in the dark-haired, strangely greying Elf she recognized Ilverin’s father whom she had not seen since their fleeting encounter in the haven of Avallónë.

“Lady Celebrían. This must be confusing for you, I deem. Rarely do Elves born in later Ages wear names that belong to the Elder Days.”

“Are the two related somehow?” Celebrían asked, for Legolas of Mirkwood rarely spoke of his sires, and even if he did, he only spoke of his father. Voronwë nodded again; his friendship with the Falathrim obviously made him well-informed about the affairs of Middle-earth.

“Rather closely, I would say,” he answered. “Our Legolas is the brother of one Nellas from Doriath⁽¹⁾, who was King Thranduil’s mother.”

“I cannot remember to have even heard Oropher’s wife being mentioned,” she said. Voronwë sighed.

“Small wonder. She made it not out of Doriath; they say she was slain before the eyes of her young children, neither of whom had come of age yet at that time.”

He fell into silence, and remembering what Ilverin had told her about the loss of his mother, Voronwë’s Silvan wife, Celebrían tactfully remained silent, too. After a while, however, Voronwë picked up the thread of their conversation again, as if he felt the need to speak about those events in his own past.

“’Tis a shame that the deeds of Legolas Greenleaf⁽²⁾ of the House of the Tree are now forgotten among the descendants of Eärendil. For without him, whose eyes are like cats’ in the dark, Galdor would have never been able to lead those who escaped from Gondolin through Idril’s secret way over Tumladin in that fateful night. ‘Tis due to Legolas’ keen eyes and Glorfindel’s sacrifice that Eärendil was saved and Middle-earth could stand forth.”

He cast a quick look at Celebrían’s surprised face. “You knew naught of this, my Lady? How strange!”

“Elrond was but a small child when Eärendil left, and who could tell how much Elwing knew,” she replied. “And after Elwing, too, was gone and Elrond and his brother taken by the son of Fëanor, there was no-one to remember anymore, as Glorfindel had not returned yet.”

“I cannot imagine that he would praise his own deeds, even if he had,” said Voronwë. “Mayhap earlier, in the days of Gondolin’s glory, he would have. But not after he has trodden the paths of the dead.”

She nodded. “Tis true. He willingly answers when asked about the Blessed Realm, but wraps himself in silence whenever it comes to Gondolin and its fall. No wonder; who would like to speak of their own death?”

“Death is something Elves were never meant to experience,” said Voronwë slowly, “’Tis alien to us, and mayhap that is why we accept it so unwillingly. If someone we are bound to dies, ‘tis as if part of our own fëa would die with them. I could see it in my father’s eyes when my mother was lost, and I could feel it ever since my own wife was slain. And as she refused to go to Mandos and chose to become an unhoused spirit that perished with the lands it could not leave, my heart, too, has been crippled for eternity.”

“I have,” replied Voronwë, “yet without Galdor and the other Falathrim, I would be lost, too. For I was fading rapidly when they found me,” he gestured towards his silver-sparkled hair, “and without their friendship, I would never find the strength to face the Sea again, after the terrors of my last journey, searching for Valinor. I might have ended up like one of the Unhoused, myself.”

Celebrían gave no immediate answer. Not so long ago, it seemed selfish that she had not fled her body in the den of the Orcs – a mistake even, for it brought her family no relief, only more pain. Yet know she was wondering what her death might have done to Elrond. He suffered badly enough from their separation as it was, but how would he take the news of her death? She was torn between her love for him and the wish that their children would remember her as she used to be, not the broken, unfortunate creature she had become. But even though she felt guilty for having left him, just like everyone else in his life had done, she was certain that watching her fading little by little with every passing day would have broken his heart beyond healing. Thus she chose the lesser evil – the one that might still harbour some hope that one day, when her spirit has been healed, they might be reunited again.

“Is that the reason why Ilverin has no chosen mate?” she asked. “The fear to lose another beloved one?”

“I cannot tell,” he finally admitted, “for even though he is my only son, sometimes the ways of his mind are strange to me. That what you said might be part of his reasoning; yet I believe ‘tis mostly because he hopes to return to Irmo’s gardens one day. There he found a true home, among the spirits that attend on Irmo and Estë, and I deem that his time there had changed him somehow, restoring the old innocence of the Quendi in his heart – which is why he is called Littleheart among our people.”

While he was speaking, they had reached the main table, and Voronwë led Celebrían to their host and introduced her. And Legolas of Gondolin spoke the time-honoured words of welcome in Sindarin, first in the old-fashioned manner as it had been spoken in Beleriand in the days of his youth, then, seeing that she had difficulties understanding him, in the fashion that was still spoken in both Imladris and Lothlórien.

“Sit with me, my Lady,” he asked, and it was strange for her to hear his deep, pleasant voice instead of the light, silvery one she was used to associate with that name, “for I am eager to hear of my friend Celeborn and how he fares back in the Great Lands.”

“You know my father?” she asked in surprise, while accepting the offered chair – it was low and comfortable, woven of willow-twigs and softened by silk pillows. Legolas laughed.

“You can say that, my Lady. Indeed, I was a friend of his father, long ere our people followed the summons of King Turgon to join his folk, first in Nevrast and then in refuge of Gondolin. And I returned to Doriath for a short while after the Hidden City had fallen, for my sister lived there still. Yet ever since Doriath, too, had been destroyed and our people astray all over the Outer Lands, I heard but little of him – or of my own kindred,” he added, saddening. “I know that Oropher, my sister’s husband has been slain in Mordor during the Last Alliance, but that is all.”

“His only son, Thranduil, is still King of the Greenwood,” said Celebrían, a little uncertain what she should say, “though his realm now contains only the northern third of that forest. And I do know one Legolas Thranduilion rather well.” She paused, looking hesitatingly at her host and said: “He is nothing like you, I fear. He does have the fine features of his father, yet in all else he comes after his mother, who is said to have been a Dark Elf.”

“There is nothing wrong with that,” the Lord of Eglavain shrugged, “not in my eyes anyway. The Noldor never truly understood the Hisildi, which is why most of our people think badly of them, calling them Avari and other less-than-friendly names. I for my part can understand why they wanted not to leave the lands of their birth. Neither did Lenwë, my forefather of old, turning back from the Great Journey with the Laiquendi⁽³⁾. And so would have done I, too, were it not for my wife who was slain along the way by Morgoth’s monsters. But when she is released from Mandos, she cannot return to Middle-earth – no-one can. Glorfindel alone was ever allowed to do so. Thus, if I wanted to be with her again – which I want more than aught else on Arda – I had to come to the West.”

“This place is what Middle-earth was meant to be,” answered Legolas softly, “and here I intend to remain. I have no doubt that my wife will join me when she can. We are both Laiquendi who prefer to live in the forest. Eglavain will do us just nicely. But hush now, for the music is about to begin, and I am certain that you would hate to miss as much as a single tone of it.”

While the people of Eglavain brought forth the food and set it on the tables, others with harps and pipes and small drums sat down on the grass, on pillows or on sawn rings of the felled trees, forming a loose half-circle, the open end of which looked towards the tables. Right before them upon the smooth grass, tall, slender shapes began to form – they were half-translucent and shimmering like pure mithril, and Celebrían realized with caught breath what she was seeing: the spirits of the winds, taking on corporeal forms, so that they would be visible for their Elven hosts.

The whole gathering sat utterly enchanted, no-one even touched the food set before them, for in Elvenhome, just as Ilverin had said, this was a rare sight indeed. They were fortunate that the First Meal of Samírien traditionally started with various sorts of leaf cake, fruit and wine, so that the food getting cold did not become a disturbance.

Then the music started, sweet and yet full of vigour, and the Súruli began to dance, weightless and fleeting like flittering flames, their not-quite-solid bodies changing in the rhythm of their movements, glittering in the golden and silver flame of the lamps that were hung upon the lowest branches of the great oak-trees. And above the music their voices arose, not whispery any more but sonorous like the sighing of mighty winds, swelling to new heights with every new turn of their dance. And still singing, they broke the circle of their dance, each grabbing two Elves by the hand and sweeping them into the dance like the whirlwind.

(1) Yes it is Túrin’s childhood friend! I gave her the credit of being smart enough to marry someone suitable – and used the idea of blond Nandor Elves to explain Thranduil’s golden hair, regardless of him being a Sindar Prince.

(2) Believe or not, this is how he is mentioned in “The Lost Tales”, at least in Christopher Tolkien’s comments.

I was asked why it is that so many characters of “The Lost Tales” appear briefly and then disappear just as quickly in a Celebrían story. There are two reasons for that:

1) “The Lost Tales” is the part of the canon where Tolkien told us the most about Elvenhome, as one of my kind, generous reviewers pointed out.

2) These characters, later mostly discarded by the Great Maker himself, are too interesting to be completely forgotten. Besides, these encounters give Celebrían the chance to think about many different aspects of her own fate. And I am afraid that is not going to change. No spectacular action is going to happen in this story. This is about the beginning of Celebrían’s healing process and about the decision she will have to make at the end.

They danced with the Súruli all night. At the first light of the morn, however, the wind spirits faded out of eyesight little by little and retreated into the trees like night birds. Most of the visitors simply lay down on the grass to rest, but Meril and her ladies were invited to one of the numerous telain, and so was Ailios and his family. The Lord of Eglavain, whom Celebrían still was somewhat reluctant to call Legolas, offered her the peaceful quiet of his own tree-house, and she gladly accepted. As much as she enjoyed the feast (which in itself was rather surprising for her), the crowd began to bother her.

Legolas’ home was more than a mere talan, of course – the main chamber was as big as her parents’ home in the Golden Wood, but it had extensions toward different branches, lower and higher ones alike, masterfully constructed, following he natural growth of the ancient tree. And it had balconies on all sides; open balconies that led to strong branches, used as walkways, and to various telain upon those same branches.

To such a talan they went, the highest one that could be reached without actual climbing, and there they sat in companionable silence, sipping on some light wine for quite some time. Finally Legolas shifted his weight slightly and gave his guest an encouraging smile.

“I do not wish to be tactless, my Lord,” she answered a little uncomfortably, for truly, her curiosity was fully awake now.

“You are not,” he said. “How could you understand our life here otherwise? So do tell me – what is it that you want to know?”

“’Tis something I have been wondering about ever since I met Lord Galdor,” she admitted. “He and his people, who now are led by you, were Sindar. How come that you chose to live among the confining walls of Gondolin?”

“Not all of us were Sindar,” he replied thoughtfully, “for Galdor himself is one of the Falathrim, and I am a Green-Elf, as you know. But the House of the Tree was one of Noldorin origins; alas, most of them were lost on the Grinding Ice. Thus when King Turgon built the haven of Vinyamar in Nevrast, he invited all Elves he met in Beleriand to join him, and our people chose the House of the Tree, for that was the one we could feel kinship with. For a long time Galdor was the captain of the King’s fleet, built with the help of the Falathrim – until Turgon moved the whole kingdom deeper in the inland, following Ulmo’s counsel.”

“And you followed him? All of you, without any objection?” she asked. “Even the Green-Elves who used to live in the forests?”

Legolas shrugged. “We all were sworn to the King. We had no other choice. For Gondolin, though hidden behind the Encircling Mountains, was a wondrous place to live, even for us. Even if Galdor always missed the Sea and I could never forget my forests.”

“It must have been a strange way to live for you, nevertheless,” said Celebrían thoughtfully. “I know not if my father could ever live in a city of stone.”

“Was he not a prince of Doriath?” Legolas asked. “The Thousand Caves of Thingol were certainly deep and enclosed spaces, more so than Gondolin even.”

“But Father did not live in Menegroth,” said Celebrían. “He had his own tree-house, not far from Hírilorn, the great beech where Lúthien was kept by her own father.”

Legolas nodded. “I know. For I had visited the hidden kingdom of Thingol ere Gondolin was built, and I returned there for my sister after Turgon’s city had fallen.”

“I wanted to take Nellas to the Mouths of Sirion, for that was the safest place in Beleriand at that time. But her husband wanted not to live with the Noldor, sharing Thingol’s bitter feelings toward them, and thus Nellas, too, remained to await her fate. I hear it has been a cruel one.”

“I cannot tell you aught that you have not already heard,” replied Celebrían, “for my father never spoke to me of the fall of Doriath, just as my mother spoke very little of her past. For a long time, I thought they wanted me to know and love Middle-earth the way it has become after the War of Wrath. But I begin to think that Father’s heart is still bleeding for the enchanted forest of his youth.”

“That might well be,” Legolas nodded, “just as my heart bleeds for the forests and green meadows of Ossiriand where I was born. The love of the Elves for their land and their work is deeper than the deeps of the Sea, and their regret is undying and cannot ever wholly be assuaged⁽¹⁾, or so they used to say in the Elder Days. Your father is one of the most ancient Elves still in the Outer Lands; and he is of Middle-earth, bound to its soil and trees with all his being. Should he have to choose between his land and his beloved spouse one day, it will break his heart, however he may choose. For not all of us hear the call of the Sea, and though some of those who do not might feel the need to come to the West for other reasons, they always will feel the longing for their old home.”

“Are you one of those?” asked Celebrían quietly. Legolas nodded, and his grey eyes were full of sorrow.

“Indeed, I am, my Lady. This is why I chose to live here, on the Lonely Island, even though I had no reason to feel unworthy of Aman like many others.”

“How can one who has been allowed to sail to the West feel unworthy?” asked Celebrían, for indeed, this was what she had felt, ever since she set foot on the Isle. “Are not all those who were guilty in the sins of the past forgiven?”

“Nay, not all of them,” answered Legolas gravely, “or else there would not be so many of them still waiting in Mandos’ Halls, waiting to be released. Nor did all Elves forget the evil deeds that had been performed by the Noldoli⁽²⁾ along their flight from the Blessed Realm.”

“Time,” said Legolas, “cannot always heal all wounds. And more wroth the Elves of Aman were still after the War of Wrath, when many of the Exiles returned. Above all the Solosimpi were full of bitterness against the Noldoli, desiring never more to see their faces in the pathways of their home. Of these the chief were those whose kin had perished at the Haven of Swans, and their leader was one Ainairos, who had escaped from that fray leaving his brother dead; and he sought unceasingly with his words to persuade the Elves to great bitterness of heart.”⁽³⁾

“Yet still the Solosimpi have ferried the Host of Valinor to Middle-earth to break Morgoth’s reign,” Celebrimbor said.

“Had Ainairos had his way, they would never do so,” replied Legolas. “But Elwing came to the mariners of Alqualondë, and they recognized in her eyes the starlight that once had been mirrored in the eyes of Elwë, her great-grandsire; and for the love of Elwë, they took her in with open arms. And she persuaded them to help, making them understand that the Noldoli would not be the only ones to suffer horribly if Morgoth were not defeated – and they listened to her plea, for she was their kin through Elwë and Melian⁽⁴⁾. But after Morgoth had been defeated, the Solosimpi remembered their slain kin again, and many of them refused to even talk to the Exiles.”

“But have they not also slain many of the Noldoli when these tried to take their ships?” asked Celebrían, trying to do justice both sides.

“They have,” nodded Legolas, “and beside losing their kin, this is the other loss they cannot forget or forgive. For though in self-defence, they did spill the blood of their own kin, and the loss of their innocence was just as terrible for them as the loss of their beloved ones – or that of their marvellous ships.”

Celebrían remained silent for a while. Often had she heard the tale of the first Kinslaying and the taking of the white Swanships – those vessels that the cunning and long labours of the Solosimpi had fashioned, and some of which were that Ossë and his vassals had made of old on Tol Eressëa as had been recounted in the Noldolantë, sung by Elrond in rare occasions, wondrous and magic boats, the first that ever were⁽⁵⁾. Yet never before had she realized that the Solosimpi had lost more than just their marvellous ships on that fateful day in Alqualondë – in self-defence or not, they, too, had slain their own kin, and that was a deed of horror that could not be undone, not even in Arda Remade, perhaps.

She also understood that although this often was not willingly endured, the scars of the fëa remained nevertheless. She had suffered the same. And no matter how unwilling she had been, it still made her feel like all those partaking in the Kinslaying must have felt, regardless of which side they had fought. Dirty. Damaged. Unworthy.

Sometimes she even felt guilty for not having fled her body in time. Sometimes it felt so selfish to have made Elrond and the children suffer, watching how her faded away little by little, despite their loving care. And still, she knew she could not leave them for Mandos. If only the choices had been clearer! But it seemed that all her choices led to sorrow, and she knew not if she should regret the ones she had made – or how to make better ones in the future.

She wondered what choices had been offered to her mother, and why she chose as she did.

“Could Mother not accept forgiveness because of her pride alone?” she asked, more herself than her host. “Mayhap back then, when Beleriand had just sunk into the Sea, Father would have been be more willing to follow her to the West – at least as far as Tol Eressëa. At that time they were still young, less settled in their customs. Father would have loved this place – and the Solosimpi had no reason to be wroth against him.”

“True,” agreed Legolas gravely, “But it was not pride alone that kept the Warrior Princess of the Noldoli from returning. She was not ready to face her own kin in Alqualondë yet… and I know not if she ever will.”

“Why not?” asked Celebrían tonelessly, dreading the answer. Legolas gave her a compassionate look.

“This is not my tale to tell, my Lady, for I was not present in the Swanhaven on that dreadful day – I am but a Green Elf of Beleriand who never saw the Light of the Trees. You should ask those who have witnessed the horrors of the first Kinslaying.”

“Anyone of Gilfanon’s household,” answered Legolas with a shrug. “Or you could ask our Queen. She was there, after all.”

Celebrían shook her head. “If she was, I believe not that she would desire to speak of it. In Middle-earth, death has become familiar for Elves, yet I deem that it had not been so in Aman, in the days of bliss.”

“Nay, it has not,” said Legolas sadly. “But the Exiles were forced to get used to it – and the Queen is not one who cannot face her own deeds, even if she remembers with dread some of them.”

“Why would she?” wondered Celebrían. “She was no warrior… or was she?”

“At times even those are forced to wield a sword who were not meant to do so,” replied Legolas grimly. “And sometimes even the best of us cannot help but do horrible things.”

He fell in silence, and Celebrían dared not to ask more. Thus they remained sitting on the talan for a long time, without any further conversation.

(1) This is the same thing Galadriel said to Frodo. I assumed it was an old Elven saying.

(4) Elwing persuading the Teleri (= Solosimpi) to help is mentioned: Chapter 24, Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath: "Few of the Teleri were willing to go forth to war, for they remembered the slaying at the Swan-haven, and the rape of their ships; but they hearkened to Elwing, who was the daughter of Dior Eluchil and come of their own kindred, and they send mariners enough to sail the ships that bore the host of Valinor over the sea. Yet they stayed aboard their vessels, and none of them set foot upon the Hither Lands." Thanks to Finch for digging out the quote for me! :)

Now we are getting closer to the mystery that surrounds the Lady of Tol Eressëa. As for Ivárë, his life story is completely my creation, since Tolkien never told us aught else than he “played at the shores”. For my interpretation about Glorfindel’s origins, you might want to read “A Tale of Never-ending Love”, though knowing it is not necessary to understand this story.

After a while Legolas left the talan, for he needed to make preparations for the evening, which was meant to be the beginning of a night of singing and storytelling. Celebrían intended to remain there, but Tirannë came to see her and insisted that she had enough rest before another night of festivities.

“You still are not entirely well, my Lady,” the Elf-maid said sternly, “and you look worn and tired. The Queen would be most displeased to hear that you had not rested all day.”

Celebrían sighed, but knew from experience that naught could distract a determined Elf-maid, who thought her Lady needed to be fussed about, from her task. Thus she followed Tirannë obediently into the guest chamber of Legolas’ house – a very pleasant room, the ceiling of which was made of interwoven branches and cleverly laid leaves that screened out the rain, leading it down along the outer walls of the house through a pipe of tree bark, but let in the sunlight, filtered through their intricate webbing.

There was a wash-stand in a small alcove, separated by a light curtain, and Tirannë offered to help Celebrían refresh herself, but she politely refused as always. It had been hard enough to endure the touch of her own husband after.. after all that had happened; being touched by a stranger, even by another woman, would have been beyond endurance. Tirannë seemed to understand, without knowing the reasons, and she left her with the promise to wake her in good time.

Celebrían washed quickly but thoroughly (washing herself by every chance seemed to become a sheer irresistible urge since last year) and changed into the nightgown that had been laid out for her on the bed – a simple sleeping mattress made of cotton canvas, stuffed with wool. String ties were laced through it every foot to hold it all together, and as it had been tradition among the woodland folk, it stood on a fairly low, artfully carved wooden frame. It could not be more than seven inches thick, but its softness and the forest green sheets and pillows and the warm, russet-coloured blankets gave one the feeling of sleeping upon the dry fallen leaves and parched grass of the forest floor.

After having slept in huge, richly-adorned, Noldorin-style beds for centuries in Imladris, this simple resting place brought back her fondest childhood memories and the peaceful thoughts of her youth. Sleeping under the partially open ceiling of a tree house had always been the most natural thing for her, and though she had grown fond of the different beauty of Elrond’s valley, sometimes she just had to go back to Lothlórien to live under the starlit sky for a while again.

Despite her initial fear, her sleep was peaceful, without nightmares for a change. This pleased and surprised her greatly, for even in Meril’s house, her dreams had been troubled and frightening. She awoke refreshed, and as she opened her eyes, it seemed to her as if a light breeze had crossed her chamber, leaving it through the half-open ceiling.

“Has someone been in my room while I slept?” she asked Tirannë, who came as promised to wake her up. “I felt a presence, and it seems to me that there was a faint whisper, but I could not se anyone.”

“No-one of us has been here, my Lady,” the maid replied, “yet it can be that one or two of the Súruli paid you a visit. Did you have pleasant dreams?”

“Then it was them. They are known to visit our people’s dreams when they choose to join our festivals. Their presence is very… soothing, or so I am told.”

“They have not visited you so far?” Celebrían asked in surprise. Tirannë shook her head.

“Nor have I been in need for it, my Lady. They only come to the ones who are troubled. Do you require any help with your preparations?”

“Not with getting dressed,” replied Celebrían, “but I would be grateful if you could come back in a moment to braid my hair. Reaching behind my head still hurts a little.”

Tirannë left her to get dressed in private, and she washed again, even though she knew how unneeded and useless it was. Then, after the maid had braided her hair in the simplest fashion that was still acceptable during such a great feast, they both descended from Legolas’ house to the great outdoor hall, where the merry crowd was gathering already for the evening,

There Nielthi, one of Meril’s ladies, welcomed Celebrían and led her to an empty seat on Meril’s side. The Queen greeted her kindly and asked how she was faring, then said:

“Tonight we shall be honoured by the visit of two other rare guests: Elwenil⁽²⁾, the piper, and Ivárë who plays beside the Sea⁽³⁾. These two are named among the three most magic players of the Elves, and seldom do they come to our feasts, for they cherish the peace of the abandoned shores. But this time they were willing to adorn Samírien with their music, and about that we are all very glad.”

“You spoke of three magic players,” said Celebrían. “Who is the third one?”

“The third one is mayhap the greatest of all,” answered Meril with saddening eyes, “yet he is lost for us, and whether he can ever be found is not known. Daeron of Doriath he was called, and never was music more sweet heard in the Outer Lands than when he played.”

“What about Maglor?” asked Celebrían. “Elrond keeps saying that he was a great minstrel and a master of ancient lore.”

“Of Macalaurë⁽⁴⁾ I am not willing to speak,” she said, her voice harsh with anger and old pain. “Nor of any of his brothers. You see, daughter of the Tree Lord, I still have not worked out my part in the forgiving – how can I hope to be forgiven, any time soon?”

She broke off, trying to calm her own heavy breathing, and for a moment there was such raw pain in her eyes that Celebrían shivered. But after a moment the Lady of the Isle collected herself again, and her beautiful face became smooth and youthful once more.

“Alas that our people are so good at holding old grudges,” she said, and her voice was full of regret. “All our wisdom helps us so little when we are hurting. But let us not speak of the shadows of he past now. For lo! the starts have come out again, and the minstrels are ready to sing for us the songs of the beginning of Eä.”

Following the eyes of the Queen, Celebrían saw that indeed, on the very same place where the previous day the harpers and pipers and drummers had been playing, now two lonely minstrels took their seat, ready to share their gift of music with the folk of Eglavain. One of them must have been a Vanya, for he had golden hair and deep blue eyes. Celebrían guessed that this had to be Ivárë, of whom the songs said that after the Great Journey of the Eldar he returned from Aman to Elvenhome, out of love for his friends, the Solosimpi, and forsaking his own kind he spent his whole life among the shoreland pipers.

He followed them to Alqualondë when they finally moved, but fled Aman a second time after the first Kinslaying and dwelt on the abandoned shores of Falassë Númëa, together with a few of his surviving friends who chose the same fate. Full of bitterness against the Noldoli his heart was, so Glorfindel told on a cold winter evening in the Hall of Fire, long, long ago, when he was teaching Lindir old tales from the Blessed Realm, and never grew he tired of singing long laments of Alqualondë – of its great arch of living stone in the harbour that had been poisoned and died from the spilt blood of the Solosimpi and was destroyed by a grieving Ossë in a fit of rage⁽⁵⁾. Of the white ships that were taken and later burnt in Losgar by the hand of the Kinslayers; and of his friends that would not dance and sing along the lamplit quays of the Swanhaven anymore.

Celebrían looked at the ancient minstrel with great interest, and she saw the wisdom and burden of incredible age in those deep blue eyes; for Ivárë, just like Glorfindel, was one of those Firstborn whose eyes opened to the light of the newborn stars at Cuiviénen. He showed no sign of aging, for – unlike Círdan – he had lived in the Blessed Realm all his life, and his eyes saw the Light of the Two Trees. And yet, there was an air of deep sadness about him: the sadness of one who had lived too long and had seen too much. And for a moment Celebrían wondered whether Glorfindel was not the lucky one to have died, been healed and re-made in the Halls of Mandos, for the Balrog Slayer certainly seemed less burdened to her.

Now everyone grew very quiet. Even the faint whispers of the Súruli ceased among the leaves. For Ivárë brought forth his great, golden harp that was as big as he himself was standing, and sliding his long, slender fingers along the silver strings be began to sing in a voice that was deep as the Sea and rich as molten gold and musical like the laughter of the wind spirits among the tree branches.

Celebrían recognized the sacred hymn at once, of course. It was the Ainulindalë, the most ancient of all the great songs ever sung in the halls of the Eldar. On some particularly important feasts Glorfindel even used to sing it in Old Qenya, the same archaic tongue in which it had been written by Rúmil the Sage, greatest of all Elven lore-masters, here in Elvenhome. But most times it was sung in High Quenya, the noblest of all Elven tongues – and in that very tongue was Ivárë singing it now.

It told about the beginnings of Eä – how Ilúvatar, after having dwelt alone for Ages unfathomable even for the Valar themselves, sang into being the Ainur first, before all things, and how for this greatest is their power and glory of all his creatures within the world and without. How he thereafter fashioned them dwellings in the Void, and dwelt among them, teaching them all manners of things, the greatest of which was music.

How he would speak propounding to them themes of song and joyous hymn, revealing many of the great and wonderful things that he devised ever in his mind and heart, and how they would then make music unto him, and how the voices of their instruments rose in splendour about his throne.

How upon a time Ilúvatar propounded a mighty design of his heart to the Ainur, unfolding a history whose vastness and majesty had never been equalled by aught that he had related before, and how the glory of its beginning and the splendour of its end amazed the Ainur, so that they bowed before Ilúvatar and were speechless⁽⁷⁾.

And Celebrían, listening to the majestic music that let the great design of Creation unfold before her eyes, remembered how it had been marred for ever by the malice of Morgoth and his servants ; and she wept.

(1) My heartfelt thanks go to my good friend, Jenn, for the idea that Wood-Elves might use futons in their tree houses.

(2) Originally one of the countless and equally discarded names for Littleheart. I gifted it upon Tinfang Warble, the piper, whose name was just too weird for my taste.

(5) Warning: not a canon fact. These events are described in my story “The Dying Stone”.

(6) Translation by Ryszard Derdzinski. Found on the “Fellowship of the Wordsmiths” website.

This tale is growing and growing as I write it – it has just spawned another chapter I never intended to write. Now, the story of Timpinen or Tinfang Warble, whom I chose to call Elwenil for the better sound of it, is genuine Tolkien stuff to the letter – it just has been completely discarded along the later evolution of the mythology. Certain traits of this character, especially his closeness to Lúthien, were given to Daeron in a later phase.

The Song of Creation was a long one – by the time Ivárë was done, all the stars had come out and gleamed upon the dark velvet sky, brighter than Celebrían ever saw them sparkling in Middle-earth. Wine and small cakes were brought for the guests, and while they enjoyed the refreshments, the other minstrel took Ivárë’s place, bringing forth a beautiful silver flute, very alike the one Aiwendil had brought to Middle-earth and gifted upon Lindir when he recognized the youngling’s unique gift of music⁽¹⁾.

This other minstrel, whom the Queen had named Elwenil, was clearly of Telerin origin – one of the Solosimpi, Celebrían corrected herself, for the dwellers of Elvenhome seemed to prefer the older names – but though tall enough, his lithe build made him look smaller than other Elves. He had long, silver hair, braided to an intricate coronet of countless thin plaits, and, despite the festive event, he was clad in shadowy grey, save a girdle of silver leaves.

Celebrían expected the feasting crowd to become quiet again, just as they did while Ivárë was playing, yet it happened not so. All the Elves continued their talking and laughing, while the minstrel lifted the wondrous silver flute to his lips and brought forth from it a music thinner and more pure than any that Celebrían heard before; and it was full of longing.

Indeed, it was as if pipes of silver or flutes of various shapes, all slender and delicate, sprinkled pealing sounds and threadlike harmonies like a silver rain beneath Ithil’s soft light upon the lawns; and she longed as she was listening for – she knew not what. For something that was long lost or had never been, something too fragile for these darkening times, something that had been only known at the Waters of Awakening, long before the Quendi had known evil and sorrow⁽¹⁾.

Wondering where she might have before heard music like this, she was reminded of her first night in Meril’s house, of a night full of soft, warm breezes, the sweet scent of flowers dreaming in the dark, and of a music she thought she had heard in her dream only.

She turned to Vairë, who was seated on her other side and asked her about it; and the caretaker of Gilfanon’s house shook her head.

“Nay, ‘twas no dream,” she said, “even though it often seems so when one has the good fortune to hear the flute of Elwenil when he plays and dances in summer dusks for the joy of the first stars. For even the stars rejoice in his music, and at every note he plays, a new one sparkles forth and glitters. Some say that they come out too soon if Elwenil plays,” she added with a smile; “and when ever he chooses to visit our gardens, we watch from the windows, lest he tread the shadowy lawns unseen.”

“Unseen indeed,” said Celebrían, listening to the sweet, faint music that blended with the soft sounds of Elven laughter so seamlessly that it needed some effort to pick it out from the rich tapestry of pleasant sounds. “For though I opened the window and peered out in that night, I could see no-one in the gardens, no matter how hard I tried.”

Vairë laughed. “Certainly, you could not,” she answered, “for Elwenil is shier than a fawn – swift to hide and dart away as any vole: a footstep on a twig and he is away, and his fluting will come mocking from afar.”

At this Celebrían, too, had to smile, for it reminded her of young, shy Lindir and how he was hiding from strangers, playing his flute only out of eyesight. It seemed that some minstrels shared his wariness of unknown people, and it had not been Aiwendil’s doing alone that he did not make friends easily, after all.

“Marvel and wizardry lives in his fluting,” she said, meaning both minstrels, even though Vairë had no means to know that; “for indeed, few are there who could say of themselves that they come close to it.”

“There be none,” replied Vairë, “not even the Solosimpi, who can rival him therein, albeit the shoreland pipers claim him as their kin.”

“In this I dare to disagree,” smiled Celebrían; “for I happen to know a young minstrel who is not unlike him, neither in his art, nor in his shy nature, even though he would need time to bring his gift to completion, for he still is very young for an Elf. But he has the blood of Vanyar and Teleri… I mean, Solosimpi, in his veins, and he plays a flute that was made in Valinor and brought to Middle-earth by Aiwendil himself.”

“If you were a friend of Aiwendil, you might become a friend of Elwenil as well, rare as it is in these days,” said Vairë. “For ‘tis said that this quaint spirit is neither wholly of the Ainur nor of the Eldar, but is half a fay of the woods and dells, one of the great companies of the children of Palúrien, and half a Noldo or a shoreland piper.”

“Are the fays of the woods not mere myths from the fairy tales that mortals tell their children at bedtime?” asked Celebrían, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“They are,” Vairë agreed, “and yet no myth is born without so much as a seed of truth in it. For the truth is that Elwenil, as his name reveals, is a son of Elwë Singollo, King of the Solosimpi, who was lost of old upon the Great March from Palisor, and wandering in Hisilómë found the Maia Melian, waiting for him in a glade of beeches like a lonely twilight spirit. Loving her he was content to leave his folk and dance forever in the shadows, but his children, Elwenil and Tinúviel, long after joined the Eldar again, and tales there are concerning them both, though they are seldom told here⁽²⁾.”

“Why not?” asked Celebrían in surprise, for the description that Vairë just gave matched so little the tales she had heard of Elu Thingol, the proud and mighty King of Doriath, whom her father respected and admired above all other Elves, or Melian, his Queen, who had been able to protect their realm with her power of enchantment alone. “Was Lúthien Tinúviel not the fairest, most powerful maiden of our kind? Was she not the one who put the Great Enemy to sleep with the might of her song alone? Does she not deserve to be remembered for her great deeds and the power of her love?”

Vairë looked at her gravely. “That she does; yet these are memories very painful for most of the dwellers of Tol Eressëa. For they are bound to the memories of the great and devastating Wars in Beleriand that is no more; to the memories of much suffering and bitter losses most of them had seen with their very eyes. And the knowledge that Lúthien was the only one of our kind who truly died fills our hearts with fear – for we know not what has become of her and we think not about her fate when we can avoid it.”

“Hiding from the truth solves nothing,” said Celebrían thoughtfully, and Vairë nodded.

“True. Yet thinking about the fate of Men is for us like staring into the Void that lies beyond the Door of Night, and few of us are brave enough to do so. Mayhap you, whose fate is bound to that of the Peredhil, are more accustomed to contemplate such strange concepts than the rest of us.”

“That is a fear I have lived with ever since my children were born,” replied Celebrían with a sigh. “For just like their father, one day they will have to choose, and should one of them repeat Elros’ Choice, our parting will last ‘til the End of Arda – or beyond.”

Vairë gave her a compassionate look, even though she was unable to comprehend the finality of such loss.

“Our eldest… rightly was he named the Elf-man⁽³⁾; for the blood of his mortal ancestors runs strong and deep in him, and often does he favour the company of the Dúnedain. I have feared his choice since he came of age; and I still do.”

“And yet you chose to leave them,” said Vairë carefully. Celebrían sighed.

“That I did – and I still do believe that I was right doing so. My slow withering would not make their choice any easier; staying would have left them with the horrible memory of their mother fading to nothingness. If we had to part for eternity, I wanted them to remember me as I used to be.”

“Or as you may become again,” said Vairë in understanding. “Even though they – or some of them – might not have the chance to see it.”

Celebrían nodded in sorrow, for there truly was naught she could have added to that. After a while she shook herself out of her grief and asked:

“How come that Elves in the Outer Lands have never heard of Elwenil, if he truly is the son of Thingol and Melian and the brother of Tinúviel? One would think that there would be tales and songs about him, being from that great line.”

“His fate is different from that of other Eldar,” replied Vairë. “As a young elfling had his gift of music already shown, and often did he stray from the woodland realm of his father, wandering along the shores and playing his flute alone. Thus happened in the year 1158 of the Trees that Ossë visited the shores of the Outer Lands again, and there he found Elwenil, lost and alone and yearning for his kin. And though the Valar were quite unpleased afterwards, Ossë brought him to Falassë Númëa, where the Solosimpi dwelt under the rule of his uncle Olwë at that time. And with them he later came to Aman, marching nor resting among them but sitting aloof upon the mighty shoulder of Ossë, piping strangely.”

Celebrían shot a glance at the minstrel, who seemed more like a spirit than an Elf indeed, and could very well imagine that Elwenil was considered a strange one among his father’s people.

“Now does he dwell in the gardens of Irmo with his mother,” Vairë continued; “but often he returns to Tol Eressëa, where Alalminórë he loves the best, and the Queen’s garden best of all. Ever and again we miss his piping for long years; but on a sudden will, his flute be heard again at an hour of gentle gloaming, or he will play beneath a goodly Moon and the stars go bright and blue.”

“And yet he shows himself openly tonight,” said Celebrían, “even though you said that he was so shy.”

Vairë smiled and nodded towards the wind spirits gathered around the minstrel, who had just began to shimmer into visible being again.

“His friends, the Súruli made him do so, I deem, for they love to dance to his music. Honoured we are by that, for our gardens have been empty of his melody many a night. Now, however, for such is the eeriness of his music, you will ever love the evenings of summer and the nights of stars, and their magic will cause your heart to ache unquenchably.”

“It already does,” whispered Celebrían, “for save his silver hair, he reminds me eerily of him who has my heart in his keeping. Indeed, not idly do they say that the Lord of Imladris wears the living image of Dior Eluchíl, born by Lúthien herself; for not even the closest kin of Elu Thingol has ever possessed the wondrous fairness of the Children of Lúthien; and of those only Elrond and our children are left.”

“And your yearning for them will remain as unquenchable as the longing for Elwenil’s music,” Vairë added in sympathy.

“I fear so,” sighed Celebrían. “But have you not all heard him many times and often, you that dwell here? Yet you do not seem to me like those who live with a longing that is half understood and may never be fulfilled.”

“Ah, but we do,” and it was Vairë’s turn to sigh now, “more so than you might imagine. Fortunately, we have also limpë, that alone can cure, and a draught of it giveth a heart to fathom all music and song. At the very least this comfort we always have.”

“But those who drink of it must stay in Tol Eressëa, or so I was told,” said Celebrían.

“Then why are you still here?” asked Celebrían. “You were born in Aman and were never one of the Exiles. What keeps you here?”

“Someone has to take care of those who are still healing,” she said. “And I am a caretaker by calling and by trade.”

(1) The descriptions of Elwenil’s music and his shy nature are very loosely quoted from “The Lost Tales 1,” pp. 42. 99-100.

(2) No, I am not making that up! Timpinen (or Tinfang Warble) actually was conceived as Tinúviel’s brother. See: “The Book of Lost Tales 1,” p. 114. I only gave his character and fate a little twist.

(3) Which is the literal meaning of Elladan’s name. Of course neither his fate nor his preferences are canon facts, just my own choice whenever I write about him.

Now, after having been sidetracked by demanding Lost Tales characters, I shall try to return to the actual storyline. On the third day of Samírien, Gilfanon begins to tell the tale of the Flight of the Noldoli and all its consequences. The tale will be a little different from the well-known description in the Silmarillion, for it was very different in the Lost Tales. I tried to find a middle way between the two versions, assuming that Gilfanon’s own memories would be more… coloured by experience.

As this would be a much too long chapter otherwise, I will separate it into several parts.

The feasting crowd had danced with the Súruli ‘til daybreak; then they all sought out their resting places and slept through the morning. Once again, Celebrían had a peaceful rest, and once again, she felt a presence leaving her chambers when Tirannë woke her around midday. Having a bath and refusing the offer of a meal, she left the treehouse to explore the telain higher up in the tree – and on one of those she met Gilfanon again.

The Lord of Tavrobel was sitting upon the wooden floor, clad in the simple garb Elves wore on ordinary days, and the Lady Vainóni accompanied her. They sat in complete silence, their deep eyes glittering in the shadow of the leaves, but Celebrían doubted not that they were bespeaking each other. She had seen her own parents doing the same often enough – and these Elves were far older than even Celeborn and Galadriel.

They noticed her presence, despite her best efforts to leave quietly (not wanting to bother them), and invited her to join them in a solemn yet friendly manner. Lady Vainóni asked about her well-faring, about how she liked Samírien so far, and she answered politely. But she could not shake off the feeling that the other two were saddened somehow, even though they were partaking in the greatest Feast known in Elvenhome.

“You are right,” answered Vainóni when Celebrían voiced her feelings. “For even though the Feast of Double Mirth is the holiest and merriest for the Eldar, it is also marked by the dark memory of Melko’s⁽¹⁾ theft and the slaughtering of the Two Trees – for it all started on the third day of Samírien, when all the Eldar and most of the Valar went to Manwë’s dwelling upon Taniquetil, and Tirion and Valmar were silent and still, unguarded against his evil.”

“There are songs about those dread events in Middle-earth, though they are known to few people now,” said Celebrían, “and heavy books, written in the Ancient Tongue that only the lore-masters are able to read anymore. Yet never have I heard someone telling the tale who has seen it with his own eyes.”

“Small wonder it is,” replied Gilfanon, “for few of those who witnessed those horrors are still in the Outer Lands; and ‘tis a bitter memory for them, left better rest. For on that very day did the long suffering of the Noldoli begin; our life under the Curse of Mandos that ended in the War of Wrath and the breaking of Beleriand. Those who still can remember are unwilling to stir up that old pain again.”

“And yet I believe that you should tell her the tale, Ailios, if she is willing to listen,” said Vainóni. “’Tis something her own mother neglected to do; but she has the right to know where she comes from – and to make her own judgement over the deeds of her ancestors.”

“I shall do so if she wants to hear it,” replied Gilfanon. “Painful though the memories are, they also honour the heroic deeds of many good friends who are waiting in Mandos still, and I shall not deny them the honour and respect that they richly deserve, regardless of the mistakes they might have made.”

“I wish to hear the tale,” said Celebrían, “for surely, one who has seen those fateful events with his own eyes still sees them differently from any minstrel, for whom these events belong to a past long gone.”

“Then I shall tell you everything you wish to know: first the tale of Melko’s theft, then the one about the killing of the Trees, and finally that of the long and horrible flight of the Noldoli. The other tales, the ones of Beleriand, I shall not tell, for they are not mine to tell. I played but a small part in the wars of Beleriand and you will need a better chronologist if you want to learn about them.”

Celebrían agreed, and Gilfanon began his long tale about how evil crept into Valinor due to the release of Melko from Mandos; how Melko would nurse his hatred for the Valar and his consuming jealousy of the Eldar; and how his lust for the beauty of the Gems in the end overbore his patience and caused him to attack openly once again.

“Now the Noldoli alone among the Eldar at those times had the art of fashioning those beautiful things,” Gilfanon said; “for they were much beloved by Aulë himself, and the greatest among them, like Mahtan father of Tulkastor were called the Aulenossë⁽²⁾ and allowed to work in his own smithies, alongside the Maiar of his household.”

“The father of Tulkastor?” Celebrían replied in surprise. “Would that not make Tulkastor…”

“The brother of Nerdanel⁽³⁾, aye,” nodded Gilfanon, “and Vairë, the keeper of my house, is his daughter. ‘Tis the House of Fëanáro that is left without progeny, not the House of Mahtan; for though Vairë followed not the example of her aunt and has no interest in metals, her son Aluin⁽⁴⁾ does, and thus the hammer has been passed over to the next generation.”

“Melko recognized the gift of the Noldoli, and whenever he might consorteth with them, speaking cunning words – the same words he spake to mislead many of the Maiar and even some of the Valar who were not content with their part in creation… Makar and Meássë⁽⁵⁾, to name only two of those – and he sought to sow evil desires and discords among the Noldoli, telling them outright lies concerning the Council when the Eldar had been first bidden to Valinor.”

“That many of the Valar were reluctant to tolerate them among themselves,” replied Gilfanon. “’Slaves ye are,’ he would say, ‘or children, as you will, bidden play with toys and seek not to stray or know too much. Good days mayhap the Valar give you, as ye say; seek but to cross their walls and ye shall know the hardness of their hearts. Lo, they use your skills, and your beauty they hold fast as an adornment of their realm.⁽⁶⁾’”

Hearing these words, Celebrían was eerily reminded of Aiwendil’s coming to Imladris some two thousand years earlier. Had the brown wizard not feared the same fate for young Lindir, should he ever fall into the greedy hands of Curunír?⁽⁷⁾

“Thus were the poisoned words of Melko,” continued Gilfanon, “and despite the true knowledge which Nólemë⁽⁸⁾ had and spread abroad, there were many who hearkened with half their hearts to Melko, often not knowing that these cunning lies, that they heard from second or third hand already, had come from him in the first place. And restlessness grew between them, for before all those born in Valinor had already felt a great longing for the inheritance that Ilúvatar designed for them – the whole wide world to roam, with all its secrets to unveil, and all its substances to be material for their mighty crafts. And they felt imprisoned in the gardens of Valinor, penned by the mountains, hemmed in by the impassable Sea.”

“Indeed. Nerwendë Artanis has always been the strongest and most wilful of the daughters of the Noldoli. That has been her strength – and her greatest weakness. For her pride and strong will led her into exile – the wish to have a kingdom for her own to rule. Yet it seems to me that unlike her brothers, she never got the chance to prove herself.”

“Yet unlike her brothers, she is not sitting in Mandos’ Halls, either,” Celebrían shrugged. “And even though she is not called a queen, she certainly rules Lórinand alongside my father. And while the love and the loyalty of the Silvan Folk belongs to the Tree Lord, ‘tis his Lady who wields the power protecting their realm.”

“We know about the nature of that power,” said Vainóni, “for Círdan’s people always provided us with tidings about the important events going on in the Outer Lands during those last two Ages. The existence of the Three Rings and the identity of their bearers is no secret among us, even though we do not to talk about it, for the mere mentioning of the Rings would cause great sorrow for some who dwell in Tol Eressëa.”

“They would?” Once again, Celebrían felt a little bewildered. All inhabitants of the Lonely Isle seemed to belong to the First Age, why would their grieve over something that happened in the Second?

But Vainóni shook her head in apology. “These tales are not ours to tell. Let us allow Ailios to continue his tale, for the roots of all later events lay in those early days, and you would not be able to understand one without the other.”

“I shall do as my Lady suggests,” with a smile, Gilfanon bowed slightly towards his wife, then he continued indeed. “As I have said, all Valinor was celebrating the Feast of Double Mirth once again. At that time, Melko had already succeeded in spreading the dark seed of mistrust among the Noldoli, so much that Fëanáro and Fingolma⁽⁹⁾ turned against each other, and the former had been banned from Tirion for drawing steel on his own brother. Yet Nólemë had followed his firstborn to Formenos, and thus the Noldoli were divided and bereft of the presence of their King.”

“Why would he do so?” asked Celebrían. “Is it not said of the Finwëans that they regarded duty above all else, even their own families?”

“’Tis true,” answered Gilfanon, “yet Nólemë’s love for his firstborn, the spirit of fire, was great and knew no boundaries. And for a while it seemed that he would succeed in forging a new peace between his sons, so that in that fateful year Fëanáro actually went to the Feast, with his whole household. Yet Nólemë remained in Formenos. And Melko dared in his blasphemous heart to choose the very day of Manwë’s speech upon Taniquetil for the carrying out of his evil plans; for then would Tirion and Valmar and the rock-ringed dale of Sirnúmen be unguarded; for against whom indeed had Elf or Vala need to guard in those old days?”

“We were fools,” Vainóni added quietly, “and the Valar let themselves be blinded by their own strength and thought themselves safe. They truly believed that Melko had changed his ways after his long imprisonment and knew not that he had, indeed, won allies among their own people.”

“There were such who listened to his whispers,” Vainóni corrected, “’til it poisoned their minds completely; and no one knows what has become of Makar and Meássë, at least none of us. For ‘tis said that after the theft of the Jewels and the slaying of Nólemë they would ride in all haste north with their folk, but either they were too late or Melko’s cunning defeated them – and their minds were not oversubtle, if I may say so. For no glimpse of those Ainur was seen in Valinor ever again, though assuredly they did escape with Melko after the killing of the Trees and worked much evil after in the world.”

“And yet none are there whom I have heard tell ever of the manners of their perilous flight back to the ice-kingdoms of the North,” added Gilfanon, “though in the dark depths of Utumno many terrible creatures lived. Who knows what has become of them, after Melko had bound with the flesh of Arda permanently and thus achieved a power over it unlike any other Ainur before? Some say ‘twas no accident that Kosomot⁽¹⁰⁾ was so much stronger than the other Valarauki⁽¹¹⁾ – that he might not have been a Maia at the beginning but something even more powerful. And who knows where Thuringwethil⁽¹²⁾ had come from? These were the strongest, most malevolent servants of Morgoth, save the one that still hovers in Middle-earth.”

“We should continue our tale another time,” said Vainóni, seeing a merry gathering below. “Let us join the others for midday meal and ask them if they wished to listen, too.”

Gilfanon agreed, and so they descended from the talan and joined Legolas and his people, who were about to sit down for the first real meal of the day.

(4) In the early mythology this was the name of Time, the first of the Ainur. Since Vairë, too, wears the name of a Vala, I thought her son could do so as well.

(5) Makar and Meássë were barbaric warrior deities, borrowed from Scandinavian mythology and discarded at an early time.

(10) Early name of Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs – from a time when he was actually the son of Melko – before the entire idea of the children of the Valar was discarded.

(12) Vampire bat, a messenger of Sauron from Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of the Werewolves.

This is simply a continuation of Chapter 12. Unlike my other stories, I wanted to keep the chapters of this one short, mostly because they are so heavily loaded with older stuff.

After the midday meal Gilfanon asked Legolas to be allowed to use the Hall of Tales, which proved to be some sort of pavilion, open to all sides but one – practically naught but a roof, held by artfully-carved wooden pillars. Before the only wall a low armchair stood, and this, said Vainóni, was the place of the storyteller, and those who were listening sat in circles along the pillars, each circle smaller than the one before.

Samírien was celebrated differently in Tol Eressëa where the Valar rarely visited. Instead of Manwë’s speech, ‘twas up to the minstrels and storytellers to remind the Eldar of the Elder Days; and for this purpose exactly had the Hall of Tales been built.

Hearing which tale Gilfanon was about to tell, many Elves came to listen to it. A great number of them had witnessed those fateful events back in the Elder Days, and they hoped that reliving them would help to lessen the grief that they still felt over their losses.

Others, younger ones, born after the Veiling of Valinor, simply wanted to learn more about the deeds of their ancestors. Whatever might have moved them, there were some hundred Elves and more in the pavilion when Gilfanon finally took the seat of the storyteller, Legolas and Meril among them. The minstrels, however, were nowhere to see.

“Today I shall tell you a long and sorrowful tale,” Gilfanon began; “a tale of bitter losses and desperate bravery; a tale of righteous anger and horrible sins. ‘Tis proper to tell it on this very day; for on the third day of Samírien it happened that Melko came to Tirion, passing on his way the dark halls of Makar’s abode, where some of his followers had been hiding already. At that day, however, the halls stood empty, for even that wild Vala and his fierce sister Meássë had gone to Valmar to honour the time, and indeed all of the Valar went there saving Fui and Mandos only, and Ossë was even there, dissembling for those seven days his feud and jealousy with Ulmo…”

Celebrían felt her mind drift a little. Though it surprised her somewhat that there would be squabbles among the Powers of the West, she had little interest in these matters. Thus, while listening with half an ear to the well-known parts of the tale, her thoughts were more on Meril than on the story itself. For the Queen of Tol Eressëa seemed strongly touched by the tale – though ‘touched’ might not be the right word for it. It seemed as if the reliving of those events had angered her somehow, and as if the slaying of the High King of the Noldoli awakened more bitterness in her heart than true grief.

“And so it came that everyone was gathered together upon the slopes of Taniquetil,” Gilfanon was saying, “all three kindreds of the Elves, the Maiar, and even the Valar were arrayed in their majesty and beauty, and all were ready to hear the Words of the Beginning from Manwë’s mouth once again. Thus the streets of Valmar were empty, and the stairs of Tirion were silent; and all the land lay sleeping in peace. Only Nólemë was absent from the Feast, and some of his people, for he wished not to meet with his kin as long as the ban lasted upon his firstborn.

“Meanwhile Melko, after Fëanáro had seen through his evil designs for the first time, had fled through the Calacirya, and everyone thought that he had turned northward, trying to escape to his old strongholds in the Outer Lands, for the Solosimpi in Alqaluntë⁽¹⁾ had seen his shadow going by their haven towards Araman.

“Thus the watch was doubled along the northern fences of Aman, yet it all was in vain for Melko had already poisoned the minds of many who were entrusted with that very duty, Makar and Meássë and their people among others. Besides, he was yet as one of the Valar and could change his form or walk unclad; yet this was soon to change, as soon as he bound himself permanently to the flesh of Arda and thus poisoned it with his evil forever.

“Therefore ‘twas easy for him to come unseen to the dark region of Avathar south of the Bay of Eldamar, beneath the eastern feet of the Pelóri – for he intended to seek out the help of an old ally. And while the great Feast was going on upon Taniquetil still, the Dark One wandered the shadowy plains of that land between the sheer wall of the mountains and the cold, dark Sea; and further south than anyone had yet treated, he found a region of deepest gloom.”

Celebrían suppressed a shiver. Ever since her captivity, descriptions of darkness awakened unpleasant memories in her heart; for a whole year before embarking on this last journey of hers, she had slept with candles and lamps burning brightly in her bedchamber. She secretly wished that Gilfanon would get over this part of the story, yet it seemed that the ancient Elf only began to draw out the gloomy details.

“There he sought ‘til he found a dark cavern in the hills, and webs of darkness lay about it, so that the black air could be felt heavy and choking about one’s face and hands,” Gilfanon continued. “Very deep and winding were those ways, and under the earth they secretly led straight to the Sea; for here dwelt an ancient and evil spirit, Móru, whom even the Valar know not whence or when she came, and the people of the Outer Lands gave her many names…”

“Ungoliantë,” someone said, a little uncertainly, from the middle of the enthralled crowd, and the ancient Elf nodded.

“So our legends call her indeed, though she had had many other names during the Ages.”

“And there is truly no one who knows where she came from?” asked someone else. Celebrían could not see who it was, either, but from the voice she suspected one of the younger Elves.

“Some say she was bred of mists and darkness of the Shadowy Seas, in that utter dark that came between the overthrow of the Lamps and the kindling of the Trees,” replied Gilfanon, “but more likely she had always been. She it was who loved to dwell in that black place, spinning a clinging gossamer of gloom that caught in its mesh stars and moons and all bright things that sail the airs. Even some of the air spirits who got lost and were never seen again most likely ended up in her webs. Indeed it was because of her labours that so little of that overflowing light of the Two Trees flowed ever into the Outer Lands, for she sucked light, greedily, and it fed her, but she brought forth only that darkness that denies all light. Ungwë Lianti – the great spider that enmeshes – did the Eldar call her, naming her also Wirilómë or Gloomweaver. Whence still our people speak of her as Ungoliantë the Spider or as Gwerlum the Black.”⁽²⁾

“Was there between Melko and Ungoliantë friendship from the first?” someone asked, but Gilfanon shook his head.

“Gloomweaver had no friends, for she cared only for herself and hungered for light. She only wished to devour every light and turn it to darkness. And it was this unquenchable hunger of hers that Melko counted on, for promising to give her all the light she wanted, he finally succeeded in luring her out of her deep hiding places – thus setting his lure for the lesser thief, for never truly did he intend to give her what he lusted for most: the Jewels of Fëanáro.”

“Those cursed Jewels that brought more grief over our people than the Dark One himself,” Meril whispered barely audible, though Celebrían could have sworn that Gilfanon did hear it. Still, the ancient Elf did not sway from the path of his tale.

“Knowing that the best time to strike would be while all Valinor was attending Samírien, Melko and Wirilómë crept into Valmar and lay hidden in a valley of the foothills, ‘til Silpion came to full bloom, its fair silver light filling the silent city of Valmar with a soft radiance.⁽³⁾ But all the while was Gloomweaver spinning her most lightless webs and ill-enchanted shades ‘til a dim uncertain darkness crept unto the roots of the Trees, and only faint lights wavered in it.”

“How come neither the Valar nor the Elves would notice the rising of Unlight?” asked the same voice as before, and Celebrían secretly agreed.

“Oh, they did notice,” replied Gilfanon; “yet they did not suspect the hand of Melko in this, as they knew naught as yet of Ungoliantë. Thus they believed rather it was some work of Ossë, who at times with his storms caused great mists and darkness to be wafted off the Shadowy Seas, encroaching even the bright airs of Valinor; though in this he met the anger both of Ulmo and Manwë.”

“Did you not say that Ossë was attending to the Feast himself?” the voice from earlier insisted. Gilfanon nodded.

“That I did and so it was. But the members of his court, the Oarni and Falmaríni and the long-tressed Wingildi⁽⁴⁾ never left the waves, and they were known as playful and mischievous beings back then. Therefore Manwë did only as was his wont, sending forth a sweet westerly breath to blow all ill sea-humours back eastward over the waters.”

“Much could such gentle breathing have availed against the woven night, heavy and clinging that Wirilómë had spread far abroad,” muttered Legolas darkly. Not being an Elf of Valinor, he had no direct memories of those dire events, but the outcome was well-known anyway.

“Not much indeed,” Gilfanon sighed sadly, “and thus under the black cloak of invisibility Melko and the Spider of Night reached the root of Laurelin unnoticed. And Melko, summoning all his might, thrust his black spear into the beauteous stock of the Golden Tree, and the fiery radiance that spouted forth would assuredly have consumed him even as it did his spear, had not Gloomweaver cast herself down and lapped it thirstily, hacking her black beak into the wound in the tree’s bark and sucking away its life and strength. For she alone, who was Unlight incorporate, could swallow and quench the living fire that pulsated through the Two Trees.”

“And still no one noticed the darkening of Laurelin?” asked someone unbelievingly.

“Nay,” said Gilfanon, “for by ill fortune it also was the time of Laurelin’s accustomed deepest repose; and it would never wake to glory any more. But from that great draught of light suddenly pride surged in the black heart of Gloomweaver, and she heeded not Melko’s warnings but set to sate herself now nigh to the roots of Silpion, spouting forth evil fumes of blight that flowed like rivers of blackness even to the gates of Valmar.”

“Did I say no one noticed? I was wrong. For there was one among the Noldoli, a member of Nólemë’s household called Daurin, wandering from Formenos in great boding of ill, and he reached Ezellohar just as Melko was about to injure the bole of Silpion – and with a great cry he made for Wirilómë where in the likeness of a spider she sprawled upon the ground. And with his slender blade that came from the forge of Aulë himself, Daurin clove one of her great legs, staining the blade with her black gore – a poison to all things whose life is light.”

Once more Gilfanon paused, looking at the tense faces of his audience. In the innermost circle a young Elf raised a pale hand.

“What happened to this valiant Noldo?” she asked. “For he could not save the Silver Tree, as we know.”

“Nay, he could not,” replied Gilfanon sadly; “for Wirilómë, writhing, threw a thread about him, and he was unable to get free; and Melko ruthlessly stabbed him to death. Then wrestling that bright slender blade from his dying grasp, the Dark One thrust it deep into Silpion’s trunk, and the poison of Gloomweaver was still black upon it, drying the very sap and essence of the three, and its light died suddenly to a dismal glow lost in impenetrable dusk. Gloomweaver, angered about the loss of more food and still not sated, turned to the Wells of Varda and drank them dry also. And she belched forth black vapours while she drank and swelled to a shape so vast and hideous that even Melko was afraid.”

(3) In the Silmarillion, the assault on the Trees happened at the time of the mingling of the lights.

This is simply a continuation of Chapter 13. One more thing concerning the pervious chapter: in the old mythology, it is not actually said that Ungoliantë drank the light of Silpion, but only that the tree died from her poison on Daurin’s blade (“The Book of Lost Tales 1”, Commentary by Christopher Tolkien, p. 178 of the Del Rey edition).

There was a long, mournful silence after Gilfanon had finished the tale of the killing of the Trees. ‘Twas Legolas who dared to speak first.

“I have heard this sad tale many time, sung by the greatest minstrels of our kin,” he said, “yet never in such detail; and some parts were quite different, too. How come that you know things that are not even mentioned in the old laments?”

“I know these for I was there,” Gilfanon replied calmly. “Daurin was not the only one driven to the Trees in unnamed fear on that fateful day… a few of us, who followed Nólemë to Formenos during his voluntary exile and dwelt in the dale of Sirnúmen at that time, followed him from afar, for we knew his foreboding was to be trusted.”

“More than a friend,” answered Gilfanon. “We awoke together at the dark waters of Cuiviénen under the newborn stars, which, as you know, is the closest thing the First Ones could have to having siblings. The ones who awoke together would always have a special closeness, the same way as twins do who have shared a womb, and they were rather similar in both their looks and their nature⁽¹⁾. So yea, you can say that Daurin was my brother; for that is what he was, in the only way I could have one. And we both were close friends of Nólemë, Daurin even more so than myself, for I have already been drawn to the friendship of Olwë and his brothers. Thus my brother followed the King wherever Nólemë might have gone, while I often spent a great amount of time in Alqaluntë, or before that on the shores of Falassë Númëa.”

“Were you among those who followed Daurin on that day then?” asked Legolas, and Gilfanon nodded.

“I was. Even though I disagreed with Nólemë when he abandoned his duties and went into exile with his firstborn, he was my King. It was my duty to go with him… and it was my duty, too, to follow my own brother when foreboding called him to the Trees.”

“Noldorin men and duty is a tale worth telling in itself,” commented someone bitterly, and Celebrían recognized with some surprise the voice of Meril the Queen.

“There is a certain… blindness involved,” agreed Vainóni, but her voice, unlike Meril’s was calm and guarded, “and the tale of how the first blood was spilt in the Blessed Realm in a way reveals the core of all the mistakes made afterwards. Go on, Lord of Tavrobel! Tell us the tale of the theft of Melko as you, the last eyewitness who still walks under the trees, remember it. For much has been added later and even more has been forgotten when those who could remember still were slain in the Battles of Beleriand, in useless defense of a doomed land.”

Her somewhat harsh words seemed to surprise even Legolas (who was, after all, a native of those very lands), but no-one made a comment, and after a short, uncomfortable silence Gilfanon continued his tale.

“Thus it happened that when Melko and Wirilómë saw our approach, they turned in flight and left Ezellohar in a cloud of impenetrable darkness; not for the fear of us, but for the fear of losing the element of surprise, should we catch up to them. Still, we stumbled after them in horror, for they were heading straight towards the rugged dale where the stream Híri plunged under ground: the dale of Sirnúmen where Formenos was built and where our King remained even as his son went to Taniquetil with the rest of the family.”

“What would the Dark One want from Nólemë,” asked Legolas, “unless he knew that the Silmarilli were kept there?”

“He knew that,” answered Gilfanon, “for he could see how Fëanáro came under the thrall of his own creation; and he also knew that the Spirit of Fire had grown suspicious towards both the Valar and his own brothers – he did all he could to raise and nurture these suspicions, after all. Therefore he was certain that the Jewels would be kept in Formenos – and as we all know now, he was right.”

“My friend, there was no need for guards inside the Blessed Realm – yet. Though you are right in one thing: at any other time, Melko would have been hard-pressed to surprise Nólemë as he did on that particular day, for the Noldoli – by reason of the workings of Melko’s own whispers in their hearts – had become wary and suspicious beyond the wont of the Eldar of those days. Guards of some strength were set over the treasures of Sirnúmen where the closest followers of Nólemë had their dwellings, and some of us went not to the Feast, albeit this was contrary to the customs and wishes of the Valar. Yet they were few and no match for the strength and malice of Melko’s people, and soon all those guards were slain, even while the peace and gladness upon Taniquetil afar was very great – and indeed, for that reason no one heard their cries.”

“’Tis still strange to me that the death of the Trees remained unnoticed,” said Legolas, in the accusing tone of a trained warrior. “Even though, as you say, ‘twas at a time when Laurelin used to be at its dimmest, the fading of the silver light of Silpion should have raised suspicions.”

“I fear that you cannot understand that, Laiqalassë⁽²⁾, my friend,” answered Vainóni in her husband’s stead. “When Manwë relived the First Music for us, he took our fëar with him to walk alongside him on the Path of Dreams that is called the Olórë Mallë. Contemplating how Arda took shape from the Flame Imperishable itself, spun a cocoon of light around us that no darkness could penetrate. We were blind for aught else as long as that visionary journey lasted⁽³⁾. Life in Valinor was quite different during the Time of the Trees from what it is like now. No one who has not seen it can even begin to imagine what it was like.”

“There was but one who heard the screams of the dying guards,” Gilfanon picked up his thread again; “our King himself. For so the few servants who by some miracle survived that dreadful day tell: that they saw a blind Darkness sweeping northwards, and in the midst walked some power for which there was no names – as no-one had heard of Wirilómë before – and the Darkness issued from it. But Melko also was there, with some of his followers, and he came to the house of Fëanáro again, seething with anger and burning with lust for the Jewels. And there he slew Nólemë, King of the Noldoli, before his very doors.”

“So Finwë Nólemë fled not from the horrors of Unlight, then,” said Legolas. “But what hope could he have to stop the Dark One?”

“None,” replied Gilfanon, “yet he resisted Melko nonetheless, drawing steel against him. Melko himself, however, was armed, too: with a sword, very sharp and cruel, that the one of Aulë’s people whom he had long corrupted with his lies forged for him, and the strength of Nólemë was not great enough to stop him. For even though he was one of the First Ones, he could not beat a Vala, untrained for war as we all were back then.”

“Thus you and the others came too late, I deem,” said Legolas after a long, mournful silence. Gilfanon nodded grimly.

“Too late indeed, for we had to carry the broken body of Daurin, too, who was not dead yet, but in a bad shape, and there was little hope for him. When we reached Formenos, the stronghold of Fëanáro was broken, too, and all the jewels of the Noldoli that had been hoarded in that place were taken; and the Silmarilli, kept in a casket of ivory, were gone. The spilt blood of Nólemë, though, the first blood ever spilt in the Blessed Realm, darkened the broken doorsteps of the house.”

There was another long, mournful silence, for even the other kindreds of the Eldar loved and respected Finwë Nólemë, one of the three emissaries of the Quendi who had first followed Oromë to Valinor and brought back tidings to their peoples about the Blessed Realm. Now, three Ages later, only High King Ingwë was still alive of those three; for Nólemë’s death led to the uprising and the flight of his people, and the return of the Noldoli to the Outer Lands resulted in the breaking of Beleriand and – among other horrible battles – in the fall of the greatest realm Middle-earth had ever seen: the hidden kingdom of Elwë Singollo in the enchanted woods of Doriath.

And Elwë, third of those ancient emissaries of the Eldar, he who had won the heart of Melian the Maia, was slain, too, due to the thrall of the Jewels that had been stolen by Melko. Thus the death of Nólemë was indeed the very beginning of the doom that haunted Beleriand and all the Elves in the West of Middle-earth for a whole Age – and beyond.

“I am still wondering how Melko could escape Valinor so quickly,” Legolas finally said, “even if all were attending to Samírien and those who were not, were mostly dead. He could not have carried his bounty while unclad; therefore he must have fled in his incarnate form, severely slowed down by the natural restrictions of a body.”

“True,” nodded Gilfanon, “but he had some aid, however unwilling. Know that Oromë used to have great stables and a breeding ground of good horses not so far from the dale of Sirnúmen, where a wild forestland had grown up. Thither Melko stole, and he captured a herd of black horses, cowing them with the terror that he could wield. Astride those he and his followers rode far away, after destroying what things of lesser value they deemed it impossible to carry thence. And thus they rode, faring with the greet speed of stormy winds such as only the wondrous horses of Oromë ridden by the Ainur themselves could compass, far to the north. For there, if one may endure the colds as Melko could it, is said in ancient lore that the Great Seas narrow to a slim crossing, and without aid of ships Melko and his company might thus have got into the worlds safely⁽⁴⁾.”

“Others have crossed the Grinding Ice, too,” said Legolas with a shrug, “though I wonder how he got his Balrogs across it.”

“He did no such thing,” replied Gilfanon; “nor was there any need to do so, for the Valarauki never returned from the Outer Lands, not even after the chaining and long captivity of their dark Master.”

“I fear to imagine what the Noldoli must have felt when they fared back after the end of the Feast, only to find their homes despoiled and their King slain,” whispered Celebrían. Had she had to return to find Imladris in ruin and Elrond dead, she surely would have died from grief.

“Oh, they had learnt of it, before returning home,” answered Gilfanon, “but I shall leave that part of the tale to the one who had witnessed the bringing of dire news.”

With that, he looked at his wife in askance, and Vainóni inclined her head in the most dignified manner.

“And I shall tell my part of the tale, Lord of Tavrobel – yet not right away. Urwendi is about to return her ship to its haven, and Eärendil is ready to sail the skies with Vingelot⁽⁵⁾. Let us hold the tale here and feast and sing and dance. Tomorrow we can return to the sad things again.”

(1) Yes, I am abandoning some of the Professor’s ideas here. And I am doing it deliberately. Being born with one’s future spouse already arranged is not something I can accept for any being with self-awareness. So I opted for siblings, mostly because it would give the First Elves some family relations.

(3) Since I based this tale on “The Book of the Lost Tales”, I needed a way to explain the delay of the Valar. Not the best one, I fear, but it works for me.

Vainóni’s tale is more closely based on the “Silmarillion” than on the “Lost Tales” for a change, because of the necessity to keep the main storyline as in-canon as possible. Still, parts of Manwë’s speech and that of the Noldoli who brought the dire news to Valmar, are taken from “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, pp 161-162 and 165. of the Del Rey edition.

After another night of singing and dancing and feasting in the great outdoor halls of Eglavain – and after a long rest in the following morn – those who wanted to hear Vainóni’s tale gathered in the Hall of Tales again. Once more, Legolas and the people of his household joined the audience, and so did Meril and the ladies of her court. The Lady of Tavrobel occupied the storyteller’s seat, and while her fair face was smooth and seemingly unmoved, Celebrían could see the shadows of deepest sorrow in her clear grey eyes.

“You wanted to hear how the Noldoli – and the Valar themselves indeed – finally learnt of the theft of Melko and the slaying of the Trees,” she began. “Listen then, for I shall tell you how it happened; for unlike my husband, I was there on that fateful day. I had not followed him to the dale of Sirnúmen, choosing to remain with the people of Fingolma⁽¹⁾ instead, whom Nólemë had entrusted with the burdens of kingship among the Noldoli in all but the formal title. For the wife of Fingolma was – and still is – a dear friend of mine, and she needed all the support that I could offer her, confronted with the duties of a queen all of the sudden.”

“Was this the reason why you never followed Gilfanon to the Outer lands, either?” asked Legolas. Vainóni nodded.

“One of the reasons; of the other ones I may or may not speak later, as the turns of my tale will demand. Anyway, as I said, I was present upon Taniquetil when that daytide of festival was over; we all awoke from the dream quest and noticed the peculiar darkening of the Blessed Realm; and even the hearts of the Valar were concerned. Thus we all hurried back towards Valmar, treading the white road from Tirion. And in the twilight the first lament for the dead that was heard in Valinor rose from the rocky vale of Sirnúmen, carried by the air spirits all over the darkened meadows, for the surviving Noldoli lamented the death of Nólemë; and many of us could feel, as one feels the passing of a cold breeze, that the fëar of our dead have winged their way to Vê⁽²⁾. Then messengers came riding hastily to Valmar, bearing tidings of the fell deeds of Melko, and these turned to Manwë at once, for he has not yet left for this abode upon Taniquetil, eager as he was to find out what might have happened to the Trees.”

Vainóni sighed and paused for a moment. Apparently, ‘twas not easy for her to speak about these evil things, not even after all the ages in-between.

“While the messengers were still on their way to Valmar, a great concourse gathered about the Ring of Doom,” she finally continued; “and the Valar sat there in shadow, for it was night, ‘til at last the winds of Manwë had driven away the vapours of death and rolled back the shadows of the Sea. Then Palúrien arose and sought out the once green mound where the Trees stood; but it was empty and black now, all life that had filled it quenched by the poison of Gloomweaver, and even the wells of Varda were stained and barren. Gathering all her strength, she lay her hands upon the gift-stained bark of the Trees, but she could feel no life stirring under the dead, brittle wood, and each bench she touched broke like dried bones and fell lifelessly before her feet.”

The Lady of Tavrobel spoke with a quiet intensity that made them all but see the fruitless efforts of Palúrien to rekindle the fire in her Trees; and the people of Eglavain, being Elves of the woods, shivered from that image.

“She understood now that the light of the Trees had passed away,” Vainóni continued, “living only in the Jewels of Fëanáro now, and she asked him to unlock his Jewels so that she could recall life to the Trees ere their roots decayed. And Fëanáro was tempted to listen, for all that he was under the thrall of his own creation already, the grief of Palúrien moved his heart. For he understood all too well that for the greater even as for the lesser there is some deed that they may accomplish but once only; and that in that deed their heart would rest. But Astaldo⁽³⁾, impatient as always, spoke in haste, demanding that Fëanáro give up the greatest and most beautiful things that he had created, and thus Fëanáro chose before thinking, denying the request of Palúrien, crying bitterly, and said:

Her unexpected switch to High Quenya surprised everyone, but it gave the answer (understood by all present, even by Celebrían, despite her meagre knowledge in the Ancient Tongue) a hard edge and an urgency that would not be there in Sindarin. She waited for a few moments to allow her audience to contemplate these hard words, then continued.

“His answer caused great bitterness in the hearts of both Valar and Elves gathered around Máhanaxar; and Nienna rose and went over to the now dead Trees, and with her tears she washed away the defilement of Gloomweaver, and she sang in mourning for the bitterness of the world and the Marring of Arda.

“But even as Nienna was mourning, the messengers from Sirnúmen have finally arrived, and the tidings they bore filled the hearts of all with even more dread and anxiety.

‘Alas, O Manwë Súlimo,’ they cried, ‘evil has pierced the Mountains of Valinor and fallen upon Sirnúmen of the Plain. There lies Nólemë, our King, dead, and many of the Noldoli beside, and all our treasury of gems and fair things and the long travail of our hands and hearts through many years is stolen away. Whither o Manwë whose eyes see all things? How has come to this evil for which the Noldoli now cry for vengeance, O most just one?’

“Manwë looked at them long in sorrow, and then he spoke and said: ‘Beheld o Children of the Noldoli; my heart is sad towards you, for the poison of Melko has already changed you, and covetice has entered your hearts. For had you not thought the works of your hands more worth than the peace of the Blessed Realm and more important than the will of the Valar, this had not been, and your King and those other hapless ones still had lived and your jewels been in no greater peril. Nay, my wisdom teaches me that because of the death of Finwë Nólemë and his faithful servants shall the greatest evils fall on Ainur and Elves alike, and also on mortal Men to be.’

“‘Without the Valar who brought you the Light and gave you all things needed for you craft, teaching you in your first ignorance, none of these fair things you love so much ever would have been.’

“Here Fëanáro, too far gone in his grief over his slain father and his stolen Jewels, indulged in the most shocking rudeness, interrupting the Lord of the West and saying angrily: ‘And mayhap we would be better off if they did not. For what was once our greatest joy is now but the remembrance of what we have lost forever.’

“Yet Manwë, instead of chastising him for his ill-mannered ways, only shook his head and replied: ‘Not so; what has been done may again be done, for the power of the Valar changes not; but of more worth than all the glory of Valinor and all the grace of Tirion is peace and happiness and wisdom, and they once lost are harder to recapture. Cease then to murmur and to speak against the Valar, or to set yourselves in your hearts as equals to their majesty, rather depart now in regret, knowing full well that Melko has wrought this evil against you, and that your secret listening to his whispers has brought you all this loss and sorrow.⁽⁵⁾’”

Vainóni drifted off, her eyes becoming almost lifeless, as if she had been looking back through time, to that fateful day when she had witnessed all these events.

“The Noldoli of Sirnúmen were abashed and afraid,” she finally continued, “and they returned home utterly cast down. Yet even those of us who had remained in Tirion after the voluntary exile of our King felt a heaviness of heart, and not much later the murmurs arose again. And when Manwë bid us all to return home and, if we so desired, busy ourselves in fashioning gems and other wondrous things anew, Fëanáro rose and spoke in bitterness: ‘Yea, but who shall give us back the joyous heart without which works of power and beauty cannot be? – and Nólemë is dead, and my heart also.’

“And lifting up his hand before Manwë, Fëanáro cursed Melko, naming him the Black Foe of the World; and by that name – Morgoth – only he was known to the Eldar ever after. And also did Fëanáro curse the Feast of Double Mirth, calling it the Feast of Double Sorrow instead, and the summons of Manwë that called him to Taniquetil, for in his madness and grief he truly believed that he could have stopped the Dark One from slaying his father and stealing his Jewels, had he been allowed to remain in Formenos.

“After that, he ran from the Ring of Doom and fled into the new darkness that the death of the Trees had brought upon the Blessed Realm; for his father was dearer to him than the Light of the Trees and all the peerless works of his hands; and they say that the grief over his loss was what darkened the fire in his heart to madness. And if that is true, the darkening of his fire certainly began on that very day.”

Vainóni fell in silence, and no-one dared to speak for a long time. Celebrían thought of Celebrimbor, the only one of Fëanor’s progeny still alive when she was young, and at the fire that had burned in the master-smith, brighter than the midday sun. ‘Twas said that Celebrimbor was his grandsire very alike, yet even his fire could not match the one burning in Fëanor’s heart.

Her father, the otherwise so measured and wise Tree Lord, spoke with bitter hatred of the Fëanorians – which could be expected from someone who had been born and raised in Doriath, tutored by Thingol himself, and witnessed the cruel deeds of the sons of Fëanor. And her mother retreated into guarded silence every time when someone mentioned her uncle, the Spirit of Fire, or any of his seven sons.

Strangely enough, Elrond – the one who should have held the most grudge against them – was the only one who spoke with some reluctant fondness of them, at least of Maglor, his foster father. For while Maglor, too, had doubtlessly been a Kinslayer, he also was the first person who really cared for him and his brother.

Eärendil had left his family alone and unprotected to fulfil his destiny and save Middle-earth. Elwing had left her small children behind to save the Silmaril, the last remnant of the Light of the Trees. But Maglor, their sworn enemy, the Kinslayer who was ready to murder his own people for that accursed Jewel for a third time, cared enough to take those orphaned elflings with him and raise them.

She wished she had had the chance to know Elrond’s brother. Sometimes she wondered if Elros had seen Maglor and the events of their troubled childhood differently. Sharing Elrond’s memories through their bond was a unique gift granted to but a few couples, even among Elves, but those were the memories of a young child. She wanted to learn more. And she said so.

“Tomorrow,” promised Gilfanon. “We still have one more day for storytelling, ere the Feast comes to its completion. Tomorrow I shall tell you about the flight of the Noldoli and about the Oath that led to so much sorrow and pain among our people – and to such horrible sins the likes of which were never committed by Elven hands before.”

(1) Remember, I use this as a different name for Fingolfin, not as a name of Finwë.

in my treasures; but never then will they [lit.: for ever they will not] be remade.

beside them it will break this heart: – slain I shall be, in Aman-land first of all Elves.

Both, the Quenya text and the literal translation, has been found on the Mellonath Daeron website. I would give the url, but ff.net strips them automatically, so there is no use.

Oivárin was an earlier name for Ainairos. I made them father and son because I needed a Telerin Elf to present their view on the Kinslaying, and I doubted that Ainairos would be an objective witness, based on how he is portrayed in “The Book of Lost Tales 1”.

Fëanor’s great speech is a mixture between material from the Silm and from “The Book of Lost Tales 1”. I tried to harmonize the two rather different sources – if with or without success, that will be seen.

Heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

“You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes his name in vain.” (Exodus 21:7)

In the following night no-one felt like dancing merrily under the stars. Thus the minstrels were asked again to come and sing the time-honoured laments, so that all could grieve for their losses, for the Feast of Double Mirth had changed much indeed since the days of bliss. And the Súruli gathered around them in the trees and wept, for they, too, remembered those horrible days and grieved for a beauty that would not return, not even to the West, ‘til the Last Battle, when Melko shall be defeated for ever and Arda re-made.

The singing went on for half the night, ‘til the sweetness of the music and the beauty of the words comforted their hearts. After that, they did dance again, but now their dance was slow and solemn like the eternal wandering of Varda’s stars upon the dark velvet skies.

Once again, Celebrían spent some time with Ilverin after the singing. The Gong-Warden presented a welcome distraction from all the doomful tales that had been told in the recent days, talking about life in Tol Eressëa merrily. They danced together, and Celebrían was reminded of the seasonal festivals in Imladris early on, when a still very young Lindir had been too shy to dance with anyone else but her.

Then, after a long morning’s rest and a light midday meal, they returned to the Hall of Tales to listen to Gilfanon again. Among the already familiar faces Celebrían spotted a new one: that of a silver-haired Elf, obviously one of the Teleri, clad in a white robe sewn with pearls.

“Who is that?” she asked Legolas, at the side of whom she was seated. The Lord of Eglavain cast the newcomer a quick glance.

“Oh, him? He is an old friend of Gilfanon’s, from Alqaluntë. His name is Oivárin… the father of Ainairos.”

“Ainairos?” repeated Celebrían in surprise. “Was he not the one with a bitter hatred against all Noldor, because of the slaughter in Alqualondë? Did you not say that his brother, too, was slain on that terrible day? How come that their father is willing to partake on a feast of the Noldoli?”

“Oivárin is ancient,” answered Legolas, “and his wisdom had taught him to put blame where blame belongs. He is one of the counsellors in Olwë’s court and has been friends with Gilfanon since the days when the Solosimpi still dwelt on Falassë Númëa. Today he has come for he was asked to. For soon the tale will reach the events of the Kinslaying, and ‘tis better if the young ones learn about it from both sides, or else the old wounds will never heal.”

“What do you know of the Kinslaying?” asked Celebrían, and Legolas shrugged.

“Only what I have been told during all these Ages; as I am but a Green-Elf who was born in the Outer Lands, I was lucky enough to be spared that horror, and I am grateful beyond measure that I never had to watch our kindred using weapons against each other. Rather would I face the armies of Melko again than fight my own people.”

“And still, you are willing to keep company with the Noldoli,” said Celebrían. “Why? The sons of Fëanor were not the only ones to stain the steel of their weapons with the blood of their own kin as you have said yourself.”

“That is true,” agreed Legolas sadly, “for even though in self-defence, the Solosimpi of Alqaluntë, too, spilled the blood of Elves, and their lost innocence cannot be restored completely either, not even when Arda shall be re-made. ‘Tis said of Olwë, that after that terrible night his hair that once had been silver like that of all those in his clan, turned to snow white.”

Celebrían was too shaken to answer. Elves did not turn white with age, not usually at least, unless they had begun to fade already. The only white-haired Elf she ever met was Galion, the seneschal of King Thranduil of Mirkwood – and Galion was known to have faced unspeakable horrors during the destruction of the First City of the Quendi. Her heart ached for Olwë, the close kin of both her parents, and for the first time since her arrival, she felt the desire to meet her relatives – at least the Falmari. For she was still not ready to face the High King of the Noldor and the demands of his court.

The gathering became silent as Gilfanon took the seat of the storyteller once again, and after a moment of thought he began to speak.

“The Lady Vainóni told you about the wrath and the grief of the Noldoli yestereve; now I shall tell you how Fëanáro brought the Curse upon himself and all of his followers. ‘Tis a dark and sad tale, but one you all need to know, so that you can learn from it and think thrice ere you speak the name of Ilúvatar in vain.”

He paused, collecting his thoughts – for it was not easy for him to speak of these things, as too many painful memories were connected to them; memories that still haunted his dreams, even here, in the Blessed Realm – then continued.

“For a while, there was confusion and grief in Valinor, as Valar and Elves alike tried to find their way in this new, darkened world. Fëanáro dwelt in sorrow with a few folk in Formenos, in the rocky vale of Sirnúmen, and though he sought carelessly to find a way to make other jewels like the Silmarils of old, that Melko snatched away, he could not find any; nor indeed has any craftsman ever done since then, for the Trees were dead and their light gone forever. At length, Fëanáro abandoned the futile attempt, sitting rather beside the tomb of Nólemë that he called Cûm a Gumlaith, the Mound of the First Sorrow, and all Sirnúmen grieved with him for Nólemë, our beloved King, and for our slaughtered brethren. Indeed, well-named that mound was for all the woe that came from the death of him who was laid there.”

Gilfanon paused again, for grief threatened to overcome him, even after all those Ages; so great was his love for his friend and King. Vainóni silently laid her hand upon his to give him support, and he smiled at her gratefully ere he went on with his tale.

“There brooded Fëanáro on bitter thoughts,” he said, “till his mind grew dazed by the back vapours of his tormented heart. And thus, after a while he rose and went to Tirion, to the Noldoli who still remained there – which was, indeed, the great majority of our people. There did he speak to the grief-stricken and to the angry, dwelling on their wrongs and sorrows, bidding them to leave this prison-house and follow him into the Great Lands that would be their birthright but where now usurped by the Black Foe.

“He called them all to come to the high court of the King upon the summit of Túna, even though the ban that had been laid upon him for drawing steel on his own brother was not yet lifted. And all followed his calling, for our hearts were heavy with wrath and sorrow, and Fëanáro’s words were just as masterful as were his hands; and he offered us what we secretly all wanted: a chance to fulfil our curses upon the Black Foe. Fierce and fell were his words; and they found fertile soil in our anger and pride. A madness overcame us all as he spoke to us, and when he claimed the kingship of all Noldoli, since Nólemë was dead and he was the rightful heir, a great many of us supported his claim. For in the secret depths of our hearts we, too, scorned the decrees of the Valar and blamed their unwillingness to pursue Melko and their apparent inability to protect us and themselves.

“’As cowards have the Valar become,’ Fëanáro said bitterly; ‘but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak, and we shall see what is our own, and if we may not get it by stealth, we shall do so by violence. There shall be war between the Children of the Stars and the Lord of Darkness.’

“‘But what if we perish in our quest?’ his youngest brother, Finarphir⁽³⁾, the most moderate and even-tempered among the sons of Nólemë, asked; for even though he possessed the fateful pride of all Finwëans, he was his mother, the golden Indis of the Vanyar, the most alike. Also, he was related to the Solosimpi through his wife and had no desire to leave Aman, no matter how much he, too, wanted to avenge his father.

“‘What if we perish?’ replied Fëanáro heatedly. ‘The dark halls of Vê be little worse than this bright prison – more so for though here once was light, now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless for ever, a shadow-folk, mist-hunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless Sea? Or shall we return home, to the great Outer Lands that were meant to be ours by the will of Ilúvatar, ere our fathers let themselves be lured away by the call of the Valar?’

“By this, he looked directly at me, and I felt a great desire awakening in my heart; an ache to see the starlit mere of my Awakening again, to hear the whispers of the dark trees under a moonless sky; and I understood with a sudden jolt of fear that I was indeed willing to return home.

“‘Sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars in Cuiviénen,” I murmured, almost against my will, knowing that I played directly into Fëanáro’s hands; and yet I could not master my homesickness, unexpected as it had come to me; ‘and wide lands lay about, where a free people may walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them…’”

“Till this very day I cannot fathom what had come over me on that fateful day,” Gilfanon continued, “other than the ban of Fëanáro’s fierce words about freedom and vengeance. All I could think of were the stars and the murmuring waters and whispering trees of my home of old – and the friends that we left behind. The people of Elwë and Elmö and our First City, built of white stone upon a steep hill amidst of a great, dark forest. I forgot all about the perils and the darkness, the bitter fights for survival. My Lady tried to bring me to my senses, but all her labours were in vain. Even though she told me that she would not follow me back to the darkness, I did not change my mind.”

“You were possessed by madness,” said Vainóni, a touch of bitterness in her voice, for the first time. “Had you only wanted to return to the lands of our Awakening, I might have followed you. But you were driven by vengeance – so much that you held it in higher esteem than our bond of love. I was not willing to take second place behind your obsession.”

“You were wise, Lady, and so were Anairë and Eärwen,” said Meril. “I wish I had listened to you, instead of following a madman and even dragging my sons with me into destruction.”

“You were very young back then, and very much in love,” reminded her Vainóni gently. “All you wanted was to stay with your husband and support him. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“Is there not?” asked Meril, pain and anguish clearly written in her fair face. “My own daughters knew it better, remaining in Valinor, instead of following their mother into despair and death.”

“You were not the only one enchanted by Fëanáro’s words,” said Gilfanon. “For the longer he spoke, the more determined we all grew to follow him and make war upon the Black Foe, truly believing in our folly that we might conquer the once-greatest of the Valar, regain the Silmarilli and become the lords of their unsullied Light, mastering the bliss and beauty of Arda, as Fëanáro had promised.

“Finarphir was shocked by those blasphemic words, and once again he tried to bring his eldest brother to his senses. But no-one listened to him, not even his own sons, save the wise and soft-mannered Artanáro⁽⁴⁾. And then, mayhap to bind his seven sons and his followers tighter to the cause, Fëanáro swore a terrible oath – an oath which no-one shall beak, and no-one should take, by the true name of Ilúvatar.”

Gilfanon closed his eyes as if trying to remember, then in a slow and grave voice, he quoted the fateful words of that terrible Oath in High Quenya.

As in the previous day, when Vainóni had chosen to use the Ancient Tongue, there was a long silence in the Hall of Tales. All knew the consequences of that Oath too well. Then Gilfanon sighed and went on with his tale, speaking in Sindarin one again.

“Thus spoke Maedhros and Maglor, Celegorm and Curufin and Caranthir, Amrod and Amras, Princes of the Noldoli. Many of our people quailed to hear these fell words, remembering that by that Name none should swear on oath, good or evil; nor in anger call upon such witness. For so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end.”

“I still cannot understand what made Fëanáro take such a dread action,” said Legolas thoughtfully. “I have heard this tale several times by now and I am more bewildered each time. I can understand his grief and outrage over the murdering of his father, but challenging the Valar over a few jewels, even if they were the greatest work of his hands? That I cannot fathom.”

“Forgive me, my friend, but I fear that you truly cannot,” replied Gilfanon with a heavy sight. “Only those who have seen the light of the Trees can understand what the loss of that light meant to us all; and it was still present in the Silmarils – our only hope to rekindle the light in a darkened world.”

“I still believe it to be pure madness,” said Legolas with a shrug, “but again, what do I know? I am but a Dark Elf, born under starlight – and content with it.”

“Now, Laiqualassë, there is no need to re-kindle the hard feelings of old between those who had left Middle-earth to come to Aman and those who had not,” Merlin intervened gently but firmly. “No-one is trying to lessen the accomplishment of those who remained in the land of their birth and defended it valiantly against the Dark Foe and his servants. Ailios was merely stating that we, who had been granted the privilege of seeing Aman in its former glory felt the loss of it more keenly than those who had never experienced it. That is all.”

Legolas did not seem entirely convinced, but he bowed to Meril slightly, and Celebrían wondered again who the Lady of Tol Eressëa truly had been in Beleriand that her word would still carry so much weight.

“Taking an oath like that was a slap in the face of the Valar, though,” said Vainóni grimly, “and all who followed Fëanáro suffered the consequences.”

“Not only those who followed him,” Oivárin, the silver-haired Telerin lord, injected quietly. Gilfanon nodded.

“True; though at that time it was still uncertain how many of us would truly follow Fëanáro on his path of madness. For Fingolma, appointed though not named by Nólemë as the heir to kingship, spoke up against Fëanáro; and so did Turucáno⁽⁵⁾, his younger son. Fierce words were raised between the sons of Nólemë, so that very nearly it came to the edge of swords again, for Finarphir supported Fingolma, just as Artaher, his son. Findaráto⁽⁶⁾, a close friend of Turucáno, was against leaving, too, but Nerwendë was eager to be gone, as she was the only woman to stand that day tall and valiant among the contending princes of the Noldoli.”

“True,” commented Meril dryly. “The rest of us, foolish ellith, just followed our benighted husbands.”

“Did she swear the Oath as well?” she asked tonelessly, but to her great relief Gilfanon shook his head.

“Nay, she did not; neither did any of the other Princes. Yet the words of Fëanáro as he spoke of the vastness and the dark beauty of the Outer Lands had kindled in her heart, for she felt caged in the constraints of Valinor and yearned to see those unguarded lands and to rule there over a realm of her own.”

Some things have not changed, not even in more than three Ages, thought Celebrían, nodding her wordless thanks to the storyteller. It seems to be her fate, never to get what she wanted most. For, unlike other people, the Lady of Imladris knew all too well that it always had been her father, the closest surviving kin of Elu Thingol, whom both the Green-Elves of Ossiriand and the Silvan folk of Lothlórien followed. Even if the casual beholder would think otherwise.

“Artanis was not the only elleth who wanted to be free of Aman’s constrains,” said Vainóni. “If memory served me well, Íressë was eager enough to leave, too.”

“Indeed, she was,” Gilfanon agreed, “and of f like mind with them were Findecáno⁽⁷⁾, Fingolma’s son, being moved also by Fëanáro’s words, though he loved him little.”

“He loved Maitimo all the more, though,” said Meril bitterly, “and would not abandon him, no matter what this insane quest might bring upon them.”

“And with Findecáno stood – as they ever did – Angaráto and Aicanáro⁽⁸⁾, the sons of Finarphir,” added Vainóni. “But these held their peace and spoke not against their father.”

“Unlike Aracáno⁽⁹⁾ who, just like his sister, could not wait to leave,” said Meril. “Only to be the first to die on the Grinding Ice.”

Gilfanon nodded. “True; but that was still a long way to come. The debate among the Noldoli continued for quite a while yet. In the end, Fëanáro prevailed, and the greater part of the Noldoli there assembled were set aflame with the desire of avenging their slain King and of seeing new things and strange lands. And thus it was decided that some of us would go with him before Manwë and demand that our people be suffered to leave Valinor in peace and set safely by the Valar upon the shores of the world whence we had of old been ferried.”

“You truly thought the Valar would agree? They had brought you to Valinor for safety – why should they bring you back into the perils of Middle-earth, moreso when Melko had returned there?”

“I doubt that any of us was thinking clearly,” answered Gilfanon with a rueful smile. “All we wanted was to be gone, at any cost – though I suspect that Fëanáro desired to confront the Valar themselves in his madness and grief. Then he decided to face Manwë in this matter – and I was chosen to go with him. But this is a part of the tale that I shall tell you later. Let us met again when Arien returns her ship through the Door of Night.”

Unwilling, but respecting his wish for a rest, the Elves left the Hall of Tales. Only Meril the Queen stayed, deep in her own troubled thoughts, and the Lady Vainóni speaking to her in a voice too low for even other Elven ears to hear.

(3) No, really. This was one of the alternate spellings of Finarfin’s name. Even in one of the LOTR-editions, where Gildor says that he is from “the House of Finarphir”.

This story has been on hiatus for six years, so finding back to its original style was had work and I might no have fully succeeded. But there is the new part, after all, and that is what counts, right?

I have slightly modified the previous chapter, with which I never was fully content, so hopefully the transition will be a smooth one. This chapter has not been beta-read yet, so apologies for any mistakes.

Acknowledgement: My heartfelt thanks to Fiondil, whose stories gave me the necessary inspiration to continue this one.

Meril remained absent for the rest of the evening, and thus Celebrían spent her time in the unexpected company of Oivárin of Alqualondë – or Alqualuntë, as the Tol Eressëans preferred to call it. Their peculiar custom of using the older form of the names both of people and places was slightly confusing at first, moreso as she was less than fluent in Quenya still, but she was getting used to it.

Oivárin appeared her right after leaving the Hall of Tales, asking politely for a moment of her time, and she reluctantly agreed. She was not comfortable around strangers upon this strange island; even less so around male ones, but she saw no polite way to refuse someone who was clearly a respected person here – and afterwards she was glad that she had not. For it turned out that Oivárin had messages for her; from her Telerin kin in Alqualondë, none less.

“The Lindaran regularly exchanges messages with Lord Círdan,” explained Oivárin, mentioning Olwë by his title as King of the Third Clan rather by his name. “Often by the way of sea-birds or by Lord Ossë’s people who still visit the Grey Havens from time to time. So he knew from your coming, my lady, as soon as you set foot on Galdor’s ship.”

“But why would he care?” asked Celebrían in surprise. “He does not even know me.”

Oivárin smiled. “Not in person mayhap; but you are related to him twice over: through his brother Elmö, who was grandsire to your father, and through his beloved daughter, Queen Eärwen, who has been Noldotári ever since the flight of the Noldoli, and who is your grandmother on your ammë’s side. You have kin in Aman, Celebrían of the Golden Wood; kin that would have you among them gladly.”

“For that, I am truly grateful,” she said. “But I am not ready to face life at the court of the Noldóran yet; and to be honest, I doubt that I ever will.”

“You cannot know that, and ‘tis still too early to make a decision either way,” said the Telerin lord. “However, the Lindaran wanted you to know that you shall always be welcome to stay with him and his family in Alqualuntë, should you decide to move on. Olwë’s court is a much quieter place than Tirion; and perchance the closeness of the Sea would prove soothing for you.”

“Tell King Olwë that I am most honoured by the offer,” she replied. “But I cannot give him an answer just yet.”

“As I said, ‘tis till too early. My King has waited two Ages for some of his kin to return from the Outer Lands. He can wait a little longer.

He suddenly grinned and added with a mischievous wink. “And if he cannot wait any longer, he might just board a ship and sail over to Elvenhome to see you.”

Quite honestly, the thought of that shocked Celebrían a little. “He would not…”

“Why would he not?” Oivárin shrugged. “His heir has the best ship in Aman, after all; and Olwë himself is not above of sailing the Shadowy Seas at his leisure from time to time. But worry not, my lady; he shall not come to you without forewarning – nor would he show up without asking you first.”

He rose. “Thank you for your time. Should you want to send a message to any of your Amanian kin, or indeed have any questions about them that I might be able to answer, feel free to seek me out. I shall stay ‘til the end of Samírien.”

With that, he bowed and made attempts to leave, but Celebrían stopped him with a pleading gesture.

“Please, if you have the time, could you stay just a little longer? I would like to ask some questions now, if it pleases you.”

Oivárin nodded and sat again. “Certainly, my lady. What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about my kin in Alqualondë,” she asked, “and about the Swanhaven itself. I barely know aught else but a few names.”

“Gladly,” he said. “But that would make another long tale, and night has already fallen. Should you not be resting?”

“It matters not,” she replied. “My sleep has been less than restful lately. I would rather stay up late and listen to you, if you do not mind.”

Oivárin assured her that he did not, and thus they stayed up half the night, sitting on a talan high on the treetop, with Oivárin telling her tales about the Solosimpi of Alqualuntë and even singing her some of their songs that reminded of the never-ending murmurs of the Sea, until her lids became heavy and she fell into deep, healing sleep.

Then he called some of the ellith of Legolas’ household, knowing that she would not wish to be touched by any male, having them carry her to her chambers and tucked into bed.

On the next day, people gathered in the Hall of Tales at the usual time to listen to the rest of Gilfanon’s story. Meril had been absent all morning, and Celebrían was beginning to wonder whether she would make an appearance on that day at all.

In the end, she did come, after all, but her fair face was very white and clouded with sorrow, and her eyes lacked their usual brightness. She took the place next to Celebrían’s and gave her e brief nod of greeting, but that was all.

Vainóni, sitting on her other side, managed at least a brief smile, even though her eyes were haunted, too. The memories they were facing while the tale of the Noldorin rebellion was told were clearly burdening them very much.

“As I have already said yesterday,” Gilfanon began, “it was decided that some of us would go with Fëanáro before the Elder King and demand his leave to go back to the Outer Lands. For most of us would not think of defying the Valar openly, even in our madness. We gathered therefore in the square surrounding Ingwë’s house in Tirion; or rather what had once been Ingwë’s house, ere the Vanyar would move on to their separate town on the slopes of Taniquetil.”

“And the house had been standing empty ever since?” wondered someone from the listeners.

“No; for it has gone to the Noldóran, and has thus become the home of Fingolma during Fëanáro’s exile,” explained Gilfanon. “Which is why we thought it the proper place for our gathering. Thousands came to hear Fëanáro’s words, bearing slender torches, so that the place was filled with a lurid light,” he shuddered by the memory.

“It was an unpleasant sight, to say the least, of those who had grown used to the brilliance of the Trees reflecting upon those white walls,” added Vainóni quietly, “or those who had never known aught else, having been born in Aman already. Many who were subjected to it for the first time started weeping and refused to be comforted.”

Gilfanon nodded. “Indeed so; and Fëanáro exhorted us skilfully to seize that darkness and confusion – not to mention the silence of the Valar – to cast off the yoke, as he called the days of bliss in Valinor, carrying with us what we might or listed.

“’If all your hearts are too faint to follow, behold: I and my sons go alone into the wide and magic world to seek the Jewels that are my own,’ he said. ‘And perchance many great and strange adventures will there befall me, more worthy of a child of Ilúvatar than a thrall of the Valar.”

“I imagine that such statements endeared him to the Valar very much,” commented Legolas dryly.

Gilfanon shrugged. “To that, I can say nought, for no-one can tell what the Valar were thinking – or doing – at that time. No message had come from Valmar as yet, and Lord Manwë was silent. But among us, there was a great rush of those who would follow Fëanáro, and though Fingolma spoke against his rashness again, we would not listen to him; and ever the tumult grew wilder.

“In the end, the one who would accompany him to the Elder King were chosen, although he prophesied that Lord Manwë would forbid us to leave; yea, even prevent us from doing so, or at least try. And thus he ordered the rest of his followers to prepare for the marching fast.”

“Before you would get Lord Manwë’s goodwill and blessing?” asked Celebrían, stunned.

“That was Prince Finarphin’s concern as well,” replied Gilfanon, “and he spoke yet again for heed and delay; but the rest of us would not listen.”

“It would have been hard, too, with all that shooting and arguing that was going on,” added Vainóni. “’What is Valinor to us?’ those benighted fools were shouting. ‘Now that its light is come to little, we would rather be gone and make a life for ourselves in the Outer Lands’… and so on.”

“Benighted indeed,” Legolas agreed, “for they have fled from the loss of light as they had known it to a darkness beyond their imagination. Spoiled as they had been in the Blessed Realm, they could not even fathom the true darkness of Ennorath and the perils of its sometimes harsh climates, deadly predators and the minions of Morgoth crawling forth from under every stone.”

“That is true; but you forget that we had come to Aman to be safe from all those perils,” replied Gilfanon. “Realising that not even the Blessed Real was entirely safe had thrown us off-kilter. And thus preparations were done in over-haste, while Fëanáro and his chose companions approached the gates of Valmar; for he feared that in the cooling of hearts his words could wane and other counsels might yet prevail. And for all his proud words, he did not forget the Valar and whet they could do.”

“A wise consideration, even if coming a little late,” said Legolas. “What did the Valar do then? For that little detail of this tale has never been elaborated.”

“Nothing,” answered Gilfanon simply. “They did nothing. When we reached the gates of Valmar, we found them locked and with all our skills, we could not open them. The Elder King would neither forbid nor hinder Fëanáro’s progress; for the Valar were aggrieved that they had been charged with evil intent toward the Noldoli, or that any would be held captive by them against their will”

‘Or so Eönwë, Lord Manwë’s herald, told us after the War of Wrath,” Vainóni supplied.

“Therefore they chose to watch and wait, for they did not yet believe that Fëanáro could hold the host of the Noldoli to his will,” Gilfanon finished.

“Apparently, they underestimated his hold over his clansmen’s heart,” said Legolas. “Should they not have known him and his kin better, after all those yéni?”

“Nay; in truth they saw more clearly than we ever did in this matter,” replied Gilfanon. “For indeed, as soon s Fëanáro began the marshalling of the Noldoli for our setting out, at once dissension arose.”

“I assume that had nothing to do with the fact that the Valar had shut their gates in your face, refusing to even talk to you,” said Legolas sardonically. “Not that people might have felt uncomfortably by the idea of turning the Powers against themselves.”

“That was part of the reason indeed,” Vainóni nodded in agreement. “The more important part was, however, that though he had brought the assembly in a mind to depart, y no means all were of a mind to take Fëanáro as King.”

“Why not?” Legolas was surprised, clearly hearing about that for the first time, and Celebrían began to wonder what else had Turgon not told his Sindarin subjects. “With Nólemë’s death, was he not the heir apparent? He was the firstborn, was he not?”

“Yea, he was the firstborn; yet his exile had not yet been lifted, and many of us blamed him for the loss of our King, who had followed him into exile,” explained Vainóni. “Nólemë had discarded his responsibilities as the Noldóran in favour of his son, and his subjects did not take their abandonment kindly. We Noldoli always had a very strong sense of duty,” she added with a mirthless smile, “be it our own or those who were meant to lead us.”

“Greater love, therefore, was given to Fingolma and his sons,” continued Gilfanon, “and his household and the most part of the dwellers in Tirion refused to renounce him, if he would go with them. Thus at the last we set forth divided in two hosts. Fëanáro’s House and his following made the vanguard; but the greater host came behind under Fingolma.”

“Which did not bode well with Fëanáro, for all that he had their father’s love, he always was jealous of Fingolma and the love of their subjects for him,” added Vainóni. “Fëanáro might have been made the mightiest in all parts of body and mind: in valour, in endurance, in beauty, in skill, in strength and in subtlety alike; yet he lacked wisdom and compassion, two very important traits of leadership, which Fingolma did have in glades.”

“And he marched against his wisdom,” said Gilfanon with a heavy sigh, “only because Findecáno, his son, so urged him and because he would not be sundered from his people that were eager to go, nor leave them to the rash counsels of Fëanáro.”

“And with him went Finarphin also,” supplied Meril quietly, “and for like reason; though both he and Turucáno were loath to depart. In truth, Turucáno even tried to persuade his wife to stay behind in Queen Anairë’s care with their daughter, who was but a small elfling at that time. But Elenwë could not bear to be separated from either her husband or her child, and thus her father asked an old friend of the family to go with them and keep them safe.”

“Glorfindel,” murmured Celebrían, this being one of the very few details that she had already known, as it was part of Elrond’s family history. Meril nodded.

“Laurefindil swore a solemn oath to Elenwë’s father that he would guard and protect all her descendants, as long as any of them would roam the Outer Lands. An oath he found binding even after death and rebirth, and to which he still holds, as far as I know,” she added, with a questioning look at Celebrían, who nodded slowly.

“He has served Elenwë’s progeny for three Ages and keeps doing so indeed. Without him, the Elves remaining in Middle-earth might have failed to fend off the darkness many times,” she said. “He is the greatest our kind still dwelling in Ennorath; and the dearest friend we ever had. It comforts my heart to know my family under his protection.”

“One could not wish for a more loyal friend or a greater warrior,” Legolas, who had fought alongside the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin, for many years, agreed warmly. “Were he and Elenwë the only Vanyar who joined the rebellion of the Noldoli?”

“They did not join the rebellion,” Gilfanon corrected. “They went out of loyalty towards their friends or family; but yea, to my knowledge they were the only ones. And not many of the Solosimpi went with them, either. Only a handful of those with family ties to the Second Clan. And it was fortunate, for of all the Noldoli of Valinor, who had become a numerous people during the Age of the Trees, but one tithe refused to take the dark road that would lead them back to the Outer Lands. Some did so for the love they bore to the Valar – Lord Aulë above all, who had taken many of them as his apprentices – some for the love of Tirion and the many wonders they had built and worked in that fair city; but none for fear of peril they might encounter along the road.”

“We have always been a valiant people,” commented Meril softly, “if not always a wise one, unfortunately. How else could we have assumed that the Valar would let us go just like that?”

“They did not?” asked Celebrían. She knew of the Curse of Mandos, of course; but that had supposedly happened after the First Kinslaying at Alqualondë, and the story had not reached that point yet.

“They did not,’ replied Gilfanon. “Even as the trumpet sang and Fëanáro was about to pass the gates of Tirion, a messenger came at least from Valinor; and it was no lesser person than Eönwë, the herald of the Elder King himself, terrible in his power and beauty, wearing a glittering suit of armour blanker and brighter than once the light of Silpion had been, and a great sword ten of us could not have lifted with united strength. He barred our way with his mere presence, in a shape as large as the very hills, and he cried out in a voice that shook the earth from Tirion to the Pelóri and the Southern Fiefdoms. His words filled our hearts with dread.”

“What did he say?” asked Legolas with morbid fascination, and many a younger Elf among the listeners were too spellbound to even breathe.

“He said: ‘Against the folly of Fëanáro shall be set my counsel only’,” Gilfanon quoted, his eyes half-closed as his mind was walking the paths of the past. “’Go not forth. For the hour is evil, and your road leads to sorrows that you cannot foresee. No aid will the Valar lend you in this madness; yet they will not hinder you, either. As you came here freely, freely shall you depart.’”

“They actually let you go?” one of the younger Sindar in the audience asked, perplexed- “All you had to do was to ask?”

“In theory,” answered Gilfanon with a mirthless grin. “They still hoped to turn us back from our way, in truth. For Eönwë continued the message thusly: ‘But you, Fëanáro, son of Nólemë, by your Oath are exiled. In bitterness shall you unlearn the lies of Melko. A Vala he is, you said; then you have sworn that terrible Oath of yours in vain. For even if Eru, whose Name you have abused for your vengeance, had made you thrice greater than you are, you could never defeat one of the Valar; not now, nor ever in the Halls of Eä.”

“True enough,” said Legolas, “but I doubt that such a statement would have made Fëanáro change his mind – what was left of it anyway.”

“No,” said Meril. “There was no reasoning with him on that day… or on any of the days that would follow, for that matter. Instead of listening to the herald, he turned to us, laughing and teasing.

“’So!’ he said. ‘Then will this valiant people send forth the rightful heir of their King alone into banishment with his sons only and return to their bondage? Go then, if that is your desire, and lick the boots of your masters humbly. But if any will come with me, to them I say: Is sorrow foreboded to us? Verily, in Aman we have seen it. In Aman we have come through bliss to woe. The other now we shall try: through sorrow to find joy… or at the least freedom!’”

“Freedom?” echoed Legolas. “I should not be too hard on him, for without his madness there would have been no Gondolin and my life would have been so much poorer. But he was truly delusional. And an ignorant fool, too; for he was born in the peace and richness of Valinor and knew nothing about the perils of the Outer Lands.”

“That he did not,” admitted Gilfanon, “nor did he listen to those of us who had survived the Great Journey and knew what we were about to face. He went so far as turning back to Eönwë and shouting him in the face. ‘Say this to Manwë Súlimo, High King of Arda,’ he cried. ‘If Fëanáro cannot overthrow Morgoth, at least he does not delay to assail him and sits not idly in grief. And Eru perhaps set in me a fire greater than you know. Such hurt, at the least I shall do to the Black Foe that even the mighty in the Ring of Doom shall wonder to hear it. Yea, in the end they shall follow me!”

“But not entirely untrue,” countered Oivárin, who was sitting near the storyteller’s chair. “For has not the Host of Valinor indeed follow the same path when they marched into the War of Wrath, to deal with Melko once and forever? In a way, F♪7anáro might even have had a glimpse of foresight.”

“Is it?” asked Oivárin. “I have no love left for Fëanáro; I had lost too much due to his madness, and I would be the last to say that he was right. Yet it seems he was not entirely wrong, either. Not in everything. Let us face the uncomfortable truth: without the exiled Noldoli returning to Middle-earth, our home of old might have fallen to Melko entirely. The ones of our kind still dwelling in Ennorath did not have the strength to keep this evil at bay forever.”

“Perhaps so,” Gilfanon allowed. “And perhaps Eönwë shared that glimpse of foresight; for he bowed before Fëanáro as one full-answered, and departed; and all voices of disagreement among us were overruled for the time being.”

“We continued our march. The House of Fëanáro hastened before everyone else along the coasts of Elendë; and not once did the throw a backward glance to Tirion upon Túna, not caring that Nerdanel was standing upon the wall and looking after her departing sons, her heart breaking. Slower and less eagerly came the host of Fingolma after them.”

“Save Findecáno; he certainly was eager enough, hurrying before the rest to catch up with his cousins,” commented Meril darkly.

Gilfanon nodded. “So he was; and with him went Nerwendë and Aracáno, both ensnared and excited by the adventures waiting for them. Finarphin and Findaráto, however, went at the rear, and many of the fairest and the wisest of their House. And often they looked back to catch one last glimpse of their fair city; until the lamp of the Mindon Eldaliéva was at last lost in the night.”

“It must have been the hardest on them, of all the Exiles,” said Oivárin, “as they did not truly want to leave and only went out of obligation.”

“They took the memories of bliss with them,” replied Gilfanon, “and many of the precious and wondrous things they had crafted, as a reminder of happier times; to give them solace on the way.”

“As with memories, the two are often the same,” she said; then she looked at Gilfanon. “Let us end the storytelling for today, Ailios. For next we shall come to the horrible events that happened at Alqualuntë, and I for my part do not feel like facing those dark memories when night is about to fall.”

“There is no need for you to participate, my lady,” said Gilfanon gently. “I can do it for you.”

But Merlin shook her head. “Nay; I am the only one of my family who was there, and thus the duty of telling the truth falls to me. All I ask for is a night of delay; I already had enough painful memories to relive for one afternoon.”

Gilfanon consented, and thus the storytelling was ended for the day. In that night, no merriment was made. The minstrels, scattered all over the various small clearings in the forest, sang old ballads and laments for the people gathered around them, and the air was heavy with melancholy.

Tempers were understandably rather subdued, and Celebrían returned to her talan early, grateful for the unseen presence of the Súruli to ease her heart. Even so, though she was spared the nightmares, as always when those elusive spirits watched over her, her sleep was restless that night.

Author’s Notes: The members of the House of the Tree in Gondolin are said to have worn green. And while the leader of the House was Galdor, I assume that Legolas, being of the blood of Lenwë, King of the Nandor Elves, would have been a respected and influential member of that House. This is not a canon fact, however, just my interpretation.

To the lore-masters among us: I know that Tolkien eventually changed his mind about Gil-galad’s parentage. However, in this point I stuck with the Silmarillion – it simply makes more sense to me.

Meril’s attire has been inspired by the various outfits of Morgan in the Camelot series.

The anticipation was palpable all morning on the next day, for, as Celebrían learned from Ilverin, never before had the Lady Meril participated in the storytelling on any of the feasts celebrated on the island. No-one had ever heard about her time in Beleriand, save those who had been her subjects, and those were oath-bound to silence. Therefore a great deal of excited chatter and guesswork was going on, and everybody was looking forward eagerly to her tale.

Even though they knew it would be a grim one, as the basic events were known to all.

Once again, Celebrían spent her time with Ilverin, who showed her the little known, quiet little glades in the forest and entertained her with hair-raising tales about his adventures aboard Eärendil’s ship. Celebrían was almost certain that not even half of those tales were actually true. Yet even if they were made up by the child-like Gong-warden, they were harmless and amusing, and they made her laugh.

She only wished Elrond could be here. He knew so very little about his sire and had always yearned to learn more. Often she had caught him alone on one of the balconies, gazing up to the evening star with great longing, trying to fathom what his remote sire could be like and what he might be doing.

That was what he always called the Mariner. Never his father. Father, that was someone else for Elrond Eärendilion; someone whom he rarely mentioned. And though she knew that all Elves and Men owed Eärendil their gratitude for pleading their case before the Valar, on a personal level Celebrían could never forgive him – or Elwing, for that matter – for abandoning their sons.

How strange it was that the greatest hero of the War of Wrath, emissary of all peoples of Middle-earth and slayer of Ancalagon the Black had failed so spectacularly at the simple task of being a father. While Maglor, son of Fëanor, thrice a Kinslayer and slave of their terrible Oath, would take in the abandoned sons of his greatest adversary and raise them as his own.

And he had done well with them, whatever else his sins might have been. One of them had become a great warrior and counsellor of the High King of Elves in Middle-earth; and after that the greatest healer and lore-master of the Hither Shores... not to mention a wonderful husband and father. The other one had become a great King of Men, the father of a whole line of Kings that had survived two entire Ages, raised empires and fought Sauron’s evil successfully.

She imagined Elrond standing upon the balcony, his beautiful face full of longing and anguish, and her heart nearly broke. Was he now gazing towards the West the same way, missing her as much as he had missed his sire in all those yéni?

“Forgive me, Beloved,” she whispered. “I would never abandon you, but I had to leave – either by ship, or by death. I had no other choice.”

“He knows it,” Ilverin, whose presence she had completely forgotten, smiled at her with great compassion. “He is a healer. He understands.”

“I had no choice,” she repeated, sorrow fighting guilt in her heart. “Seeing me fade away would have hurt him as much as my leaving did. No matter what I chose, I hurt him.”

“When we allow ourselves to love, we always risk being hurt,” answered the Gong-warden gently. “But your beloved has seen all three Ages of Arda. He has been hurt before; and survived.”

“I never wanted to hurt him,” she whispered forlornly as her tears started to fall. “All I wanted was to make him happy.”

“And you have, if one can believe all that gossip that has found its way across the Sea in the recent Age,” Ilverin grinned at her mischievously and handed her a handkerchief. “Here, dry those tears and come with me. The storytelling is about to start; or do you wish to miss Lady Meril’s grand entrée?”

The Hall of Tales was full to the bursting point well before the appointed time. Fortunately, a few seats had been reserved for the guests of Gilfanon, Legolas and the Lady Meril herself, and thus Celebrían and Ilverin managed to find a good place, despite arriving fairly late.

To Celebrían’s surprise, the great Gong had been brought there, either in the morning or during the night, and now stood opposite the Storyteller’s Chair, next to the entrance of the Hall. Ilverin, too, seemed surprised; mayhap even a little shocked when he spotted the Gong, his weatherworn face going stark white.

“Nothing,” he replied. “’Tis just… unexpected. It seems that Lady Meril has decided to reveal herself to everybody who might be present today.”

He escorted her to her reserved place but did not sit down himself, not yet. Instead, he went to the Gong, grabbed the hammer Evromord handed to him and, swinging it with all his might, he brought it down onto the very middle of the great bronze disc. The sound thusly generated was low, melodious and powerful; Celebrían could well imagine that it would indeed carry to the depths of the Shadowy Seas.

The sound was still reverberating in the air when Meril-i-Turinqi, Queen of Tol Eressëa in all but name, finally made her appearance; an appearance that had everyone in wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe. For now all could see that she was a Queen indeed, even if she might no longer bear the title.

She came accompanied by her handmaidens, chosen for all three Clans in equal measure, but she was half a head taller than any of them, laid out splendidly in pale gold and silver and royal blue, the colours of Fingolfin’s House (Celebrían still could not make herself call her husband’s great-uncle Fingolma, as everyone else on Tol Eressëa seemed to do).

Over a floor-length undergown of heavy, honey-gold silk, Meril wore a bliaut of dark blue brocade, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread and pearls on the hem, around the widely-cut neckline and along the trailing sleeves that swept the grass as she walked, revealing the long, tight sleeves of the undergown. Her glossy black hair had been braided with pear strings, the numerous braids woven together and coiled on the back of her head like a coronet. A gilded net, attached to a wide golden circlet, studded with small white gemstones, held the braids together.

Her golden necklace was made of large, flat links, wrought in the likeness of the eight-pointed sun of Fingolfin’s House, their rays made alternately of gold and mithril. Of similar device were her elaborate earrings that dangled low, almost touching her shoulder and casting trembling spots of light upon her long, graceful neck as they reflected the radiance of the midday sun. But even more radiant were her eyes, in which a reflection of the light of the Trees could be seen.

Her handmaidens all wore the silver and blue of Fingolfin’s House, his device emblazoned upon their blue surcoats that were scattered with tiny silver stars. They followed her in pairs, in a distance of a few paces.

At her arrival, all rose from their places, without having been told to do so, for the majesty of her appearance and the long-hidden power radiating from her every gesture demanded respect. Celebrían followed suit without even thinking.

It was the due of Legolas, the host of the feast to welcome their Queen, and he did so with obvious respect. Celebrían saw in surprise that he Lord of Eglavain had discarded his festive white garb in favour of a surcoat of deep, forest green velvet, embroidered with gold vines and leaves around the neck, on the hem and the sleeves, and emblazoned with the device of the House of the Tree, as he once must have worn it in Gondolin. His ash-blond hair, too, was elaborately braided in warrior fashion, with ribbons in the colour of his House, the individual plaits weaved together into a single braid on the back of his head and gleaming like ripe wheat.

He bowed before Meril deeply, kissing her hand as it was a Queen’s due from her vassal, and welcoming her as a powerful lord would welcome his liege. The Sindarin he spoke was old-fashioned; presumably the dialect once spoken in Beleriand and full of archaic expressions, yet not entirely beyond anyone’s – even Celebrían’s – understanding-

“I welcome you who you once were called High Queen of Beleriand, Merilindë from the blood of the Ingaran,” he said. “Honoured we are that you chose to reveal yourself and unlock your secrets, after all those Ages.”

“There is an appointed time for everything, Laiqualassë of the Hidden City,” she replied, “and thus your long wait has finally come to an end. Yet the tale I have to share is a dark one; are you all certain that you wish to hear it, and on the Feast of Double Mirth, of all times?”

“Yea!” the audience chorused as with one voice, and Meril nodded her consent.

“So be it then. Be seated, all of you, and I shall tell you what happened at Alqualuntë… or, at least, what I have seen with my own eyes – and what I have done with my own hands. Lord Oivárin here,” she glanced at the Telerin lord, “shall tell you the other half of the tale.”

“Very well,” Meril allowed Legolas to escort her to the Storyteller’s Chair and sat, arranging her finery around herself carefully. “We shall begin then.”

“As Gilfanon already told you yesterday, we left Tirion after Fëanáro had confronted the herald of Lord Manwë, and he led our host northwards,” Meril began, when all were seated and the excited whispers had died down.

Meril smiled, knowing that many of the younger Elves and the later arrivals from Middle-earth had never actually visited Aman and thus could not be familiar with its lay.

“Well, even though we were in a great hurry to leave, we could not do so without at least the barest preparation,” she explained. “We needed supplies to feed and transport such a large host, and most of us wanted to pack some personal items and speak our farewells to loved ones who would not come with us. For not many wives, daughters or mothers chose to go on that quest with their vengeful and adventurous husbands, fathers and sons.”

Meril nodded. “Nor did any of the wives of the Fëanorionnath choose to follow their husbands to the Outer Lands, even though they had followed them into exile to Formenos. In fact, the only ones from the royal Clan – save for Artanis, of course – were all from Fingolma’s House: Írissë, Elenwë, myself and Eldalótë from the family of Lady Anairë, who would later become Angaráto’s wife.”

“No,” Meril agreed. “Lady Anairë chose not to join what she called Fëanáro’s madness, and she generously agreed to take my daughters, who were, after all, barely of age at that time, into her own household. She had been appointed as Queen Regent in the absence of all Noldorin Princes; I could be certain that her granddaughters would be in good hands with her.”

“Her granddaughters?” dozens of shocked voices, among them Celebrían’s repeated. The younger generation clearly had no previous knowledge about Meril’s true identity, Celebrían realized; but she could also see that a few of the older Elves were not surprised at all. Most likely those who had once lived in Beleriand and either sailed or been reborn since then.

Meril nodded solemnly. “Her granddaughters indeed. For I was – well, in a manner I still am – married to Findecáno, firstborn son and heir to Nolofinwë Finwion, whom most of you know as Fingolma… or as Finarfin, those who had but recently arrived from the Outer Lands.”

A shocked silence filled the Hall of Tales. Generations upon generations had been born since the War of Wrath and the return of the exiled Noldor, most of whom had long since moved on to Aman. Only the handful of them who were still dwelling on Tol Eressëa and the Sindar of old who had settled there for good would still remember.

Celebrían was as shocked as everyone else – though for different reasons. Not by the fact that Meril had been – well, according the laws and customs of the Eldar she still was – the Queen of Fingon. She always knew, in theory, that he had to have a wife, even though the name of said wife had never been mentioned. What truly shocked her was the fact that the Lady of Tol Eressëa was apparently the mother of Gil-galad.

Well, of course she is! She berated herself. It had been apparent from the beginning that Meril would be roughly of the same age as her mother, Galadriel… or Nerwendë, as she was still called here. It was just so that Gil-galad had long become a legend in Middle-earth, and thinking of him as somebody’s little son was almost beyond imagination.

Celebrían had met the High King of Lindon a few times in her youth and found him forbidding, even somewhat intimidating. Imagining him as Meril’s son was hard for her, at least at the moment.

Meril must have guessed what she was feeling, for she smiled at her briefly and continued with her tale. “As I said, Fëanáro led our hosts northward, for his first purpose was to follow Morgoth, in pursue of his precious Jewels. It was a long march, and most of our followers only joined us along the way, having gathered supplies.”

“I still cannot fathom why he wanted to go to the North,” said Legolas. “Did he truly hope to catch up with Morgoth? And did he have any plans for the unlikely case of that happening?”

“Most likely; he had a cunning mind, not just masterful skills,” replied Meril. “But the fact he was heading northwards had another reason, too. Túna beneath Taniquetil was set nigh to the girdle of Arda, where the Great Sea was immeasurably wide, whereas the more northward one would go, the narrower the Sundering Seas grew, as the wasteland of Araman and the coasts of Middle-earth drew together.”

Legolas nodded. “I see now. He hoped that it would be easier to cross the Sea at this narrow strait. That actually sounds reasonable.”

Several Elves in the audience nodded in agreement; by their looks, they were Teleri, although none of them had the silver hair of the royal Clan. Meril, however, shook her head sadly.

“For a small group of Elves mayhap, yet not for us; and our host had not gone far ere it came even to the fevered mind of Fëanáro that all those great companies, be they full-grown and war-high or simple kinfolk that was loath to be sundered from their families, not to mention the great store of goods we took with us, would never overcome the long leagues to the North, nor cross the Sea at the last, save with the aid of ships.”

“A wise insight, even if it came over late,” commented Oivárin. “Alas that we had to pay such a terrible price for his belated wisdom… both sides.”

“True,” Meril sighed. “For Fëanáro now resolved to persuade the Solosimpi of Alqualuntë, based on the long friendship of his late father to the Lindaran, to join with us.”

“Fëanáro seemed to trust the power of his voice very much,” said Meril. “He also thought to diminish the wealth of Valinor yet further and to increase his own power of war. And he hoped he would get ships swiftly that way. For great time and toil would have been needed to build a fleet great enough to ferry us over the Sundering Seas at once. Even if we had skill and timber in plenty for such craft; which we, in truth, had not.”

“No,” said Gilfanon in agreement. “Never had the Noldoli tried their skills on the building of ships. With metal and stone we were the best of all Eldar, but not with timber; that had always been the gift of the Third Clan.”

“Which was why Fëanáro rode forth to Alqualuntë, to speak to the Solosimpi in the harbour as he had spoken in Tirion,” Meril finished. “What there happened, I was no witness to; therefore I shall ask Lord Oivárin to take over.”

She rose from the Storyteller’s Chair to make room for the Telerin lord, who bowed to her and accepted gracefully.

You must know that the death of the Trees and the Darkening of Valinor had a much lesser impact on us than on the rest of Aman,” began Oivárin. “For the Swanhaven, our white city of old, had been bold north of the Calcyria, so that only the faint reflection of the light of the Trees could be glimpsed from there.”

“Why?” asked a very young Elf from the audience. “Had you not all left the Outer Lands to see the light of the Trees?”

“To tell the truth, we only came reluctantly, for we had great love for the land of our birth; and only because Elwë urged us to come,” replied Oivárin. “And while we did come, at last, we still did not want to give up the starlight – the only light that we had previously known in the outer darkness. Therefore it took us longer than our kin in Tirion or Vanyamar to realize that something was wrong.”

He paused and looked around at his audience. “Has any of you ever been to Alqualuntë?”

“Then I will have to go further back with my tale,” he said, “or else you would not understand it. As you all might know, the Solosimpi were the last to make their way to Aman. For long we had been searching for Elwë, our King, who had fallen under the spell of Melian, the Maia, under the dark trees on Nan Elmoth; and we found him not. Therefore we took Olwë, Elwë’s brother, to be our King, as Elmö would not abandon his people in the East for us.“

The blank looks of many young Elves warned him that these youngsters had probably never heard the name of Elmö before… which, considering the achievements and the bravery of the King of the First City of the Elves, was a shame.

“Elmö was the brother of Elwë and Olwë,” he explained briefly, “who chose to remain with the rest of the Third Clan east from the great mountain ranges of Middle-earth. Now, as I said, the rest of us dwelt on the western shores of Beleriand, and Lord Ulmo and his chief vassal, Lord Ossë, came to us and befriended us and taught us all manners of sea-lore and sea-music. Thus it came to be that we, who were from the beginning lovers of water and the fairest singers of Elvenfolk, became enamoured of the seas, and our songs were filled with the sound of the waves upon the shore ever after.”

“Fortunate we are that you chose not to begin your tale as far back as the First Music oft eh Ainur,” commented Gilfanon teasingly. “Or we would still be sitting here by next Samírien.”

“Patience, my friend,” replied Oivárin, taking no offence at all. A tale needs to be told properly, if we expect these young people to understand why truly happened – and why.”

“Depends on what you understand under proper storytelling,” muttered Gilfanon.

“Many long years did we dwell on the shores of Beleriand,” he continued, “til Lord Ulmo finally hearkened to the pleas of Nólemë, who had mourned for his friends among us, and came again to Middle-earth, to bring Elwë and his people to Aman, if we would come. And most of us proved now willing indeed; and while Lord Ossë persuaded Nówë’s people to remain, Olwë would be gone, and at least Lord Ulmo took all who would embark upon this very island and drew us over the depths of the Sea. But Lord Ossë followed after us, and when we came night to the Bay of Eldamas, he called to us, and we knew his voice and begged Lord Ulmo to stay our voyage.”

“Why?” asked Legolas in surprise. “Why stopping then, when you had already come this far?”

“Because we still wished to abode under the stars of Lady Varda – and yet within sight of Aman and the deathless shore, where we could see from afar the light of the Trees as it passed through the Calcyria and touched the waves to silver and gold,” replied Oivárin. “Lord Ulmo granted this, and at his bidding, Lord Ossë made fast the island and rooted it in the foundation of the Sea. There we had dwelt for one hundred years as we now reckon time; then our hearts were changed.”

“Again?” Legolas gave him an amused look. “I always knew that you Sea-Elves were a capricious lot.”

“And what should we say about you, Green-Eves?” Oivárin retorted, smiling. “You certainly changed your hearts about the migration quite a few times yourself.”

“True enough,” Legolas laughed. “What had you made change your hearts then?”

“We were drawn towards the light that flowed out of Aman,” admitted Oivárin. “Lord Ossë had mercy with us and taught us the craft of shipbuilding, now that the isle could no longer be moved. And when our ships were made ready, he brought us, as his parting gift, many strong-winged swans. The swans then drew our ships over the windless Sea. Thus we finally came to Aman and the shores of Eldamar, where the Noldoli welcomed us with joy. And in the next year, with the aid of Nólemë and his best craftspeople, Olwë began the building of his city upon the coast of Eldamar, north of Calcyria; and in remembrance of Lord Ossë’s swans, he named it Alqualuntë, the Swanhaven.”

“This was why Fëanáro wanted to get your help!” Legolas realized in awe. “He thought you were in his debt; fort he aid you had received from his father a long time ago.”

“I cannot fathom what Fëanáro, in his madness, was thinking,” replied Oivárin thoughtfully. “I only know that he came to Alqualuntë and tried to persuade our people in the harbours to follow him to the Outer Lands. He spoke to the mariners and the shipwrights, but they remained unmoved. For as much as we were grieved at the going of our kin and long time friends, we would rather dissuade them than aid them. As for ourselves, we no longer desired any other home than the shores of Eldamar, and no other lord than Olwë Lindaran, King of Alqualuntë.”

“Knowing this, to Olwë did Fëanáro go, seeing that he could find no sympathetic ears in the harbours,” he finally continued. “Olwë, however, had never lent ear to Morgoth, or welcomed him to his land, and he trusted still that Lord Ulmo and the other great ones among the Valar would redress the hurts of Morgoth, and that the night would pass yet to new dawn. And so no ship would he lend, nor help in building new ones, against the will of the Valar.”

“Nay,” said Oivárin, “for he still feared delay; and as his wrath grew, he spoke hotly to our King. ‘You renounce your friendship, even in the hour of our need,’ he said. ‘But when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers and all but empty-handed, you did welcome our aid, did you not? You would still live in huts on the beaches, had the Noldoli not carved out your haven and toiled on your walls,’ were the exact words he uttered in Olwë’s hall.”

“By the Valar, that was rude,” winced Gilfanon, who, naturally, had not been present at that conversation, having gone with Fingolfin’s host. Oivárin, one of Olwë’s counsellors, on the other hand, had.

“But not entirely untrue,” he admitted. “Stonework was never our strength; we excelled in building ships, not entire cities.”

“Still, I cannot well imagine Olwë suffering such slander kindly,” said the Master of Tavrobel. “He is a King, after all; and he does have his pride. Even if it cannot be compared with what my friend Glorfindel called the customary arrogance of the Finwëans.”

“He showed impressive self-restraint on that day,” said Oivárin. “Certainly more than I would have. For I was close to come to blows with that arrogant spawn of Nólemë. What our King did say, in the end, was this: ‘Nay, we renounce no friendship. But it may be the hard part of friendship to rebuke a friend’s folly. And while we welcomed your aid upon our arrival indeed and were grateful for it – our white ships you gave us not. That craft we learned not from the Noldoli but from the Lords of the Sea; the white timbers we wrought with our own hands and the white sails were woven by our fair wives and maidens. Therefore we shall neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship. For they are to us as your Jewels are to you: the work of our hands, the like of which we shall not make again.’”

“What had Fëanáro answer to that?” asked Legolas. “I never met him, for which I probably should be grateful; but he does not strike me as one who would take refusal kindly.”

“Nay; he was not that sort,” agreed Oivárin. “However, he did not give Olwë any answer; not right away. Instead, he left the royal townhouse in a cloud of black anger, and we saw him sitting beyond the walls, brooding darkly, ‘til his host was assembled,” he looked at Meril. “Here I should give back the telling of the tale to you, my lady,” he said, “as you are the one who can reveal us what was going on among the Noldoli.”

“Soon; but not right now,” said Meril. “For when we arrived at the Swanhaven, the fighting was already going on. I ask you to keep the Chair for a little while yet; but let us adjourn for the short time and have some refreshments first. For the telling of tales is thirsty work, and we shall all need to strengthen ourselves ere we would face one of the darkest hours of our history.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. “That would be helpful, I deem,” he said. “Let us do as our Queen says. Food and wine for everyone has already been prepared and can be found in the green pavilion that you can see over there. Let is meet again in one hour’s time.”

The suggestion met general agreement, and thus the audience dispersed in search for refreshments. Celebrían, however, remained in the Hall of Tales, pondering over the one question that occupied her mind most.

“Why now?” she asked. “After nigh two Ages, why did you choose to reveal your secrets now?”

The Queen had not gone to the green pavilion, of course. There was no need for that. Her handmaidens had already provides her with refreshments, and she was now watching Celebrían thoughtfully over the rim of her crystal goblet.

“For you,” she finally said. “There are things that you need to know; that you should have learned a long time ago. Why Artanis chose never to tell you, I might understand; though I cannot condone it. We all must know who we are and where we have come from. Without knowing our heritage, we cannot understand what moves us. And if we do not understand ourselves, we will be lost, sooner or later.”

As this was clearly a dismissal, Celebrían obediently scurried away. She might have been able to stand up to the Lady of Tol Eressëa, demanding answers there and then; but she would not dream of disobeying Gil-galad’s mother, whose son had been the liege lord of her husband for an Age and a half.

And again, her thoughts went back to Elrond and their children, across the Sundering Seas, her tears falling silently in the painful knowledge how long it might take ‘til she would finally be reunited with them – if ever.

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s Notes: The description of the Swanhaven follows closely the one given in “The Book of Lost Tales, Part 1”, with minor additions and modifications.

To Oivárin’s using of names: unlike the Tol Eressëans, he is used to speak in Quenya and uses the Quenya form of the names, rather than the archaic Sindarin version of the Lost Tales.

Acknowledgment: many thanks to Finch for helping me creating the names for Guilin and his sons. Erunyauvë is named after a fellow Silmfic writer, of course.

Warning: this chapter contains some graphic battle scenes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

19. Swanhaven & the Doom of the Noldoli

After the break – the rest of which Celebrían spent alone, in quiet tears – Oivárin did not re-occupy the Storyteller’s Chair, despite their previous agreement with Meril.

“The part that remains mine from this tale is short,” he explained. “Short enough to tell it standing next to the Chair, so that Lady Meril would not have the inconvenience of switching places after such little time.”

Meril thanked him and arranged herself in the Chair regally, with Oivárin standing on her right. The Telerin lord waited for a moment ‘til everyone settled down and quieted; then he went on with his tale.

“As I already told you, after his argument with King Olwë, Fëanáro went outside the walls of our fair city, and there he brooded bitter thoughts, ‘till his brain grew dazed from the black vapours of his heart,” he continued. “At least that is what I believe must have happened. I cannot explain otherwise how it came to the horrors of the Kinslaying.”

“The Oath,” muttered Ailios. “It had twisted him already at that time; him and his sons, too.”

“Perhaps so,” Oivárin allowed, “but has anyone forced them to take a terrible Oath like that? I think not so. In any case, as many of you might know, Alqualuntë was at that time like a basin of quiet water, save that towards the east and the Sea the ring of rock that enclosed the haven had sank somewhat. There the relentless waves of the Sea had pierced through the rock, forming a mighty arch of living stone. So great was this arch, that – save for the mightiest ships – two would pass through it; one going out perchance, and another one searching inward to the quiet blue waters of the haven. Nor would the mast-tops come even close to grazing the rock.”

“Not much of the light of the Trees could come through, if your city was encircled by the rock wall,” commented Legolas.

“True,” admitted Oivárin, “which is why the harbour was always lit with a ring of lamps of gold; and lanterns were there, to, of many colours, adorning the wharves and landings of the different Houses, for the noblest among us chose to live on the shores, as we had done of old, to remain in touch with the Sea all the time. But through the Great Arch, the pale waters of the Shadowy Seas could distantly be glimpsed, as they were lit faintly by the shining of the Trees.”

“So that you could have both: the stars that you could not forget, and the Light that you yearned for,” Legolas nodded in understanding. “I imagine that the harbour must have been very beautiful to gaze upon.”

“Oh, it was,” Oivárin sighed. “Moreover in the hour of undómië, the evening twilight, when the white fleets came shimmering home and the troubled waters broke the mirrored radiance of the lamps into rippling lights, weaving strange patterns of twinkling lines. And when our people sat on the wide marble steps that led from the houses to the shore, singing and playing on their flutes, pipes and harps, the sound of their music was echoed by the Great Arch itself, filling the entire harbour with eerie, joyous harmonies.”

“I remember,” said Ailios quietly. “Lord Ossë and his following, the Oárni and the Oaritsi and the long-tressed Wingildi, would often visit the haven, playing around the Arch, joining your music. It was the most beautiful thing any of us had ever heard. Alas that it is now lost and would not be heard again ‘til Arda is re-made… perhaps not even then.”

Oivárin nodded. “Well, yea, on that particular day things were different,” he then said. “For a deep gloom was settled over the harbour at the fading of the Trees, so that not even our best mariners dared to brave the Shadowy Seas, and our white ships were lying at the piers, unmoving. The mariners used the break to tend to their ships, and the Harbour Masters were keeping a wary eye on the host of the Noldoli that was gathering around Fëanáro. And he spoke to them in bitter wrath, reminding them that by no means could their host hope to reach the North swiftly along the coast save by the aid of ships. ‘And these, if the shore-Elves would not give us, we must take by force,” he said.”

“You have a surprisingly detailed account of this,” said Legolas. “Were you not with the Lindaran in the royal townhouse at this time?”

“I was,” admitted Oivárin, “but my sons were not. They had served as the Harbour Masters of the haven since its building had been finished, and most of all Ainairos, my firstborn, was fiercely protective of the ships that our cunning and long labours had fashioned. There were some that Lord Ossë and his People had made of old on this very island, you must know: wondrous and magic boats… the first that ever were.”

“I remember them,” nodded Ailios. “They were a marvel, truly; more like living things than mere boats. Not even the ships of your own making could come close.”

“Nothing could,” agreed Oivárin. “And thus a great anger enflamed in the hearts of our people when they saw the host of Fëanáro, now assembled in its full numbers, going to the quays and beginning to man the ships that were anchored there, intending to take them away by force,” he gave the audience a wry smile. “I fear that my sons did their best to fuel that anger. ‘Never shall these thieves leave the Haven in our ships!’ my second-born, Nornoros, is said to have called, and he led those who would withstand the Noldoli stoutly and encouraged his peers to cast the intruders into the Sea.”

He sighed again and fell silent, overcome by bitter memories.

“Oh, my,” Ailios murmured. “So that was how everything started!”

“I hope you are not about to say that it was the fault of the Solosimpi!” Legolas said sharply. “They had every right to protect that which was theirs. Besides, no Elf has ever drowned from being thrown into the water, unless there were dangerous maelstroms under the surface; and we have just been told that the waters of the Swanhaven were quiet.”

“They still are,” said Oivárin. “And nay, our people did nothing worse than casting them into the water. It was among the followers of Morifinwë that swords were first drawn; and soon thereafter a bitter fight was fought upon the ships and about the quays and piers of the Haven; and even upon the Great Arch itself, sullying it with the spilt blood of our people and poisoning it with death.”

“’Tis said that your people did not give up easily, though,” said Legolas.

“Nay, we did not,” confessed Oivárin. “When the battle noise reached the houses on the shore, many of us ran out to aid the people of the harbour. Thrice the folk of Fëanáro were driven back, and many were slain on both sides. My son Nornoros died in the first wave, before my very eyes,” he added bitterly, “and unarmed as I was, I could not break through the line of Morofinwë’s guards to aid him. He had nought but a fishing-knife against their swords.”

For a while, there was heavy silence in the Hall of Tales, no-one knowing what to say that would not sound like some heap platitude. Then Oivárin sighed and looked directly at Meril; albeit without accusation.

“Our people were unprepared and mostly unarmed, save for a few axes and slender bows,” he continued. “Yet we had the numbers and the burning desire to protect our ships that were like children from our flesh to us. We might have succeeded, in the end, were to vanguard of the Noldor not succoured by the foremost of Nolofinwë’s host…”

“… led by Findecáno, who pressed on impatiently, anxious to catch up with Maitimo who was like a brother to him; more than Aracáno and Turucáno had ever been,” supplied the Queen bitterly. “Never was there a bond that would hold more tightly than the one between those two cousins, forged in childhood as an aid for the firstborn sons of two mighty and demanding fathers. Thus when Findecáno came up and found a battle going on and his otorno’s kin falling, he rushed in before he would know rightly the cause of the quarrel, and his followers with him. Some thought indeed that the Solosimpi had sought to waylay the march of us at the bidding of the Valar. Or so Lord Cailindo, who rode with my husband in the vanguard of Atar Fingolma’s host, told me afterwards.”

“Cailindo? I cannot remember having heard that name, ever,” said Legolas with a frown.

“You probably know him as Lord Guilin,” Meril smiled. “He was married to the Lady Írimë, Atar Fingolma’s oldest sister; Or Lalwendë, as she was known in Beleriand.”

Legolas nodded. “Those names I know all too well. There are still dirges sung about the death of Lord Guilin in the Dagor Bragollach; about the loss of his son Prince Gelmir, who had been captured and Imprisoned in Angband for twenty years of the Sun; and how the Lady of the Laughter forsook her name and faded from grief over the loss of her husband and her son… although I assume both their sons bore different names in those early times.”

“Gelmir’s birth-name was Celumírë,” said Meril, “and Gwindor was called Vinyadorë, in the years of his youth, back in the Blessed Realm.”

Despite the seriousness of the tale being told, Legolas could not hold back a wicked grin.

“Small wonder they were so eager to switch to Sindarin names,” he commented. “Who would wish to live with names like those? Those are names for maidens, not for Princes and warriors!”

Meril shrugged. “I understand that Lord Cailindo’s mother was from a noble family of the Solosimpi; those of the Third Clan had tended to use such names in the early times. And I know for a fact that he was a gifted minstrel back in Aman. He never touched his harp after the Kinslaying again, though. ‘Tis said he gifted it upon Findaráto, whose hands, as he had put it, had not been sullied with the blood of his own kin.”

“Becoming a kinslayer is not an easy burden,” said Oivárin quietly. “For as much as we were innocent in starting the slaughter, and a great part of our mariners who dwelt in Alqualondë were wickedly slain – for the Noldoli were become fierce and desperate, and our people had less strength and inferior weapons – we, too, had spilt the blood of our fellow Elves and dealt death to those who were not supposed to die. The Noldoli did more than just murder our loved ones; they made us to murderers, too. And while we may be willing to forgive them the loss of our kin and friends, the marring of our innocence is something that can never be undone.”

“Unless we die and go to Mandos, where we can have that innocence returned to us,” added Ailios soberly. “But that path leads through judgement, and that is not something any of us would undergo out of our own free will.”

“True,” admitted Oivárin with a wry smile. “Though when Nornoros was re-housed and sent back to us, it was heart-rending to watch his happiness after Ainairos, his twin, had suffered from his loss for an Age and a half. Sometimes I am still tempted to deliver him to Lord Námo’s doorstep myself; perhaps there he might find healing, after all this time.”

The mere idea of that, although spoken in jest, made Celebrían shudder.

“Glorfindel says the Lord of Mandos is not fond of those who go to his Halls voluntarily,” she said.

“And he, of all people, ought to know,” Legolas grinned; then he abruptly became sober again. “In any case, Lord Guilin’s sons paid dearly for their part in the Kinslaying. Being forced to toil in Morgoth’s mines for decades would have been punishment enough; but their deaths, especially Prince Gelmir’s, were cruel beyond measure.”

“You knew them?” asked Meril in surprise.

Legolas shook his head. “Not personally, no; but everyone knew they were the cousins of our King. And I saw Prince Gelmir’s horrible death with my own eyes.”

“You fought in the Nirnaeth Arneodiad?” Oivárin realized.

“I led the green-clad archers of the House of the Tree when King Turgon marched against Angband with ten thousand men,” replied Legolas grimly. “This was the greatest campaign the forces of Gondolin had ever been part of; it nearly proved to be our downfall. Prince Gwindor, on the other hand, came with a small company of Elves of Nargothrond, wishing to avenge the loss of his brother. They followed Findecáno.”

“And caused the loss of him, that of the entire battle and, ultimately, of all Elven realms of Beleriand,” added Meril. “If Gelmir’s horrible death was meant as a punishment for his part in the Kinslaying, its consequences certainly hit guilty and innocent alike. Not that any of us would have been fully innocent in what had happened at Alqualuntë,” she allowed sadly.

Legolas looked at her in shock. “But certainly you were not guilty, my Queen! Only the vanguard of Fingolma’s host was involved; not even Fingolma himself!”

“Nay, he was not,” Meril agreed. “He was leading the main host, while his brother Finarphir took the rearguard with Findaráto and their followers. Only Nerwendë rode with us; for Atar Fingolma had ordered us, ellith, to stay in the middle of the host, where we would be best protected.”

“Sounds like a wise precaution to me, even though he could not have counted on a kin-strife just yet,” commented Legolas. Meril nodded.

“As I said, there were not many of us,” she continued, “and the Lady Írimë, who had followed her brother out of love to him, like her husband and their sons, was our caretaker. Nerwendë and Írissë were unhappy with that arrangement; they wanted to ride with the vanguard, as they were both excellent with the sword, having grown up with competitive brothers, both of them.”

That Celebrían could imagine all too well. Her mother had never been one who would suffer being left behind with the other women gladly. She said so, and Meril laughed.

“Nay, she would rather be the one to leave others behind, in her impatience,” she said. “But Atar Fingolma forbade them to join the vanguard and ordered them to protect the rest of us, should our guards be needed elsewhere. For both Elenwë ad I had small children with us – Itarildë was barely more than a babe, and my son but a toddler – and Eldalótë, who would later wed Angaráto, had come of age only a few days before Samírien.”

“Eldalótë?” repeated Legolas with a frown. “But Prince Angaráto’s wife was Edhellos, the niece of Ecthelion of the Fountain! They were the Lady Anaire’s kin, if I am not mistaken.”

“They are one and the same,” explained Meril. “I keep forgetting that you, who had not known us before our coming to Ennórë, cannot know who we had been back in Aman. Forgive me; the memories of my youth are distracting sometimes.”

Legolas stood and bowed gallantly.

“There is nothing to forgive my Queen,” he said. “’Tis I who must ask your forgiveness; for I interrupted your tale.”

"And grateful I was for that interruption, as I have come to a point where the memories are very painful,” replied Meril. “As I said, we ellith went with the main host; but as we were hurrying to catch up with Fëanáro and his followers, our train broke up. The carts carrying our belongings slowed us down, and when we finally reached the harbour of Alqualuntë, the fighting was almost over.”

“It must have been a terrible sight for you, as you have not known violence before,” said Legolas softly.

Meril nodded. “Oh, yea; it was horrible to look upon. The quays and piers were strewn with dead bodies, and here and there a few Elves were still trying to slay each other with swords, arrows, axes or whatever weapons they could lay their hands on. Our guards, seeing Findecáno and his guards in one of those fights, forgot about us in the heat of a battle and threw themselves into the foray. And that was when he came.”

“Who?” asked Ailios. “Findecáno?”

Meril shook her head, stark white with remembered terror.

“Nay; it was one of the shore-elves, perchance a boat-maker, for he had an axe in his hand, one of those the carpenters use. The blade… the blade was dripping with blood, and his eyes… his eyes were like those of a wild beast. I can only think that he must have gone mad with the horrors he had witnessed… and committed,” she swallowed hard, willing herself not to become sick. The others waited in stunned silence, as this was clearly a tale none of them had heard before.

“We were riding under Atar Fingolma’s banner, so there could be little doubt who we were,” she finally continued. “He screeched something about the evil of the Noldoli that must be eradicated to the very roots – and then he came running at us, at me, with his bloody axe raised above his head. I screamed and tried to shield my son with my body, but I knew I could do nothing to keep him from slaying us both. Only that it never happened.”

“How that?” Oivárin was the first to break the horrified silence. “Did he come to his sense and turn away, after all?”

Meril shook her head again, her face pale, her eyes enormously wide and dark with memories.

“Nay; he was determined to see us dead. Dead as most likely his own lover ones were. But Nerwendë,” she swallowed, giving Celebrían a compassionate glance, “Nerwendë moved faster. She picked up a sword and threw it at him, as she could not hope to get between us in time. The sword,” she swallowed again, fighting nausea while reliving those memories, “the sword hit him in the neck and embedded itself in his throat. The blood,” she closed her eyes for a moment and seemed close to fainting, “the blood shot from a severed blood vessel like a fountain. It was all over me… over my little son. I… I think I fainted then.”

Celebrían felt strangely light-headed. “My mother killed someone? Someone of her mother’s people?” she whispered in shock. No wonder she never spoke about those times!

“She saved me and my child,” Meril corrected. “Whatever grievance that poor ellon had against us – and I have no doubt that it was satisfied – he did intend to slaughter me and my son. Lord Oivárin is right: we all lost our innocence on that fateful day. And the ones who died and went to Mandos to find healing were probably better off than the rest of us who survived and had to live with the guilt and the horrible memories for the following yéni. For I can remember that Gelmir could not stop scrubbing his hands afterwards. He kept doing so for years on the Ice, literally. He kept seeing the blood on them, no matter what.”

“What about you?” asked Vainóni quietly. “It had to be terrible for you, too, being covered with the blood of the one who had tried to slaughter you and your child.”

Meril sighed. “As I said, I fainted. I know not how long I was unconscious; it never occurred to me to ask. When I came to, the fighting was over, and Fëanáro’s followers had already begun to draw away the ships from the quays. Not seeing any other way to escape, our people followed suit. They manned the oars as best as they might, and rowed the ships north along the coast.”

“We saw them,” said Oivárin. “We watched them haplessly from the steps of the royal townhouse: how our beloved ships were moving away from the quays – the quays that were strewn with the lifeless bodies of our people. King Olwë called upon Lord Ossë, but he came not. For, as we would learn later, he had been summoned to the Máhanaxar, and it was not permitted by the Valar that the flight of the Noldoli should be hindered by force.”

“Why not?” asked Legolas, clearly not understanding. “I gladly served my King, Noldo though he was, and I would swear fealty to him again if I could, but he and his kin were in the wrong, were they not?”

“We were,” confessed Ailios, “but I assume they still hoped that we would reconsider, turn back and make amends – as Finarphir did, at the end.”

“Lord Ossë came not,” said Meril, “but the Lady Uinen was greatly distraught, and she wept bitterly for the slaughtered mariners of the Solosimpi, many of whom she had known since the Great Journey. And her tears swelled up the Sea so much that it rose in wrath against us; many of the ships were wrecked and those aboard them drowned.”

“It must have been frightening for you, facing the wrath of the Sea like that,” said Oivárin, not unkindly.

“Terrifying would be a more accurate word,” replied Meril with a rueful smile. “I have never been as much as in a fishing boat before. I truly believed that judgement had already come upon us. But the greater part of our host escaped nonetheless, and when the storm was past, we held on our course, some by ship and some by land.”

“It was a long way,” murmured Ailios, “and getting more evil as we went forward.”

“So it was,” Meril agreed. “For with the ships, we also lost much of our supplies and nearly all our horses, and thus what we could rescue from the waves we had to carry on our backs, like the lowliest peasants among the Second-born. After we had marched for a great while in the unmeasured night – for the Trees were gone, and few of us, like Ailios here, could tell the passing of time by watching the stars alone – we came at length to the north of the Guarded Realms? Upon the borders of the empty waste of Araman, which were mountainous and cold.”

“Nothing new for us who had survived the Great Journey,” commented Alagos with a soft smile, “but terrifying for the younger ones who had only ever known the safety and prosperity of Aman.”

“We had been terribly spoiled,” Meril admitted freely, “and by no means prepared for that which was awaiting us in the Outer Lands. Had we had as much as an inkling, Finarphir probably would not have been the only one to turn back. But we were young, ignorant and adventurous, and not even the horrors of the Kinslaying could deter us from our chosen path. Well,” she corrected herself wryly, “not the ellyn, at least. We ellith just did not want to be separated from them. The folly of love, I assume.”

“Not even when Mandos caught up with you?” Legolas asked with an arched eyebrow. “If it was Mandos, that is. I have heard rumours that it was merely a lesser herald of the Elder King.”

“Then you have been listening to fools,” answered Meril, for it was Lord Námo himself indeed, dark and forbidding and larger than the hills, standing upon a high rock that looked down at the shore where we were trudging. There he stood, darker than the night itself; and in a solemn and terrible voice he called to us and bade us to stand and give ear,” she smiled mirthlessly. “You must understand that while we were used to encounter the Powers from time to time, none of us had ever seen the Lord of Mandos face to face. Some of us actually fainted – and I am not speaking about the ellith!”

There was quiet laughter in the audience. The Tol Eressëans rarely had any contact with the Valar at all, but when it did happen, once or twice a yén, the reactions tended to be quite similar. And for some reason, it always hit the ellyn harder. Meril knew this, of course, and winked at them.

“So we held and stood still,” she then continued, becoming sombre again, “and from end to end of our hosts, we could heart the Voice speaking what has become known as the Prophecy oft eh North and the doom of the Noldoli. Many woes it foretold in dark words, which we did not understand – not ‘til the woes indeed befell us, much later.”

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed,” murmured Ailios, quoting the words of the Doom that had become well-known during the recent Ages. “But if ye go further, be warned that the Valar will fence Valinor against you and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentations shall pass over the mountains.”

“Well, I cannot speak for the others,” commented Legolas dryly, “but for me, such threats would have been a greater than ever motivation to continue my journey. For all the reassurances that you were not the thralls of the Valar, they seem to have treated you very much as if you had been, after all.”

“You were not there,” Meril hugged herself, her eyes haunted. “You cannot understand what that meant to us.”

“You are right; I cannot,” returned Legolas. “I am just a Green-Elf whose ancestors wisely refused to enter that gilded cage to begin with. Which is why I shan’t set foot in Aman, save the one time when my wife will finally be re-housed, to bring her home. So, why did you not turn all back when Finarphir did? It would have been safer for you.”

“Fear and foolish pride, I would say,” admitted Meril wearily.

“And, for those among us old enough to remember the lands of our birth, also an overwhelming sense of homesickness,” supplied Ailios. “For as happy and safe as we were in Aman, we could not forget our origins and felt… misplaced somehow. Despite all the evil I saw in Ennórë, I never regretted going back. We should not have left in the first place.”

“Do you still miss it?” asked Oivárin.

“Do you not?” Alagos asked back. The Telerin lord shook his silver head thoughtfully.

“Nay, I do not. What I miss is Alqualondë of old: what it had been life, before the Great Arch was poisoned by the spilt blood of our people. Before Lord Ossë would break it in his grief and rage with a single blow of his huge fist.”[1]

“He did?” asked someone from the audience. “Tell us about it!”

Oivárin shook his head. “That is another tale, for another time. We should allow Queen Merilindë to finish her tale first.”

“No Queen I am, my lord, not anymore, even though Lord Legolas likes to call me that, out of love for his late King,” said Meril. “Nor do I still bear the name that belongs to older, happier times. I am just Meril now, and being Meril is enough for me. But I can tell my tale to the end if that is what you would like me to do.”

The audience signalled their agreement, and she leaned back in the Chair, collecting her thoughts.

“Thus the Valar laid their doom upon the House of Fëanáro, warning us through Lord Námo that all who would follow them should come unto the doom, too,” she began anew. “Their Oath should drive them, the Lord of Mandos prophesied, and yet betray them, even snatch away the treasures they had sworn to pursue. To evil end should all things turn that they would begin well; and by the treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, should this come to pass. And he named them the Dispossessed, for ever.”

“Now, that is a bit harsh, is it not?” asked Legolas, seeming agitated for the first time since the storytelling had begun. “Tarning the innocent with the same brush as the guilty. There were many among you that simply wanted to return to the lands of their origins, after all.”

“True,” said Meril. “But even of those who swore no Oath, many have spilled the blood of our kindred unrighteously – or, like me, were the case of this happening. We have stained the land of Aman; because of us, it will never be the same.”

“We paid for it dearly, though,” commented Ailios. “Blood have we rendered for blood, and dwelt in death’s shadow in the Outer Lands, as Mandos had foretold. Ilúvatar had appointed into our kind to not die, and no sickness assailed us, though we could be slain. And slain we were in the yéni of our exile: by weapons and by torment and by grief; and the houseless spirits of the slain went to Mandos, and many of them still abide there.”

“A pity that Fëanáro was beyond reason by then,” added Oivárin grimly. “Much grief could still have been spared the Exiles – and other people, back in the Outer Lands, who got caught up in his doom – had he reconsidered. I still wonder, though, that so few quailed in the face of the Lord of Mandos himself.”

“Many quailed,” Meril corrected, “for a terrible thing it was, hearing the prophecy straight from the mouth of Lord Námo. But Fëanáro hardened his heart, saying they had not sworn their Oath lightly, and that they would keep it. For he deemed cowardice and the fear of cowardice a greater evil than all the evils we had been threatened with, including treason; and he prophesied that the deeds we would do would be the matter of song ‘til the last days of Arda.”

“Well, he was right with that, at the very least,” said Legolas.

“For all the good that did us,” replied Meril with a sigh. “At least Finarphir kept is sanity and forsook the march and turned back, being filled with grief and bitterness against the House of Fëanáro, because of his kinship with the Lindaran. And many of his people went with him, retracing their steps in sorrow.”

“I remember their arrival,” said Oivárin. “They came on foot, ragged and exhausted and on the verge of Death itself. And Arafinwë sought out the Lindaran at once, without rest or as much as a drink of water first, to make amends. He fell on his knees in the middle of the courtyard, before the eyes of all that had survived, and begged for our forgiveness.”

“That must have been quite a shock for everyone,” commented Legolas.

“Many of us, still too ravaged with grief about their loved ones, raised their voices, demanding that the Noldoli should be denied any help, forgiveness before everything else,” Oivárin smiled ruefully. “I fear that my son was one of those. But Olwë, in his wisdom, could separate the guilty from the innocent and refused to do so. He helped Arafinwë to his feet again, giving him a kinsman’s kiss and his forgiveness, saying that he had already been punished enough for joining Fëanáro’s madness. For what could have been harder than losing one’s children, all of them on the same day?”

Meril nodded. “That is very true. None of his sons turned back with him, for they would not forsake the sons of Atar Fingolma; and even less so would do Nerwendë. All of Fingolma’s folks chose to go forwards till, too, feeling the constraint of their kinship and the will of Fëanáro; and fearing to face the doom of the Valar, since many of them were not without guilt in the Kinslaying. Many had joined the fighting heedlessly, and had now the blood of their kinfolk on their hands. My own husband above all, as he had been the one to lead his guards into the fight.”

“Moreover,” supplied Ailios, “Findecáno and Turucáno were bold and fiery at heart and loath to abandon any task to which they had put their hands until the bitter end, if bitter it must be. So the main host held on, and swiftly the evil that was forespoken began its work.”

“You mean the burning of our ships and the crossing of the Ice?” asked Oivárin. Ailios nodded.

“That is another long and dreadful tale, for another day,” he said. “I deem we should end the storytelling here. The following events are well-known to most, and they no longer have anything to do with the Feast of Samírien. Besides, the Feast is almost over – we should spend the rest of it in merriment, as it is supposed to be spent.”

“Truer words have never been spoken!” a voice like the sound of many silver bells said; then there was a brief shimmering of multicoloured light, like a rainbow touching the ground, and in the next moment someone looking like an elleth stood in the middle of the Hall of Tales.

She was tall and willowy, with a pale, freckled face, copper hair that was braided and wreathed around her head and solemn grey eyes that were nonetheless full of some deep, profound joy. Her long gown was shadow-grey, and over it she wore a moss-green kirtle of the finest wool, clinched with a silver chain at the waist and with a dark gold border along the hem, and the neckline; small opals and pearls were sewn along that border. And while she had the leaf-shaped ears of the Firstborn peeking out between the loose copper strands of her hair that had escaped from the braid, it was fairly clear that she was something else… something more.

All stared at her in bewilderment – with the exception of Meril, who seemed pleasantly surprised.

“Erunyauvë!” she exclaimed. “It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” the newcomer laughed, and it sounded like a multitude of silver bells again.

Meril rose from the Chair and went to hug her. “What brings you to us?” she asked. “Not that I would not be pleased to see you, mind you, but you have not graced us with a visit since… well, it has to be yéni, actually!”

“My lady wants to remind you that, no matter what Fëanáro might have said in his grief, this is still a feast of double mirth, not one of double sorrow,” the Maia, for what else could she have been, replied. “Enough of dreadful tales of sorrow and doom. Rejoice rather in the mercy of Ilúvatar that had brought some good out of that sorrow, in the end, and be merry and celebrate.”

“I wonder what good did come out of all that horror, after all,” muttered Celebrían, more to herself, but the Maia heard it nonetheless.

“Why, you, for one thing, of course,” she said. “Your coming here had a deeper purpose than just healing your hurts – not that that would not be important.”

“What purpose?” asked Celebrían doubtfully. She never felt terribly useful outside of her home, truth be told, not even while visiting her parents, and he had felt almost entirely without any substance since she had come to Tol Eressëa.”

“Too early to speak about that just yet,” Erunyauvë grinned at her. “Come now, let us find a quiet place while the others do the singing and dancing and tell me about your home – and about my brother Olórin. How is he doing, after all these yéni in the Outer Lands?”

~TBC~

[1] The story of this event is told in my short vignette, The Dying Stone, which can also be found in this archive.

Author’s notes: Yes, I know that the canonical Roheryn was Aragorn’s horse in the War of the Ring. But the name means “horse of the Lady”, and I thought it would have been a fitting name for Celebrían’s steed.

At first the Elves gathered in the Hall of Tales did not seem much taken with the idea of merrymaking – which, considering that they had just listened to a recount of the first great tragedy in Elven history, was understandable. But then a light wind came up and carried to them the pure, gossamer-fine tones of Elwenil’s wondrous silver flute, wild and sweet and magical; and there was breathless laughter in the trees around the clearing, as the Súruli moved among the branches.

This visibly lifted everyone’s mood, and soon somebody – unsurprisingly, one of the Green-Elves from Legolas’ household – picked up the familiar melody played of the flute, and the singing began. Shakily and a bit uncertainly at first, but more and more voices joined in, washing their troubled hearts with the joy of music, and long before Arien’s golden vessel would sink below the horizon, there was also feasting and dancing and merrymaking indeed.

The Maia led Celebrían to one of the nearby little clearing. There seemed to be many of those, and she appeared to know the surroundings very well. Meril joined them, lifting her skirts a little, to spare her handmaids the pains of cleaning the gown afterwards. The clearing must have been a favourite meeting place, for it had beautifully carved wooden benches standing in an airy U-shape, where they could sit in comfortable distance from each other to talk.

“I assume you have many questions,” the Maia said to Celebrían kindly, “so ask. We have all the time in the world.”

“W-what do you mean that Olórin is your brother?” Celebrían asked the first thing she could think of.

She knew, of course, who the one she had known as Mithrandir truly was. She and Elrond had no secrets between them, and the Istari had been infrequent guests in the Last Homely House… at least Curunír, Mithrandir and Aiwendil had. They might have looked like old Men, but after the first hundred or so years even the dumbest Elf would have spotted their notorious reluctance to die. Not to mention the fact that Glorfindel had known them – well, Mithrandir – from his earlier life in Aman.

Still, the thought of the old wizard with his long grey beard and this beautiful creature so clearly not a simple Incarnate being brother and sister was too weird to accept in stride.

“Eru did not want us to enter Eä as lonely beings,” she explained. “Which is why He created some of us to be brothers and sisters. I have given my alliance to the Lady Nienna from the beginning. My brother chose to join Lord Manwë’s people, but he spent literally Ages at Lady Nienna’s to learn all about compassion.”

“He has learned his lessons well,” said Celebrían, her heart warming with the memory of the wizard. “Often he is great help, great comfort for all peoples of Middle-earth who still live in Sauron’s shadow. But I doubt that you made the long way from Valinor just to get tidings about him.”

“Nay, I did not,” admitted the Maia. “I came, first and foremost, because I was assigned by my lady to assist your healing.”

That frightened Celebrían a little. Dealing with Mithrandir had been one thing; even though she knew of his true identity, the wizard was, for all means and purposes, an old Man who never revealed the veiled power hidden deep within his being. The thought to have to do something with one of the Powers directly, even with one of the lesser ones, quite frankly, unnerved her.

Meril must have noticed her burgeoning panic because she reached out and patted her hand encouragingly.

“Have no fear, Little One. Erunyauvë is very good at what she does. I should know,” she added with a wry smile. “After all, she spent the whole Second Age in my home to guide and support my own healing. Without her, I might have faded from bitterness and grief.”

“Not very likely!” she said. “You were always far too stubborn to give up – even if you should have. But you would have turned into a quite unpleasant person, had you not somebody like me to vent your grief and anger at.”

“Understand this, child,” she said. “No other Elf has ever survived what was done to you; that you have survived in the first place shows remarkable strength.”

“I do not feel particularly strong right now,” admitted Celebrían ruefully. In truth, she felt a complete failure.

“That is understandable,” replied Erunyauvë gently. “You have been wounded to the very core of your being, and this wound needs special treatment, lest it would fester and poison your fëa beyond help.”

“I doubt that anyone could help me,” admitted Celebrían. “Elrond tried his best…”

“… and if his best was not good enough, that means there was no healing for you in the Outer Lands,” Erunyauvë finished. “Your husband knows more than just what he was taught. He has inherited some of the healing powers of Melian herself, since he has the blood of our kind in his veins… to a certain extent, that is. His gift is the strongest in Ennórë right now – but still not enough to heal your completely. That is our task; that is why we are here.”

“We who abide in Lady Nienna’s mansion,” clarified the Maia. “My lady sends you an invitation to move on into Aman and dwell under her roof with us ‘til your healing is completed.”

Celebrían shook her head, beginning to panic again. “Nay, I cannot. I am not ready… if I ever will be ready!”

Erunyauvë nodded in understanding. She did not seem to take offence at her refusal at all.

“Lady Nienna feared that it would be so,” she said. “’Tis too early for that still; you have barely arrived. In this case,” she gave Meril a sly look, “I shall have to stay on Tol Eressëa until you are ready.”

Meril laughed. “I am sure we can give you back your old chambers, even though we have used them as embroidery rooms in the recent Age. My household will be delighted to have you with us once again. They have missed you.”

“And I have missed them,” grinned the Maia. “I enjoyed living with you and your people very much. Too much, in Lord Irmo’s estimate. He accused me of ‘having gone native’ among you, whatever that means.”

“He is just envious that he cannot veil his powers enough to do the same,” replied Meril, and Erunyauvë laughed.

Celebrían listened to them with slight bewilderment. True, the Maia was one of the Lesser Powers, but Meril was not. How could she dare to talk about one of the Great Valar like that? For one born and lived in the Outer Lands, the Valar were remote, god-like beings; thinking of them as actual persons was almost beyond her comprehension. Not even Glorfindel’s influence could change that.

Meril saw her bewilderment and smiled. “Have no fear, child. The Valar can be surprisingly easy-going; and once you get used to them, you will see that for yourself. Lord Irmo particularly is not one to stand on ceremony… well, usually,” she turned back to Erunyauvë. “Does this mean that you will move in with us again then?”

“A request?” echoed Meril in surprise. “What could I possibly do for the Lord of Lórien? I am not a healer; and I still live in exile – sort of.”

“That may be so,” allowed Erunyauvë. “But you are friend and family for two who have been recently re-housed and ready to leave his gardens. And he would like to take them into your house for a while.”

Meril became stark white, hearing that. “Who?” she whispered. “Findecáno? Or one of my sons?”

Erunyauvë shook her head in regret. “I fear they all have a great deal more healing to do before they could be released from Lord Námo’s care. But your friend Elenwë is ready to return to Life; and so is Aracáno.”

For a moment, Meril was stiff with shock. “Why me?” she then asked. “Elenwë has family in Vanyamar. And Aracáno has the Lady Anairë, who, no doubt, would be overjoyed to have at least one of her children back. She has waited long enough.”

“No doubt,” replied the Maia. “But Elenwë’s father, as you know, was slain in the War of Wrath, and her mother faded from grief. With Glorfindel still in Ennórë, all she has are some distant relatives; she would do better with a close friend. As for Aracáno, he seems to have difficulties with adjusting to Life again. His last memory is that of the Grinding Ice – Anairë has never made that experience. He shall need someone who was there with him. Somebody close; and the two of you always got along well. With each other and with Elenwë, actually. She, too, will need help to deal with all the changes that have happened during her… absence.”

“Would my presence not seen as an intrusion, though?” asked Celebrían. “Perhaps I should remain in Tavrobel. Lord Ailios would surely take me in for a while.”

She was saddened by the thought of leaving the peace of Meril’s house, but she did not want to be an additional burden for the Lady of Tol Eressëa. She knew from Glorfindel, reluctant though e had been to speak of such matters, that re-housed Elves were very confused after returning to Life and needed much loving care from their family.

“Oh, no, child!” she exclaimed. “Your presence will be perhaps even more important!”

“What would they need me for?” asked Celebrían doubtfully. “They know me not; I was not even born yet when they died.”

“Perhaps; but you are Artanis’ daughter,” pointed out Erunyauvë. “You are the living proof that – despite the outcome of the events – not all has happened in vain.”

“And you are kin,” added Meril,” at least for Elenwë. Your husband is her great-grandson; she will be happy to learn that her descendants had done well in Ennórë and performed great deeds.”

“But I know so very little about that!” protested Celebrían. “Elrond was always the scholar and the lore-master. I was just his wife.”

“There is nothing just in your being Elrond’s wife,” said Erunyauvë seriously. “Child, you cannot begin to imagine how lonely and wounded in the fëa he had been before meeting you. His love for you, and your love for him, saved his sanity, and very likely his life, after the Last Alliance. You gave him what he had always yearned for; what he had needed most: a home.”

The Maia reached out across the space between them and touched her hand gently. To her own surprise, she did not flinch away from that touch.

“No, child; it was the right decision,” Erunyauvë said. “Yea, it hurts him to be without you; but watching you fade and die would have broken his heart. And he is not alone. He has your children and his friends to support him – and the hope to meet you again, healed and safe, once he Sails.”

“He will not; not until Sauron is defeated,” replied Celebrían sadly. “He never claimed kingship for himself – his brother had been the one born to rule – but he had accepted responsibility for what is left of the Elven lands west of the Misty Mountains. He is not one to abandon his duties. It will be a long time ere he would Sail.”

“So what?” Meril shrugged. “You are both Elves; you have the time – time you will need to heal anyway,” she turned to Erunyauvë. “So, when can we count on the arrival of our new… charges?”

“Not for a while yet,” answered the Maia. “Currently, they are both residing in Lórien, still getting used to have a hröa again and slowly regaining their memories. They have already realized who they are and recognized each other as kin.”

Erunyauvë nodded. “It is; but it is still a slow process. Lord Irmo plans to send them to one of the minor havens from where to sail to Tol Eressëa after the end of Samírien. Seeing Alqualondë first thing after their release might trigger memories they are not strong enough to deal with just yet.”

Meril shuddered involuntarily. ”I can imagine that. I still have nightmares, and there have been two Ages in-between. But are there no other ways to get them over the Bay of Eldamar? Your people can get from here to there in no time…”

“True,” the Maia agreed, “but your hröar cannot travel through the same dimensions we do. Elenwë and Aracáno will have to take the more… conservative way, I am afraid,” she rose from the bench briskly. “Enough talk now. Let us re-join the festivities. The people of Tol Eressëa expect their Lady to make an appearance; and I was told that the Súruli were looking forward to dance with Celebrían again.”

The Feast of Double Mirth officially ended that night, and in the next morning the guests began to disperse, returning to their homes all across the island in small – or not so small – groups. Meril and her household spent the day in the House of the Hundred Chimneys, resting, ere setting off for Kortirion another day later. This time Celebrían went with the others, and she was surprised to learn that it was a fairly long ride between the two towns.

Meril smiled. “You were travelling with Ilverin. ‘Tis his gift to make any journey appear short and delightful with his chatter and his singing. But he will remain in the Tower of Tavrobel for a while, to consult with Rúmil the Sage; so you will have to travel with us, on the more… conservative route,” she added, wit a wink in Erunyauvë’s direction, and the Maia laughed gaily.

“Btu I have no horse,” said Celebrían. “I could not take mine across the Sea; and it was not my own steed anyway.

Her mood darkened, remembering her beloved horse, slaughtered and eaten by the Orcs.

“Oh, but you do have one,” Erunyauvë smiled and released a long, melodious whistle.

Soft whinnying answered her, and as if they had waited for her sign, two palfreys left he stables and came trotting to her. They were the most beautiful horses Celebrían had ever seen, and considering that Elrond’s horses had descended from the ones taken by the Noldor to Beleriand, that was saying a lot.

Their coat was a light grey, almost white and palely dappled, with silver manes and tails. Huge dark eyes shone in their pale, delicately boned faces, their necks were arched like those of swans, the silky floss of their manes and tails looked as if they had been combed and brushed for hours. One of them trotted directly to Celebrían and poked her shoulder with its velvety nose. Celebrían laugher and stroked the long, elegant face of the noble beast.

“This is Roheryn,” the Maia explained. “She comes from the Noldóran’s own stables and descends from a line founded by one of Lord Oromë’s favourite steeds – a gift for Arafinwë’s coronation. King Arafinwë sent her and her sister to Tol Eressëa a short time ago, prompted by a sudden flash of foresight. He still knows not of your arrival.”

“How so?” asked Meril with a frown. “I sent him an official missive as I always do when somebody’s kin arrives from Ennórë.”

Erunyauvë laughed. “Child, the Feast of Double Mirth is a much bigger affair in Aman than it is here, have you forgotten? Tirion has been all but empty for at least a fortnight, and the court of the Noldóran is still on its way back as we speak. Arafinwë will not read your message any sooner than in two days’ time at best.”

The Maia shook her head. “Nay, though I shall ride her back to Kortirion. But ultimately, she is meant for Elenwë.”

“A steed worthy of a Queen, surely,” agreed Meril, stroking the nose of the other horse. “For even though Elenwë did not live to see the beauty of Vinyamar or Gondolin, she has always been Turucáno’s Queen. So, what is this beauty called?”

Erunyauvë gave her a wicked grin. “I am told that in a fit of weird humour Arafinwë named her Oiomúrë.”

“Weird indeed,” muttered Meril; for Oiomúrë had been the name of a region in Northern Araman near the Helcaraxë, named thusly for the dense mists covering it.

‘Twas said that the mists had been caused by the contact between the Grinding Ice and the warmer sea water. And while Meril had to admit that the coat of the palfrey did have exactly the same hue as the silver mists of Oiomúrë, she still was not sure it would be a good idea to give a horse by that name to someone who had died on the Ice and had recently been re-housed.

“You worry too much, Merilindë. All is as it is supposed to be,” she declared.

Erunyauvë smiled beatifically. “I only mean that they – especially Lords Námo and Irmo – know better what would be beneficial for any reborn Elf than you and me, that is all.”

“Was it also foresight that Arafinwë gave the other horse a Sindarin name?” inquired Meril, still not entirely happy with the turn of things.

The Maia nodded. “Why certainly! She was always meant to be Celebrían’s horse. Come now, my children. Time does not stand still for our sake, and we have a long ride before us.”

“Why does she call us children?” whispered Celebrían to Meril, while the Maia went on to saddle the horses; the Elves of Aman did not ride in Wood-Elf fashion – a fact that had become the topic of endless teasing and debates among the Tol Eressëans, especially the Nandor and the Silvan folk. “I could understand her calling me that – I am still fairly young for an Elf, after all. But you – you have seen the Light of the Two Trees!”

Meril shrugged. “You will get used to it. They call all of us children, even those who opened their eyes to the newborn stars of Lady Varda at the dark waters of Cuiviénen. I assume it comes from not being able to have children of their own,” she added wickedly. “They are simply envious.”

“I heard that!” Erunyauvë called back from the horses, safely out of even a Wood-Elf’s earshot.

Clearly, being one of the Lesser Powers did have its advantages. Advantages they exploited shamelessly, it appeared.

“You were meant to!” called back Meril, without remorse. Then, still grinning, she added for Celebrían’s sake. “Our only advantage on them, you see. Use it when you have to.”

Celebrían found herself too shocked to even attempt to answer. Erunyauvë, however, just laughed and continued saddling the horses and packing the saddlebags.

When everything was in readiness, they took their leave from Legolas and also from Ailios and Vainóni. Then they all mounted, ready to leave. The guards of Meril’s house – a handful of former Exiles who had survived the Wars of Beleriand, as well as their children and grandchildren, quite a few among them ellith – formed the vanguard and the rearguard, taking Meril, whom they still saw as their Queen, her guests and handmaidens in the middle.

As soon as they had reached the main road, the guards began to sing. It was an ancient song, born during the Great Journey and no longer known anywhere else but in the Blessed Realm. The handmaidens picked up the song, and within the shortest time, the entire household was singing as they rode homewards on the old road leading towards the centre of the isle.

Riding between Meril and Erunyauvë, Celebrían felt, for the first time since leaving Middle-earth, anticipation. She knew not what she was expecting from her new life under the Lady of Tol Eressëa’s roof, but she was looking forward to it.

Perhaps choosing to Sail instead of the way that led through Mandos had not been such a bad choice, after all.

Author’s notes: The circumstances of Aracáno’s death are my doing. For the Quenya version of Gildor’s name I owe my thanks to Finch.

In the ancient town of Tirion, the Feast of Double Mirth was an event celebrated much more festively than on Tol Eressëa. The city was practically empty during the seven days of the Feast, as the court and all nobles went to the Taniquetil, as tradition demanded, and the rest of the people living there simply followed them.

Therefore it was not surprising that King Arafinwë – also known as Finarfin among the returned Exiles and basically all Sindar who had chosen to sail to the West since the War of Wrath; a handsome number in the recent two Ages – had not learned about a new family member arriving form Endórë. Not ‘til the court and basically the entire population returned to Tirion after the Feast.

The King of the Noldor – in Aman at least, for many Returnees who had taken up residence on Tol Eressëa still refused to accept his authority over their own lords, one of whom had been his firstborn son, who still resided in Mandos – got up early in the morning after the Feast. Such events, while admittedly good for morale, also meant that he would spend the next few days in his study, reading the reports that had piled up on his desk in his absence, dealing with the equally high pile of correspondence and holding court in cases that had been delayed because of the Feast.

At least he had Eärwen to help him with his administrative duties. The daughter of a King herself, the Swan Lady of Alqualondë had been trained in royal duties since her early childhood. Fortunately, the Lady Amarië, acknowledged (although not publicly wedded) wife of the haryon to the Noldóran, had long since taken over the running of the royal household.

She and then-Prince Findaráto might have married in haste and in privacy before the latter would have left, but that did not make their bond any less binding. She had accepted her task in the household, and so had her only son, Prince Ingalaurë, who had picked up the habit to call himself Inglor, in Sindarin fashion, after his extended stay in Endórë after the War of Wrath[1] – much to the chagrin of the Vanyarin kinfolk of his wife.

Arafinwë found that the time his only grandson – his only living grandson, he reminded himself ruefully; thinking of Angaráto’s son Rodnor, who had been born, lived and died without ever having met his Amanian kin, was always painful – had spent in Endórë had been time spent well. Ingalaurë had learned a great deal in Ereinion’s court and took over the same duties at his grandsire’s side without complaining. He was the best seneschal the Noldóran could have wished for; especially due to his experiences outside of Aman, which had widened his horizon considerably.

Besides, he was the spitting image of Findaráto, and that fact made the royal couple of Tirion miss their firstborn just a little less.

When Arafinwë entered his study in this morning, followed by his Queen, they found Ingalaurë already there, going through the messages that did not bear the mark that they would be meant for the Noldóran’s eyes only. One of such message – a letter bearing the seal of Nolofinwë’s House – was set aside for the King to open it.

“A message from Lady Meril,” explained Ingalaurë, picking up the carefully folded piece of parchment and handing it to his grandsire.

Arafinwë broke the seal, read through the letter quickly… then he blanched and handed it to his Queen who, too, went stark white.

“Celebrían has left Endórë,” said the Noldóran, his voice barely more than a whisper.

His grandson shrugged. “If you can call it that; I’ve met her only once, and she wasn’t even born back then. Artanis was visiting the Sea Palace of Círdan… of Lord Nówë,” he corrected himself hurriedly, knowing that his grandparents considered it disrespectful if one called the Lord of the Falathrim simply the shipwright, even though the ancient Elf had gone by that name for the last three Ages. “She was heavily pregnant with Celebrían at that time, and kept complaining that she felt like Círdan’s biggest ship; and that she hated being with child.”

Arafinwë smiled ruefully. “That sounds like Artanis all right. She never liked being hampered by anything. Not even by her unborn daughter. I am looking forward to meet her daughter, though. I wonder whom does she come after.”

“Strange, though, that she would come alone, without Elrond and their children,” commented Eärwen thoughtfully. “All reports we received from Endórë spoke of great love between them. Could she be suffering from the Sea-longing? She had enough Telerin and Sindarin blood in her to be affected.”

“It would surprise me if it were so,” said Ingalaurë. “As far as I know, no-one of Celeborn’s family had ever been hit by the Longing… and none from ours, either.”

“That makes it unlikely yet not impossible,” said Arafinwë. “I wish Meril had been a bit more forthcoming with details; alas it has never been her wont. We shall have to wait ‘til Celebrían’s arrival and ask her straightforward.”

“If she is planning to come at all,” replied Eärwen. “Meril writes nothing about that; she would do so if Celebrían had any plans to board a ship to Aman.”

“She will not come; not now and not yet for a long while,” a deep, musical voice said; there was a brief shimmering of colours, and a Maia, wearing the emblem of the Elder King upon his breast, appeared in their midst, out of thin air.

“And a pleasant day to you as well, Fionwë Úrion,” answered the Noldóran patiently. “I assume that after three ages we should finally give up on the hope that your people would ever learn the meaning of privacy – not to mention the usefulness of doors and such.”

Fiönwë, serving as the herald of the Elder King in his brother Eönwë’s stead, who seemed to have gone mysteriously missing shortly after his return from the War of Wrath, laughed. There was a marked similarity between the two of them, Arafinwë noticed absently, not for the first time.

Fionwë, clad in a form remarkably similar to the one his brother had worn in the War of Wrath, was tall and powerfully built, wearing dull golden armour and mail over an ankle-length tunic of heavy, midnight blue silk that was slit to the hips so that it would not hamper his movements, and a long, sapphire blue cloak upon his wide shoulders. The same luminous blue gleamed from his eyes. His golden hair fell to his waist, knotted in places at the sides and back in small, intricate traits. Leaf-shaped ears, like those of the elves, peeked out from under those plaits. Truly, the only difference between him and Eönwë was their colouring.

“Why bother with doors if we can deliver ourselves to any place we want by sheer willpower?” he asked, clearly amused. “I do apologise for my intrusion, though, even if it was necessary. I bring you a message from the Elder King.”

The three Elves became pale and silent at that announcement. The last time Lord Manwë had felt it necessary to send a message to the Noldóran by one of his People in such a formal manner had been to give him a report about the outcome of the Last Alliance and the death of Gil-galad. Arafinwë and his family did pay semi-regular visits to Ilmaren, like the other royal families, thus interacting with the Powers was nothing unknown to them; but being visited by a messenger of the Valar – any of them – rarely meant good news.

“What happened?” asked the Noldóran, mentally stealing himself for the blow to come.

“Nothing happened,” he replied. “Not yet, in any case. However, Lord Manwë found it prudent to warn you that your nephew, Aracáno, has been recently re-housed and will be released from Lord Irmo’s care, soon.”

“How soon?” asked Ingalaurë slyly. “Soon as we see it or soon as you see it – which can be anytime in the next ten Ages.”

Fionwë grinned at him. “You are an insolent pup, young one. I see why my brother was so fond of you. But no, it is a soon of your measure. Aracáno will be released as soon as you can go to Lórien and pick him up at the Gates of Return.”

“Why me?” Arafinwë frowned. “Should not Anairë be there? She is his mother, after all.”

“She, too, is being informed as we speak. But Aracáno is not yet ready to face life in Aman again. So it has been decided to send him to Tol Eressëa, to Merilindë – him and Elenwë, both.”

“Elenwë has also been released?” cried out Eärwen happily. She had been good friends with Elenwë’s mother and was still mourning her loss.

Fionwë nodded again. “Yea; Lords Irmo and Námo thought that they would be of great support for each other, as they died at about the same time and under similar circumstances. In fact, Aracáno died by trying to save Elenwë.”

“Well, as most of those who could have told you are still residing in Mandos, that is not surprising,” answered the Maia. “In any case, their last memories of life are the horrors of the Grinding Ice, and so they need to stay with someone who knows what they had suffered there, having faced the Ice herself.”

“Anairë will not like it,” prophesied Eärwen thoughtfully. “Like us, she had waited for her family to be released for two whole Ages – she will not take it kindly that they would be sent away To Tol Eressëa; and to Merilindë, of all people. There had been little love between the two of them in the first place, and things have not improved much since Merilindë became the Queen of Tol Eressëa… in all but title.”

“Yet that is what she was always meant to be,” said Fionwë; “the Queen of the Exiles and all the others who have Sailed, for whatever reasons they might have done so.”

“Does this mean that – once released – my brother or his firstborn are supposed to rule Tol Eressëa as their own realm?” Arafinwë frowned.

“Nay,” replied the Maia with a faint smile. “Merilindë is supposed to do that, as she has done for almost two Ages, ever since she accepted the forgiveness of the Valar and returned from Endórë. Think about it, Finwion: none of you, Kings of Aman, has ever ruled a realm with a population of all possible peoples of Elvenkind, most of whom experienced the brutal wars of the recent Ages. Most of them knew nothing else ‘til they decided to Sail. Would you, or Olwë, or even Ingwë, be able to perceive their needs? To give them the kind of guidance they crave most?”

“You fought in the War of Wrath yourself, thus you know more than your fellow rulers in Aman can imagine,” continued Fionwë. “But not even you can perceive what it was like to live – and to die – under the Shadow of Moringotto, year for year, yén for yén. Merilindë spent an Age under that shadow – and survived. She knew most of the realms of Beleriand from personal experience; and she is a symbol for the other survivors as well as for the re-housed. She was Findecáno’s Queen and Ereinion’s mother; the blood of Ingwë himself flows in her veins, and all look at her for advice and wisdom.”

“But what will happen when Nolofinwë and his other sons are re-housed?” asked the Noldóran. “They were named High Kings of the exiled Noldor, every single one of them, and they count as the greatest heroes of our folk, Findecáno before all. Would people not want one of them to take over leadership?”

The Maia shook his head. “Their kingdoms are gone and so is their lordship. Tol Eressëa has no need for warrior kings; it needs a Queen of peace, for its people to heal. Merilindë has been chosen, for she is the only one who can hold such a multitude of cultures together.”

“Anairë will still not like it,” said Arafinwë, “and frankly, I cannot blame her for that. It is her family, after all, and she has waited for them long enough.”

“And yet she is not the one they need,” replied the Maia. “’Tis up to you to make her understand that.”

“You are her brother-in-law – and you are her King,” answered Fionwë bluntly. “You can always give her an order if she refuses to listen.”

With that, he vanished in a swirl of rainbow-coloured light, leaving behind a completely flabbergasted royal family.

“That will be going well,” muttered Arafinwë angrily. The thought of having to order the widow of his brother away from her re-housed family did not bode well with him.

“I find it… interesting that Lord Námo would choose to release Aracáno and Elenwë at the same time as Artanis’ daughter has arrived at Tol Eressëa,” he said. “A strange coincidence, is it not?”

“If you believe in coincidences,” Arafinwë was decidedly not happy with the new turn of events. Ingalaurë shrugged.

“Oh, I do believe in coincidences, anatar. Coincidences happen all the time. I just do not trust them. Moreover if their timing is so suspiciously convenient.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed the Noldóran. “But we have not true choice in this matter, I fear,” he looked at his Queen. “Well, love, I have two reborn family members to pick up at the Gates of Return. Do you wish to come with me?”

“Not really,” admitted Eärwen in truth, the thought of welcoming her nephew and Elenwë while her own sons were still abiding in Mandos broke her heart. “But Anairë will need me… and you will need me, considering her likely reaction to the Valar’s decree. I know I would react badly in her stead. Very badly.”

“Then we shall both go,” decided Arafinwë. “Amarië and Ingalaurë will keep things up and running in our absence, I am fairly certain of that.”

“Why, of course, anatar!” exclaimed Ingalaurë, grinning from ear to ear. “After all, how often does a glorified secretary like myself get to play King?”

Arafinwë, somewhat mollified, gave his ‘glorified secretary’ – who, by the way, had fought on his side in the War of Wrath and spent half an Age as the seneschal of the High King of the Noldor-in-Exile – a brief hug.

“Oh, I am quite sure you would manage,” replied Ingalaurë with a nonchalant shrug. “After all, you reign over meek Amanian elves. They are no challenge at all compared with the lot from Endórë.”

“Thank you for the voice of confidence,” replied Arafinwë dryly, then he looked at his Queen. “Shall we go and pack for the trip to Lórien, my Swan Princess?”

Eärwen laughed. “As if you ever cared for such things! Stay here and go over the kingly stuff with Ingalaurë while I organize the practical side of our journey.”

She turned to leave, ignoring Ingalaurë’s protest thrown after her, more out of custom by now than out of hope to change things, ever.

“My name is Inglor, anammë, can’t you get used to it? ‘Tis bad enough that Lintári’s family refuses to accept my personal choice…”

“So does your ammë,” Arafinwë pointed out reasonably, as Amarië had told in no uncertain terms – not to mention uncounted times – that no son of hers would ever be addressed by such an uncouth name. She generally disliked Sindarin, which she found a harsh and barbaric language, lacking – in her opinion – the innate musical qualities of Quenya, her mother tongue.

“Well, she is a Vanya,” Ingalaurë replied with a shrug. “They are a bit… er… high-nosed, as you well know.”

“My father’s son,” replied Ingalaurë flatly. “I might never have met him, but I learned much about him in Middle-earth. Enough to know that he, who had embraced our sundered kin as well as the Mortals and even the Dwarves, would respect my choice. More so as I have made it in his honour. He most certainly was not a snob, and I do not intend to become one, either.”

“You did not make it easy for yourself, by marrying a Vanya,” Arafinwë teased. For while Lady Lintári accepted – and even followed to a certain degree – the liberal ways of her spouse, her family was one of the most stubbornly old-fashioned ones in Aman.

Ingalaurë sighed. “Well, she did have a reason to run off with me to Endórë, in the middle of the War,” he said. “Sometimes I believe she married me purely out of self-preservation. We both liked to live in Lindon,” he added with a nostalgic smile. “You cannot begin to imagine how new, how full of life, how... how young everything was at Gil-galad’s court! I kept thinking this must have been like when my father and his cousins had first established their realms in Beleriand.”

“As much as we both lived the life there, Lintári grew more and more uncomfortable with the encroaching darkness as Sauron gained more strength with every passing yén. We did not want to force our children to leave the only home they knew, but once they were grown, I could not watch my wife’s unhappiness any longer. So yea, we came back.”

“And glad I am that you did!” said Arafinwë fervently. “You have been a great help for me, ever since your arrival – in more ways than you can probably imagine.”

“Oh, I think I can imagine well enough,” replied Ingalaurë seriously. “Do not forget that I have a child in Mandos, too… and my only son still dwells on the other side of the Sea.”

“Gildor,” said Ingalaurë firmly. “Gildor Inglorion is the only name he has ever accepted; and yea, I am fairly certain that he will come one day. Not ere Sauron is defeated for good, though. He swore an oath on that, and he will stick to it. For all that he has so little Noldorin blood in him, he inherited the pride of the Finwëans in spades.”

“Grief and vengeance, actually,” replied Ingalaurë with a sigh. “Cold bedfellows they are, but if you have lost the one who meant everything to you, there is preciously little to go on with. You cling to what can keep you alive when all hope is lost.”

“That is a bleak existence,” said Arafinwë, his heart going out to the great-grandson he had never met. “And one with very little hope for healing.”

“We all grieve on our own way,” Ingalaurë shrugged. “He will come – by ship or through Mandos, he will come, for he cannot remain sundered from the other half of his fëa forever. Right now, though, we have other returnees to care for.”

“You should,” his grandson agreed, “or have you forgotten how unwise it is to make anammë wait? Go; your kingdom will still be waiting for you, safe and sound, upon your return. I promise.”

Author’s notes: The supposed competition between Aredhel, Meril and Galadriel is my invention. So is Galadriel’s intention to marry off her daughter to someone else than Elrond.

Celebrían was surprised how easily she found her own rhythm after returning to Meril’s house. At first it felt strange not to be responsible for the smooth running of things in an entire household, but she found the change a welcome one.

Here she was not the lady of the house, burdened with tasks and responsibilities. Here she was merely a guest who contributed to the work that needed to be done voluntarily. Other than that, she was left to her own devices for which she was grateful. She did not feel like making new friends – not yet anyway. Solitude had great appeal to her at the moment.

As for the upcoming arrival of re-housed relatives she had never met before, she tried to forget about them as far as possible. Dealing with them when they actually were there would be soon enough, she found, and Erunyauvë agreed with her.

For the fact that she had supposedly been sent to Meril’s house to further Celebrían’s healing, the Maia did surprisingly little, by the way. True, she often accompanied Celebrían on her walks in the gardens and at work, and she watched over her during the night, taking care of the candles so that they would not burn down the house by accident, but that was basically all. She would just sit there, doing her own embroidery or weaving or whatever household task she happened to pick up on any given day, humming contentedly under her breath and laughing in delight whenever one of Meril’s handmaidens made a jest or told a funny story.

Celebrían would never have expected someone from Lady Nienna’s People to be so… cheerful all the time. On a day when Erunyauvë seemed in a particularly good mood, she even voiced that observation.

“Why should we not?” the Maia asked in surprise. “We are meant to comfort those given into our care; how could we do it if we were drowning in sorrow ourselves?”

“But Lady Nienna…” Celebrían hesitated. “She is the only one of the Powers of whom is said that she wept…”

“That is not strictly true,” replied Erunyauvë. “I happen to know on good authority that even the Elder King wept when the Noldor ignored the warnings of Lord Námo and stubbornly marched to their doom. As for Lady Nienna, her powers manifest themselves in her tears; that is Ilúvatar’s special gift to her, and she uses it for the good of all that live in Eä. That does not mean she would go around bawling like an elfling with a stubbed toe all the time, though.”

The absurd mental image made Celebrían laugh, albeit she was a bit shocked by the Maia’s seemingly disrespectful tone. Erunyauvë laughed with her heartily, glad to have lifted her melancholy, even if for only a moment, and sent a mental apology to her lady – getting a laughter echoing through her very being as an answer.

A few days later, Celebrían had just finished her morning walk in the garden and was now going through her sewing basket to do some embroidery – not out of necessity, just because she wanted to actually do something aside from willing the time away – when there was a knock on the door and Nielthi, one of Meril’s handmaidens, peered in.

“My lady, the visitors from Aman have arrived,” she said, “and one of them asked to see you.”

“We know,” replied Nielthi apologetically, “but Lady Meril thinks you should make an exception this time.”

Celebrían felt a little annoyed by that insistence, but as she was a guest of the Lady of Tol Eressëa, common courtesy demanded that she did as she was asked. Therefore she rose from her seat with a weary sigh and followed Nielthi to Meril’s solar, where visitors were usually entertained… forgetting to ask, until it was too late, if she should change into something more appropriate.

She was therefore relieved to find Meril in her usual working garb, in the company of a single visitor. Said visitor was a tall, golden-haired Elf, stunningly fair and almost impossibly young-looking and clad in fairly subdued colours for someone clearly important.

His knee-length, royal blue tunic was embroidered with gold on the high collar and along the hem. The sleeves of the tunic were slashed, showing the silver-grey silk shirt he wore beneath it. His leather breeches were dyed grey, too, although a darker grey than his shirt, and they were stuffed into black ankle boots. His cloak, also royal blue, was unadorned, save for some gossamer-fine embroidery in gold thread along the rim, and thrown over one shoulder. He wore no jewellery, just a chain of golden leaves girdling his waist.

His eyes were wide and grey-blue like the stormy Sea; his high cheekbones and sculpted face surprisingly, heart-breakingly familiar. Celebrían gasped in recognition.

“Gildor!” she whispered. “When have you Sailed? Have you foresworn your Oath not to leave Middle-earth until Sauron is defeated?”

The Elf turned around, equally surprised, and now she could se that it was not Gildor, after all. His long, gleaming hair was several shades paler, just this side of silver, save his much darker brows, and in those stormy eyes was a light that Gildor’s eyes lacked: the mirrored radiance of the Two Trees.

“Nay, daughter,” he said with a gentle smile; his voice was deep and mellow, very different from the often harsh tone of Gildor Inglorion, and his Sindarin, though passable, had a rather exotic accent. “I fear I am not the old friend you clearly hoped to see… although you are not so far from the truth as you might be.”

“Who are you then?” asked Celebrían, confused. “Are you my Uncle Finrod, released from Mandos after all? You do look like my mother… well, a little.”

“I should hope so, though I am not Findaráto, either, as he is still waiting for his release in Mandos,” said the Elf, his eyes darkening with sorrow. “I am Arafinwë, whom you might have heard mentioned as Finarfin. I am your anatar.”

“Also known as the King of the Noldor, at least those in Aman,” added Meril with a faint smile, “although we Tol Eressëans do not make much of such titles.”

“Or else you would be wearing a crown, too,” returned the Noldóran with good humour.

Meril waved off his comment. “My years of wearing a crown were short, full of pain and are long gone now,” she said.

“Really?” Arafinwë arched a royal eyebrow. “That is not what Fionwë told me before I would leave to pick up our re-housed kin from Lórien.”

“That is Maiar for you,” answered Meril with a shrug. “Sometimes they talk too much; often about things that are not their concern.”

“I have come to believe that they consider our affairs very much their concern,” replied Arafinwë mildly. “But that is neither here nor there right now. I have come to meet my granddaughter, first and foremost.”

He gave Celebrían a long, searching look but made no attempts to hug her, for which she was grateful. Grandsire or not, she doubted that she could have endured that.

“You do not look like Artanis at all,” he stated. If he was disappointed by that, he did not show it. “Clearly, you come after your father – both in your features and in your colouring.”

Arafinwë nodded. “I met him once, right after the War of Wrath; him and his uncle Oropher. Most impressive ellyn, both of them. I was sorrowed to hear that Oropher perished in the Last Alliance.”

“Of course,” Arafinwë briefly bowed to her in apology. “Do forgive me, Merilindë; I was lost in memories.”

“We all had our losses,” she said; “you perhaps more so than the rest of us. I shall look after my new charges now, so that Eärwen can meet her granddaughter, too. She has been amazingly patient already.”

She smiled and left to switch places with the Noldotári, who had clearly been providing company for the re-housed family members. That gave Celebrían a moment to collect herself, for which she sorely felt the need. As friendly and easy-going as her grandsire appeared, she thought to have to steel herself ere facing his Queen, a Princess of her own right. As Galadriel had proudly pointed out many times, theirs was a family of royal blood on both sides.

To Celebrían’s eternal relief, however, the lady who soon thereafter entered Meril’s solar had nothing in common with her own imperious mother. She was a little ashamed for feeling such relief, but it could not be helped.

Eärwen of Alqualondë was tall, like all members of her family; in fact not an inch shorter than her King, with deep sea-blue eyes and silver hair that she wore in an intricately plaited braid that was coiled upon her head like a diadem of pure mithril adorned with pearls and covered with a simple gilded net. She wore plain travelling clothes in sea-green and silver grey: a sideless surcoat over a split skirt and an under gown with collected sleeves, designed to make riding easy and comfortable. Her clothes were embroidered with silver thread and sewn with white pearls, depicting swans with crossed necks along the hem and the sleeves.

But the greatest contrast to the Lady of the Galadhrim was in her manners; while perhaps even more beautiful than her only daughter, Eärwen’s face was full of gentleness and loving attention – something Celebrían had often received from her father but rarely from her mother. Unlike when in her mother’s company, Eärwen’s presence did not make her feel inadequate. The tight coil in her stomach began to loosen itself, and she risked a tremulous smile.

Eärwen smiled back at her gently, extending her hands but not quite touching her, not without her consent, allowing her to decide how much she could bear at the moment. Celebrían hesitated for a heartbeat or two… then she went into her granddam’s arms, stiffening at first in panic, then relaxing into that feather-light embrace, and silent tears began running down her face.

Eärwen said nothing, just held her gently, barely touching, and hummed a wordless tune that she had once used to calm down her children whenever they had been scared or upset, and Arafinwë waited with the patience of a four times over father for his wife’s love to work its miracle. Finally, when Celebrían’s tears rand dry, Eärwen held her by the shoulders and looked at her searchingly, just as her husband had done a little earlier.

Then she let go and smiled at Arafinwë. “You are right, love; she does not have much of Nerwendë in her. She must look like her father, then.”

The Noldóran laughed quietly. “Actually, now that I see the two of you together, I find that she looks a lot like you, my dear. Which is, in my perhaps slightly biased opinion, the best thing that could happen to any granddaughter of mine.”

They exchanged warm smiles, and Celebrían was touched by the deep, unabashed love between them and how freely they showed it for everyone to see. There was nothing from Galadriel’s aloof distance in public that always saddened her, even though she knew how much her parents loved each other. This was more like how Elrond and herself had always behaved before… well, before. She hoped that one day, once she had healed and Elrond had finished his labours in Middle-earth, they would find back to that uncomplicated closeness.

“Well, then,” said Arafinwë briskly, “now that we have brought the awkwardness of the first meeting behind us, do you, ladies, think that we could simply sit down and discuss family matters?”

Eärwen rolled her eyes. “What is it with ellyn and their constant need to do something… or discuss something?” she asked in mild exasperation.

Her voice was a shade or two higher and merrier than Galadriel’s, and her Sindarin as exotically accented as her husband's. They exchanged looks of feminine understanding.

“It must be a male thing,” Celebrían agreed. “Elrond always found it hard to let go of the things occupying his mind as well,” her smile faded. She was missing him so much. Even though their separation had been her own decision and made out of love to him, sometimes she wondered how she would be able to go on without him.

“Oh, young Elrond!” exclaimed Arafinwë brightly. “Do tell me about him! He was barely more than an elfling when I last saw him, serving as a healer in Macalaurë’s host. Hard to believe that he has grown bold enough to face our daughter and ask for your hand. He seemed quite shy to me.”

“That was two whole Ages ago, Daeradar,” Celebrían reminded him. “Though it is true that he waited a yén or two between falling in love with me and actually asking my parents,” she added truthfully, and her parents laughed.

“It could not have been easy for him,” said Eärwen then. “Even in Alqualondë, some of our people looked at Eärendil and Elwing with unease because of their heritage, and I imagine it must have been even more complicated in Endórë.”

Celebrían shook her head. “Not truly; for Ada, he was kin, the grandson of his cousin Nimloth. And the elders say he is the spitting image of Dior Eluchíl, which warmed many hearts towards him, for Lúthien’s sake.”

“Then he must be very beautiful,” said Eärwen with a knowing smile. “I never met Lúthien, of course, but I saw Melyanna shortly after her return, still wearing her fana; if her descendants are anything like her, they must be a marvel. And yet I cannot help but assume that Nerwendë was anything but happy about you marrying someone with mortal blood in his veins. She was always so proud of her heritage, on both sides… I would have expected her to want you marry Ereinion.”

“Oh, she did,” replied Celebrían dryly, “and was very disappointed when both Gil-galad and I declared that we were not interested in each other.”

“Strange,” commented Arafinwë. “We never heard of Ereinion having bound himself to anyone. I wonder why.”

“That I cannot tell,” answered Celebrían truthfully; the solitary life led by their King and the possible reasons for it had been the subject of much guesswork among the Elves of Lindon and the Havens. “But he knew I never wanted to live at the court; and as he was a good friend, I suppose he wanted to discourage Nana for my sake.”

“As if something like that would have ever stopped our Artanis!” he said. “I cannot say I blame her in this particular matter, though. Nothing against Elrond, but you and Ereinion… it would have been a good match.”

“Nay, it would not,” returned Celebrían forcefully. “I would have been miserable at court: like a fish out of water, and would have made the lives of everyone else miserable. I was never meant to become a Queen; I do not have the makings of it.”

“Besides,” added Eärwen, giving her husband a wicked grin, “could you imagine Nerwendë and Merilindë as in-laws? Aman itself would not survive that!”

“’Tis not as much a matter of hatred as one of competition,” explained Eärwen. “They had pitted themselves against each other in every matter since their childhood. With Aredhel as the third one in their private little struggle, having them at the same time in the same place was always a disaster waiting to happen.”

“’Til Merilindë married Findecáno, that is,” Arafinwë added. “After that, she was too busy with her own family problems.”

She had heard about the close friendship between Fingon and Maedhros, of course – how could she have not? It was the subject of lays and legends in Middle-earth, after all. She could not understand why Meril would have a problem with that, though.

Eärwen, however, smiled in understanding. “’Tis not easy for a young wife to compete with an old friend of her husband,” she said. “A childhood friend always has the unfair advantage of knowing your husband better and longer than you ever would. And those two were closer than brothers.”

“I fear Merilindë was not always wise in her attitude towards Maitimo,” Arafinwë nodded in agreement.

“’Tis hard to be wise when you feel slighted,” commented Eärwen dryly. “I always considered myself fortunate for not having to compete for your attentions with any old friend of yours.”

“That you never had,” the Noldóran smiled. “In any case, after Merilindë got married, Artanis saw herself as the winner in their competition.”

“But she did win in the end, did she not?” asked Celebrían softly. “Aredhel is dead, and so are her husband and her only son. Meril has lost everything and everyone dear to her heart and lives in exile, even though it is a voluntary one in these days. Nana, though, still has got Ada and their own realm, no matter how small and rustic it may seem.”

Celebrían shrugged. “I doubt that that would mean much to her. I was never the warrior princess she wanted me to be – or the Queen she wanted me to become. I was an embarrassment, coming too much after my father and his people for her taste.”

“She loves your father, though,” Arafinwë pointed out. “She always did. So she could not have such dismay towards his people and their customs.”

“He loves him despite what he is: a mere Sindarin chieftain, a dark Elf who never saw the Light of the Trees,” replied Celebrían matter-of-factly. She had long ago ceased feeling bitter over such things. “She never wanted a daughter who would prefer their ways, though. She wanted someone who was strong-willed, ambitious and competitive, like she is.”

Celebrían sighed. “I just wanted a family… a home. And the first time Elrond spoke of his feelings to me, I knew I had found what I needed… whom I needed. And so did he. We were meant for each other; that we indeed found one another was the best thing that could ever have happened to either of us… until all was destroyed.”

She swallowed and turned away, trying to will back her tears… with moderate success. Her grandparents waited patiently for her to collect herself, offering comfort by their presence alone; feeling – and rightly so – that she could not bear more at the moment. Not yet.

“We shall not ask what was done to you,” Eärwen finally said, “although we both hope hat one day you will be healed enough to speak about it and put it in place as part of the past. But we want you to know that you will always have a home with us. You have family, both in Tirion and in Alqualondë, and we would be glad to have you with us.”

Celebrían shook his head. “I never liked courtly life, Daernana, or I would have married Gil-galad indeed. And I could not bear people gawking at me and whispering behind my back, knowing what happened to me – or believing that they know.”

“That is understandable, though living with your family would not necessarily mean living at the court, either mine or Olwë’s,” said Arafinwë. “But I believe, too, that you would do better in Merilindë’s care for the time being. Take your time. Whenever you feel strong enough to come to us, if not for more than for a visit, you will be most welcome.”

“And in the meantime you will have the chance to befriend such family as you will have around you,” Eärwen added. “Lord Irmo seems to believe that the three of you will benefit from each other’s presence; and Erunyauvë will remain here to watch over your healing.”

“I do not need any minders,” answered Celebrían a little crossly. “We did well enough in Middle-earth, without the constant interference of the Powers. I shall not be treated like some errant elfling!”

Her grandparents exchanged looks of stunned disbelief at this outburst, which stood to such opposite to her earlier meek behaviour – then started laughing as one.

“And this when I was just about to give up the hope of finding anything of our daughter in you!” exclaimed Arafinwë, with tears of mirth in his eyes.

“Apparently, the stubborn streak of the Finwëans survives countless generations, no matter how much their blood mingles with that of more… moderate families,” agreed Eärwen with twinkling eyes. Then she gave Celebrían a quick hug. “Come with us now, dear. We want to introduce you to the family that has been returned to us. They will be, after all, your charges, too, for the near future.”

Celebrían reluctantly agreed – she felt a little overwhelmed with new people thrown at her at every turn of the way, but she could not truly refuse, could she? Thus they went out of the house through the back door and entered the orchard with its fragrant, beautiful fruit-trees. Following the path, they came to the flat, grass-covered hillock, where the ancient apple-tree of enormous girth stood.

There, where the soil had been piled around the bole of the tree, so that it would form a broad seat, offering resting place for several people at once, they found Erunyauvë. She was sitting under the tree, the contains of her sewing basket spread all over her skirts, in the company of two Elves.

One of them was a golden-haired elleth, clearly a Vanya, pale and beautiful and clearly a little frightened. The other one was a young, dark-haired and grey-eyed ellon who reminded Celebrían of someone she had not seen for an entire Age and had no hope to see again any time soon.

Author’s notes: Elenwë’s personal background is my invention. I assumed she had to be someone of some importance to catch Turgon’s eye to begin with.

As for Glorfindel’s story, it has been established in my little corner of the Ardaverse more than a decade ago. According to “Sons of Twilight and Starlight”, he was released from Mandos sometime before the War of Wrath.

The description of the host of Gondolin follows the one in the Book of Lost Tales 2, with slight alterations to fit this story.

The two newcomers in Erunyauvë’s company reacted with various degrees of surprise to Celebrían’s arrival and to her spontaneous declaration.

“Who is Gil-galad?” he asked the Maia; then he looked at Celebrían in honest confusion. “And who are you, for that matter?”

“Now, dear, we have discussed this already,” said Erunyauvë. “She is Artanis’ daughter, remember? And Gil-galad is your nephew Ereinion.”

Aracáno shook his head. “My nephew’s name is Finbor[1] – a rather silly name, mind you, but for some reason Findecáno insisted to call him that. Merilindë was not happy, but our brother could be rather stubborn once he had made up his mind, and…”

“Your other nephew,” Erunyauvë interrupted the flow of memories before they could have run wild with him. “You had two more nephews, born in Endórë after your death, and one of them used to be the High King of the Noldor-in-exile for an entire Age. I am certain that you were told all about this in Lórien.”

“We were told a lot,” replied Aracáno a little sheepishly, “but it is hard to keep it all straight. We died so early on, and so much happened afterwards…”

Erunyauvë patted his hand encouragingly. “It will all fit together given enough time, never fear. Now, why do the two of you not greet Celebrían properly? And remember, she is not used to speaking Quenya all the time, so see that you go slowly with her.”

Both Aracáno and Elenwë nodded in understanding and gave Celebrían shy looks… like elflings when introduced to previously unknown family. ‘Twas hard to imagine that while they had seen the light of the Two Trees, they were both younger than she was – if one did not count the two Ages that they had spent in Mandos. In matters of life experience, they were barely more than elflings indeed, compared with her, both being late-born children, despite the horrors of the Grinding Ice. Even the pale colours they wore seemed to reflect on their relative youth.

Aracáno was dressed in a plain tunic of soft, light grey wool, embroidered with forest green and dark red on the hem in a serpentine pattern. Its wide sleeves reached only to the elbows, revealing a similarly adorned, darker grey silk shirt beneath. He had breeches of dark grey leather and black ankle boots studded with silver. His glossy black hair was braided with gold filaments, in a pattern that had not been used among the Noldor for Ages. Literally.

The overgown of Elenwë was of samite, in a shade of pale lilac, embroidered with gold thread and white pearls. Its skirt flared at the hem, and its sleeves were slit to the elbow, showing the tight sleeves of the sky blue undertunic, embroidered with small golden flowers. Her girdle, too, was a chain of linked golden flowers, with a small blue sapphire in the centre of each flower.

She was tall, like all full-blooded Vanyar were, and more powerfully built than the slender Sindar and willowy Noldor Celebrían knew from Middle-earth; and her skin had that barely perceivable golden shimmer that Glorfindel and, to a lesser grade, Gildor used to have – another clear sign that she was from the First Clan. She wore her hair unbraided; it flowed down her back like molten gold, bounded only by a thin golden circlet, studded with small sapphires, upon her high brow. Her eyes were wide and a deep azure blue. She was most wondrously fair, even by Elven measures, and carried herself with a natural grace that gave her away as one nobly born and raised accordingly to her birth.

At the moment, however, she looked mostly… young, perhaps even a bit scared. She tried to stay close to Aracáno all the time, giving Arafinwë and Eärwen worried looks as if expecting them to turn against her any moment. Perhaps it was not so surprising – after all, Arafinwë had abandoned the host of the Noldor in the last moment when returning to Aman had still been possible; and after that, all Elenwë could have remembered would be the Grinding Ice.

At least Celebrían, whom she had not known before, did not seem to frighten her.

“Are you really Artanis’ daughter?” she asked hesitantly. “You do not look like her at all.”

“I get that a lot,” replied Celebrían dryly; her entire youth had been overshadowed by being the fairly average daughter of an exceedingly beautiful, imperious mother. “But I am her daughter nonetheless.”

“More importantly, she is married to your great-grandson,” added Erunyauvë brightly. “So, you see, she is family.”

“Actually, you had two,” replied the Maia nonchalantly. “However, the other one chose to be counted among mortal Men and became the forefather of a long line of Kings. But that is another story, for another time.”

“How could he become mortal?” asked Elenwë in confusion. “He was an Elf, was he not?”

“He was both,” answered Celebrían quietly. “All his kind had mortal blood, to some extent, including my husband and my children. Have they not told you about Idril marrying a mortal, back in the First Age?”

“They have,” confessed Elenwë, “but I find it hard to catch up with all the changes. When we left Valinor, the Second-born were but a rumour, whispered about by Melkor into the ears of such Noldor as would listen to him. And now you are telling me that all my descendants have mortal blood in their veins?”

Celebrían nodded. “Eärendil, the son of Idril was the first of the Peredhil, the Half-elven; and he and his wife were the first ones to make the Choice. They both chose to be counted among the Firstborn, and so did my Elrond, their son. His twin, Elros, chose the other way.”

“So they are sundered ‘til the end of Arda… or beyond,” said Elenwë sadly, “and one of them I shall never meet,” she looked at the Maia accusingly. “That is a cruel Choice to lay upon anyone, for no matter what they choose, they will lose an entire life that could be but would never be. As if not knowing the fate of my only daughter were not painful enough.”

“The fates of Itarildë and Tuor are veiled, even from our eyes,” replied Erunyauvë. “Regardless what you Children may believe, we are not all-knowing. Not even our masters, the Valar, know everything.”

“True,” said Elenwë, and there was a hard glint in her blue eyes. “They do not understand evil, not even if it rises in their own rows; or else they would not have let Melkor lose on Arda again. And they shall never experience death, as their forms are but raiment, not part of them as our hröar are part of us. Death is a path of knowledge they can never follow, and it will always make those of us who experienced it more knowledgeable in that one area than they could ever hope to become.”

For a fleeting moment, despite the lack of any actual resemblance, Celebrían was strongly reminded of Glorfindel. She said so, and Elenwë gave her a blank look.

“The only reborn Elf I have met before coming here,” explained Celebrían. “Actually, he is the only Vanya I have met before. He liked to repeat that death is a powerful experience; and listening to you, I am coming to realize how right he was.”

“He is your Uncle Laurë,” Erunyauvë told Elenwë; then, for Celebrían’s sake, she added as an afterthought. “Glorfindel’s actual name is Laurefindil.”

“Was,” corrected Arafinwë. “He never used it after being re-housed. He said the name belonged to his first life and insisted on going by Glorfindel in the future.”

“You knew Uncle Laurë?” asked Elenwë in surprise. “How that? He never lived at the Ingaran’s court.”

“True, but we fought together in the War of Wrath,” answered the Noldóran. “Apparently, he had been re-housed and enhanced for the very purpose of becoming the aide and the standard bearer of Eönwë, who led the Host of Valinor.”

“Glorfindel is your uncle?” she asked Elenwë in disbelief. “He never mentioned having left any kin behind.”

“He did not; we are not related by blood,” explained Elenwë. “He was a close friend of my grandparents. They both perished during the Great Journey, and Uncle Laurë brought my mother to Valinor, to be raised at the Ingaran’s court. Nonetheless, he was like family to us, and we all loved him very much.”

“I see,” Celebrían was having a moment of revelation. “I always wondered why would a Vanya – and one as ancient, powerful and well-respected as he was – join the rebellion of the Noldor. Now I am beginning to understand.”

Elenwë nodded. “He came for my sake. He swore my grandparents that he would protect their descendants by any means necessary; and as I would not be parted from Turucáno, he saw it as his sacred duty to join us.”

“Why Glorfindel?” asked Celebrían. “Why not your own father? You were their only child, were you not?”

“Elenwë’s father was a respected member of the Ingaran’s court,” explained Arafinwë. “He, too, lost both his parents during the Great Journey and was raised by Ingwë himself. As he was older than Ingwë’s own sons, he was needed in Vanyamar. Even if he wanted to return to Endórë, which he did not, Ingwë would never allow it; and he would never rebel against his uncle.”

“His uncle?” repeated Celebrían in surprise. “Elrond never mentioned being related to the High King of the Elves in Aman.”

“He may not have known,” replied Arafinwë with a shrug. “Prince Óswinë[2] was the son of Ingwë’s only sister; few ever remembered the Ingaran having had a sister in the first place.”

“Atto was against me following Turucáno,” added Elenwë with a rueful smile, “but I was young, foolish and very much in love.”

“We all were,” commented Meril softly. “And our husbands, adventurous ellyn as they were, promised us that we would become Queens of our own realms.”

Elenwë nodded. “Of course! In Aman, we were the sons of this and the daughters of that, and had no hope of become anything else. We all wanted more. We wanted to carve out a life for ourselves; a life that would be our own, not something ready-made for us by our parents – or by the Powers themselves – with not choice to shape it after our personal fashion.”

“So you wanted to become a Queen, did you not?” Arafinwë’s eyes glittered in amusement.

Elenwë laughed, no longer seeming shy, not the slightest. “Of course I wanted; I might have been married and a mother, but I was still very young, and which little girl has never dreamed of becoming a Queen?”

“I have not,” said Celebrían truthfully. “I never wanted to rule anything else than my own household. Even if it only contained the immediate family.”

Arafinwë gave her an amused look. “Are you certain that you are truly Artanis’ daughter? She certainly wanted to have a kingdom of her own to rule.”

Celebrían shrugged. “To her disappointment, I never shared her lofty ambitions.”

“Well, I did,” admitted Elenwë, “and so did Merilindë and Írissë. But of the three of us, only Merilindë got to rule on her own.”

Meril actually snorted at that. “Oh, please! Hithlum was not even a proper realm; and after Atar Nolofinwë’s tragic death, Findecáno sent me with Ereinion to Círdan. I was his regent on Balar, and then the Dowager Queen, ‘til our son grew strong enough to bear the burden of kingship, nothing more.”

“So you were a Queen without a realm,” concluded Aracáno. Meril nodded. “Well, that is still a lot more than either Elenwë or I have achieved.”

“Not entirely,” corrected Meril. “Turucáno did build the kingdom he had promised his wife; and Gondolin was the last realm of the Exiles to fall.”

“Be grateful,” said Meril dryly. “At least you did not have to watch it being destroyed by dragons, Balrogs and all kinds of foul monsters.”

Meril shook her head. “Nay, Turucáno never told any of us where it was hidden, not even Atar Nolofinwë; and his people, who built it, were sworn to secrecy.”

“After that, he closed the gates behind himself and neither he nor his people ever left again,” Meril gave her sister-in-law a grim smile. “No-one has even heard of them again until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

“The Battle of Unnumbered Tears,” Erunyauvë translated for her. “It was the last, most disastrous battle in the Wars of Beleriand; and the only one the people of Gondolin fought in – and they fought well. Your husband led ten thousand warriors into that battle… it was, if naught else, a glorious sight.”

Elenwë gave her a doubtful look. “What would you know about it? I thought the Powers did not intervene – not until it was too late for us all.”

“Nay,” replied the Maia, pretending that she did not heard the accusation. “However we did observe, unclad and unseen. I was not there myself, as battles and war are not my concern, but I did watch the gathering of Elven hosts through the eyes of my warrior brethren of Lord Tulkas’ people. And I say you; the battalions of Gondolin were the most impressive of all. For they were numerous and marched in a well-ordered manner, advancing from the Pass of Sirion.”

“Then thousand warriors?” Aracáno echoed, clearly impressed. “Turucáno must have built a very strong realm indeed, if he could march to war with so many and still having left some at home to protect his city.”

“All eleven Houses were represented, and Turucáno himself led the army to relieve his brother, who had already been surrounded by Orcs,” said Erunyauvë. “The House of the Mole pressed forth at once, led by Maeglin, the Prince of Gondolin; sable was their harness, and they wore no emblem at all, but their round steel caps were covered with mole-skin, and they fought with heavy, two-headed battle axes that would make any Dwarf blanch with envy. The ruddy glow of the Sun shone upon their grim faces and gleamed about the polished surfaces of their armour like a living flame; and terrible they were in their wrath and determination to execute their vengeance upon the monsters of Morgoth.”

“Maeglin fought in the Nirnaeth?” this was new even for Arafinwë, it seemed. “No-one has ever spoken to us about that!”

“Nonetheless, he did, and magnificently so,” answered the Maia. “Remember, he was not a traitor from the beginning. At first, he was given great respect at Turucáno’s court for his knowledge in smithcraft and for his bravery; and for several yéni, he was also considered the haryon of the King. Until Idril would marry Tuor and Eärendil would be born. However, at the time of the Nirnaeth Tuor was not even born yet; thus Maeglin had no reason to be jealous of his position.”

Arafinwë nodded. “I understand. Now, you were saying that the other Houses also sent many warriors into that battle…”

“Indeed, and the People of the Swallow and the Heavenly Arch were the most numerous of them,” replied the Maia. “And as they were the best archers, they did much to break the lines of the Orcs surrounding Findecáno’s army.”

“The People of the Swallow were mostly Sindar from Nevrast, or so I heard from the elders of the Galadhrim,” said Celebrían. “A simple folk that wore white or dark blue or black as it was their wont from old; and an arrowhead adorned their shields and a fan of feathers they wore upon their helms. Their lord, Duilin, was said to be the fastest and most sure-footed of all; and the best bowman among them, seconded only by Beleg Cúthalion himself, who always hit his target.”

“True,” said Erunyauvë. “They of the Heavenly Arch, though, being a wealthy folk, were arrayed in a glory of colours, and their armour was set with jewels that flamed blindingly in the light of the Sun. Their shields were sky-blue, and the boss of every shield was a jewel built of seven different gems in all colours of the rainbow; and an opal of great size was set in their helms.”

Celebrían laughed. “Glorfindel liked to say that they apparently wanted to blind the enemy with their cavalcade of colours before they would slay them with their arrows.”

“There is that,” admitted Erunyauvë with a grin. “They were quite the peacocks, even the simplest warriors among them. And Egalmoth, their lord, had a magnificent blue mantle, upon which the stars were embroidered in crystal – and his sword was bent like a scimitar and its hilt encrusted in jewels.”

“Must have been uncomfortable to fight with,” the ever-practical Aracáno commented.

“Which is probably why he trusted his bow more,” answered the Maia with a grin. “At least he made it out of Gondolin during its Fall.”

“Only to be slain at the Havens of Sirion by the sons of Fëanor,” returned Meril.

“Well, yes, that is a different story for a different time,” said Erunyauvë. “In any case, he was not the only Lord of Gondolin who liked to dress up for battle. Why, Glorfindel himself bore a mantle so richly embroidered in threads of gold that it was diapered with celandine as a field in spring; and his armour was also damascened with gold. In fact, all his people bore a rayed sun in gold upon their shields.”

“The Valar be thank his fashion sense seem to have improved a fair bit due to his death,” said Celebrían dryly. “At least none of us had gone blind by the sight of his armour so far.”

Elenwë snickered at that. “Uncle Laurë did like his gold… lots of it. No wonder, though, seeing as he had been named after it. But was his friend Helcarë not in the battle? I find that hard to believe.”

“Helcar… who?” Celebrían shot the Maia a helpless look getting thoroughly confused by all those names, old and new, that said her night to nothing.

“Ecthelion of the Fountain,” he explained. “The greatest captain of Gondolin ever. It does make sense that he was left behind, though. With both the King and his haryon marching to battle, a strong and reliable warlord was needed to keep the city itself safe.”

“I remember Lord Helcarë from my Atar’s court,” continued Arafinwë thoughtfully. “How tall and proud he was, clad in silver and white always, with a single diamond embedded in a mithril circlet upon his brow. He played the flute most wondrously, and he was one of the few who insisted upon carrying a sword all the time, even in the safety of Aman. He must have been most displeased about being left behind.”

“So he was,” Erunyauvë agreed, “but many of his people were allowed to march with the host, led by Aranwë, his lieutenant. They went into battle to the music of flutes; and the swords they wielded were very long, bright and pale. They were followed by the host of the Harp, and this was a battalion of brave warriors, with tassels of silver and gold adorning their clothes, and upon their sable shields shone a harp of silver. Only Salgant, their lord, bore one of gold, but he chose to stay behind in the safety of the Hidden City.”

“Old Salgant was always something of a craven,” commented Aracáno mercilessly.

The Maia gave him a disapproving look. “He was old, child, one of the oldest in the entire host; old, and one who carried the pain of many losses. He had lost his wife during the Great Journey and never learned what happened to her. He returned to Endórë in the hope to find her again; and when his hope failed him, it broke him. He may not have the best reputation among the warriors, and probably rightly so; but he was not a bad person.”

“He was very good with elflings, for that he had no children of his own,” Arafinwë added with a nostalgic smile. “He always told us quaint tales when we were little, and played drolleries with us at times; we had much laughter of him, whenever he visited us in Tirion. Atar rolled his eyes at Salgant’s antics, but we children loved him dearly.”

“And so did our children, too,” reminded him Eärwen. “He was the one who started teaching Findaráto how to play the harp. I wonder why he followed Turucáno to Gondolin, instead of going to Nargothrond with our son. He was always closer to our branch of the family.”

“Perhaps he did not want to live in caves, like a Dwarf,” said Aracáno. “He preferred being comfortable, if memory serves me well. I wonder what has become of him in the end.”

“Believe me: you do not want to know,” said Erunyauvë grimly; then she deftly steered the conversation back to the original topic. “In any case, he remained in Gondolin, entrusting the leading of his people to his lieutenant. The other captains all went to war with their King: Penlod the Tall, who marshalled two Houses at once: the People of the Pillar and those of the Tower of Snow; Galdor, with the People of the Tree, and Rog of the Hammer of Wrath – the ones with the greatest, most inconsolable hatred for the Evil One and his servants.”

“Why?” asked Elenwë, fascinated by the description of all those people who would have become her subjects, had she survived the Grinding Ice.

“Many of them had been recruited from those Noldor who had been captured in the first battles and forced to toil in the iron mines of Melkor,” explained the Maia. “They were some of the best smiths and craftsmen among the Exiles, and after they had found the strength to escape slavery, they banded together in the House of the Hammer of Wrath. They fought with maces, formed like hammers, and their shields were heavy, for their arms were very strong. Their lord, Rog, albeit misshapen and scarred due to the torture he had suffered in the hands of the Balrogs, was said to have possessed the greatest strength of all the Noldor in exile.”

And thus she went on, continuing to describe the other Houses of Gondolin in great detail, and the Elves listened to her as if spellbound. Elenwë before all seemed to be most impressed. Her pale face gained some colour in her excitement, and her azure eyes were ablaze with blue fire, hearing about the greatness of the realm the Queen of which she had been supposed to become. Her earlier shyness was completely gone by now; she sat there, ramrod-straight on the earthen seat as if it were a throne, her golden tresses fluttering in the light breeze like the streamers upon the spears of royal knights, riding into battle. There could be no doubt that she would have been a worthy Queen of the most wondrous of all Elven realms of Beleriand.

Meril, too, seemed excited, though also anguished at the same time. For, with the exception of Elenwë and Aracáno, they were all familiar with the outcome of the Nirnaeth: that the proud march of the host of Gondolin had been in vain; that the Noldor had been betrayed and their power broken forever; that, despite the aid of his brother, Fingon had been slain, and with him his entire army, save a handful of survivors.

Some of those were still living in Imladris, having transferred their allegiances to Elrond, the last of Fingolfin’s House still alive in Middle-earth. Therefore Celebrían probably knew more about the Nirnaeth than all others present, save the Maia, of course.

And for that very reason, she felt that she could not listen to the tale of that terrible battle one more time. She had heard of it, in all its gory details, more often than she would like, when Glorfindel and the other survivors compared memories – for the historians of Elrond’s library, to write as faithful a chronicle as possible, or just for themselves, to remember past times and a glory that would never be again for the Elves of Middle-earth.

It was a glory that she, personally, did not miss. And after what had happened to her not so long ago, tales about murderous Orcs and other foul monsters slaughtering Elves were the last thing she wanted to hear.

Eärwen, being of a less martial disposition herself, seemed to feel her granddaughter’s discomfort – and to understand it. She rose gracefully and extended her hand to Celebrían.

“Come with me, daughter; let those interested in battle-tales talk about death and destruction as much as they want. You and I shall have a walk in the garden, and you can tell me all about Círdan and his people and the life of the Grey Havens. For I am desirous to learn more about the fate of my closest kin in Endórë; as, unlike my husband, I never had the chance to meet any of them.”

“That is a most sensible idea,” said Erunyauvë. “If Meril agrees, we can all meet for the midday meal again, before the two of you would leave for the mainland.”

Celebrían, though glad for the chance to escape the war tales, gave her granddam a saddened look.

“True; but we already have been away from Tirion for weeks,” replied Eärwen. “We spent some time in Lórien, getting to know these young ones again and helping them to re-gain their memories of Aman as it once was and telling them about the changes that have happened during their… erm… absence. The journey across the Bay was also longer than usual, as we had to avoid Alqualondë, not wanting to stir up memories ere they would be strong enough to face them. So yea, ‘tis time for us to return home.”

“But surely you have left someone to keep things running for you,” said Meril with a frown.

Eärwen nodded. “We did; and Amarië and Ingalaurë are more than capable of acting as co-regents when they have to. But after a while the people of Tirion tend to get restless if their King and Queen are not present among them. It must be a deep-rooted fear from the time when nine-tenth of their people up and left for Endórë, I deem. So we are trying not to upset them unnecessarily. Even after three whole Ages, there is still much healing to be done.”

“The burdens of kingship,” added her husband with an earnest face and an exaggerated sigh, but his eyes were twinkling. “Of course, you could come with us, dear, at least as far as Tavrobel. You can always stay in the House of the Hundred Chimneys; Lord Ailios would be glad to have you visiting. And a visit to the Tower of Tavrobel might be interesting for someone married to a lore-master. I am told it is the most inspiring place on Tol Eressëa, with all the Wise living and working there.”

“Nonsense,” said Arafinwë, who, in fact, was more interested in wisdom and lore than all his siblings, with the exception of Fëanor himself. “I simply never had the time. This royal business can be demanding, as you well know, and ‘tis easier to summon the Wise to the court than to visit them. But Celebrían can learn much about the past there; most of all about life and history of Tol Eressëa, as she seems to intend taking up residence here… at least temporarily.”

Celebrían felt a little overwhelmed by the suggestion. She had just found her place in Meril’s house and did not truly want to leave just yet, not even for the short trip to Tavrobel and back. On the other hand, she did want to spend more time in her grandparents’ company, moreover in Eärwen’s, to whom she had felt drawn from the moment they had met. Also, she understood that Elenwë and Aracáno might need the Maia’s help more than she did right now – so perhaps a short journey would not be so bad, after all.

Meril nodded. “Of course; it is your decision. I shall give you a proper escort, should you choose to go, worry not. I need to send word to Legolas and the others who survived the Fall of Gondolin anyway. They would want to know that their Queen has been returned to them. After all, they will be her responsibility, until Turucáno is released.”

Hearing that, Celebrían could well understand the sudden panic in Elenwë’s eyes.

Author’s notes: Not how I planned to continue the tale, but what can I do? Meril had her own ideas and was not about to be denied.

Galenbrethil and Findalor – or rather their names – have been borrowed from the “Coronar”-series by The Tired Scribe. They are quite different persons there (not even a married couple), but I liked them a lot and decided to pay them homage.

“That was not very nice of you, Merilindë,” said the Noldóran, after his Queen had left with Celebrían and Elenwë suddenly burst out in tears, declaring that she was no longer interested in war tales. She ran back into the house, sobbing, with Aracáno hot on her heels, protective instinct written into his face.

“Like what?” she asked defensively. “I did not tell her aught but the truth. Turucáno is dead and only Lord Námo could tell when he will be released; not that he would care to tell us. Like it or not, the survivors of Gondolin will look upon Elenwë as their Queen. That is what she is, after all, now that she is back.”

“She cannot take over responsibility for them, not yet,” said Arafinwë. “She has just been re-housed. She is not ready.”

“No-one ever asked if I was ready, when my husband got himself killed in the Nirnaeth, leaving me behind to raise our only surviving son and to care for all the widows and the orphans,” returned Meril, more than a little harshly.

“You had Círdan to support you,” pointed out Erunyauwë, but Meril shook her head.

“No; Ereinion had Círdan to support him; and I shall never deny that the Lord of the Falathrim cared for my son most admirably. He protected us and saw to it that we would not lack the necessities of life, and for that I shall be eternally grateful. But the concern for our people was mine, and mine alone. I might have been just the Dowager Queen, but people still came to me with their fears and needs and worries all the time. I had to organize the lives of the refugees, sit in Judgement where their quarrels were concerned… and comfort them in their grief, without allowing my own losses to overwhelm me.”

“Which is why you were chosen to lead those who came to the West after the Great Battle, broken and bereft and looking for a new life,” said the Maia.

“At least until my husband, or Elenwë’s, or any other King of Beleriand gets released from Mandos to take over for me,” returned Meril dryly.

“That is not what Fionwë told me,” replied the Noldóran. “He said that the people of Tol Eressëa had no need for a warrior-King. They needed a Queen of peace; and you, Merilindë, have been chosen for this difficult task.”

“That is true,” said Erunyauvë. “Lady Nienna told me long ago, ere the War of Wrath would end and the first refugees would arrive, that Merilindë was always meant to become Queen of Tol Eressëa… in all but crown and title. Lord Manwë had been warned by the One that those returning from the Outer Lands would need a different kind of government than either the Amanians or those still dwelling in Endórë had chosen. For they have become a mixed folk that owes no allegiance to this King or that Clan; only to those they would accept to lead them.”

“And just what would pre-destine me to fill that role?” asked Meril doubtfully.

“You are related to the Ingaran by blood and to the Noldóran by marriage,” reminded her the Maia, “and through your Ages-old friendship with Círdan, you are also allied to the Third Clan. But more importantly, you are the only Queen of Beleriand that not only survived the Wars but has lead her people with strength and wisdom ever since. Or is it not what you have done from the day on that you set foot on Tol Eressëa for the first time?”

“Perchance not by rank and title,” admitted Arafinwë, “but is it not what any sovereign is supposed to do?”

“I may have some influence,” Meril allowed, “but no true power; neither do I want it. The various settlements here govern themselves well enough. They do not need me – or anyone else – to tell them what to do. We have grown beyond the need of royalty.”

“Why, then, would you tease poor Elenwë so cruelly?” asked the Noldóran with a disapproving frown.

“She needs to grow up, too. The survivors of Gondolin will treat her as their Queen, for sure; if for no other reason than out of love and loyalty for Turucáno. But if she believes that she can start lording it over them, she is in for a rough awakening. The people might be nostalgic about Gondolin and its faded glory, but they are no fools. They know what is gone is gone; and they would not return to the old ways.

“What is the matter with you, Merilindë? I have not seen you so full of bitterness and resentment since your return from the Outer Lands. What can we do to help?”

“You can stop calling me Merilindë, for starters,” Meril replied sharply. “Merilindë is dead; she has been buried under the ruins of Beleriand, together with her dreams, and will never return. I am Meril-i-Turinqi, the Lady of Tol Eressëa, mistress of nought but my own household, and that is all I want.”

“Yet that is the very thing that is going to change, once Findecáno is released,” said Arafinwë, in a sudden bout of understanding. “That is what you dread most, is it not? That one day he will return and upset your life once again, turning it upside down and inside out, like he did when he dragged you to the Outer Lands with him.”

“He did not drag me anywhere,” corrected Meril coldly. “It was my choice; and I chose to go with him, just as Elenwë chose to go with Turucáno.”

“Not exactly like that, if I remember correctly,” said Arafinwë gently. “You fought his decision, tooth and nail, to the bitter end. And only when you saw that you could not change his mind – that he would go, with or without you, for he would not be parted from Maitimo – only then did you finally decide to go with him.”

“He was my husband; I could not give him up without a fight,” answered Meril.

“Then why do you dread his return so much?” asked the Maia. “Do you not want him back?”

“No,” admitted Meril bluntly. “I have built a life for myself here during these two Ages. It is a life I grew fond of and do not wish to give up. I am needed here; what I do here is important. I do not desire to leave all this behind and become the tame little wife of the great hero; or to take up a small, insignificant office at the Noldóran’s court. No offence intended,” she glanced at Arafinwë, who nodded in understanding.

“None taken. However, Findecáno might choose to live on Tol Eressëa with you. I cannot truly imagine him, once the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand, to become one of my courtiers. Nor would I ever demand it from him.”

“And what would he do here?” asked Meril. “Am I supposed to step down and hand him over all that I have built, all that I have worked for, so that he could play King here, albeit without a title? Nay; this here is my work, my achievement – not something I kept warm for him, so that he could make himself comfortable in a ready-made nest.”

“But he is your husband,” Arafinwë reminded her. “You are oath-bound ‘til the end of Arda… or beyond.”

“Are we?” she asked. “If I have learned one thing from having talked to all the Reborn who came to Tol Eressëa, then it is this: no-one returns from the death unchanged. They have all the old memories, yet ‘tis only their fëar that remember. Their hröar are all new; their flesh remembers nothing, for it was not there before.”

“Since our ancestors first opened their eyes to the light of the newborn stars at the dark waters of Cuiviénen,” answered Meril simply. “It is as Elenwë said: our hröar – unlike your fana – are not merely raiment for us. They are part of us; they grow with us, change with us and cannot be separated from us. We are our hröar, just as we are our fëar; and those who get re-embodied, become different persons, without the experiences that their old bodies had made.”

“Are you telling us that you no longer consider your bond to Findecáno valid, just because he died?” Arafinwë tried to understand, but he found it hard.

“The Edain have a line in their marriage vows that says: ‘til death do us part,” replied Meril with a mirthless smile. “It has a different meaning for them, of course, but I do find it fitting for us, Firstborn, as well. What I mean is that I no longer wish to renew my bond with a stranger that happens to carry my husband’s memories.”

“I would be careful before making such bold statements,” warned her Arafinwë. “I do not believe that the Valar would allow you to break your marriage vows and take a new husband, even if Findecáno decided to remain in Mandos infinitely, which is rather unlikely to happen.”

“I do not desire a new husband,” answered Meril, “or the old one, for that matter. All I want is to be left alone, to continue my life and my work here, as I have done for the last two Ages,” she rose. “Do forgive me; I need to make preparations for the midday meal to be served.”

She left, without waiting for their answer, and Noldóran and Maia exchanged worried looks.

“So did I,” confessed Erunyauvë. “So did Lady Nienna, to be honest. She hid her true feelings well, it seems.”

“Or ‘tis a new development, triggered by the releasing of Elenwë and Aracáno,” assumed the Noldóran. “She was not prepared for the return of close family, it seems. Perhaps she got used not to have anyone around her.”

Erunyauvë shook her head. “No; her bitterness over the close friendship between Findecáno and Maitimo has always been there, festering under the surface. Of course, Findecáno did not help things by choosing his otorno before his family way too frequently. We hoped, though, that after all this time she has come to terms with the past and would be ready for a new beginning.”

“Instead, she seems to have come to a different conclusion; and a fairly radical one,” Arafinwë gave the Maia a shrewd look. “I wonder if this would further delay Findecáno’s re-housing.”

Arafinwë shrugged. “You tell me. For my part, I suppose Lord Námo has been waiting for Merilindë to forgive her husband before springing him on her, but after what we have just heard, it seems he will have to wait for several more Ages before that happens.”

Erunyauvë nodded. “Most likely that was the plan, though I cannot know for certain. I assume, the releasing of Elenwë and Aracáno was the first step; that they were meant to prepare the way for Nolofinwë and his other children. With Merilindë unwilling to take her husband back, though… I honestly do not know what will happen.”

“Has anything like this ever happened?” asked the Noldóran. “Have spouses or parents ever refused to take their once loved ones back?”

“Once or twice, when the family did not take someone’s joining the Revolt kindly,” the Maia answered thoughtfully, “but never in a family that was in the public eye like the royal Clan. This could turn out badly. Very badly.”

“Well, let us hope that the Valar have contingency plans in place, then,” Arafinwë tried to speak lightly, but it sounded forced, even in his own ears.

He of all people knew all too well that not even the Valar were prepared for everything. And even if they were, they might not be allowed to intervene. Elves and Men alike had been granted the freedom of choice by Ilúvatar, and should those choices prove disastrously wrong, all the Valar could do was to adapt and deal with the consequences.

Of course, the fact that they had not always understood the motivations that led to such disastrous choices – as it seemed to be the case with Meril’s refusal to take Fingon back – did not help things. Arafinwë suppressed a sigh, coming to a decision of his own… one that he did not make lightly but felt necessary.

“Well,” he said. “I just had a change of heart. I shall not leave for the mainland today. I assume that spending a little more time with our granddaughter may be beneficial, for all parties involved.”

Had the situation not been so serious, the unabashed relief on the Maia’s face would have been almost comical, he found.

Arafinwë’s decision to postpone his departure was greeted with barely veiled relief by almost everyone… with the possible exception of Meril, who accepted it with flawless courtesy, though. Probably the happiest of all was Celebrían, as the delay allowed her to spend the greatest part of her days with Eärwen, walking in Meril’s garden or on the streets of Kortirion, talking.

Not that she could tell her much about Círdan and the Havens, of course, as she barely knew the Shipwright. But Eärwen showed great interest for Elmö’s descendants, who, after all, were also kin to her, and that gave Celebrían ample chance to speak about her father and his people; about her childhood in Eregion and Edhellond; about Lothlórien and its majestic mellyrn – and, first and foremost, about her married life and her home.

Eärwen listened to her in amazement. Born in Aman – or rather on Tol Eressëa, ere Olwë would finally move his people over the Bay of Eldamar, to Alqualondë – she had never seen the Outer Lands, and thus was understandably interested in learning as much about the places where her children have lived (and died!) as possible. It made her feel as if she could take part in their lives, and for that, she was grateful.

“I regret that I cannot tell you much about the realms of Beleriand,” said Celebrían apologetically. “I was born in the Second Age myself, when the glory of the great Elven kingdoms had long become history. The only ones in existence were the Woodland Realm of Oropher and Gil-galad’s kingdom in Lindon; and those could not be compared with the greatness of Nargothrond or Gondolin – or even Doriath, to stay closer to my father’s side of the family.”

“It matters not,” Eärwen smiled at her. “Tell me more about Imladris. It must be a most wondrous place if it prevailed over two Ages.”

“Oh, it is, for all that Elrond had originally built it as a fortress, back in the Second Age, after the fall of Eregion,” agreed Celebrían. “Thanks to its natural defences – it lies at the end of the deep gorge of a swift and vigorous river, well-hidden among the moorlands and foothills of the Hithaeglir – while it was besieged twice, its perimeter was never breached. Even those who know the way have a hard time to find the entrance, and its borders are well guarded. Nonetheless, ‘tis more a centre of knowledge and wisdom now than aught else. People call it the Last Homely House, for everyone of good will is welcome there: Sindar and Noldor, the Silvan folk and mortal Men… even the Naugrim.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Celebrían, “but Elrond considers his gifts as a healer and a lore-master to belong to all races of Middle-earth, not just to the Elven folk. After all, he has the blood of three races in his veins himself; and his healing gift is the heritage of Melian the Maia. He feels that he has no right to deny it anyone in need. Besides, we have been fostering the heirs of his brother Elros ever since the fall of the North-kingdom of Men; we have had other people living among us for a very long time.”

“It must be strange… but also most inspiring, to live with such a young race as Men,” said Eärwen thoughtfully. “I fear you may find life in Aman rather… dull in comparison. Do you have any plans for your future?”

They were walking the roofed market of Kortirion; it was Elenya, the day on which farmers, merchants and craftspeople would come from the outlying settlements and from the other towns to offer their wares. Celebrían stopped at the stall of a weaver to admire the displayed cloth. It was similar to the famous grey silk made in Lothlórien, though not quite so fine.

“I am not sure,” she admitted. “I know Daeradar probably expects me to go toTirion and take on some office at court, as I am, technically, a member of the royal Clan, but…”

“But you would be deeply unhappy there,” Eärwen finished for her. “We understand that, child, and we would never force you to do anything that goes against your nature. But you cannot stay in Meril’s house indefinitely. Sooner or later, you must go on with your life.”

“I know,” Celebrían sighed, “and frankly, I would prefer to find a house of my own and live from the work of my hands, like everyone else. I am skilled at weaving silk, and I am a good embroideress…”

“I fear that would not go, though,” said Eärwen gently. “I have no doubt that you could fend for yourself, and the Guilds would accept you, but… the truth is, everyone knows who you are; or they will know, sooner rather than later. You are expected to lead a life according to your birth.”

Celebrían nodded glumly. “I know, Daernana – but I do not have to like it, do I? One of the best things about life in Imladris was that I did not have to be the daughter of the Lady Galadriel all the time. Or the wife of Lord Elrond. I could be simply myself. I could be…”

They turned around and saw a slender elleth, judging by her thick, auburn hair one of the Silvan folk, leaving the herbalist’s stall a little further down the row and hurrying towards them. She wore the simple garb of the woodland folk: a long gown of fine, earth-brown wool with tight sleeves, and over that a sleeveless linen kirtle of deep forest green. A long apron, also of green linen, was bound before her, and her tightly braided and coiled hair, too, was held together by a piece of linen cloth. Her eyes, pale grey and framed with very long, very dark lashes, sparkled with joy.

“Galenbrethil!” cried out Celebrían gladly, forgetting all about her fear of being touched, and hugged the elleth warmly.

For a few moments, they completely forgot about Eärwen’s presence, laughing and crying and falling in each other’s word while talking excitedly in rapid-fire Sindarin, of which Eärwen only understood every third word or so. Finally, though, Celebrían remembered her manners and turned to her granddam.

“Daernana, this is Galenbrethil, originally from the south of Lothlórien. She used to be one of Elrond’s best healers, but Sailed when her husband was slain in battle against the Witch-king of Angmar. He was the captain of our Household Guard and led our warriors when the enemy besieged Imladris, about ten yéni ago. Tell me,” she turned back to the elleth, “has Findalor been released already?”

“Oh, yes, he went through Mandos in record time,” the healer grinned. “He was out within less than four yéni.”

“’Tis still a long time to wait,” said Celebrían, but Galenbrethil shook her head.

“’Tis nothing, compared with he millennia others had to wait for their loved ones,” and she gave Eärwen a significant look, clearly knowing who the Noldotári was.

“According to the Maiar serving in Lórien, Lord Námo had been happy to have him out of his Halls as soon as possible – he must have been at his most annoying.”

Celebrían laughed. “He could be like that, if memory serves me well. Elrond himself came close to throttling him a few times. Which, considering how patient he usually can be, is to say a lot.”

“I came close to throttling him sometimes, too,” admitted Galenbrethil. “But he has calmed down considerably since his re-housing. He is one of the councillors in Tavrobel now; and I am head of the Herbalists’ Guild. We are well content with our life.”

“I am glad that your new life agrees with you, as you had hesitated quite long before you Sailed,” said Celebrían. “You deserved a second chance; both of you did.”

“You should come and visit us,” suggested the healer. “I have missed talking shop with Elrond, and Findalor would be delighted to see him again, too.”

“I fear that would not be possible,” replied Celebrían slowly. “I Sailed alone. I had no other choice than to come – either by ship or by grave –, but Elrond still has much work to do in Middle-earth; duties that he could not abandon just yet.”

“I see,” she finally said. “If that is so, then perhaps you should visit us sooner or later. I doubt not that Lady Meril takes good care of you, but we are your people. Being with old friends may prove beneficial for you.”

“Perhaps I will,” answered Celebrían noncommittally. “My grandparents wanted me to accompany them on their way home, at least as far as Tavrobel. I was about to refuse, but… yes, perhaps I should accept their offer, after all.”

“You should,” said Galenbrethil empathically. “We have place enough and would take you in gladly during your visit; and we would love to hear about our home of old again. It has been a long time since anyone from your household came.”

Celebrían promised to consider it, and Galenbrethil quickly explained her how to find their home in Tavrobel. Then the Noldotári and the Lady of Imladris took their leave from the healer and headed back to Meril’s house.

“Is the ellon she is married to truly so irritating?” asked Eärwen when they were safely out of Galenbrethil’s earshot.

“He did have his moments,” she admitted. “But again, he was a warrior and a fairly young one: about my age, or not much older; the son of Noldorin Exiles, but of common stock. He followed Elrond to Imladris from Gil-galad’s court and saved his life in the Battle of Dagorlad; since then, however, he became somewhat obsessed with concern about my husband’s safety. To a certain extent, it was even justified; he was the Captain of the Household Guard, after all, and it was his duty to keep the Master of the House safe.”

“But Elrond never suffered it kindly if anyone tried to cage him,” continued Celebrían, smiling. “Not even for his own safety. He had once been a warrior, too, after all, and an able one at that.”

“I am surprised that Glorfindel did not tell this… what was his name again?” Eärwen trailed off, not quite remembering the foreign-sounding name.

“That he did not tell this Findalor to back off a little,” said Eärwen. “He was well-known for stomping down over-enthusiastic youths in his days of old.”

Celebrían shook her head. “It was not his place to tell Findalor what to do or what to leave alone.”

“He is,” nodded Celebrían, “but his responsibility is Imladris as a whole, and the safety of all those who dwell in our valley. Elrond’s safety has always been the concern of the Household Guard; ever since he laid down his sword to dedicate his life fully to the healing arts. Findalor took his responsibilities seriously. One cannot find fault in that; even if the way how he went after his duties could be irritating to the extreme at times. I wonder what he is like now, that he has supposedly calmed down.”

Eärwen smiled at her granddaughter knowingly. “I have the feeling that you already decided to come with us – or rather to Tavrobel.”

“I believe I will,” confessed Celebrían. “Lady Meril has been very kind to me, and Erunyauvë is a great deal of comfort, by her very presence alone, but… it would be good to meet old friends again. I never hoped to find someone I knew from before; not so early on, and was all but resigned to live among strangers for quite some time. And even though they showed me naught by kindness since my arrival…” she trailed off, suddenly uncertain, for she did not want to appear ungrateful.

“It must be very strange for you, I deem,” said Eärwen gently. “You left behind everything you knew and now that the first shock is over, you are beginning to feel the differences. Perhaps your friend, the lady herbalist, is right. Perhaps spending time with old friends would help you to build a bridge between past and future.”

“To tell the truth, I do not find life here so different from the one I was used to,” replied Celebrían thoughtfully. “Save for meeting people from ancient legends at every corner, that is. Other than that, though, I find nothing odd about the customs here – and now that I have re-found some old friends, I am beginning to feel at home.”

“And I am glad to hear that,” said Eärwen. “As much as we would love to have you living with us, we understand that you are a person of your own right, not a piece of our lost daughter that we have found again. We learned that lesson with Ingalaurë on the hard way,” she added dryly, making Celebrían wonder what might have happened between the royal couple and their only grandson. Whether Inglor’s decision to spend an extended time in Middle-earth, living in Gil-galad’s court had anything to do with that.

She found it better not to ask, though, at least not yet. Instead, she simply thanked her granddam for her understanding. Eärwen smiled wistfully, her eyes bright with suppressed tears.

“There is nothing to thank for, child,” she said. “We are happy to have you for yourself; and we hope that one day you will find it in your heart to come and visit us in Tirion.”

“One day, I will,” promised Celebrían, “but not just yet. I have barely begun to find my peace here, and healing is still a long way to go. I need more time. A lot more, I fear.”

Eärwen smiled through her tears. “Time matters very little to us, dear. We are Elves – we have the time. And waiting is something your anatar and I have become quite good at in the last two Ages.”

Author’s notes: Nornorë is a rejected canon character; a Maia, called the herald of the Gods (= Valar), presumably a forerunner of Eönwë. I made him one of Lord Námo’s Maiar because – well, because I needed one, and canon does not always gladly deliver what we need. ;)

Being Maiar, Erunyauvë and Nornorë are communicating telepathically when among themselves. Dialogue in *asterisks* is supposed to mean telepathic communication.

The name Minas Elenath means “Tower of the Stars” and was invented by Cirdan (the Silmfic writer, not the character). She has once allowed me to use it, so I hope she will not mind if I do so again.

Melian’s fate after returning to Aman has been established in my story “Garden of Dreams and Memories”, many years ago. It is not exactly canon, of course.

Celebrían’s decision to visit her old friends in Tavrobel was met with understanding by everyone. Well, almost everyone. Elenwë was very upset when she learned about it, for she had taken an instant liking to her great-granddaughter-in-law. She might have been close friends with Meril once, but the experiences of three entire Ages had changed her erstwhile friend so much that it frightened her.

“That is only a short journey, for a short time,” Celebrían tried to comfort her when she burst out in tears, learning about the travel plans. “I will come back, soon.”

“Promise?” asked Elenwë through tears, reminding Celebrían of Arwen, way back when her daughter had been less than a yén old and had to leave Imladris for Lothórien for the first time.

“I promise,” she said, taking Elenwë in her arms and rocking her like a small elfling. “Besides, we are not leaving right away. Daeradar wants to meet the Town Council of Kortirion to discuss new trade agreements with them, now that he is already here, so it will be a few more days ere we can leave.”

“Can we go and explore the town while you are still here?” asked Aracáno, who rarely left Elenwë’s side, eagerly. “The handmaids of Merilindë say the market will be going on for another two days. And I want to see Ingil’s Tower, too.”

Celebrían shrugged. “I am sure that will be possible. But I do not know the town well enough to be your guide, I fear. I have not been here all that long myself, and in all that time, I hardly ever left Meril’s house before Daernana would come.”

“Perhaps one of the house servants can come with us,” suggested Aracáno, impatient to get out and see things, and who could blame him for that? His only adventure had ended quite abruptly on the Grinding Ice, and he had spent the following three Ages in Mandos – not what his adventurous nature would have yearned for, even though he had not been aware of the passing of time in Mandos, of course.

Celebrían nodded. “We can always ask Nielthi, I assume. She is Meril’s chatelaine and thus she makes the duty roster of the servants; she would know when someone is available.”

The two Reborn found that a good idea, and – after Elenwë had dried her tears – the two of them went on to find Nielthi, unaware of the fact that they had been watched.

*Our Masters were right,* said Erunyauvë to Nornorë, her fellow Maia, who lingered in Meril’s garden, unclad and therefore invisible to everyone else. *Responsibility is good for Celebrían. She has made more progress in the recent days than during all the time since her arrival.*

*She is a mother, with all her heart,” replied Nornorë. *Caring for Elenwë and Aracáno will make her miss her own children less; and it will help them to adjust to Life again, before Anairë can take over. ‘Tis Merilindë who concerns me more. It seems she had not healed as well as we all thought. Our Masters might want to do something about her.*

*Do what?* asked Erunyauvë. *They cannot force her to heal; and even if they could, they are not allowed to do so. The Children were granted the freedom of choice the same way we were – she can do as she sees it fit. It is her life and her decision.*

Erunyauvë shook her head. *Are they truly? Elenwë was right in one thing: we cannot understand the profound changes death wrought upon those who were never meant to know death.*

*Perhaps,* allowed Erunyauvë. *But we cannot be certain about that, either. As far as I know, no-one ever bothered to instruct the Moriquendi about them; can we blame them if they have created customs of their own?*

*She was of Aman,* Erunyauvë corrected. *She has changed well beyond the ways of the Amanians, even without going through Mandos. I am no longer certain that we can expect her to follow the old ways.*

Nornorë thought about that long and hard – even though it did not take any actual time for him to do so.

*Our Masters must learn of this,* he then said. *I believe this is a development not even Lord Námo has foreseen.*

Nielthi, Meril’s chatelaine, was a tall, silver-haired Sinda, formerly of Doriath, wearing a gown in muted tones of grey and green that reminded one of the forests in a dense mist. Once she had been one of Melian’s handmaids, then the nursemaid of Elwing, whom she followed to the Havens of Sirion after the sack of Doriath. There she had been slain by the Fëanorians, but got released among the first Reborn, just before the War of Wrath, and sent to Tol Eressëa to prepare the isle for the returnees.

There were whispered rumours among the oldest Elves of Tol Eressëa, about a great, unrequited love that had once bound her to Círdan the Shipwright; and that she would still be waiting for him. Yet no-one could tell for certain if those rumours were true at all. One thing was certain, though: that she seemed content with her life in Meril’s house.

She listened to her lady’s quest with patient attention, as was his wont. Then she nodded and smiled.

“That will be easily done,” she said. “As it happens, I am just about to visit Minas Elenath myself, as Ingil’s Tower is known among us. I go there once a week, to exchange tidings with the Guardian of the Tower; you are welcome to join me.”

Celebrían and the two Reborn found that a good idea and followed Nielthi, who was carrying a large, leather-bound tome in a wicker basket, to the centre of the town. Like its counterpart in Aman, Tirion upon Túna, Kortirion was built on a terraced hill, albeit on a much lower one. However, it had no protective walls, just the forests of Alalmninórë holding it in their green embrace.

Crowning the flat summit of said hill, near the roofed market, a tall, white tower stood, shining out against the sky, built of some marble-like white stone and glimmering as of made of pearl and silver: tall and fair and shapely, and its pinnacle glittered like the scales of silver fish, for it was indeed roofed with pure silver. On its ground level, there were several grey-shuttered windows – although the shutters stood open at he moment – but its mid-section was smooth and unbroken; and the higher windows, right under the pinnacle, were unshuttered and looking into the direction of all four winds.

Surrounding the tower was a large square, paved with the same smooth, marble-like white stone, and on that square the people coming from the market mingled and chatted away. There was also a marble well, placed under a domed roof that was held by slender marble pillars shaped like young trees, their leaves and flowers so masterfully carved that even the veining of the underside of the leaves was clearly visible. A lonely ellon – by his looks one of the Teleri – sat on a stone bench within the well-house, playing his silver flute.

“Behold Minas Elenath, the Tower of the Stars,” said Nielthi, looking at the marvellous tower with almost proprietary pride, and the newcomers to Tol Eressëa had to admit that her pride was well-founded.

“It looks much like the Mindon Eldaliéva in Tirion!” exclaimed Aracáno in surprise.

Nielthi nodded. “It was also built as homage to the Mindon. As you know,” she glanced briefly of Celebrían who alone of the three could be expected to have any knowledge about such things, “after the War of Wrath, when Beleriand sank to the bottom of the Sea, many of us chose to leave Ennorath, exilic Noldor and Sindar alike. However, at that time Aman was closed to us. Only a few were allowed to go on to the mainland at once; Lady Meril was not one of them. Thus they sailed to Tol Eressëa, where they first established the haven of Avallónë. Many of them, though, grew restless there soon, and went further inland, to build another, greater city: Koromas, ‘the resting place of the exiled of Kôr’.”

“That is how it is called now,” Nielthi agreed. “For Prince Ingil, the haryon of the High King, raised this tower in memory of Tirion, which was lost for his granddaughter, the Lady Meril, so that she would not miss her home of old so much. After that, the town came to be called Kortirion indeed.”

Elenwë frowned. “Ingilmo raised a tower for her that matches the one of Ingwë in Tirion, and still she chose to build a modest house in a korin and live there? How strange. The Merilindë I used to know would never have done that.”

Nielthi shrugged. “She wanted to leave her old life behind and to begin anew. Thus Minas Elenath became the place where the palantír of Kortirion is kept.”

“The Seeing Stone,” replied Celebrían in Nielthi’s stead. “A crystal globes, wrought by Noldorin smiths of Eldamar, that can see far in time and space. There has been several of them, in fact; I always thought that the Mater Stone was kept in the Tower of Avallónë, though,” she added with a frown.

“It is,” confirmed Nielthi. “Ours is one of the Lesser Stones. There is one in each larger town, and they are mostly used for exchanging urgent messages… or simply to study the past, or far-away places we have no means to visit otherwise.”

“Can they… can they see as far as Middle-earth?” asked Celebrían shyly. The sudden hope to see her family again was almost too much to bear.

Nielthi shrugged. “To see perhaps; but they are not powerful enough to communicate across the Bent Sea. Not even the Master Stone can do that, I am told.”

With that, Nielthi went to the front door and knocked on it. The door opened almost immediately, and out peered a small, fragile-looking elleth, with snow white hair braided and coiled under a woven net on the nape of her neck and the grey-green eyes of the Teleri. She was also clad in old Telerin fashion: in muted blues and soft greys. Her skin, while generally smooth, had a somewhat dry quality, presumably from high age.

“Greetings, Mistress Vëannë,” said Nielthi with obvious respect. “Is Master Tinwë in residence?”

The little ancient one – she must have been the oldest female Elf Celebrían had ever seen – smiled at them with merrily twinkling eyes.

“Indeed, he is,” she replied in a high, almost child-like voice. “You will find him in his study, as usual. Go on, he has been looking forward to seeing the young ones.”

Elenwë and Aracáno were clearly surprised by that statement, but Celebrían just smiled knowingly. If the Guardian used the palantír regularly, it would long have become attuned to his will. Finding out who was coming to visit would be an easy task for him.

Nielthi obviously knew her way around inside the Tower of Ingil, for she went briskly forward, showing the others the way. Walking down a short hallway, they came to a large, circular chamber on the other end of it. The curved walls of the room were lined with shelves, interrupted only by four doors that most likely led to other chambers. The shelves were overflowing with dusty old scrolls, heavy, leather-bound tomes, strange artefacts, the purpose of which they could not even guess, and even the odd piece of rock, veined with rare metal ores. High-set windows over each door spilled sunlight into the study.

In the middle of the chamber a pillar of white stone rose, around which a winding staircase was built, presumably leading to the upper levels of the Tower. Next to the pillar stood an old-fashioned writing desk, artfully carved of dark, polished wood; one of the kind at which the scribes had to work standing. It seemed rather too low for a grown Elf to write on it, though, and soon they found out the reason for that.

Working at the desk was a strangely diminutive Elf, who seemed every bit as ancient as the housekeeper who had opened the front door for them.

He was clearly of Telerin origins, too, but seemed to prefer a more flamboyant style in clothing. His long gown of warm earth brown was richly embroidered with yellow and dark red at the hem, the high collar and along the wide sleeves, which were pinned back to his thin shoulders, so that they would not get in the way of his work, revealing the tight sleeves of a deep ochre undertunic.

His hair, not white like that of the housekeeper but iron grey, was unusually short for an Elf. It barely reached between his shoulder blades and was held together by a simple bronze clasp on the back of his head. Another sign of his extreme age was his short, neatly trimmed grey beard that gave him a somewhat rakish look, reminding Celebrían of the robust elders of the Edain, despite the obvious differences in looks and stature. His eyes were grey-green, like those of Mistress Vëannë, and every bit as merry.

Seeing the visitors enter, he laid his quill aside and stopped the inkwell carefully. Only when that was done did he step down from his desk to welcome them.

“Nielthi, my dear!” he exclaimed with obvious delight. “Come in, come in and bring your friends, too,” he clasped forearms with every single one of them enthusiastically, which was an amusing gesture from someone so obviously not a warrior; not to mention that it was no way to greet nobly born ellith. But the old one seemed not to make much of formalities.

“I am Tinwë Linto, the Guardian of Ingil’s Tower and the Keeper of the Stone,” he introduced himself. “Welcome to Minas Elenath.”

He had a lilting accent, similar to and yet somewhat different from what Celebrían had heard from Tol Eressëa’s resident Teleri so far. He ushered them to the other part of the room, where low armchairs stood around a small table, and called for Mistress Vëannë to bring them some herbal tea… and some hot apple tart, he added cheerfully.

While they were waiting, Nielthi handed the little master the book she had brought with her. It turned out to be a register of all inhabitants of Tol Eressëa.

“Lady Meril had her scribes list all the new arrivals; both from Endórë and from Lórien,” she explained. “We have included the reports from Avallónë, Tavrobel and the smaller towns as well.”

“Excellent, excellent; at least I shall not have to bother with such things and can save the time for more important studies,” the small scholar climbed onto a two-step wooden ladder standing in front of the shelves and shoved the heavy tome into an empty place, between similar volumes. Then he clapped his hands together, as if wanting to get rid of the dust, and returned to the visitors.

“So,” he said contentedly, looking at them with bright, bird-like eyes. “I see that Lord Námo finally saw fit to release some members of the royal family. It was about time, I would say myself, but…”

“… but we know that all times are soon for the Valar,” Nielthi finished for him, and they both laughed.

At that moment, Mistress Vëannë entered, serving fragrant herbal tea in cups that were made of some strange kind of pottery; they were thin like vellum, and through the floral pattern the beverage in the cups was clearly visible. Celebrían remembered her mother’s rarely shared tales about life in Aman; one of them mentioned pottery like this, but she could never imagine its existence… until now.

Aracáno, however, was more interested in Master Tinwë than the marvellous handiwork of Aman’s potters (which he had probably seen in his former life), or even the mouth-watering apple tarts the housekeeper was serving with the tea.

Master Tinwë laughed. “Child, I saw your grandsire board this very island to be towed to Aman by Lord Ulmo. And I watched you trudging towards your doom across the Ice through the Seeing Stone often enough to recognize you.”

“Truly?” Aracáno became excited about that. “Do you think I could watch myself crossing the Ice, too?”

“Nay, youngster. I am afraid that would not be possible. I have come to understand that certain events – or certain places – are shrouded from the sight of the Stone. And it appears that, for some reason, one’s own death is one of such events.”

Aracáno scowled unhappily. “Bother; I would like to see how far to the Outer Lands I actually got on the dratted Ice.”

Master Tinwë shook his head. “That is plain foolish, youngster, and if you thought about it reasonably, you would see your folly, too. Not the number of leagues you have managed to lay back on the Ice is what defines you. ‘Tis the fact that you did not hesitate to give up your life to save another one.”

“All the good that it did for her,” muttered Aracáno darkly. “I could not even save her. We both died, and in the end, my death was in vain.”

“Was it?” asked the diminutive scholar. “Are you saying that, given the chance again, you would watch her drown passively, without even moving a finger to save her?”

Aracáno scowled at him again. “Of course not; what kind of beast do you think I am?”

“Then the outcome of your deeds matters not,” concluded Master Tinwë with unmerciful logic. “Only the fact that you did hurry to her help, even though you must have known how little hope there was to succeed, does matter.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Aracáno reluctantly, still not willing to let go of his guilt and disappointment entirely.

“And what does it say about my death?” asked Elenwë quietly. She was clearly upset, all blood had left her pale face. “What have I achieved, save for dragging Aracáno into a watery grave with me?”

“Have you not saved the life of your daughter?” asked back the little master sharply. “Did you not throw her into Glorfindel’s arms, choosing to get her to safety, instead of clinging to your own life?”

“I only did what every mother would have done,” replied Elenwë with a shrug.

“Not so,” intervened Nielthi firmly. “You did what every good mother would do – there is a marked difference.”

“And as you chose to give up your life for your daughter, Idril could reach the Outer Lands, grow up, meet Tuor and give life to Eärendil, without whom Morgoth could not have been defeated, and Endórë would most likely still be groaning under his iron yoke,” added Celebrían; then she said with a smile. “And your sacrifice made it possible for my wonderful husband to be born, for which I shall be eternally grateful.”

“It is your doing, yours and Aracáno’s,” continued Master Tinwë solemnly. “You never got to see Endórë, yet your sacrifice was what ultimately saved it. The mighty kingdoms of the exiled Noldoli have all fallen; even the Girdle of Melian was broken after a while. But Idril Celebrindal escaped from the flames of Gondolin with her son, in whom the blood of all Children of Ilúvatar was mingled, and thus he brought salvation for Firstborn and Second-born alike.”

Elenwë nodded, recognizing and accepting the truth of his words, but Aracáno was not so easily convinced.

“I had not even lived before,” he muttered bitterly. “My brothers had their own kingdoms to rule and died as heroes, their names made unforgettable in lays and songs. My sister, at the very least, got to have a family – such as it was. But what did I have? What life can I look back at, trying to pick up again, now that I am finally back among the living?”

“That, young one, depends entirely on you,” answered the little master. “You have something the others have not: a clean slate, to begin this life anew, without any burdens from the past weighing you down. True, you did not have armies to command and kingdoms to rule; but you were also spared some of the horrible mistakes your siblings and cousins made. You can begin your life now – what you make of it, is your choice.”

“I wonder why Lord Námo would release me first – and why he would toss me out into Life alone, without my atar and my brothers,” murmured Aracáno sadly.

Aracáno grimaced. “Yea; and all I got was some cryptic nonsense about this being my time and things happening in my best interest.”

“But you do not believe it, not truly,” said Nielthi. It was not a question. Aracáno shrugged.

“Being bereft of my entire family would serve my best interests? I do not think so! I was not even allowed to see Ammë!”

Nielthi shook her head. Being a Reborn herself, and one who had been re-embodied two whole Ages ago, she understood the Valar and their reasoning better than anyone else on Tol Eressëa.

“Believe me who I once was where you are now that the Valar do nothing capriciously,” she said. “If Lord Námo thought you would be better off on your own, you must trust him that he knows what he is doing. I cannot tell you why you were released without the comfort of your atar and brothers’ company, but…”

“I believe I can,” said Celebrían, experiencing a sudden moment of clarity. She turned to Aracáno. “You were the last-born, right? Much younger than your siblings.”

“They have overshadowed you all your life – your first life – like powerful young trees overshadow a tiny sapling,” continued Celebrían, having had her own ample experience with being overshadowed by much more powerful family members. “With letting you out alone, the Valar have removed you from their shadow. You were given a chance to live your own life, instead of being their weak mirror image. This is your chance to grow – to become who you were always supposed to be, without them looming over you.”

“That may explain me,” said Aracáno doubtfully, “but what about Elenwë?”

Nielthi grinned. “She, too, is given the chance to become her own person, ere Turgon would storm in and take over all decisions as usual.”

“Was he truly such a tyrant as the King of Gondolin?” asked Elenwë in surprise. “That is not how I remember him. Granted, he could be stubborn at times, but he was never anything but gentle and understanding with me. He never made me feel how much younger and how inexperienced I was, compared with him.”

“Stubborn does not even begin to describe him,” Aracáno was now ginning like a loon, too. “He did have a good heart, I will give him that, and he was as shrewd and careful as he was valiant and adventurous – well, most of the times – but once he made up his mind, he brooked no argument from anyone. Sometimes even Atto despaired about him, for he always believed to know better what was best for other people than said people themselves.”

His slightly exasperated tone revealed that he had been one of those people the late King of Gondolin had been overprotective of.

“And yet he commanded great loyalty from his people, and they loved him dearly,” said Celebrían quietly. “Or so Glorfindel told me uncounted times. After death and rebirth, he still mourns the loss of his King… and yours,” she added, smiling at Elenwë. “It would comfort him greatly to know that you are back to Life.”

“Perhaps you should send him a letter,” suggested Nielthi. “You can leave it with the harbour master of Avallónë, and when a ship comes from Círdan, they can take it back to Mithlond. From there, it should not be too hard to get it to Glorfindel, should it?” she glanced questioningly at Celebrían, who nodded.

“There is a regular exchange of missives between Mithlond and Imladris,” she explained. “Lord Círdan can simply send your letter with the others, if you truly want to write it.”

“I think I will,” replied Elenwë with a wistful smile. “I do miss Uncle Laurë so much. He was like a second father to me. Master Tinwë,” he turned to the Guardian of the Tower, “do you believe that I may be able to see him in that Stone of yours? Or Gondolin?”

“’Tis hard to tell,” he said. “The Stone is capricious on a good day; I can never know what it is willing to show me. But when it comes to events not related to your death, we can certainly give it a try… if you feel ready to face whatever it chooses to show you.”

“Me, too,” insisted Aracáno, eager like a little elfling who had been promised a treat.

“Well why do we not climb to the upper chamber, then, and give it a try?” suggested Master Tinwë. “Nielthi, my dear, are you coming with us?”

“Nay,” she said, just a little sadly. “My home of old in the Outer Lands is gone, broken and buried beneath the waves of the Sundering Seas. True, the Stone could show it me as it once was, but I see no reason for tearing old wounds open again.”

“You never looked into the Stone?” asked Elenwë, suddenly unsure about herself.

“Not for a very long time,” answered Nielthi. “But you should go and look, child. You have just returned to Life, and there is much that you have missed. Seeing it with your own eyes will make you understand things better than any song, lay or record ever would. For those always make you see events through the eyes of the storyteller or the historian, which is always a biased perspective, one way or another. Go and learn about the past that you never had, so that you can make peace with it and begin your new life, unburdened by whatever happened.”

*A wise suggestion,* said Erunyauvë to her fellow Maia, who had just returned – still unclad and invisible – to Meril’s gardens.

*Yea, it is,* Nornorë agreed. *But Nielthi has always been wise, beyond the measure of the Eldar even. If only Melyanna had listened to her, after Elwë had been slain…*

*Doriath still would have fallen,* replied Erunyauvë soberly. *The Girdle alone would not have stopped Moringotto, had he come down from the North with all his might, after he had enslaved everyone else in Beleriand. Doriath did not have vast armies; and Melyanna was but one of us, weakened by having taken on a permanent incarnation. She would not have stood a chance.*

*Perhaps not,* allowed Nornorë. * Why did she took up residence in Mandos then, not so long after her return, refusing to shed her fana as she was expected to do? Why did she change allegiances? She used to serve Lord Irmo and Lady Yavanna before… well, before Elwë. Why Mandos? Is this what mortal Men call survivor’s guilt?*

Erunyauvë shook her head thoughtfully. This was something she had given a great deal of thought herself, and by now she believed to have figured it out.

*I do not think so. I believe she is simply waiting for Elwë’s return. That is why she has not abandoned her fana, after all; for the form she is still wearing was the one she had once shared with him; and she wants him to recognize her.*

*Would our Masters ever allow the two to be reunited, I wonder?* mused Nornorë. *Bonding with an Incarnate in the Outer Lands is one thing, but in Aman…*

*Had Ilúvatar objected their union, He would never have allowed them to bond in the first place,* Erunyauvë opined. *He would not demand from them to break that bond now, when its greater purpose has been fulfilled. I cannot imagine that. Not while they are still devoted to each other and want to renew their bond.”

*Yea, but do they still?* asked Nornorë. *Melyanna certainly does, but who can tell in what shape Elwë will emerge from Mandos when his time is right?*

*Merilindë’s reaction clearly shows that the consequences of certain rebirths are a great deal more complicated than we might have foreseen… or witnessed, so far,* agreed Erunyauvë. *Speaking of which: has any decision been made what we should do about Merilindë? Are we supposed to do anything at all?*

*None yet,* answered Nornorë. *For now, we are supposed to watch how things will unfold.*

*Then that is what we shall do,* said Erunyauvë, relieved that she was not required to interfere, not yet.

Frankly, she did not have the faintest idea what to do about Meril and her conflicted feelings towards her still dead husband.

Author’s notes: Tinwë Linto was an early, rejected name of Elu Thingol in the “Book of Lost Tales”. Vëannë’s name comes from the same source.

The nature of the palantíri is discussed in some length in the “Unfinished Tales”. The description in this chapter is based on that.

The brief description of Gondolin and its gates is based on what is written in the “Book of Lost Tales 2” and the “Unfinished Tales”, respectively.

Climbing the central staircase of Minas Elenath was a breakneck enterprise, even for Elves, who generally were not bothered by the same fear of heights than many mortal Men were. The stairs were steep and narrow, and the railing, made of silver filigree, was more for aesthetic reasons than to save anyone’s life, should they lose their balance. Master Tinwë nevertheless climbed before them with great vigour that no-one would have expected from someone so ancient and fragile as he seemed.

Celebrían, used to climb the rope ladders in Lothlórien – even though there had been mobile staircases, at least at the royal mallorn, to save her mother’s dignity – was not particularly bothered by this way. But she could see Elenwë becoming increasingly pale the higher they climbed, and even Aracáno seemed more than a little uncomfortable by the time they finally reached the upper chamber.

He laid his palm flat on the black metal door blocking their way. ‘Twas an elaborately-wrought door that showed neither a lock nor a doorknob, making Celebrían wonder how they were supposed to open it – unless by magic. The little master, not the least out of breath from their long climb, murmured something that sounded like Old Qenya in her ears – a language she did not understand but recognized by its sound, for Glorfindel had used it sometimes when discussing ancient lore with Elrond.

It must have been an opening spell, for the door split in the middle, and the wings swung inward noiselessly, allowing them entrance into a small, circular chamber. ‘Twas not even half the size of Master Tinwë’s study, as the Tower was broad enough on the ground level to give room for several chambers, smaller and larger ones alike, but narrowed gradually and considerably the closer one got to the pinnacle. This upper chamber was just large enough to give room to a round table and half a dozen people – at most – to stand around it.

The table was quite low, made of black marble, and it had a shallow depression in its centre, much like a large cup, about a foot in diameter. In this central depression a perfect sphere lay, appearing to be made of solid glass or crystal, deep black in hue.

“Stand on this side,” instructed them Master Tinwë, shepherding them to the western window of the chamber. “I need to re-set the Stone, so that it would look to the East, if you want to see that which is – or once was – in the Outer Lands.”

He deftly revolved the stone with a light touch, so that its permanent nether pole would be at the bottom, and righted its fixed east-looking face in the direction where it would be able to see at all. They were amazed how easily the Stone could be handed, for it seemed to be very heavy. And yet the tiny scholar barely needed to touch it; it rolled smoothly and with the barest of noise around in its central depression, aligning itself with ease.

“As I said, the Lesser Stones are not powerful enough to see beyond the Bent Sea on their own,” explained Master Tinwë. “Thus I need to connect ours with the Master Stone in Avallónë; and from there, my good friend Elentirmo will connect both Stones to the one kept in the White Tower of Elostirion.”

“But I was told that the Stone of Elostirion was turned permanently towards the West, so that our people can at least look at the Blessed Realm,” said Celebrían in surprise.

“That is true; it is – on its own. But the Master Stone can change the direction of its sight, and thus enable us to see events happening in Endórë; both past and present ones – if the Stone is willing.”

He came over to the western side of the Stone, touched its glossy black surface lightly and looked into it. At first the globe remained dark, black as jet, with the sunlight gleaming golden upon it. Then there came a faint glow and stir in the heart of it, and it held their eyes, so that they could not look away, even if they wanted. In a moment, all the inside seemed on fire; and the Stone appeared to be spinning, although only the lights within were revolving.

Then the spinning of lights stopped, and the heart of the Stone cleared up. Master Tinwë smiled, as if greeting someone. He spoke not, though, and that surprised Celebrían. Neither Elrond nor Mithrandir had ever mentioned that people could use the Stones for communicating via ósanwë, yet that was very obviously what the little guardian did with the warden of the Master Stone.

“It is done,” he announced. “We can look into the Outer Lands now. Well, who will be first?”

Elenwë raised her hand timidly. “I would like to try, if the others do not mind.”

Celebrían and Aracáno nodded in agreement, and thus Elenwë stepped closer to the table.

“Just touch the surface and focus on what you wish to see,” replied Master Tinwë. “The Stone will do the rest.”

Elenwë reached out, a little fearfully, and did as she was instructed. For a moment, the Stone remained unmoved; then it became illuminated, and images appeared in its depth, clearly visible for them all.

It showed them the shore of some lake, bathed in such a brilliant golden light that it nearly blinded them; a light the likes of which Celebrían had never seen before. From the shore, a golden-haired elleth was approaching. They all recognized Elenwë, wearing a gown of pale, gossamer-fine silk, and over that a sleeveless blue robe, richly embroidered with gold. Her hair was unbraided and fluttered in the light breeze.

Another shape appeared now, closer to them, strolling towards her leisurely. They could only see the back of a dark-haired ellon, clad in white. Nonetheless, Aracáno recognized him at once.

“Turucáno!” he exclaimed. “That is my brother! But if Elenwë is there, too, then it cannot be Gondolin.”

“No,” whispered Elenwë through tears. “This is Lórien, near Lady Estë’s lake. This is where Turucáno and I met for the first time. But why would the Stone show me this?”

“Perhaps because you needed it,” said Celebrían gently. “You needed to remember a happy moment ere you would take a look at darker things. Look, the image has already changed!”

Indeed it had, showing now a city of white stone, standing on a hill surrounded by great mountains of dizzying height. They seemed to approach it along a deep ravine from the southwest, looking down from an eagle’s perspective at seven masterfully wrought gates blocking the way of those who would come by foot or on horseback.

The first gate was a wide arch, framed by tall pillars, carved from the living rock and equipped with a great portcullis of crossed wooden bars, studded with iron nails. The second one was an archway cut into the stone wall that was built across the ravine. A white lamp hung above the actual door in the midst of the arch, its light gleaming upon the dark and polished surface of the stone door. Two stout towers rose on either side of the gate; and the grey-clad guards watching it were armed with long swords.

The third gate was a large, twofold door of bronze, richly adorned with bronze reliefs depicting scenes from ancient legends and strange signs that looked like some early version of the Angerthas runes. Three square, copper-roofed towers sat upon the wall above the lintel, their caps gleaming like living fire in the light of the red lamps arranged on the wall like torches.

The guards were all Sindar, by the looks of them, clad in copper-washed mail that seemed to glow like embers in a dying fire. They were armed with red-bladed battle axes, their faces grim and watchful.

The fourth gate was made of wrought iron and unlit, cut in a high, black wall and guarded by four iron towers. The image of a Great Eagle, also wrought in iron but seeming as if it were alive, was set between the two inner towers. The guards of the iron gate wore black mantles and carried long, black shields, and they wore beak-like iron visors before their faces, as if they were some kind of wingless eagles themselves.

The fifth gate was wrought in the likeness of the Moon, of silver and pearls, and was guarded by white-clad archers. Those wore silver mail and white-crested helmets and resembled of seagulls. Five great globes of marble adorned the white wall of the gate, which was also built of marble, and upon the middle globe the silver-and-green image of the White Tree stood, its flowers made of pearls.

The sixth gate looked similar, only made of yellow marble of gold. In the middle of the six globes sitting upon its wall rose, on top of a golden pyramid, the image of the Golden Tree, with clusters of topaz flowers hanging on golden chains from its branches. The gate itself had golden images of the rayed Sun upon its surface, and it was guarded by archers with long bows, whose mail was gilded, and from whose helmets tall golden plumes rose. They carried round shields, red like flames, also adorned by the rayed Sun, depicted in gold.

It seemed as if the inspection of the guards was going on at the Gate of Gold. A very tall, golden-haired Elf, wearing a wondrously crafted, gilded hauberk and wrist guards of damascened gold over his long robe of red brocade, which was richly embroidered with gold thread and slit to the hip, so that he would be able to ride unhindered, was riding along the rows of the archers slowly. He sat very straight upon his beautiful white horse, whose headstall flickered and flashed, as it was studded with gems, and its bridle was adorned with small golden bells.

Reaching the end of the row, the Elf-captain turned his horse around, and now they could see his face, which was bright-eyed and young and fearless and full of joy – a face they all knew.

“Uncle Laurë!” whispered Elenwë, reaching out to him, but touching only the surface of the Stone.

“Glorfindel!” Celebrían said in awe, at the same time. “That was Glorfindel and the People of the Golden Flower, at the height of Gondolin’s power, was it not? But should there not be a seventh gate in the Orfalch Echor, too?”

Master Tinwë shook his head. “Not at this time; for I believe that we saw Gondolin before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. It was only after the Fifth Battle of Beleriand that Maeglin wrought the Great Gate; the Gate of Steel.”

“I hoped to see Turucáno,” she said. “I wanted to see him in all his royal grandeur!”

They switched places, and now the Stone came alive again indeed, showing them a closer look at the Hidden City, with its wide streets that were paved with white stone, its fair houses and courts and flowering gardens, its slender towers of white marble and the squares where the water of illuminated fountains sprang into amazing heights, glittering in many colours, and birds of all kinds were nestling in the branches of beautiful, ancient trees.

The most stunning of all houses was the royal palace, though, with its high tower and many fountain courts, and the snow-white birds that were perched on the lip of the fountain basins, bathing or drinking. A long, wide marble staircase led to the front doors of the King’s house. The door was flanked by two trees, one of silver and one of gold, wrought, or so the tales said, by the King’s own hand, in the likeness of Telperion and Laurelin, the Two Trees of Valinor that were no more.

The King himself stood before his doors, robed in white and girdled with gold, with a coronet of garnets upon his brow and a great sword hanging on his side. His dark locks were braided with gold and white pearls, in the same now outdated manner as Aracáno’s, and there was a marked resemblance between the two of them.

He was accompanied by a golden-haired, blue-eyed, wondrously fair elleth standing on his left, also clad in white and gold, but, strangely enough, barefooted. On his other side stood a pale-faced, willowy ellon, clad in dark splendour, whose black hair was braided in a similar manner, and whose eyes were black. He, too, had a great sword of curious made hanging from his belt.

“Itarildë!” whispered Elenwë. “How she has grown! But who is the ellon in black? He seems noble enough, and yet sinister in some way.”

“That would be Maeglin, the only son of Írissë,” Aracáno guessed. “Though he does not look like her at all.”

“No; the lays tell us that he came after his father Eöl, and in more than just in his looks,” said Master Tinwë; then he gave them a stern look. “Now, my children, you have had your chance. Allow Celebrían a look, too; she has been most patient.”

Elenwë and Aracáno gave Celebrían apologetic looks and scurried to the side, letting her take up the best position before the Stone. She accepted graciously, wishing with all her heart to see her home: the valley of Imladris, the Last Homely House, but first and foremost her husband and children, as she remembered them, sitting in one of the parlours, talking and singing.

She tried to see her parents, then; the silver-trunked, golden-leaved mellyrn, the telain built among their branches. Caras Galadhon, encircled by its protective green wall – her parents, sitting in a swan-shaped boat, travelling down the river.

Upset and with tears of disappointment all but blinding her, she turned to the small guardian.

“I am not certain,” confessed the little master. “I told you that certain places and events remain shrouded from the sight of the Stone, did I not? What were you trying to see?”

“Just my home,” she replied, bewildered. “Imladris. And the golden wood of Lothlórien, where my parents dwell.”

“Hmmm,” Master Tinwë scratched his head. “I never managed to see those places myself, either. Something strange must be going on there. What if you simply tried to focus on your husband and parents, instead on their dwelling places? Perhaps that way you shall be more fortunate.”

Celebrían followed the advice, begging the Stone in her heart to show her family. This time the palantír proved more willing to do her bidding. To her surprise, it showed her Elrond and all their children, as well as her parents, participating in some kind of festival, somewhere in a forest. There were a great many other Elves, too, dancing and feasting; most of them seemed to belong to the Silvan folk.

It took her only a moment to remember the event. They had been invited by Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, to celebrate the fact that his only remaining son had reached his third millennium. It had been the most opulent feast Mirkwood had seen for a very long time – or would likely see any time soon. The Woodland Folk had learned early on to deal wisely with their resources, and so had their King.

For some reason, the Stone did not show Thranduil, or his son, or any of his subjects more closely: just Celebrían and her family, meeting her parents on a clearing near the halls of the Elvenking, as Thranduil was generally known in these days, being the only true King of the Firstborn still remaining in Middle-earth.

There was Celeborn, the Lord of the Trees, tall and silver-haired, looking impossibly young in his simple travelling clothes, save for the ancient wisdom in his eyes. There was Galadriel, proud and radiant, sitting in her side saddle like a Queen upon her throne, splendidly decked out in a rich attire of white and gold. They were accompanied by their personal guard of Noldorin archers, all clad in the same shadowy grey as their lord.

There were Elladan and Elrohir, the former wearing royal blue and the latter forest green, riding great white steeds that were every bit as identical as they were themselves, laughing and teasing. There was Arwen, riding her grey palfrey with a skill that matched her brothers’, her wealth of glossy black hair braided with strings of white pearls and wreathed around her head, covered with a silver net that was adorned with small white gems.

There was Erestor, way too sombre as always, keeping a concerned eye on Lindir, who had only eyes for the trees around them, ready to wander off at any moment, ignoring the possible dangers the darkened forest might be hiding. There was Glorfindel, this time wearing simple travelling garb, laughing at the twins’ antics.

Celebrían saw herself, too, merry and unconcerned and not yet burdened by events that would come. And at her side rode Elrond, clad in blue and dark grey, as always in the rare occasions when he would leave Imladris at all, his fine black tresses already beginning to escape the confinement of his braids. This was a matter of many jokes in the valley, with Glorfindel stating that Elrond’s hair had a will of its own – a will that would not be conquered, not even by Celebrían’s skills of making tight and lasting braids.

While everyone admired the gossamer-fine texture of Elrond’s famous hair – them being Elves and therefore very taken by such rare features – the Master of Imladris simply considered it a nuisance and gladly allowed his wife to deal with the rebellious tresses. And Celebrían, now remembering how that wondrous, silky mass had felt in her hand, suddenly burst out in tears that spilled over the surface of the Stone, thus obscuring any images it might have been willing to show them yet.

Elenwë was at her side at once, enveloping her in an embrace that was comforting and surprisingly motherly at the same time, murmuring encouragements in Quenya – long, gentle and liquid words she had never heard from her own mother. For that was what Elenwë had always been, even though as a young elleth she might have had loftier dreams: a mother. Not a Queen of her own realm, not the Warrior Princess of the Noldor (which would have been moot anyway, seeing that she was a Vanya to begin with); just a mother.

“Do not try to force it back,” she murmured. “Let the grief wash over you and cleanse you; for not all tears are evil.”

She sounded more mature than ever since her arrival to Kortirion, and Celebrían reminded herself that while Elenwë might be younger in relative age and experience, she had been born in the time of the Trees, whose light was still reflected in her eyes. And she was a mother, too, with no real hope to ever see her only child before the Remaking of Arda… perhaps not even after that.

In that aspect, Celebrían was more fortunate – or so she hoped, as Elladan’s possible Choice still worried her. But that was not something she could have influenced, even if she had stayed in Middle-earth, so there was no use to agonize about it just yet.

Finally, after quite some time – during which Master Tinwë was waiting patiently and Aracáno kept giving them worried looks – Celebrían’s tears ran dry. The small master covered the Stone with a cloth of white silk, and they began their slow and careful descent from the upper chamber to the study.

“We are still getting used to having a hröa again,” Aracáno jested. “It would be most embarrassing to find us in Mandos again, after such a short time, because of simple clumsiness. Lord Námo would not approve.”

Even Celebrían had to laugh at that, even though her laughter was a little shaky.

Nielthi looked at them askance as they reached the bottom of the winding staircase.

“Not truly,” she said. “I did see my family, for which I am grateful, but for some reason I could not see either my own home or that of my parents. Master Tinwë says they are… veiled?”

She looked at the diminutive scholar for confirmation. Master Tinwë shook his head.

“Shrouded,” he corrected. “There must be a power dwelling in both places that interacts with the Stone, hiding them from its sight. Whoever wields it, they clearly can influence the Unseen in a manner I have not encountered before.”

Celebrían nodded, albeit a little unsure of herself. “I believe I do; and so would you, Master Tinwë, if you thought about it.”

Celebrían smiled. “I am quite sure that you would. You are some kind of historian, due to your work as the Keeper of the Stone, are you not?”

“That I am,” agreed Master Tinwë with visible pride. “But how would that help me in understanding this problem?”

“As an historian, you certainly know what was the ultimate cause of the fall of Eregion and Celebrimbor’s death,” said Celebrían.

The little scholar frowned. “Celeb…who? Oh, you mean Tyelperinquar! Yes, of course I know what led to his fall: he was every bit as enamoured in his own creations as his grandsire, and threw all caution out of the window, just to make even greater things…”

“The Rings of Power,” he said tonelessly. ”They are kept in Imladris and Lothlórien, are they not? ‘Tis their power what keeps those places shrouded, even from the Seeing Stones.”

Celebrían nodded. “That is right. Elrond inherited the one in his keeping from Gil-galad; and my mother got hers from Celebrimbor himself. No-one but the closest family has ever known about this back in Middle-earth, for ‘tis dangerous knowledge, even with he One Ring still lost. Sauron would do everything in his power to get his hands on the Three; the only ones in whose making he had no part.”

“What about the third one?” asked Master Tinwë. “Do you know who its keeper is?”

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Aracáno. “Who is supposed to tell Sauron in the Blessed Lands? Or do you not trust us?”

“’Tis not about trust,” answered Celebrían calmly. “’Tis simply not my secret to share. I would not know about it myself, had my living so close to the other two all my life not made me sensitive for the presence of such powers. I was never actually told, you see. I simply knew. And I can still be mistaken.”

“Did you never ask either Artanis or your husband?” Aracáno seemed surprised by that.

Celebrían shook her head. “As I said, ‘tis dangerous knowledge in Middle-earth. The less I knew for certain, the safer it was for me.”

“There is wisdom in your words, Lady Celebrían,” agreed Master Tinwë. “Hard-won wisdom; if that, I am certain. Perhaps you could visit me again, at a time of your convenience, to help me interpret what I see in the Stone? I have more than enough helpers when it comes to the events of the First Age, with all those surviving and reborn Gondolindrim living on the island, but my knowledge about the Second Age, and even more so about the Third Age, is sporadic at best.”

“I would like to help you with that,” replied Celebrían, realizing with some surprise that it was so indeed. The achievements of the later Ages deserved to be remembered, too, she found.

“Excellent! I have been planning to write a detailed history of the Second and Third Ages for quite some time, but the ones who recently Sailed could only tell me small, insignificant details. With somebody who is familiar with the bigger picture, I can finally begin to work in earnest. Now, why do we not have Mistress Vëannë re-heat those apple tarts and have some more tea? I am certain that you can all use a little refreshment, after having faced the Stone. It can be a harrowing experience for one who does it for the first time.”

“So, what was your visit with Master Tinwë like?” asked Erunyauvë later on.

They were sitting at the dinner table in Meril’s house, together with the King and the Queen of the Amanian Noldor, who were listening with interest.

“Interesting,” replied Celebrían diplomatically, “and most educational.”

“We got to see Gondolin!” Aracáno was positively beaming. “Well, part of it anyway, but it looked amazing. And Turucáno was most venerable as a King. I only wish I could speak with people who actually lived there. They must have the most wondrous tales to tell.”

She seemed the most subdued of them all; the experience had obviously shaken her to the bone.

“Glorfindel certainly entertained us with both kinds of stories often enough,” Celebrían agreed. “But as I see it, the wonders far outweighed the terrors. Even for him, who died in a horrible way. He always remembered Gondolin – and his King – with great fondness.”

“I wish I could meet anyone who lived in Gondolin,” Aracáno, clearly enchanted by what little he had seen from his brother’s kingdom, was not so easily distracted from his chosen path.

“For that, you would have to go to Tavrobel,” said Meril. “For some reason, most Gondolindrim chose to settle there, or, in the case of Legolas and his people, in the nearby forests – save those who moved on to Aman, and those were very few in numbers.”

“Can I go, Uncle Arfin?” Aracáno turned to the Noldóran with a hopeful expression. “Can I go with you to Tavrobel? I would so like to meet Turucáno’s people!”

“I am not sure it would be the best for you,” replied Arafinwë with a questioning look in Erunyauvë’s direction. “Would it not be too early?”

The Maia shrugged. “It is his decision. I am his caregiver, not his jailor; besides, he must begin to take his own choices, eventually, and this is as good a time as any.”

Arafinwë seemed to have his doubts about the whole affair but chose not to argue with the Maia – not yet anyway.

“What about you?” he asked Elenwë. “Do you wish to come with us as well?”

Elenwë shook her head. “No; I do not feel like meeting any more strangers yet. Not even if they were oath-sworn to my husband. I think I shall remain here with Merilindë.”

“Of course. Forgive me; it will take some getting used to. Life has gone on while I was dead, and catching up with all the changes proves harder than I thought it would.”

“Is it not always so?” asked Meril wryly. “’Tis a good thing that we can afford to take our time.”

“True; but even we have to get things done, eventually,” said Eärwen, giving her royal husband a pointed look. “Do you have a schedule to move on homewards? We are overdue already and cannot afford to linger here much longer.”

“It depends on how long Celebrían and Aracáno need to get ready to leave,” answered the Noldóran. “We can set off whenever they are.”

Celebrían shrugged. “As I no longer have the concern to pack for my entire household, I can leave tomorrow morning if necessary.”

“Ellyn!” she muttered. “They have no idea what it takes to organize the supplies for an entire group to travel. Tomorrow morning is doable, though.”

Eärwen and Celebrían agreed with that, and thus it was decided that the Noldóran’s party would leave Kortirion in the early hours of the following day.

Author’s notes: Eärwen’s family background is partially my doing, especially her brother and her being born on Tol Eressëa.

Ciryatan is, of course, Círdan, whom Eärwen only knows from hearsay. The Oarni and the Falmaríni are lesser spirits of the ocean in Ossë’s service. The Oaritsi and the Wingildi are apparently mermaids of some sort.

Even with Celebrían and Aracáno joining them, it was a small party that accompanied the Noldóran and his Queen when they left the korin of Meril’s house in the next morning. Small yet a delight to look at, with all the wondrous horses that could count back their ancestors to Lord Oromë’s steeds, ridden by Arafinwë, Eärwen and their company, all decked out in royal splendour. Even the chain mail of their guards was washed with gold, and one of them rode a few paces before the rest of the party, bearing the Noldóran’s standard with his personal device of a winged Sun upon a white background, the eight straight fire-rays of which, radiating from a pale blue disk, touched the rim of the shield.

Arafinwë wore a knee-length, midnight blue brocade tunic with wide sleeves and with breeches and shirt of pale blue underneath. Along the hem, neck and cuffs was an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves embroidered in gold thread. A circlet of gold with a single blue sapphire sat in the middle of his brow.

Eärwen wore no diadem or coronet, but her silver hair was bound in a glittering net of pearls and blue opals. She wore a gown of silver mist shot with azure, and over that a sleeveless robe in turquoise, embroidered with silver thread in a wavy pattern. She used a side saddle, as an allowance to her rank, the silky skirt of her gown flowing down the side of her horse like a waterfall.

Celebrían was riding her beautiful white palfrey, Roheryn, the gift from her grandsire, and she, too, had been asked to use a side saddle. At least she was allowed to wear sensible travelling clothes instead of some pretty yet impractical gown, and for that she was thankful. She told it her granddam frankly, and Eärwen laughed.

“Oh, believe me, I would prefer to ride in male fashion, too,” the Noldotári confessed. “Unfortunately, there are certain things that are simply expected from us because of who we are – and ‘tis not something we can change, no matter how much we would like.”

Celebrían sighed. “Life in Imladris was so much easier,” she said mournfully. “We never stood on ceremony – Elrond hated it as much as I do.”

“I cannot blame you for that, either of you,” Arafinwë gave her a sympathetic look over his shoulder. “I fear, though, ‘tis a luxury you no longer can afford. You will probably be treated with more reverence in Aman than you ever were in Endórë.”

“Why?” Aracáno, riding on the right of his uncle and clad in a similar fashion, only in silver and royal blue, as those were the colours of his father’s House, asked in confusion. “Because she is your granddaughter? Aman always had Kings and Queens and Princes and Princesses aplenty; I am sure it still does.”

“True,” said Arafinwë with a wry grin,” but neither of them is married to the son of Eärendil.”

“And that makes her more special than the rest of us?” Aracáno was still not quite getting it. Perhaps he was even a little jealous, although he was hiding it well.

The Noldóran glanced at his granddaughter in compassion. In the short time since they had known each other, he had come to understand just how different she was from her mother.

“You cannot even begin to understand how special that makes her,” he told his nephew. “One day you will.”

“In the eyes of the Amanians perhaps,” said Celebrían coldly. “Not in mine – or in Elrond’s. Eärendil may have been my husband’s sire; a father he never was. Not even before he would set off to save the world.”

“Now, that is a bit harsh is it not?” replied Arafinwë, mildly shocked. “Without him, all of Endórë would be Morgoth’s realm now, and probably not even Aman would be safe.”

“Maybe so,” allowed Celebrían with a shrug. “I do not question his unique role in the great order of things. I know he saved us all, slew a dragon and brought what was left of the Light of the Trees to safety. But I also know how often my beloved would spend half the night on the one or other balcony, watching the flight of Vingilot across the sky, yearning for the father that he never had. Wondering if that hallowed jewel was truly so important that his mother needed to leave him and his brother behind, to the questionable mercy of the Kinslayers.”

Arafinwë cast a look at his Queen, whose face became hard and bleak at once. Often had they argued about this very same question, and always had Eärwen’s answer been a clear and resolute no. She was not a Noldo and did not share what she called their unhealthy obsession with magic baubles. In her eyes nothing could excuse what Elwing had done, and – unlike her father – she denied any kinship with her.

The Noldóran had the uncomfortable feeling that his beloved wife had just found a staunch supporter in their granddaughter. To be perfectly honest, he dreaded the future consequences of such an alliance.

“Perhaps one day you can get the chance to ask Elwing yourself,” he said tentatively, trying to smooth the waves in advance.

“I hope not,” answered Celebrían. “That would not be a pleasant conversation; and the last thing I need is to make an enemy of someone who is clearly so important for the Amanians. For good or worse, I have to live out the rest of my life here. I would rather do it in peace.”

Her answer successfully killed the conversation, and for quite some time they rode on in silence. They ate their midday meal in one of the roadside inns, where they were given a private parlour, as Meril had sent word to announce their arrival.

The Noldóran and his Queen got recognized by many of the patrons – most of them Noldor, by their looks, likely former Exiles or their children or grandchildren – and people gave them their obeisance. Tol Eressëa might have been more or less independent from the rest of the Undying Lands, but royalty was royalty, no matter in which shape their presence graced the place. ‘Twas better to be polite.

Celebrían, to her utmost relief, was ignored for the time being, presumably mistaken for one of Eärwen’s ladies-in-waiting. It surprised her, though, that no-one seemed to recognize Aracáno.

“Why should they?” commented the young prince with a self-deprecating grimace. “Most people here were born in Beleriand, probably after I died. And even before, hardly anyone seemed to notice me. I was always the youngest, the last important of us. Findecáno was valiant, and he was Atar’s heir, Turucáno was the wise one, Írisse was an elleth and beautiful anyway, but me… I was just an afterthought.”

“For which you should be grateful ‘til the Remaking of Arda,” said Arafinwë wistfully. “I never realized what a happy life I used to have as the youngest, least important son – until my brothers were gone and I had to clean up the mess they left behind.”

There was a bitter edge in his voice, and Aracáno gave him an uncomfortable glance.

“Angry does not even begin to describe my feelings,” replied the Noldóran dryly. “You cannot imagine the mess I found when I finally came to my senses and turned back. Nine-tenth of our people were gone, to the greater part ellyn, and I was left with the grieving, the broken, the panicking and the furious, mostly ellith who had no idea how to go on with their lives.”

“It must have been a terrible shock for those left behind,” said Celebrían, her heart going out to those poor ellith, and her grandsire nodded grimly.

“Our society almost broke apart,” he said. “Farmlands and workshops were abandoned, without farmers or craftspeople to work them. All of a sudden, wives and sisters and mothers had to take over the work of their husbands, brothers or sons – work many of them had never done before. Younger brothers or barely-of-age sons had to take over the leading of what was left from their families, and let me tell you, we were not prepared for that.”

“Not even you?” Aracáno stared at his uncle in shock. He had a hard time to imagine that, having looked up to Arafinwë from his early yéni on.

“Me? I was the least prepared. Our Atar never saw it necessary to train any of us, younger siblings, in the duties of leadership. Quite frankly, sometimes I even wonder if he cared for any of us, save Fëanáro. The only thing he ever expected from me was to act as a trouble-shooter between my older brothers, and we both know how much good that did, for any parties involved.”

“You should not blame yourself, dear,” Eärwen intervened, seeing that her husband was getting seriously upset about the whole thing even now, two Ages later. “It was truly not your fault that Morgoth sowed enmity between your brothers; or that Fëanáro was arrogant enough to listen to him.”

“No,” agreed the Noldóran with a sour grin. “I just had to deal with the aftermath.”

“And you dealt with it well enough,” pointed out Celebrían. “You rebuilt the realm of the Noldor in Aman, and even brought your warriors back to Middle-earth, to help defeat Morgoth for good. Elrond saw you in battle – he says you were terrible in your wrath.”

Arafinwë shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I had to work out my anger on someone. But the truth is, I can call myself fortunate that Olwë had been wiser than my Atar and saw that all his children were taught and trained to rule his people, if necessary,” he gave his Queen a fond smile. “Without Eärwen, I would have been hopelessly lost. For quite some time, she practically ruled Tirion from behind the throne, while I was trying to wrap my mind around my new duties and all that had happened.”

Eärwen smiled and reached over to pat his arm encouragingly. “You did well enough, once you stopped panicking, my dear. Now, can we stop this unpleasant topic and eat our meal ere it grows cold? ‘Twould be a shame; moreso as I happen to know hat this particular inn has exquisite cuisine; not to mention a cook truly devoted to his art.”

The others agreed, and thus they ate the simple yet excellent meal and rested a little before they would continue their journey. Arafinwë intended to spend the night in another inn at two-third of their way, as their party was too small for camping out, and to reach Tavrobel somewhen around noon on the next day.

“You have only seen Lord Gilfanon’s house and the forests beyond it, I am told,” he said to Celebrían. “Which means, you cannot truly make a picture about how large the town actually is. We shall ride around the encircling forests on the eastern side and enter it from the harbour; it will be a most impressive sight.”

“I did not find the harbour of Tavrobel very impressive,” said Aracáno with a frown.

“That is because we moored outside the main port upon our arrival,” explained Eärwen. “We were afraid that the sight would bring back memories of Alqualondë; memories that would be painful for Elenwë and you.”

Eärwen sighed. “Because we are late, and if my brother cannot see with his own eyes that we are both safe and hale, he might feel inclined to ride over to Kortirion and take the town apart with his bare hands, stone by stone, in search for us.”

“’Tis unlikely that you would have met him, or indeed even heard of him,” said Eärwen. “You were too young, back before you left, and Elulindo rarely came to any of our cities. He always preferred the Sea.”

“Oh!” Aracáno’s eyes brightened in recognition. “I do remember now. I heard Anatar’s courtiers in Tirion talk about him. They called him the Lady Uinen’s champion… though I do not think they meant it in a nice way,” he added, a little confused.

“He certainly spent more time with the Lady of the Sea than with his own family, much to our Atar’s chagrin,” replied Eärwen dryly. “But you must understand that he is much older than I and has seen different things than any of us were granted to see. He was born during the Great Journey, when our people were dwelling at the Mouths of Sirion, and grew up playing at the feet of Lord Ulmo and his vassals. He learned to swim ere he would learn to walk; we, younger siblings, always teased him that he was part fish.”

“And he never wedded?” inquired Celebrían in surprise, for even the heir of an Elven king was supposed to continue the bloodline.

“One cannot spend one’s whole life in the company of Valar, Maiar and lesser spirits and remain unchanged,” she replied. “Like Ciryatan in his time, my brother became spoiled for any other company; and which one of us, mere ellith, can compare herself with the Lady of the Seas?”

“Your family tends to cast their eyes high,” commented Aracáno; it was a mere statement, without sounding judgemental, and Eärwen nodded.

“Some of us do indeed. Yet, unlike Melian, the Lady Uinen would be beyond any ellon’s reach, even if she were not espoused. My brother was wise enough to understand that and spare himself much grief and heartbreak. He is content to serve his Lady as any knight from those Mannish lays do; only that he rides a ship, not a horse on his adventures. But his heart remained closed, untouched by any love as the rest of us would understand it.”

“How sad that he would have to remain alone, till the end of Arda and beyond, because of his devotion,” whispered Celebrían, but Eärwen looked at her in honest surprise.

“Alone?” she echoed, shaking her head. “Nay, he is not alone, far from it! He keeps company with the Oarni and the Falmaríni, the spirits of the surf and the foam of ocean, dancing in the spray with the Oaritsi and the long-tressed Wingildi, visiting them in their underwater caves. He sees wonders none of us can even dream of and rides the waves when no other ship would dare to leave the harbour. He goes on journeys with Lord Ossë, amazing and frightening journeys as if from the oldest tales, and he is happy on his wild adventures… which is great comfort for us, as we miss him very much when he is away for yéni in one turn.”

“He had returned to Alqualondë shortly before we would come here,” explained Eärwen. “He offered to sail with us to Tol Eressëa, as he has some old friends here who never moved on to Aman and have dwelt on the Falassë Númea since the Great Journey.”

“And he does not trust you to be able to take care of yourselves, despite all the guards and the fact that Uncle Arfin fought in the War of Wrath?” Aracáno laughed.

“Elder brothers tend to be over-protective,” answered Eärwen with a shrug and a smile. “You should know that better than anyone else; you once had two of the worst sort yourself.”

As Arafinwë had planned, they spent the night in another inn and set off for the last leg of their journey with the first light of the next day. They rode slowly yet steadily, with short breaks, and reached the outskirts of the forests around Tavrobel by noontime, without meeting anyone on the road.

There they turned to the west, following a minor road, rode around the woods, down to the shore, and approached the town from the bay. The sight that opened up before their eyes was, as the Noldóran had promised, impressive. Celebrían, who had indeed never come further that the House of the Hundred Chimneys, which lay several miles eastwards from the town itself, stared at the three-tiered settlement in open-mouthed awe,

The calm waters glittered deep blue in the Bay of Tavrobel, north of the Falassë Númea, where the River Afros reached the Sea. Vessels dotted the water at the port ahead – some white, shaped like majestic swans, clearly coming from the mainland, the others smaller, more slender and quick, zigzagging on the surface of the water like dragonflies: the ones built and used on Tol Eressëa itself. The land at the bay’s back was a massive, rising slope that extended all along the shore. Tavrobel, ringed by its three protective walls, stood at its centre, shimmering white like a great pearl.

“Behold the first town of the Lindar,” said Eärwen softly. “This was once the dwelling place of our Clan, ere we would move on to the mainland and build our Swanhaven.”

“I assume it was not quite this impressive at the time,” Arafinwë smiled at his Queen. Eärwen smiled back at him, but her smile was wistful.

“Oh no, it was not. Back then, as its name still reveals, ‘twas but a small, walled village, built of timber, settled at the slope’s crest. ‘Twas only at the end of the First Age, when a great number of Elves chose to accept the pardon of the Valar and moved to Tol Eressëa, that the long-abandoned settlement got repopulated and began to grow. It has changed so much in the following Ages,” she added with a sigh; “there is not a single corner that I would still recognize from my childhood.”

“The Sindar who settled here worked hard on it,” Arafinwë nodded in agreement, “as they considered it the old home of their kin. In time, the erstwhile wooden huts were replaced by neatly ordered houses, built of white stone; stone that had been shipped around the island from the mines of Avallónë. The Council Hall was built in the place where Olwë’s modest timber halls had once stood. New structures sprang up around it, and the settlement, by then a town of considerable size, sprawled farther along down the slope.”

“That was when the second wall was raised around this new, larger town,” supplied Eärwen. “As quite a few exilic Noldor moved here from the other settlements, the town already showed a delightful mixture of styles, Sindarin and Noldorin alike. However, at the end of the Second Age, there was another, massive wave of migration from Endórë, and the town once again proved too small for its rapidly growing population, and a third ring of walls had to be erected.”

She gestured at said walls with their regularly spaced towers; a ring that reached almost down to the shore and the expansive docks that supported moorage for scores of ships. The harbour district was a particularly lively part of the town, with its many buildings of every known style, size and colour ever preferred by the Elven folk mashed together within the outermost walls, their rows pierced by vertical roads, paved with white stone, running outward like the spokes of a great wheel from the town centre.

At each point where such a road passed through the third wall, it did so under towering, fortified gatehouse with raised iron portcullis, and guards in light mail shirts, armed with bows and swords, watched the gates.

“Strange,” said Aracáno, furrowing his brow. “Why would they need guards in the Blessed Realm? Surely the days when we draw steel against our own kin are long gone – are they not?”

He appeared truly upset by that possibility, and Arafinwë hurried to reassure him.

“There has not been another Kinslaying since the end of the First Age, when my benighted nephews last tried to lay their hands on the Silmarils,” he said. “But you must not forget that the inhabitants of Tol Eressëa are returnees or Reborn, respectively – many of them fairly recent ones at that. I deem they still remember the perils of Endórë vividly, and having their gates guarded makes them feel safer.”

Celebrían shuddered involuntarily, understanding better than the others the necessity to feel safe – even if it was, ultimately, just an illusion.

“Besides,” added Eärwen, smiling, “it helps those who have been warriors for uncounted yéni to adjust to a life in peace gradually. Not to mention it makes them feel useful, until they decide what they would like to do with the rest of their lives.”

Aracáno nodded his understanding, but his eyes were on the buzzing activity of the docks; on the warehouses that lined the shore, and the vessels sliding into the docks, and the people, who were simply everywhere.

Dockworkers and sailors clambered over the upper and lower levels of the piers, moving cargo to and fro between ships and warehouses, and handling mooring and rigging as required, and shouting to each other merrily over the general noise.

Fishermen were sailing back from the Sea, dragging their nets after the boats, singing the praise of Lord Ulmo’s generosity and thanking him for the good catch. Others had already moored and were now spreading their nets to dry further up on the northern side of the port. The fish they had caught was brought to an awning even further away, where it was gutted, cleaned and hung up to be smoked.

A constant breeze blew across the docks, and the air was tainted with a myriad of scents, from fish to oiled wood, from salt water to seaweed and brine. Celebrían wrinkled her nose and glanced around for the source of the strong salty smell. She did not remember it having been so strong either in Mithlond or in Avallónë.

She did not have to look very long. Down the southern side of the coast at, the town’s edge she soon spotted a large building – as big as two warehouses together. On its by, massive wooden sluices dribbled water into the bay, while on the other side huge wheels turned, carrying seawater up and into wide troughs running into the building. The smell was definitely coming from that direction, and seemed to intensify now that she had found the source.

“A salt mill,” replied Eärwen. “The people of Tavrobel are harvesting salt from the Sea. This is the best place for it on the island, for the water down on the southern side is not very deep.”

Celebrían shook her head. “Nay; back home, we bought our salt from the Dwarves, who mined it under the western slopes of the Ered Luin.”

“This is an easier and more effective way,” said Eärwen, “though the smell can be truly bothersome. I understand that those who work in the mill must protect their mouths and noses with multiple layers of gauze; I certainly do not envy them for their work.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Celebrían; the salty smell was not too unpleasant in itself, but it was very strong and began to irritate her nose.

“Let us move on, then,” suggested Arafinwë. “I for my part would not like to make Elulindo unhappier than he already is.”

They rode on, down to one of the piers that was currently empty. Aracáno looked around in disappointment.

“Well, where is he?” he demanded. “I cannot see the ship that has brought us to the isle!”

“That is because you look for it in the wrong direction,” Eärwen laughed and pointed southward, from where a shimmer came into their field of vision, approaching them fast from the Falassë Númea.

Celebrían followed the line of her granddam’s outstretched hand, and now she could see it, too. At first she was not certain that it would be more than a glint on the water. It sparkled like mithril, but the light wavered, as if what reflected Anor’s golden rays would flutter in the wind or roll on the waves.

After further observation she could see that it was a vessel, riding smoothly, perchance even a bit high, as it skimmed across the top of the water. The shimmer came from its sails, iridescent as white satin. Celebrían squinted and shaded her eyes.

Long and sleek the shining boat was, shaped in the likeness of a swan, her prow curved like a swan’s head and gracefully bowed neck, carved and painted masterfully and set with glittering jewels. It was clearly a ship from Alqualondë; more so as it bore Olwë’s device on the flag fluttering from the highest mast: that of the winged Moon before a deep, almost indigo blue background. The hull gleamed pure, sun-tinted white one moment and shadow grey the next, and its lips appeared delicately curved like a holly leaf’s edge.

“There she is,” said Eärwen proudly. “The Tinwerîna; the only vessel left that was built with the help of Lord Ossë and practically by his People, when our folk still dwelt on these shores. The only ship that was not seized or destroyed at the Kinslaying, as my brother had taken her out to the Outer Ocean at that time.”

“I thought no ships were allowed to travel on the Outer Ocean,” said Celebrían in surprise.

“Not on their own, that is true,” agreed Eärwen. “But my brother always went on such adventures with Lord Ossë himself, or with the lesser sea spirits.”

By then, the magnificent ship had reached the port and turned to move in, skimming the water, its iridescent sails reflecting the light of the midday sun. Sails began to fold, and it slowed well away from the harbour to slip as close to the shore as the bay’s depth would allow. Despite its light draw, it was a seafaring ship, first and foremost, and her captain clearly did not want to risk her running ashore by accident.

However, her grey-clad sailors were apparently highly skilled, even by Telerin measure, for she slowly glided along the pier and settled to a stop. Grey ropes were thrown out, which the dockworkers caught with practiced ease and secured the lines. The gangplank was lowered then, and a lonely figure stepped down to make his way where they were waiting.

He was tall, this newcomer, even for an Elf of an early generation; tall and slender, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, with his fine, silver hair flowing down his back to this waist like a curtain of glimmering spring rain. His weather-worn face had the same elegant features as Eärwen’s beneath the tan acquired by spending literally Ages fighting winds and water, with high cheekbones and wide, dark blue eyes that revealed his true age, as they reflected the light of the Two Trees he once had seen.

Just like his sister, he was stunningly beautiful, even by Elven measures, but with a hard glint in those deep eyes that was not tempered by Eärwen’s gentle nature. This was a warrior if there ever had been one; Celebrían had seen enough warriors in her life to recognize one if she saw one.

Like the sailors of his ship, he was clad in shadowy grey, although his clothes were richly adorned with silver embroidery and white pearls. His hair was unbraided, save for two delicate plaits above his ears and held together by a silver clasp, set with pearls, on the back of his head. A pearl-studded, fine silver circle adorned his brow, giving him a regal appearance.

“You certainly took your time,” he said without preamble. “I was considering going to Kortirion myself and hunting you down, should you dawdle another week or two.”

“Which Merilindë would certainly have appreciated… as much as an Orc attack at her back yard,” replied Arafinwë dryly. “Just because you are a few yéni older than the rest of us, you do not have to act as if you were our minder, you know.”

“A few yéni?” Elulindo rolled his eyes. “Elfling, compared with the two of you I am positively ancient; and crowns and titles do not impress me, you know that.”

“Don’t we all… including Atto?” replied Eärwen sweetly. “Now, brother, try to remember your manners… you still know what those are, right? I want to introduce you to some new family members.”

“So, you finally told the stripling whose ship he had boarded? I suppose he did not even know I ever existed… until now.”

“How could he?” replied Eärwen. “If memory serves me well, you were roaming the Outer Oceans with Lord Ossë’s People during his entire life. But I did not mean Aracáno; you already know him, even if he does not know you. I want you to meet the daughter of Nerwendë,” she gestured towards Celebrían, who suddenly felt very shy. “This is Celebrían, from her father’s side a descendant of our Uncle Elmö.”

“I am pleased to meet you, child,” he said with genuine warmth that surprised her very much; then he turned back to his sister. “Well, if you are done with the introductions, we should move on. I took the liberty to secure us rooms in the Rowan Tree Inn.”

The name said nothing to Celebrían or Aracáno, but it clearly did to the Noldóran, because he whistled.

“The Rowan Tree Inn, huh?” he asked. “You are gaining an expensive taste at your old age, brother.”

“I thought that would be all the time, in your entire life,” replied Arafinwë. “After all, you have your own company, wherever you go.”

“Oh, no,” the firstborn of the King of Alqualondë said, suddenly very serious. “You have no idea how far beyond such things I have gone.”

Author’s notes: Like Galenbrethil and Findalor, Lindefal is borrowed from the “Coronar” series of The Tired Scribe, which is posted to the Library of Moria archive. He has a somewhat different personality here, but I kept his name and his former occupation as Elrond’s personal aide. Ivárë, who already appeared in Chapter 10, and Elemmírë are canon characters, but their bond is my doing.

The meal is based on the Chaucerian Feast found on the excellent website “A Booke of Gode Cookery”. The idea of the “living” mural originally comes from my fellow writer Ro, although hers was a painting. The dining hall was inspired by the Great Hall of Hampton Court Palace – only with an Elvish flair. *g*

My thanks to Fiondil who found the canonical heraldric emblem of Tavrobel, so that I would not come up with something stupid on my own. ;)

They rode up one of the vertical roads unhurriedly, Elulindo walking next to his sister’s horse with easy grace. Celebrían noted with surprise by the fact that although he had spent his entire life on the Sea, he had not developed the characteristic, rolling gait that made mariners so easy to recognize. Well, at least mortal ones. She kept forgetting that she should not expect such things in a place populated solely by her own kind.

Upon reaching the gatehouse, the Noldóran’s banner was instantly recognized, of course. The gate guards saluted him in the manner as it had been wont among the warriors of Beleriand, in the First Age – which was not truly surprising, as they were clearly Sindar and braided their hair in Doriathrim fashion – and lifted the portcullis to allow the group entrance. Silver trumpets sounded high up in the gate tower, announcing the arrival of prominent visitors, so that the town leaders could prepare for them a proper welcome.

And indeed, by the time they reached the second ring wall, they found the gate there already open, and a small group of mounted town guards, clad in grey and green and wearing light mail shirts, was waiting for them. Upon the tabards they wore over their mail was emblazoned the heraldic emblem of Tavrobel: the three trees, the middle one taller than the other two, standing above a three-arched bridge (clearly the famous one of the town that crossed both rivers, the Afros and the Gruir), with three streams flowing through the arches. They were armed with swords and short spears, and upon their round shields was painted the same emblem.

Their leader, a Noldo of imposing stature, rode forth and greeted the visitors respectfully.

“Hail and welcome to Tavarossë, Arafinwë Noldóran, Queen Eärwen,” he spoke Quenya, out of courtesy to the Amanians, but Celebrían understood him well enough, having grown used to hearing the language more often than at home. “I am Carnistir, Captain of the Town Guard. The Council of Tavrobel sends their greetings and asks for a meeting – any time at your convenience if it pleases you.”

“Certainly, I would be more than pleased to meet the worthy leaders of Tavrobel,” replied Arafinwë politely. “We shall be staying in the Rowan Tree Inn for the next couple of days; if the Council could send word when they would want this meeting to take place, I am certain that we will be able to accommodate, from tomorrow on.”

“I shall see it done,” Captain Carnistir raised his spear to a formal salute. “Would your Majesties require an escort to the inn?”

“That would not be necessary,” said Arafinwë. “Admittedly, we do not visit Tavrobel often, but the town could not have changed so much in the last yén or two that we would get lost. We will manage.”

“As you wish, sire,” Captain Carnistir signalled the guards to clear the way, and the Noldóran and his escort entered the second circle of the town.

They rode through that district without being stopped by anyone, although the news of their arrival had obviously spread across town already, for many of the inhabitants came out of their houses to greet them, or simply to catch a glimpse of them. Royal visitors must indeed have been rare here.

The population seemed to be fairly mixed. Most of them were Sindar, of course, but the Noldor were not much behind in numbers, and quite a few ash-blond, more heavily built Nandor could be spotted in the welcoming crowd. Browns and greens, muted blues and greys and a broad side of yellows appeared to be the preferred colours among them, with only the guards and town officials wearing white or silver.

Hair-braiding must have developed to a true form of art among them, if the elaborate hairdo of some of the ellith was any indication; most of the braids were of Sindarin fashion, or based on it, only a great deal more complicated. So intricate, indeed, that they needed almost no jewellery to wear – the natural crowns, woven by skilled hands, would outdo whatever the whitesmiths would create by far.

They all waved at the visitors happily and called greetings; mostly in Sindarin, but also in somewhat accented Quenya, but no-one tried to delay their progress. Mostly, they just seemed delighted to see the Noldóran and his Queen visiting them again.

Thus Arafinwë and his escort crossed the second district and rode through the open gate in the third, innermost wall, entering the oldest part of the town. There they left the road and turned into a quiet little lane that led directly to their destination: a three-storey building, built of white stone around a spacious inner courtyard, its front gate flanked by two huge, ancient rowan trees that likely gave the inn its name. In fact, the trees were obviously much older than the building itself, which was presumably raised so that the trees could be included.

The gate, the wings of which were masterfully carved of dark, polished rowan wood, stood open, so that they could ride straight into the paved courtyard. It had a marble fountain in the middle, also depicting a rowan tree. The water was falling from its branches from various heights, creating a lovely, enchanting music.

The entrance to the main building was a carved wooden arch, depicting two rowan trees with intertwined branches but without any actual door wings, on the opposite side of the fountain, while other, simpler doorways clearly led to the stables behind the courtyard. Grooms came running to lead their horses away while they were heading towards the main entrance, and servants took their travelling chests to bring them to the prepared rooms.

Celebrían, having seen some of the amazing Elven structures of the Second Age, was not easily impressed by grandeur, but as they stepped into the wide entryway of the Rowan Tree Inn, even she slowed down her pace. Although simply called an inn, this establishment had clearly been built with royal or at least nobly born visitors from the mainland firmly in the owner’s eye.

Beautiful tapestries, bearing the mark of Tol Eressëan (presumably Sindarin) artists, hung on white walls, and all archways, window-cases, railings and other fixtures were made of aged and polished wood, suitable to the place’s name. The tapestries depicted forests scenes, enclosed in a framework of ivy – a pattern that had once been very popular in Lindon. Celebrían remembered having seen wall hangings like these during her rare visits to Gil-galad’s castle.

Ellyn and ellith in rich attire floated about; most of them had clearly come from the mainland, as they wore more flamboyant colours than it was preferred on Tol Eressëa. Left from the main entrance was a dining chamber, which was where most of the guests were levitating, as the hour when most inns traditionally served the midday meal was drawing close. Ahead of them the hallway was laid out with a forest-green carpet that flowed up a staircase, presumably leading to the guest rooms on the upper floors.

Most Elves working in the inn seemed to be of Sindarin origins, although Celebrían could spot the one or other Noldo, too. One of those, wearing a knee-length blue tunic with blousoned sleeves, through the slashes of which a pale yellow shirt of fine linen could be glimpsed, hurried up to them and gave the Noldóran and the Noldotári his obeisance.

“Welcome to the Rowan Tree Inn, your Majesties. It has been a long time since you last honoured us with a visit.”

His voice sounded shockingly familiar; and so seemed his youthful, merry face once Celebrían have him a second look.

The Elf who had once been Elrond’s personal aide, laughed at her merrily. “Why, I work here, my lady. Have been ever since I accompanied Galenbrethil on her journey to the West, in fact.”

“You work here?” Tirannë, the handmaid Meril had sent with them to see after Celebrían’s needs, repeated in surprise. “I always thought you owned the place.”

“No, he does not; he just behaves as if he would,” said someone behind them, and as they turned around, they saw a dark-haired Noldo coming in, looking amused. “But as a matter of fact, I do.”

Unlike most other people Celebrían had seen so far in Tavrobel, he was clad in dark colours: deep blues and dark greys, and his bright eyes revealed that he was old enough to have seen the light of the Two Trees. For some reason, an old, half-forgotten memory surfaced unexpectedly in her mind. She saw herself as a little girl, visiting Ost-in-Edhil with her father, admiring the work of the Mírdain.

They had been very kind to her, the famous jewel-smiths of the Second Age, entertaining her while her father was discussing things with Celebrimbor, and even inviting her to their table. One of them in particular: a silversmith who had been working on fine steel pens that, or so he had hoped would replace quills eventually. His name was…

“Master Aranwë!” she whispered. “They told Adar that you had made it out of the Fall of Eregion, but no-one knew what had become of you.”

The owner of the Rowan Tree Inn tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing yet clearly not recognizing her.

“Once you did,” answered Celebrían with a fond smile. “Although I was but a very young elfling back then. You showed me those steel pens; I often wondered later whether you ever got them to work properly.”

Recognition dawned in the eyes of the ellon, and he smiled widely. “Little Lady Celebrían! Who would have thought! But not so little anymore, it seems.”

“Nay; I had time enough to grow up,” agreed Celebrían. “When did you Sail?”

“After the Battle upon Dagorlad; I lived in Aran Gil-galad’s court for a while, where I met Pengolodh again; we used to be friends in Gondolin, you see.”

This was definitely the day of surprises for Celebrían; but again, such were most days since she had arrived in the Undying Lands.

Aranwë nodded. “I am one of the few fortunates who got out. I was a member of the House of the Hammer of Wrath; only two of us survived, and even we only because Lady Idril ordered us to go with her and her family. In truth, I was more fortunate than most; for not only did I get out, I could also take my son and my grandson with me, and thus they were saved, too; the little one was not even of age yet.”

Celebrían was thinking furiously. Snippets of knowledge she had gathered about the inhabitants of the Lonely Island began to come together and form a coherent picture.

“You are that Aranwë, then,” she said. “You are Voronwë’s father, and the grandsire of Ilverin.”

“That I am,” confessed Aranwë. “Few in Middle-earth of the Second Age knew, as Littleheart left with Eärendil, and my son spent yéni in solitude, trying to overcome his terror from the Sea. For him, whose mother came from the Falathrim, being so afraid of the Sea was a terrible thing; but again, he had suffered from the wrath of Lord Ossë on his previous journey.[1]”

“But he did Sail, after all,” said Celebrían. “I met him upon my arrival.”

Aranwë shrugged. “Yea; Lady Uinen set him straight. She is very good at dealing with recalcitrant ellyn.”

“That she is. Now, are we getting anything to eat today? I was out on the Sea all day and am starving.”

“You are always starving; and when are you not out on the Sea all day… or all night, for that matter?” returned Aranwë good-naturedly; the two of them clearly had known each other for a long time. Then the former smith of Gondolin turned to Arafinwë and Eärwen. “Midday meal is being served within a small hour, your Majesties. I shall leave you in the most capable hands of Lindefal here, so that you can get settled and refreshed first. We will meet in the Council Hall again in a day or two.”

“Does it mean that you are a member of the Town Council as well?” asked Aracáno, speaking for the first time since they had entered the inn.

“Why, certainly,” replied Aranwë with a brilliant smile. “Most of us, survivors of Gondolin, are. ‘Tis our hope that once our King is returned to us, he will find this place worthy to become his dwelling.”

With that, he bowed to the Noldóran respectfully and left. Aracáno stared at his retreating back with his mouth hanging open.

“Turucáno?” he said, when he finally regained the ability to speak. “They want Turucáno to take over leadership here?”

“Nay, they do not,” replied Lindefal quietly. “They are quite capable of governing our town together. But they would welcome Turgon, once the King of Gondolin, to dwell among them. I know I would.”

Lindefal shrugged. “I have served his House all my life; for is my Lord Elrond not his only descendant who still dwells in Arda? Extending my loyalties would make no difference to me.”

“I wonder how they will react when they learn about Elenwë’s return,” muttered Aracáno. “It will mean a great deal to them, I assume.”

“What makes you think they do not know about it already?” Lindefal answered with a question of his own. “Or about your own return, for that matter?”

“Not many can still remember you, my Prince, ‘tis true. But some of the older ones do. They just did not want to overwhelm you. We are used to deal with Reborn here on Tol Eressëa; we know how to tread carefully around them,” he clapped his hands, suddenly all business. “Well enough of this or you shall come late to noon meal, and that would make Master Halmir very unhappy. He does not take it kindly when his meticulously prepared dishes grow cold. Come with me, I shall show you your rooms.”

He led them to the west wing of the inn that seemed even more opulent than the entranceway, with walls painted oyster-shell white. Forest-green carpets, thick enough to sleep on, covered the main floors and hallways, climbing up the staircase that led to the rooms prepared for the noblest visitors. Murals in muted colours adorned the walls, depicting ancient battles, breath-taking seascapes and tranquil landscapes, and water lilies, fragile like spun glass, had been chosen for simple yet exquisite alabaster vases.

Their rooms were of the same rich yet tasteful décor: airy chambers, their walls panelled with polished wood and their floors paved with small, flat stones in colourful patterns. The beds were wide and comfortable, canopied and curtained with heavy brocade. Chests and clothespresses stood ready for their belongings, and a small side door led from each room to a long, narrow bathing room with several wooden tubs.

Lindefal waited in the hallway ‘til they refreshed themselves, and then he led them back down the central stairway and to the dining hall that they had glimpsed earlier. The room was filling with guests already, and was probably the most impressive place in the entire inn: at hundred feet in length, forty feet in width and sixty feet high, it occupied most of the ground floor in the central building, and it could have been the great hall of a royal castle.

Its hammer-beam roof was clearly designed by a master carpenter of extraordinary skill, and its side windows were of stained glass in a geometric pattern. The high table, meant for the most important visitors, stood on the left side of the entrance, on a slightly raised dais. This was the narrow side on the room, and the guests sat with their backs to the wall, under a beautifully carved wooden canopy, on high-backed chairs.

The long tables for guests of lower ranks run in two parallel rows along the longer walls, with people sitting on benches on both sides. A small, open fireplace – basically just an open cage of wrought iron – was in the middle of the hall; the smoke of the fragrant wood burning in it went straight up to the ceiling and left through a cleverly hidden shaft there.

The most remarkable feature of the dining hall was, however, a large mural that dominated the back wall, opposite the high table. At first Celebrían thought it to be another window, one opened to an actual glen behind the building, because of the intricately inlaid frame of silver and dark wood. At second sight, however, she realized that it was an actual mural, depicting a quiet forest scene on a starlit night. By some magic, however, it seemed alive. Every time she looked at it, there would be subtle changes: branches would lift, stars would appear or disappear, and a flock of night birds would show up among the branches.

For a moment, even a dancing maiden could be seen on the glade, but when Celebrían looked again, the maiden was gone. This was definitely not an ordinary mural.

“Nay,” said Lindefal, smiling, and Celebrían realized that she had spoken out her observations loud. “This is the work of one of the greatest Vanyarin artists from Aman; one who was taught by the Valar themselves. Come with me; I shall introduce you to her.”

He ushered them to the high table, where the places of honour had been reserved for the Noldóran and his Queen. Celebrían got to sit on Eärwen’s side, with Aracáno on her left; for on Arafinwë’s right the two other most honoured guests had been seated. They were both Vanyar, and in one of them Celebrían recognized Ivárë, the ancient minstrel whom she had already met at the Feast of Double Mirth.

Well, if had listened to him in open-mouthed awe while he was singing the most sacred song ever written among Elves could mean the same thing as had met, that is. She could barely take her eyes off him. Even after all the living legends that she had met in Elvenhome so far, sitting at the same table as Ivárë was something of a shock. And so was, frankly, his appearance.

By Vanyarin measures, the ancient minstrel’s clothing was fairly subdued. He wore an ankle-length, azure blue undertunic of fine linen, the cuffs and neck of which were embroidered in silver thread and pearls. Over this was a cream-coloured velvet tunic that came to just below his knees and was adorned with very thin embroidery in blues and greens on the hem and the wide, trailing sleeves.

The neck of the tunic was round, and on the front of it was emblazoned the device of the Minstrels’ Guild: a diamond-shaped panel in dark blue, with a silver harp in the middle of it. The tunic was girdled by an intricately woven leather belt, the clasp of which was in the shape of two silver leaves linked together. The minstrel’s hair was braided in a complicated fishbone pattern, but he wore no jewellery at all.

If possible, the Vanyarin lady on his side – clearly his bondmate, and that doubtlessly for a very long time, even as Elves counted the years – was clothed even more modestly… for a Vanya anyway. She wore a simple, sleeveless overgown of heavy silk, dyed the same creamy colour as Ivárë’s tunic. It was split in the front, right below her breasts – where it was also belted with a chain of interlinked golden leaves – so that the undertunic of deep rose silk showed through. The blousoned sleeves of said undertunic were embroidered with gold thread and small topazes on the broad cuffs and the high collar.

The bodice of the overgown was emblazoned with the emblem of the Poet’s Guild: a golden quill in a teal blue roundel. Her golden hair was bound in a glittering net of pearls and sapphires. Her eyes, deep and dark blue like a mountain lake, reflected the remembered light of the Two Trees. Her skin, like that of her bondmate’s, had the barely visible golden hue of all Vanyar.

She was seated directly on Arafinwë’s right, with Ivárë on her other side, and next to Ivárë sat Elulindo, now wearing a formal robe of white brocade, shot with silver and richly sewn with white pearls. He was the one to handle the introductions, dismissing Lindefal with an imperious gesture.

“Your Majesties,” he said to Arafinwë and Eärwen formally, “allow me to introduce to you Master Ivárë, head of the Minstrel’s Guild and an old friend of my father’s. And with him is his lovely wife, Mistress Elemmírë, who leads the Poet’s Guild In Vanyamar and dwells in Lord Manwë’s house on Taniquetil – unless she chooses to honour us with a visit. She is also the artist who crafted that extraordinary mural we are facing.”

The King and Queen of the Noldor already knew the Vanyarin celebrities, of course; the introduction was mostly made for Celebrían and Aracáno’s sake. Aracáno, who had been very young at the time of the Darkening indeed and thus did not truly remember them, nodded in polite disinterest, but Celebrían had to consciously remind herself to close her mouth.

“Elemmírë?” she repeated in absolute awe. “The Star-Jewel, who wrote the Lament for the Two Trees?”

“You heard of me?” she asked. “I did not know that my work was known in the Outer Lands as well.”

“There may be a few reclusive Wood-Elves who refuse to even speak Sindarin and thus know very little beyond their forests, but save for them, every Elf in Middle-earth learns your poems in childhood,” she replied. “In the Hall of Fire, in Imladris, they are recited or sung in original, but the Sindarin translations, too, have been made with much respect and love.”

“Have they now?” Elemmírë switched to Sindarin, which she spoke surprisingly well, though with a definite accent. “I would like to hear how my poems sound in the Grey Tongue; the subtle shifts of meaning must be intriguing,” she turned to her bondmate. “Do you believe that the Sages in the Tower may have a written translation? Then one of the local minstrels could perform it. I would not dare to do so myself; my Sindarin is passable at best.”

Ivárë shrugged. “I am fairly certain that they have. Pengolodh is nothing if not thorough,” he glanced at Celebrían and Aracáno. “Perhaps the young ones would be interested in a visit to the Tower, while their Majesties are battling the Town Council about trade contracts and the likes.”

Everyone laughed at that, and after some discussion Celebrían agreed to go with the two Vanyar to the Tower of Tavrobel on the next day, while Aracáno opted to accompany his uncle and aunt in the Council Hall. With that decided, the topic of future plans was set aside, and the noon meal was also ready to be served.

Given what she had seen of the Rowan Tree Inn so far, Celebrían expected the meal to be worthy a King’s table – and she was not disappointed.

It started with blankmanger, or white food, as it was called in Middle-earth: a traditional white pottage of cooked and ground capon, rice and almond milk, seasoned with honey and fried and slivered almonds. It was served with small bowls of gode broth, thickened with various sorts of cooked and ground meats, livers, bread crumbs and eggs, and seasoned with pepper, cloves, ginger and saffron. A selection of barley and wheat breads and light ale completed the first course.

The second course began with meat pie, flavoured with dried fruits, salt, ginger, pepper and honey, followed by chickens with marrow bones on toast. After that came a stuffed goose, with vegetables cooked in butter and closed with wine.

By the third course, Celebrían felt as stuffed as the poor goose had been. Fortunately, this course only consisted of leaf-thin wafers, baked apples and pears seasoned with cinnamon, fresh grapes and walnuts, and for the ones with an iron stomach, gingerbread, cut in small triangles. Honeyed wine and small, fried cakes rounded up the opulent menu that would have been enough to feed half a Dúnadan village in Eriador.

“I only hope this is not how we are always expected to dine,” Celebrían murmured to Lindefal, who was overseeing the serving of the meal and just stepped to her to refill her cup. “I would die from overfeeding in the first month.”

Lindefal laughed. “Oh, no, most of us just eat as we did back in Middle-earth. But it does not happen every day that we would host a King and his Queen in the Rowan Tree Inn. In fact, as far as I can remember, this is about the fourth time that your grandsire would stay under our roof.”

“That is a relief,” Celebrían tasted her wine and was glad that it proved not too sweet. “You still know what I prefer, I see.”

“Why of course,” exclaimed Lindefal, not quite affronted, but it was a close thing. “I was Elrond’s wine steward for more than an Age, after all!”

“Wine steward… and so much more,” said Celebrían fondly. “You have been gone for yéni, but he still misses you.”

“And I miss him; and Erestor, and Glorfindel, and Lindir, the twins and Lady Arwen, and everyone else in Imladris,” Lindefal smiled wistfully.

“Why did you Sail, then?” asked Celebrían carefully, afraid to tear open old wounds. “You never suffered from the Sea-longing, did you?”

Lindefal shook his head. “Nay, I did not. But Galenbrethil would not remain in Middle-earth after Findalor was slain, and as she had no kin in the West, I could not let her Sail alone. She has always been like a sister to me; I could not abandon her when she needed me most.”

Lindefal shrugged. “I am trying; and besides, I had no kin left in Middle-earth, no family aside from Elrond and you – I could afford to leave.”

“No,” answered Lindefal. “Admittedly, I do feel homesick from time to time, but who does not? But life on Tol Eressëa is good, and now that we have Findalor back again, ‘tis almost like old times. Moreso with you having come.”

Lindefal gave her a sympathetic smile. “Which one of us ever truly does? Now, I must see after my duties. But we shall talk later in length, I promise.”

With that, he returned to the kitchens to see if everything had run its due course, while the servants began to clean the tables. The guests relocated to the inner courtyard of the inn, where low, semi-circular benches stood around the fountain. There Elulindo and Ivárë – who, it turned out, had been old friends, very old friends indeed, since the Great Journey – relived memories older than the Sun and the Moon, to every ellon’s great entertainment, while the ladies were listening to Elemmírë, who told them about her life in Lord Manwë’s house.

It seemed that she would spend most of her time on Taniquetil – the Elder King was generally fond of poetry and liked hers in particular – and only came to Tol Eressëa for short visits.

“Ivárë and I have been together through all Ages of Arda, and we expect to stay together under the End itself,” she explained simply. “Times apart no longer truly bother us.”

Celebrían silently wondered if she would ever feel that. Or, in fact, if she truly wanted to get used to being separated from Elrond and her children.

Author’s notes: Pengolodh the Wise, as well as Rúmil the Sage, belong to the older mythology. Laerwen (=song-maiden) is an original character of mine, who has sporadic cameos in my Mirkwood-related stories, together with Thranduil’s other children.

Pengolodh’s alternate history is based on his comment in “The Lost Road”, p. 125. I took here some creative licence about the matter. The Yénonótië (=“Counting of Years”) is an obscure text by the elusive Noldorin scholar Quennar i Onótimo, about the reckoning of time in Valian Years. See: “Morgoth’s Ring, The Annals of Arda.” He is not canonically related to Pengolodh, of course.

In the next morning she was pleasantly surprised when she came down from her chambers and found Galenbrethil waiting for her at the courtyard.

“Lindefal told us about your arrival,” explained the former healer of Imladris. “As he has no family of his own – not yet anyway,” she added, glancing at Tirannë’s direction with a knowing grin, “he has dwelt with us since the beginning. So, what are your plans for the day? I hope you can find the time to visit us during your stay in Tavrobel.”

“I am most certainly planning to,” answered Celebrían with feeling; these three had been Elrond’s closest friends, longer than she had been his wife, thus being with them was the closest thing to being at home again, “but not today, I fear. I have promised Master Ivárë and Mistress Elemmírë to visit the Tower of the Sages with them, and I know not how long that will take.”

“All day, I suppose, unless you choose to return to the in for noon meal,” said Galenbrethil knowingly. “But that is well; with the Noldóran visiting the town, Findalor will be caught up at the Council Hall all the time, and he wants to meet you as much as the rest of us. We have made our home here, but it does not mean that we would not miss Imladris. We always will.”

“So do I,” Celebrían sighed and embraced her old friend. “’Tis so good to have you here, Galenbrethil. It makes being here feeling less like exile.”

“In a way, it will always feel like exile,” answered the healer solemnly, “as neither of us left Middle-earth because we would have wanted to do so. But whatever the circumstances might have been, this is our home now, and we must make the best of it. Having others from our old home with us helps.”

“Yes, it does,” agreed Celebrían; then she added regretfully. “I have to go now. But I shall send word with Lindefal as soon as I know what other visits are expected from me. Being the Noldóran’s granddaughter means certain expectations towards me, I fear.”

“Not so much here,” said Galenbrethil. “We all respect King Arafinwë and his lady wife, of course, but we are not even nominally their subjects; nor those of any other King that rules in Aman. You will be able to breathe more freely here.”

“Until they learn that I am married to the son of Eärendil,” replied Celebrían with a scowl, remembering her grandsire’s prediction, “after which I will have no privacy at all.”

“I would not worry about that, if I were you,” she said. “Certainly, for a short time there will be great excitement. But as far as most inhabitants of Tol Eressëa are concerned, the true heroes of Beleriand are Fingolfin and Fingon, Finrod or even Turgon. They know Eärendil saved us all, but he is merely a legend for them a distant star; they respect him and love him for what he did, but otherwise have little interest in him. As for privacy, Lady Meril has long taught the people of the island the meaning of that.”

“She is practically the Queen of Tol Eressëa, is she not?” asked Celebrían, thinking of all that had been said about that particular topic.

Galenbrethil nodded. “That she is. Certainly, the towns govern themselves well enough; and I have no doubt that once the Kings of Beleriand are released, there will be requests towards them to become lords over this town or that. But when it comes to matters that concern the entire island, everyone will follow Lady Meril’s lead.”

“Including me, yea,” replied Galenbrethil emphatically. “She has been here from the very beginning. She helped all those coming from Middle-earth to rebuild their lives; and she has always led us well. Everyone knows her and trusts her; should any King, fresh out of Mandos, try to lord it over us, they would be greatly surprised, I think.”

This was obviously a topic close to her heart, for she would have gone on about it, were she not interrupted by Lindefal who came out to look for Celebrían, and was now grinning at her.

“No such danger is looming on the horizon just yet,” he said. “You can sheath your sword,” then, turning to Celebrían, he added. “You should get some breakfast before leaving for the Tower of the Sages. All that wisdom one is confronted there can be too much on an empty stomach.”

“What do you know about wisdom?” shot back Celebrían, smiling. “If memory serves me well, Elrond was close to despair by your blatant disinterest in lore half the time.”

“True; but I took care of his correspondence and the inventory lists like no-one else,” replied Lindefal. “You must tell us about the chaos that rules over Imladris, now that I am no longer there.”

“Later,” replied Celebrían, heading for the dining hall. “Breakfast first. I intend to face a lot of wisdom today, after all.”

Breakfast turned out to be a blessedly simple affair. The food was laid onto one of the lesser tables, and everyone simply went there, filled their plates with choice bits and returned to their seats with it. Celebrían chose leaf cakes filled with a dollop of jam – and old favourite probably brought to Tol Eressëa by Lindefal, as it was regularly served in Imladris – and some herbal tea. By the time she finished eating, she had the strange feeling of being home, and decided that she was going to like the town of Tavrobel.

Ivárë and Elemmírë were already waiting for her in the courtyard, ready to go. They both wore simple grey robes today, which, as they explained was the customary garb of the Sages of the Tower.

“It would not do to pay them a visit glittering like peacocks, even though some Amanian lore-masters consider their custom a rustic one,” explained Ivárë, giving his wife an amused look.

They left the Rowan Tree Inn and strolled along the paved streets toward the northern side of the town, as the Tower stood near the ancient Bridge of Tavrobel, that spanned two rivers, right before the town walls. Some of the inhabitants recognized Ivárë, despite his simple garb, and greeted him with visible respect. No-one seemed to notice Celebrían, for which she was grateful. She preferred to remain unknown as long as possible.

She absently followed the two Vanyar around a street corner into an intersecting road, also paved with white stone. Some distance ahead was an open archway in the town wall. Two ring-mailed guards stood, relaxed but attentive, to either side of the graceful portal that was shaped like the outline of a great seashell. They gave the Vanyar a passing glance and a respectful nod but did not speak.

Celebrían followed her guides through the archway. Their destination was only a short distance outside the town wall. The Tower of Tavrobel, although the most renowned scholarly enclave of the isle, was but a two-storey house, built of white stone that had become grey and withered during the yéni that had assed by since it had been raised, around the end of the First Age, when the first exiled Noldor had returned and taken up residence on Tol Eressëa. Its tiled roof had lost some of its once vivid colours, but its original pattern could still be recognized – it was a pretty sight, despite its age.

The oldest part of the building was the Tower itself, the one the whole enclave was named after. It was short and squat, rising on the north-eastern corner of the complex, with a flat top, from which the Sages would watch the stars, or so it was said.

Ivárë knocked on the front door, using the twirled bronze ring hanging from the maw of a copper dragon’s head, and the heavy oak winds swung open noiselessly. They were greeted by one of the apprentices, a young Silvan girl of slender build and a freckled face. Her thick auburn hair hung in a neat braid down her back and her eyes were brown and bright like polished chestnuts. She was wearing the usual sleeveless grey robe of the Sages over a simple gown of deep, forest green wool that was embroidered with leaves in brown and dark red on the hem, the round neckline and the cuffs.

She led them down the narrow central passage of the house that led to the library. Apprentices and hired scribes trundled up and down the stairs, carefully balancing armfuls of scrolls, sheaves, tablets, books and some items Celebrían could not identify. A few nodded in greeting as they passed. Most of them seemed to be Noldor, but there were quite a few Sindar and even a Vanya, all wearing grey robes over the clothes of their personal choice.

The library took up the entire western wing of the building. In its centre, surrounded by the tall, floor-to-ceiling shelves, was the study area with tables, chairs, scribe desks and shelves. Around the room were a few curious crystal lamps, filled with a glowing blue light that never flickered.

A number of lore-masters, looking like a flock of crows in their grey robes, were sitting at the tables, reading, or standing at the writing desks, dictating to the scribes. Most of them were Noldor, but quite a few Sindar could be seen there, too (mostly among the scribes), and even a Vanya or two. The Silvan girl escorted the visitors to one of the isolated corners, where a rather slender, dark-haired Noldo was sitting behind a small table, immersed in some heavy, leather-bound tome.

He seemed vaguely familiar to Celebrían, although she could not quite figure out why. Not yet anyway; she had the feeling that she would come behind it soon enough.

“Here, look at this!” he was saying to the venerable-looking Vanya – the only one in the room wearing a robe of brilliant blue instead of grey – who was standing behind him and looking at the text written in Sarati: the first version of Tengwar, invented by Rúmil the Sage himself, over his shoulder. “This is where your mentor got it wrong. He finished this section of the Annals with the enchantment of Elwë by Melian and the departure of the Teleri from the Mouths of Sirion.”

“Of course,” replied the Vanya scholar a little impatiently. “This is what was told him by the Lindaran himself, and why should he question a King’s authority in the matter? Olwë was there, after all, while my mentor had already departed.”

“True; but there were events not even the Lindaran was aware of; things I learned from our kin in Beleriand, much later,” answered the Noldo. “I was told that a company of the Noldor, whose leader was Danuin, forsook the host of Finwë, lord of the Second Clan, early upon the westward march, and turned south. But they found the lands barren and dark, thus they turned against north and marched west once more with much wandering and grief. Of these some, under Danilos son of Danuin, came at last, about the year of the Valar 2700, over the Ered Lindon and dwelt in Ossiriand, where they became allies of Lenwë, chieftain of the Green-Elves, and Thingol of Doriath.”

“No, you got it wrong!” declared the Vanya imperiously. “Danuin is but a different name for Lenwë; every apprentice in their first yén knows that!”

The Noldo shook his head. “Not according to Legolas, the lord of Eglavain; and he ought to know. After all, Lenwë was his great-grandfather.”

“If those are your reliable sources, then perhaps you should stop calling yourself a lore-master. Listening to the tall tales of some rustic warriors is not the proper method to gather knowledge.”

“Pah!” the Noldo was clearly offended. “And sitting in some isolate tower in Valinor, waiting for much less reliable rumours to come your way perhaps is? I work with eye-witnesses; I record the events of the past as correctly as possible, instead of creating pretty legends of my own. Perhaps you should give the method a try, too. It would make your work less of a nursery tale and more of actual history science.”

Celebrían was fairly shocked by the bickering of two obviously respected lore-masters, and Elemmírë’s beautiful face mirrored mild disapproval as well. Ivárë, however, simply listened to them with an indulgent smile, and the Silvan girl politely cleared her throat to catch their attention.

The Noldorin sage looked up from his book with a frown. “Yes, Laerwen, what is it? Can you not see that we are in the middle of an important discussion?”

“Are they not always?” murmured Ivárë in a low voice, but his eyes twinkled in amusement.

“Forgive me, Master Pengolodh,” the girl, whose name was apparently Laerwen, said apologetically, “but there are visitors for you.”

Of course! Celebrían felt as if a veil would have been drawn from before her eyes. She had met Pengolodh the Wise in Ost-in-Edhil, too, just like Aranwë. But while Aranwë had taken her until his wings, showing her his workshop and inviting her to the table of the Mírdain, the lore-master had no time nor patience for overly curious elflings.

Still, his was a familiar face, one of the many she had met lately, and that was a good feeling.

The most renowned chronicler of Elven history in Middle-earth, meanwhile, did not miss a beat upon recognizing at least one of his visitors.

“Ah, Ivárë, good!” he exclaimed, ignoring the two ellith for the time being. “Would you kindly tell young Indorildo here not to stick his nose into things of which he clearly has no understanding?”

“Whom are you calling a youngling, half-bred?” he scowled. “I was studying at the feet of Rúmil the Sage already when you were still in your diapers, chasing frogs in the stinking marshes of Nevrast!”

Celebrían blanched at the insult – Elves of mixed origins often reacted badly when called names about their parentage – but Pengolodh remained completely unfazed. In fact, he seemed to enjoy making his high-nosed colleague boil with rage.

“At least I was doing something useful as a toddler already,” he returned sharply. “A skill that you still do not seem to have achieved. By the way, I would like you to know that frog legs were considered a rare delicacy in Beleriand; they were served deep-fried, with a spicy sallet, at the table of King Turgon himself.”

Indorildo rolled his eyes in exasperation. He also turned a little green by the idea of eating frog legs, with or without a spicy salad.

“You see, Mistress?” he aimed his complaint at Elemmírë, of whom he obviously hopped some support. “This is the kind of useless knowledge I am treated with whenever I visit this place.”

“Then you should perhaps stop visiting here,” replied Elemmírë without he slightest hint of sympathy. “If you are unable to show some respect towards the head of the Guild of Sagecraft, I see little gain in your being here.”

The poor Vanya was rendered speechless by this unfriendly answer and left in a hurry, fuming and thoroughly humiliated. Ivárë gave his wife a jaundiced look.

“Do you think you were a little harsh on him, beloved? He is a self-important peacock, ‘tis true, but he does work very hard on revising Quennar’s Yénonótië; and his corrections are actually sound.”

“Oh, for the love of the Valar!” Pengolodh snorted. “If my Adar knew in whose hands his older works have fallen, he would fade from grief – again! I am quite capable of finishing his Annals and revising his texts on my own, thank you very much. In fact, I am nearly done with both.”

“Still, you were not even born yet when many of those events occurred,” reminded him Ivárë. Pengolodh shrugged.

“It matters not. I have got all my Adar’s texts, I have got Rúmil’s work; indeed, I have got Rúmil himself to talk to if the need arises – and a great many older Elves I can ask for details, as they have lived through the entire history of Beleriand. Unlike other people, I am not too proud to ask about facts of which I cannot have first-hand knowledge.”

The three of them continued the hypothetical discussion about the proper way to write history for quite some time, and after a while Celebrían could feel her eyes glassing over. She had not had any particular expectations where her visit in the Tower of the Sages was concerned, but she empathically had not expected this.

Laerwen obviously noticed her discomfort, for she waved her to come over to one of the writing desks, where she was studying and repairing an old scroll. The scroll was, surprisingly enough, written in the dialect of the Doriathrim, with the Angerthas runes created by Daeron. Celebrían, familiar with that particular dialect due to her mother’s time spent in Thingol’s realm, recognized an early version of the Lay of Leithian and was grateful for the distraction.

“I should have gone to the Council Hall with Daeradar,” she muttered. “I am fairly certain that battling the Town Council about trade agreements would be more peaceful.”

Laerwen grinned. “Oh, they are not so bad, truly. Master Pengolodh can be a bit… temperamental at times, ‘tis true, but never like this. Not unless Master Indorildo lowers himself to pay us a visit anyway. That Vanya brings out the worst of everyone.”

Laerwen’s grin grew from ear to ear. “Only with his betters, trying to prove himself right,” she answered. With the rest of us, he is simply condescending and patronizing – which we have just as much.”

“Why does he believe he has the right to behave like this, though?” asked Celebrían in honest confusion. “I have been married to a lore-master for an Age, so I am fairly certain that I have heard about every name-worthy Sage of Aman often enough in those yéni. I know who Master Pengolodh is, or Rúmil the Sage, or Master Ivárë or Mistress Elemmírë – or Macalaurë, for that matter, although I know his name is one rarely mentioned. The name Indorildo, however, never came up, despite the fact that he is supposed to be older than most. What makes hi thing he is something special, then?”

Laerwen shrugged. “He is a Vanya. In his eyes, that fact alone makes him stand above us, Moriquendi; especially above rustic Wood-Elves like myself.”

There was a certain bitterness in her voice, and Celebrían understood that she could not have had it easy among all the scholarly Noldor and the occasional high-nosed Vanya among the Sages. Which, of course, made Celebrían wonder what she was doing here in the first place.

“Forgive me the question,” she began slowly. “But how did you end up in a scholarly enclave, of all places? ‘Tis unusual enough that one of the Woodland Folk would forsake the forests to Sail – choosing scholarly activities is a rare thing among them, if my Adar’s people in Lothlórien are any indication.”

“That is true,” agreed Laerwen. “I only Sailed because my betrothed was slain in the Battle upon Dagorlad, and I wanted to be there when he is released. And I chose to become a scholar for he was the heir to his father’s throne, and even though ‘tis unlikely that he would ever become a King, I wanted to be a proper Queen to him.”

Celebrían considered the possibilities. The only Elven Kings still alive in Middle-earth during the Last Alliance had been Gil-galad and Oropher of the Greenwood. Gil-galad had no heir as far as she knew, and the only son of Oropher had long been married with grown children by then. That left her with one possibility.

“You were meant to marry Dorothil Thranduilion, were you not?” she asked quietly.

She could vaguely remember Thranduil’s firstborn, said to have been the greatest archer since Beleg Cúthalion. She also knew that Prince Dorothil had been supposed to marry after the war from which he never returned. Just as his grandsire and two of his brothers had not.

“And I will marry him, as soon as he gets out of Mandos,” she said firmly. “In the meantime, I will continue my studies here. Back in the Greenwood, no-one cared that their Sindarin prince would marry a simple Wood-Elf. After all, that was what his father had done, too. But here – even on Tol Eressëa – things are a little different. People will accept a scholar on the side of a prince, though, and that will spare us both a lot of grief.”

“Besides,” Laerwen added with a mischievous smile, “I actually enjoy learning. Just do not tell any other Wood-Elf you may meet, or my reputation will be ruined forever. Let them believe that this is a great sacrifice I am making for the sake of my betrothed: bending over musky old scrolls, instead of nancing under the trees of Eglavain.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” promised Celebrían, laughing; then she returned to Pengolodh’s desk, as Elemmírë was calling her.

It seemed that Pengolodh indeed had Sindarin translations of Elemmírë’s poems; several different versions of them, in fact. He did, however, flat our refuse to read or recite them – for artistic reasons.

“I may be a native Sindarin speaker… well, more or less,” he said, “but I lack the heart of a minstrel. Your beautiful words would sound hollow in my mouth. Let us go to the Hall of Music, though; there we shall find the right performer. Come with me!”

The Hall of Music was on the second floor, larger even than the library below, and of slightly different proportions. Which, as Pengolodh explained them, was for the sake of acoustics; the hall had been built so that it would provide the best possible sound, for voices and instruments alike.

“This is something we have actually learned from the Naugrim,” he added. “Well, Celebrimbor had. Before that, our minstrels rarely performed in closed rooms.”

“We, old-fashioned ones- still prefer to sing outdoors,” commented Ivárë with a smile. “But I agree that an indoor music hall does have its advantages. Some of the newer pieces have been composed with the harmonies created by the faint echoes of a closed room in mind. ‘Tis a different kind of music than ours, but not less beautiful. Well, where is your right performer, then?”

“Here am I!” a merry voice answered, and Celebrían smiled in pleasant surprise when she saw Ilverin enter the room. Despite all the new and amazing encounters of recent time, she had missed the little imp.

She also had to consciously remind herself that said little imp was an Age and a half older than she. With Ilverin, one easily forgot such things.

Ilverin gave her a grin and a wave, and then turned to Master Pengolodh, inquiring what exactly did they want him to perform. When the Sage explained him the case, he seemed a little doubtful.

“I am not sure I would be the right one for such a noble task,” he said modestly. “I am not even a proper minstrel, you see.”

But Ivárë was clearly unconcerned. “You will do just finely,” he declared. “We do not expect a festive performance like one on Samírien. My beloved simply wishes to hear the test in the Grey Tongue. We have found several inspired translations in the library…”

Ilverin waved off the rest of the sentence. “No need for that; I know the best Sindarin version of the Aldundénië by heart.”

“And which one would be considered the best?” asked Elemmírë. “I hope you do not intend to impose Macalaurë’s work upon me.”

“Nay; this one was actually made by Queen Melian herself and brought to the West by surviving Doriathrim after the War of Wrath,” replied Ilverin. “I actually learned it in Lórien, from some Reborn ellith who liked to sing it with various melodies, all composed by Daeron.”

Elemmírë rolled her eyes. “The Lament for the Trees as interpreted by a Dark Elf who never saw them. Can things become even more ridiculous?”

“Well, singing The End of Starlight in High Quenya would probably count as far more weird,” replied Ilverin, mischief glittering in his eyes.

“Which is not surprising, as it is a lament of the Avari, composed in the ancient tongue of our people, about the first rising of Anor,” answered Ilverin.

“A lament?” repeated Ivárë in shock. “The return of light was the greatest wonder imaginable after the death of the Trees!”

“Not for those who had known but the soft shimmering of Elbereth’s… I mean Lady Varda’s stars,” Celebrían corrected herself. “I remember my adar telling me of the terror his people felt when the harsh light of Anor first illuminated their dark forests. Bráglorin they called the new light, the Blazing Vessel; and Gairá, the Fearful, and mourn they did truly, for life as they had known before was changed forever.”

Pengolodh nodded thoughtfully. “I heard of some reclusive clans of the Avari who refuse to even leave their houses by daylight to the present day.”

“Well, they are Avari, after all,” said Elemmírë dismissively. “What can you expect from their lot? They refused the summons of the Valar, after all, choosing to live in the darkness of Endórë instead of the Light of Valinor!”

“They see it differently,” said Celebrían, remembering her discussions with Nimrodel’s people and with Thranduil’s Queen, Lálisin. “They consider themselves the only faithful ones who have kept the old ways. And they are wary of the rest of us, particularly of those who forsook the lands of their birth and went to the West.”

“Faithful they are supposed to be?” asked Elemmírë incredulously. “They, who were the first to disobey the Guardians of Arda?”

Celebrían found her attitude more than a little insulting, but before she could give an answer – which probably would have been a fairly unfriendly one – there was a brief shimmer in the Hall of Music, and a Maia appeared in their midst. She was tall and fair-haired, clad entirely in iridescent white silk: long-sleeved undergown and sleeveless gown, both of which seemed to change colour as the light falling upon the fabric shifted. Her heavy mass of golden curls was unbraided and cascaded down her back freely.

“Actually, there was quite a debate among the Valar about bringing the Elves to Aman,” she said; her voice was clear like the sound of silver bells. “And at least Lord Ulmo heartily disapproved of the final decision, though he did obey the Elder King’s decree in the end.”

Everyone but Elemmírë stared at her in awe, for she seemed to surpass any of her brethren and sisters they had ever met, both in power and beauty. Elemmírë, however, bowed to her lightly.

“Ilmarë,” she said by way of greeting. “Your presence honours us. How can we be of service?”

The handmaid of the Elentári grinned at them, which was, frankly, a somewhat shocking expression of a face of such stunning light and beauty as hers.

“Why, I have come to hear Melyanna’s version of the Aldundénië, of course,” she answered. “Lord Manwë is not the only one upon Taniquetil who likes poetry, you know. And the Grey Tongue is full of subtle nuances that I never grow tired of.”

“Why would anyone from the Elder King’s household have an interest in the tongue of the Moriquendi?” she asked. While she was interested in it herself, out of professional interest, she could not understand why any of the Valar or Maiar would do so.

“How could we not?” asked Ilmarë back, suddenly very serious. “Are they not the Children of the Stars, who forsook even the Light of Valinor out of love for the Elentári’s handiwork? Never doubt that those who remained in Endórë have always been beloved by the Valar, every bit as much as those who followed their summons.”

The reprimand in her voice was clear, and Elemmírë seemed properly contrite. Ilmarë nodded in satisfaction; then she turned to Ilverin, the only one present who smiled up to her without being over-awed.

“Well, Littleheart,” she continued briskly, “are you going to sing the Aldundénië to us now, or are we supposed to wait ‘til the End of Arda?”

Ilverin grinned at her, unperturbed. “For an eternal spirit you are fairly impatient,” he countered.

But then he picked up one of the handheld harps and began to sing, and everyone, even Ivárë, listened to his voice spellbound, not even noticing when their tears began to fall.

Author’s notes: This time at the end of the chapter, as I do not want to spoil anyone’s surprise.

Aracáno’s trip to the Council Hall of Tavrobel differed considerably from Celebrían’s leisurely walk across town with the two Vanyar. For starters, there was a great deal more pomp involved – unsurprisingly, as he went in the company of the Noldóran and his Queen. And, of course, they rode up the short distance, to make a more dignified impression, with a suitable escort.

Aside from Arafinwë’s personal guards, they were given an escort of twelve honour guards, led by Captain Carnistir, in full parade regalia, with the coat-of-arms of Tavrobel emblazoned upon their front of their white tabards. The Noldóran’s banner was carried before them, as this was an official meeting with the town leaders, and both he and Eärwen had put on the finest clothes brought with them to show their hosts proper respect. Even Aracáno had been ordered to wear a formal robe in the colours of his House, as well as his atar’s personal device; and frankly, he was already beginning to regret that he had not chosen to join Celebrían, after all.

But it was too late now to change his mind, and he had no choice but to grit his teeth and go with his original decision. At least the people streaming onto the streets to see the cavalcade were all staring at Arafinwë and Eärwen. Nobody seemed to recognize him, which was a little odd. He had been, after all, a Prince of Tirion once – although, admittedly, a fairly junior and unimportant one – ad he had got as far as the Helcaraxë with his atar’s host – that should be worth something, should it not? How came that no-one remembered him? Were all those who had once known him dwelling in Aman or still residing in Mandos?

It was not so that he would want a big welcoming committee or anything, honestly. But a little attention would have been flattering. More so as, for the first time ever, his siblings were not there to steal it from him. Was it not the reason why he had been released first? And yet still no-one cared for him.

Neither his uncle, nor his aunt took notice of his disappointment, being too busy to display the proper image expected from them, and thus he was in a somewhat foul mood when they finally reached the town centre and were now approaching the Council Hall. The sheer size of it surprised him, even for such a large and lively town as Tavrobel.

“’Tis huge!” he murmured, duly impressed. Certainly, the palaces of Tirion were far superior – as far as he could remember them – but the lengthy, three-storey building could easily be compared to the royal townhouses of Eldamar.

“It also serves as the town’s central Guild House and Hall of Justice,” explained Captain Castimir, who had overheard his comment.

Aracáno nodded his understanding. Even Elves had quarrels that needed to be addressed properly and to mutual satisfaction, and as the Tol Eressëans had no central government, nor a King, it made sense that such things would be dealt with by the elected leaders of each individual settlement.

Some of the honour guards dismounted and took the horses of the visitors to the stables that lay under the building, while Captain Castimir guided them to the entrance doors. These were wide enough to pass through with arms outstretched, and the doorframe, carved masterfully of white stone, resembled of two great trees whose entwined branches formed the arch above the door wings.

Once inside the majestic entryway, Captain Castimir sent a youthful attendant – a Noldo wearing a grey tabard with the town’s device emblazoned on the front – to fetch their escort, someone named Gelimer, who would lead their Majesties to the Great Chamber. While they were waiting, Aracáno looked around him with interest to take in the excellent craftsmanship with which the Hall had been built.

The entryway alone was worthy the mansion of a King, he decided. The paned window arch above the door spilled golden sunlight across stone walls stained in pale green to complement a marble floor with veins the colour of jade. Above them, raised into the domed ceiling, hung a wrought iron chandelier, with silver fittings, that held a dozen crystal globes. The centre of the globes seemed dull and empty at the moment, but he assumed that they were, in fact, Fëanorian lamps that would burn with a cold blue light when darkness fell. Clearly, much of lost old knowledge had been preserved by the exiles in Endórë – and brought back to the West, it seemed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of light, brisk steps. Down a side hallway came a slender ellon, a Sinda by his looks, wearing a modest, knee-length tunic in dark grey, with dark breeches and a sleeveless surcoat in dark blue over it. The device of the town was embroidered upon his surcoat, as a sure sign that he, too, was employed by the Town Council. Tow armed guards accompanied him, both Noldor, wearing the usual ring mail; their long legs made his steps seem slower and more deliberate. He stopped in respectful distance and gave the royal visitors his obeisance.

“Greetings and welcome to the Council Hall of Tavrobel, your majesties,” he said in a passable, though accented Quenya; he spoke with the same slight lisp that had developed in Beleriand among the exilic Noldor, so he had to be older than he looked. “I am Gelimer, head scribe of the Council. The Council has gathered and waiting for you, if you would follow me.”

“We are ready,” answered the Noldóran with a brief nod, and the Sinda bowed again.

He led them down a wide corridor and then turned into another hallway that headed for huge double doors of carved dark wood. Along the passage were smaller side doors, and standing before one was Aranwë, clad in a formal robe of black and silver, in the fashion of the Gondolindrim, smiling broadly.

“I told you we shall meet again,” he said; then he nodded to their escort. “Thank you, Gelimer. You can return to your duties; I shall take it from here.”

The Sinda’s face fell in disappointment, and Arafinwë cleared his throat discretely.

“I believe we should allow Master Gelimer here the joy of fulfilling his appointed task,” he said in mild disapproval.

To his credit, Aranwë gave in gracefully enough; he even seemed a little ashamed. The head scribe hurried forth with renewed vigour. After all, one did not get to announce a royal visitor every yén.

The huge doors opened noiselessly, and their guide gestured them to follow him into the adjoining chamber: a spacious room that was buzzing with hushed activity. Guards in mail ring stood on either side of the entrance, and attendants unobtrusively poured wine, took cloaks and refilled inkwells on the immense table. Tapestries of vivid colours, depicting scenes from life back in Middle-earth hung on all four walls between the tall, narrow windows. And the table…

Aracáno could not imagine a tree large enough to provide that solid, singular piece of redwood. The council table in his late grandsire’s palace in Tirion would have been dwarfed by this oblong surface that stretched over half the room’s length, from door to the far wall, where a stained glass window, depicting Tavrobel’s coat-in-arms, broke the light of Anor to a literal rainbow of colours..

At least two dozen Elves of various ages and kindreds sat around it in high-backed chairs, from which they rose with friendly smiles to greet the royal visitors with proper respect. Ellyn and ellith seemed to be there in equal measure; some of them like the tall, ash-blond Nando with the heavy shoulders of an archer, were clad in the colours and fashion of the Gondolindrim, including Aranwë.

At the table’s far end, in the position of central authority, a blind Elf sat.

The first thing Aracáno noticed about him was his extreme age. He looked positively ancient, even compared with Master Tinwë of Kortirion, and definitely the oldest Elf he had ever met. He was not particularly tall, but of wiry strength; clearly one used to deal with whatever Fate might choose to throw at him.

The second strange thing about him was that he was clad almost entirely in black: in a knee-length black velvet tunic over black leather breeches and a deep purple shirt of fine wool. His sleeveless robe, made of black brocade, was floor-length and open in the front, and embroidered with silver thread and black pearls on the hem and around the arm holes. There was something forbidding in his dark appearance, especially before the cavalcade of multicoloured light coming through the back window.

His hair was white; not silver like that of the Teleri but snow white, and he wore it in a lose knot on the nape of his neck, with only an elaborate braid adorning each temple, but even those were pulled back to keep his face free. The only piece of jewellery he wore was a signet ring with the device of Tavrobel, which he probably needed to verify the documents of the Council.

His pale, gaunt face showed definite Noldorin traits, although in an older, harder and sharper version, showing that he came from a time when intermarriage between the Clans had not yet been generally practiced. His eyes, now milky white and unseeing, had clearly been black once. He had his head tilted to the side as if constantly listening, and Aracáno now understood why the activity in the Council Chamber had been so subdued; the blind Elf most likely got his orientation through his hearing.

Gelimer, the scribe, stepped forth and announced the visitors, first in his old-fashioned, slightly lisping Quenya, then in Sindarin for everyone to understand.

“Their Majesties Arafinwë, King of the Noldor in Aman, and Queen Eärwen of Alqualondë, as well as Prince Aracáno Nolofinwion. Your Majesties, may I present Lord Gimilî of the Tatyai, lately from the House of the Hammer of Wrath in Gondolin-that-was – the head of the Council in the current yén.”

Aracáno was surprised again, for several reasons. Firstly, this was the first time since his rebirth that he would be introduced with his full (former) title as a member of the royal Clan of the Noldor. Secondly, neither the Noldóran nor his Queen seemed to be wondering about the blind Elf, whom they obviously knew. And thirdly, Gelimer had used the word Tatyai, which was an older out-of-use name for the Tatyar, the Third Clan of the Quendi, from which the Noldor originally came. That made him wonder who the old Elf could be.

“Welcome, your Majesties,” he said in a deep, somewhat hollow voice. “’Tis an honour to have you among us again. It has been a long time, and we have, no doubt, much to discuss. Firstly, however, I would like to meet the brother of him who was my King.”

Gently nudged by Eärwen, Aracáno went forth and knelt in front of the ancient Elf. Being the tallest in his entire family, he was as tall on his knees as Lord Gimilî sitting in his chair, which made it easy for the elder to let his fingertips glide across the young prince’s face.

“You do share much of his looks,” he murmured, his unseeing eyes staring into a darkness that had been surrounding him for countless Ages. “It eases my heart to know that at least one of his brothers has been returned to us.”

“It wonders me that you still speak of Turgon with such reverence,” said the ash-blonde Nando who was clad in various shades of browns and greens. “After all, he ordered the death of your only son.”

Aracáno stiffened under the gentle touch of the blind Elf. Turucáno had ordered and execution? And people were discussing that so calmly?

Lord Gimilî let go of him and turned his head unerringly in the direction of the Nando.

“You know that my son was not entirely without fault in that unfortunate affair, Laikwâlassê, my friend,” he said resignedly. “His obsession with that old legend was at the root of all tragedies that happened to him and his family. Besides, at the time when he was put to death, I was still toiling in the iron mines of Mbelekôro; it was not until several yéni later that I was freed from the slavery of Angband and came to Gondolin.”

“Which old legend?” asked the Noldóran. “As I was told when in Endórë during the War of Wrath, there are many of them, few of which would be even heard of on this side of the Sea.”

“The one about Taimondo, the Swordsman of the Sky; he of the shining belt, who rises above the rim of the world to defeat the Darkness each night anew,” he answered.

“He means Menelvagor,” explained the Nandorin archer with the archaic-sounding name with an amused smile. “My good friend Gimli delights in using the old names for everyone and everything, not caring that the rest of us often cannot follow him.”

“For us, those were the only names we knew in all the Ages we spent in starlight,” replied the blind Elf unrepentantly. “’Tis not my fault that you striplings had forgotten all the old traditions of our people.”

“Can we not make this another argument of tradition versus change?” a venerable-looking elleth, a Noldo with the remembrance of the Light of the Trees in her deep eyes, interrupted. “You know how pointless it is, Legolas; so do not waste their Majesties’ time with such things.

For a moment, Aracáno was somewhat confused, but he figured out quickly enough that the green-clad Nando’s actual name must have been Legolas; with the archaic version of it used by Lord Gimilî alone… which he seemed to do quite a lot, just to confuse the others for his own amusement. It was understandable that the others would grow tired of the game after a while, but Aracáno knew very little of the ancient times – few of the Noldorin Princes of Tirion had ever been educated in the matter – and his curiosity was now piqued, and it disappointed him that nothing of it might be told.

“I want to know more about that legend!” he protested, cringing a little from his own tone as it sounded positively elflingish.

“This is not the time…” Lady Vainóni, who obviously had sufficient authority to decide such things, began, but Arafinwë interrupted her with a raised hand.

“Actually, I would like to learn about those things more myself,” he said. “I was given bits and pieces in my time in Endórë, but no-one could tell me the legend in its entirety. I believe we can spare a few minutes, if Lord Gimilî is willing to share his early memories with us.”

The blind Elf nodded. “Gladly would I do so, Aran Finarfin. Come, my Prince,” he turned his sightless eyes to Aracáno unerringly, “sit with me while I walk the endless halls of my memories. It will be like talking to my long-lost son again.”

One of the councillors hurriedly vacated her seat, so that the surprised Aracáno could sit next to the ancient one. Other seats were arranged for Arafinwë and Eärwen, and the Council got seated again. Their expectant faces revealed that Lord Gimilî actually telling them something about the starlit Ages of Arda, instead of merely teasing them with the use of outdated names, must have been a rare and most valued event.

The elder took Aracáno’s hand, as if he were but an elfling, sitting at his atar’s feet, eager to learn, and began in a low, sing-song voice that seemed to come from an enormous distance; as it indeed came across many long Ages of the past, from a time when not even Tirion had yet existed.

“We woke up at the starlit mere of Koiviê-néni, when there were no great lights on the sky yet. ‘Twas the time after Mbelekôro had overthrown the Lamps of the Balî; at the time when the lands of Middle-earth, east of the Mountains of Balî-ndôre, were without light. The growth that had begun when the Lamps were shining had come to a halt, for all was dark again. Yet already the oldest living things had arisen: in the Sea the great weeds, and on the earth the shadow of dark trees. Small things walked beneath those ancient, towering trees; things faint and silent and shy. But in the deep valleys between the night-clad hills dark creatures dwelt, old and strong – bred by Mbelekôro in the North, to serve him and bend all Arda under his iron boots.”

There were nods of agreement all around from the oldest Elves present, some of whom had been probably also alive in those times. So far, it was nothing Aracáno would not have heard before, but he tempered his impatience. The elder was entitled to tell the tale in any manner he liked, and the rest of them would listen in respect.

“The Balî came seldom thither, save for Lord Arâme and the Lady Kémi, whom you call Yavanna,” continued Gimilî, for she was grieved at the darkness of Middle-earth and ill content that it was forsaken. Thos Mbelekôro could build his strength in the North undisturbed, gathering around him some mighty spirits among the Máyar. These were once the servants of the Balî but got drawn to Mbelekôro’s splendour in the days of his greatness and remained in that allegiance down into his darkness. And Mbelekôro took them and changed them into demons of terror: for their hearts were of fire and they were clad in living darkness; and Gothombauk, the Scourge of Fire was the mightiest among them.”

“Such were the monsters that haunted us in the Elder Days; and the Ñgwalaraukar were not the only ones. Many others, divers in kinds and shapes but equal in malevolence and cruelty, have fortunately been destroyed and forgotten since then by most; even by most of the lore-masters. And Mbelekôro, once he had looked upon the first Kwendî, began to take those of us who strayed from our first home, either to have us toil in his mines as slaves, or to be turned into his foul creatures, by torture and unspeakable horror. And thus his real spread even southward over Middle-earth, and spoiled its lands and waters with the vile of his evil.”

“Were you one of those taken by the Hunter?” asked Aracáno, fascinated and terrified by the enormity of such things at the same time.

“Yea, I was. I left our fortified settlement in the company of Morwê, our chieftain, who wanted to see the place where we were mining copper ore. For while even in those early times we Tatyai were skilled at making things that we needed and had already invented smithcraft, we had not discovered iron and its uses yet. Barely had we reached the mines, we were attacked, even though they were not very far from our village.”

He paused there, obviously fighting those evil memories, and everyone waited patiently. There was such silence in the Great Chamber as Aracáno had not heard before – not outside of Mandos, in any case.

“I tried my best to protect Lord Morwê, more so as I was wedded to Princess Morwêndî, his eldest daughter, but to no end,” the old one finally continued. “We were separated. Him they took to the torture chambers of Utubnu, as I learned much, much later, from where he was saved by our warriors, led by my son. I was taken to the iron mines with many others and toiled there for three whole Ages, fort his happened before the Chaining of Mbelekôro, and I spent what you know as the Sleep of Yavanna in those mines… until I grew blind in the eternal darkness without the starlight to ease my heart, blind and broken.”

Lord Gimilî shrugged. “It truly was not my doing. When I was no more use in the mines, I was brought to Gorthaur’s stronghold at Tol Sirion, to be his personal slave and to amuse him. From there I came to Gondolin, after Luktiênê the Fair had torn down the tower and laid open its dungeons.”

“But how did you gain permission to enter Gondolin at all?” asked Aracáno. “I was told that not even our atar knew where the city was being hidden. Turucáno is said to have been very secretive about it.”

“That he was,” said Aranwë, grinning, “but the truth is, Lord Gimilî was found by one of our patrols, as he practically stumbled over the Dry River by accident.”

“If you believe in accidents,” returned the elder dryly. “I still believe that it was the unhoused spirit of my son that led me to safety; and Aran Turgon felt that he owed me for having put my son to death. Since I had once been a metalsmith and learned a great deal about iron in the mines, I became a member of the House of the Hammer of Wrath; they often recruited among former slaves, as you well know.”

“I wonder why did you not join the House of the Mole,’ said Arafinwë. “I understand that they were mostly smiths and miners.”

“Three Ages spent almost exclusively in mine shafts had been more than enough,” replied Lord Gimilî with a mirthless grin. “Besides, I was not fond of the lord of that House.”

“I cannot blame you,” muttered Aranwë. “Few of us were. At least our Lord Rog was a wise and gentle soul; a former slave himself, who understood what the others had suffered. But what does this have to do with your son’s fascination with an ancient legend – which, if I may remind you, you still have not told us.”

“Oh, it has much to do with it,” answered the elder. “That legend, too, has its roots in the starlit days. For the Lady Barathî, the one you know as Varda, looked out from Taniquetil upon the darkness of Middle-earth and was moved. Thus she took the dew that dripped from Silimê, the Silver Tree, and was hoarded in her wells, and therewith she made the new and bright stars to ease our hearts.”

“For which reason she is called the Star-Kindler and Queen of Stars,” said Eärwen quietly; she, too, was a daughter of the stars and understood the Moriquendi’s utter fascination with them better than the other Amaneldi. “She strewed the unlit skies with these bright vessels, filled with silver flame; and all those who opened their eyes to that light at Cuiviénen are called the Children of Stars. That is why my atar and our people took so long to make their final move from this very island, where they could still dwell in starlight, to Aman that was, at that time, brightly illuminated by the Light of the Trees.”

“High in North, however, as a challenge upon Morgoth, the Elentári set a crown of seven mighty stars to swing? The emblem of the Valar and the sign of Doom,” supplied Arafinwë, and Aranwë nodded in agreement.

“Many names they have been called,” he said, “yet in the old days of the North both Eldar and Edain called them the Burning Briar; and some of the more superstitious and less wise Mortals the Sickle of the Gods.”

“Quite so,” agreed Lord Gimilî. “But there were other stars that the Lady Barathî set upon the skies to shine down upon our darkened lands below; and our legends of old speak about the heroes of the heavens: mighty spirits that guide those vessels across the upper oceans. Kalakâno, for one, the Herald of the Night, who emerges glowing red through the mists like a jewel of fire. Taimondo, the son of Tulkatho, whose face and weapons gleam as silver in the night. And his sword-brother, Helluin, who always follows him closely like an azure bee.”

”If you still mean Menelmacar by Taimondo, then by all due respect, you are mistaken, Elder,” said Arafinwë cautiously. “The Valar do not have children the way we do; and Menelmacar, or Menelvagor, as he is known among our kin in Endórë, is the chief Maia of Lord Tulkas. Of that I am quite certain, as I fought on his side in the War of Wrath.”

“I know that – now,” replied the ancient one. “But in the early days we know night to nothing about the true nature of the Powers, and – like the Mortals afterwards – mistook the Balî for gods and the Máyar for their children. We had long learned the truth by the time your people returned to Middle-earth; but the old legends prevailed.”

“Tell us more about the one of Menelmacar,” begged Aracáno. “The one your son was so fascinated with. Why would he have such an interest for that particular one?”

“There was a reason,” answered Gimilî. “You see, it was said that Helluin is but an empty vessel, waiting for the sword-brother Taimondo will chose from among the Kwendî one day, gifting upon him a sword, made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star, and it would cut all earth-dolven iron like soft bread. And together, the two of them would wear off the evil of Mbelekôro, so that Barathî could replace all the stars that the Dark Lord had loosened and cast down from the sky.”

“Then in a way that ancient prophecy of yours did come true,” said Arafinwë thoughtfully. “In the Great Battle, Menelmacar and Ingilmo son of Ingwë fought side by side like brothers to overthrow Morgoth and put an end to his reign of terror. And in that battle Ingilmo did wield a sword that had been forged by Lord Aulë himself and was gifted upon him by Lord Tulkas.”

“I heard of that,” answered Gimilî, “and my heart ached for my son; for as an elfling had he already became enamoured by the idea of being the one whom Taimondo would choose as his sword-brother. Even in death, he must have been terribly disappointed when the choice fell onto another one.”

“Worry not about him,” said Aracáno. “The Dead have now knowledge about what is going on in the outside world; in Mandos, he is happy.”

The ancient Elf gave him a look full of sorrow. “The Faithful do not follow the call of Mandos, young one,” he replied. “We do not abandon the lands of our birth – not even in death.”

“But-but you are here!” pointed out Aracáno logically, slightly confused.

The old one nodded. “My fate is different from the others of my kind,” he said. “That is another tale for another time; one that we shall not discuss now. We have interrupted the schedule of this Council long enough.”

Aracáno was terribly disappointed by that – he loved ancient tales, and having found someone who was a literal well of previously unknown ones excited him to no end – but when he tried to protest, Arafinwë silenced him with a reproachful look.

“Now, be good, Aracáno,” said the King of the Amanian Noldor sternly. “Lord Gimilî was more than gracious to share his memories with us, and for that we all thank him. But we must not hinder these good people in doing the work for which they had been elected. Besides, we are here to discuss the renewal of trade agreements between Tavrobel and Tirion. I know ‘tis not as exciting as listening to ancient tales, especially such well-told ones,” he added gently. “But it is important, and as the son of the King, you must learn the importance of seemingly insignificant things.”

“I am but the third son of a dead King whose realm now lies under the Sea,” groused Aracáno. “When would I ever need to know anything about trade agreements?”

Arafinwë smiled ruefully. “That was exactly what I thought in my youth, whenever Atar summoned me to sit in court with him, rare enough as it happened,” he answered, “and see what I have become. Without the support of your aunt, I would have been hopelessly lost. You can never know when the burden of leadership may fall onto your shoulder. As a royal prince, you must be prepared for such an occurrence; and as your atar is not here to do it, I have to take over your training until his return.”

Aracáno nodded listlessly. He knew his uncle was right, but that did not mean he had to like it. He never had much interest for the affairs of state – he wanted to become a great warrior in Endórë, whose name would be praised in songs, not a King. And old tales were so much more interesting than stupid trade agreements anyway.

Lady Vainóni, the elleth that had reproached Lords Legolas and Gimilî earlier, and happened to be sitting on his other side, patted his hand encouragingly.

“Be not disheartened, young Prince,” she said in a motherly manner. “If their Majesties agree, you may visit us in the House of Hundred Chimneys later, where many old tales are told every night. My lord Gilfanon would be glad to have you under our roof for a time. You may not remember him, for you have met him but once, when you were a small elfling still; but he was an old friend of your grandsire since the Waters of Awakening and remembers the Elder Days well.”

“I shall be delighted to meet Lord Gilfanon again myself,” he said. “It has been too long. We can make out the details of a visit in your house later, my lady, assuming that we, too, are welcome. I would not wish to impose ourselves upon you.”

Lady Vainóni waved off his concerns. “You and Queen Eärwen are always welcome, Majesty.”

“In that case we thankfully accept,” said Eärwen. “All three of us,” she added, with a gentle smile in Aracáno’s direction.

The chance to visit the mysterious house of Lord Gilfanon, of which he had already heard much from Meril’s people, reconciled Aracáno with the necessity of sitting through some boring Council meeting. He did have one last question, though, and turned to Lord Gimilî with it.

“All along this tale, you never mentioned the name of your son, Elder,” he said. “I would like to know who he was.”

In his eagerness to learn more he did not notice everyone present stiffening in their chairs; or the uncomfortable silence that fell over the Great Chamber. The blind Elf did hear the sudden ceasing of all voices around him, of course, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he smiled at the young prince thinly.

“His mother and I named him Endero,” he replied. “Later on, other people may have known him under a different name; and they will, no doubt, tell you unflattering tales about him. I do not question the truth of those tales; in his later years he must have been terribly mislead. But Kundû Endero of the Tatyai, Morwê’s heir, was a hero of his people, who fought Mbelekôro’s monsters under the shadow of the great trees for many yéni; and that is how I shall always remember him. More so here where no-one else knew him as he truly was.”

Gimli the blind Elf hails from the “Book of Lost Tales, Part 2”. His personal background, however, has been partially changed. If you want to learn more about his people, you will have to lead my other story, “The Vault of the Dead”

For the stars mentioned in this chapter and the legends about them see “The Astronomy of Middle-earth” by Dr. Kristine Larsen. As she is an astronomer, I thought she would be the most reliable source.

Some of the names Gimli uses are either in Primitive Elvish (thank you, Ardalambion and Mr. Fauskanger!) or early versions, taken from various parts of HoME. I was not very consequent in the usage, as I am not a Tolkien linguist, so I had to use what I found ready-made.

Author’s notes: It is postulated in the “Coronar” series that Galenbrethil, Lindefal and Findalor had known Elrond from Gil-galad’s court in Lindon. I’ve kept that aspect, but they are fairly different characters here – still with compliments to The Tired Scribe, who had first come up with them.

The curious details about Wood-Elves are not canon; I came up with them a decade or so ago and have been using consequently every time I have to write Wood-Elves.

Elrond and Celebrían’s first “meeting” is described in my other story, “Twisted Paths of Fate”, which can be read on FF.Net.

Warning: disturbing images of fighting. (Nothing worse than what is in the Silmarillion, but still.)

Needless to say that Aracáno was not satisfied by that answer, but he could do nothing about it right then. So he practiced himself in the unique Elven valour of patience and sat through the meeting between his uncle and aunt and the Town Council, respectively. A meeting that was rather long and dreary indeed. He opted to ask Celebrían afterwards, hoping that she would be more forthcoming.

Unfortunately for him, Celebrían had no further knowledge to share. She did, however, share with him her fond memories of the House of Hundred Chimneys and its Master and Mistress, and thus Aracáno decided to accept Lady Vainóni’s invitation, asking Celebrían to accompany him on his visit.

Celebrían was more than willing to do so; however, it turned out that the House would be almost empty for the next few days, most of its dwellers going to one of the northern settlements for some local feast. Aracáno was terribly disappointed, of course; so much, that Celebrían had mercy with him.

“I am going to visit some old friends in town tomorrow,” she said. “You can come with me if you want. I doubt that they would know any ancient legends, but I am certain that they have many tales from the Second Age to tell. Or are you not interested in what happened in Middle-earth after the fall of the Noldorin realms?”

He sounded exactly like her sons when they had been very young, and Celebrían patted his arm encouragingly. “Worry not about that. I am certain that they will like you.”

Aracáno did not feel entirely certain about that – in truth, he had felt increasingly unimportant lately – but he was interested in Celebrían’s old friends as well as the tales they might be telling, and so he accepted the invitation. They left the Rowan Tree Inn right after the opulent breakfast, so that they would have enough time to spend in friendly company.

To Aracáno’s surprise, Lindefal, who, as he understood, ran the establishment for the actual proprietor, came to lead them to their destination.

“I have taken the day free,” Lindefal explained. “I have trained the others working in the inn well enough to manage without me for a short while, and we all want to spend this day with our lady.”

Aracáno, used to overlook personnel like most nobles, took a conscious look at him for the first time. Tall and slender, Lindefal had the sharp features of the Noldo, but with the more lithe build of a Sinda – and auburn hair and slightly slanted, cat-like green eyes, the likes of which Aracáno had never seen before. Lindefal caught his pondering look and smiled.

“My grandsire marched with the host of Maglor, as his personal scribe and aide,” he explained. “He married a Sinda from Hithlum. My mother was a Silvan Elf, whom Lord Maglor’s people freed from captivity. I am told I bear the mark of all my ancestors.”

“Only that your hair does not change its colour,” added Celebrían, smiling.

Lindefal gave her a look of mock affront. “You just had to rub it in my face, did you not?”

Aracáno looked from one to the other in confusion. “Change its colour?” he repeated blankly.

“Silvan Elves have a unique bond with the lands of their birth,” explained Celebrían. “They change with the changes of nature: their hair is light brown during the stirring season and spring; turn almost blond in summertime; darkens to auburn, almost read in autumn and dark brown, near black like the frozen soil in winter. However, their children of mixed origins not always inherit this trait.”

“Only those who have also inherited the ability to wield earth magic,” added Lindefal with a shrug, “which I have not.”

“Not truly. I have always felt and lived as a Noldo. Besides, what good would it have done in my line of work?”

“Lindefal was born in Lindon, shortly after the War of Wrath and was trained as a scribe and a warrior at Gil-galad’s court,” supplied Celebrían. “His parents never had any part in the kinslayings and were thus readily accepted by the High King. Alas, they were both slain in our war against Sauron.”

Aracáno did not know who this Sauron might have been but found it better not to ask right now. “I am sorry,” he offered instead, and Lindefal shrugged again.

“They were not the only ones; and we can hope to be reunited, sooner or later. Let us go now. Galenbrethil and Findalor must be getting impatient.”

He led them to a stately, three-storey house, built of white stone, on the edge of the merchant district of Tavrobel, inside the second ring wall. The house was surrounded by other, similar ones, all belonging to various merchants and craftspeople, and like the other ones, had the shop and workroom of the owner on the ground floor.

As Galenbrethil was a healer and an herbalist, the shop had long tables and shelves, laden with a great number of salves and tinctures, either in glass bottles or clay pots. Apparently, she also made perfumes, lotions for the care of skin and hair and scented soaps. Those were offered for purchase on a different table, in bottles or – in the case of soaps – in small boxes, made of tree bark and lined with dry leaves.

The working area was arranged in the other half of the room. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the beam above the working table, where Galenbrethil made her medicines. Smaller and larger stone mortars, to pound the ingredients to powder, were lined up on a shelf. A pair of scales, with tiny copper weights, stood on the corner of the table, next to a smooth marble slate, on which she rolled her pills and laid out her lozenges to dry. In the middle of the table, upon a small brazier, some sort of concoction was brewing, and next to it several flasks, made of smoky glass, were waiting to be filled.

Galenbrethil came forth from behind the working table to greet them. She was a dark-haired Sinda, probably with some Noldorin blood in her, too, Aracáno found; tall for one from the Third Clan, but as lithe and graceful as were most of the Sindar. Her dark hair was bound back in a cloth, so that it would not fall into her concoctions by accident, and she wore the long loose apron of a healer tied over her simple, forest green gown that laced up on the back. Her face was fair and gentle, with pale grey eyes and very long, very dark lashes.

“Here you are, at least!” she exclaimed, putting down the bowl in which she had been busily stirring something. Then she turned to her apprentice, an elfling of probably thirty or forty, and smiled. “Ilvar, you know what you have to do with this tincture we are brewing, right?” she asked, and the youth nodded eagerly.

“Yes, mistress,” he rattled down a long list of previous instructions, clearly expecting to be praised for his attentiveness, and he was not disappointed.

“Very good,” said Galenbrethil. “Do you think you can finish this poultice for me on your own? Captain Carnistir will send for it shortly; some of his guards have suffered minor bruised during the last training season.”

“Then I shall leave it – and the fate of our brave Town Guards – in your capable hands and will tend to my guests for the rest of the morning,” Galenbrethil gave the elfling an encouraging smile, loosened her apron and hung it on a peg. She removed the cloth from around her hair, too, and pulled it around to braid it quickly and loosely. Then she smiled at her guests. “I apologize for the delay. Come with me now, Findalor is eager to meet you.”

She led them to a back door, hidden behind a curtain, and they climbed a short wooden stairway there, leading to the second floor of the house where, as she explained, they all had their rooms. Including Lindefal, who lived with them – when he did not spend the night in the Rowan Tree Inn, working, which seemed to be a frequent occasion. On the upper level were the rooms of the apprentices.

Findalor, the master of the house, was waiting for them in the parlour. He was clearly a Noldo, dark-haired and grey-eyed, but rather broadly built for someone of the Second Clan, with the heavy shoulders and strong arms of a warrior. He wore black breeches and a short-sleeved, knee-length tunic of fine dark grey wool over a pale linen shirt, girdled with a simple leather belt. His voice was deep and pleasant, his joy upon seeing Celebrían obvious.

“My lady,” he said, kissing her hand, “’tis good to see you again. It has been a very long time…”

Since he had died, Aracáno realized; this ellon was clearly a Reborn, and one who had long found his place in the changed world and was comfortable in it.

“Too long,” Celebrían agreed. “We have missed you – all three of you. We all have, but Elrond more than most. After all, only Glorfindel has been longer with him.”

“And now he no longer has you, either,” murmured Findalor. Celebrían paled at that, but he raised a hand. “We doubt not that you had your reasons; neither do we ask what those reasons were. We hope that one day you may be ready to speak about it, but that has time. Until then, we are simply happy to have you with us again. By the way,” he added, looking at Aracáno with unveiled curiosity, “who is your companion? I do not remember having met him before.”

Lindefal shook his head, grinning at her like a loon. “Nay; I thought I would let you deliver the blow.”

“How chivalrous of you!” Celebrían turned back to Findalor. “Well, then, my friend; meet Prince Aracáno Nolofinwion – the uncle of your King.”

If Findalor was shaken by that announcement – as Lindefal had clearly expected him to be – he gave no such sign. Instead, he gave the embarrassed young Prince a good, hard look… and smiled.

“You look a lot like him,” he judged, “both in features and in colouring. Only that you are taller; and you have grey eyes.”

“I was always the tallest in the family; even Atar was an inch or two shorter. And we brothers looked much alike, favouring our Ammë in looks – but our Atar in temper. At least Findecáno and Turucáno did,” he corrected himself with a crooked smile. “Whenever I tried to throw a tantrum they told me I was too young to have a temper yet. And Írissë was just as bad as them sometimes.”

Celebrían and her three friends exchanged knowing looks – and burst out in laughter as one. Aracáno stared at them, bewildered.

Findalor, mindful of the insecurities of a fellow Reborn – and one so recently rehoused at that – became serious at once again.

“Oh no, my Prince,” he reassured, “worry not about that. ‘Tis just so that, after an Age and a half, we finally understand where the tempers of our King had come from.”

Aracáno felt his tension easing. “I assume my nephew was not the meekest person either, then,” he said in a questioning tone.

That led to another bout of giggles. Apparently, the others had some very vivid memories of the Scion of Kings in that area.

“Nay, he was not,” Celebrían finally replied with a smile. “He had a temper like a sea storm; awesome and vicious when raised. ‘Twas his only shortcoming in a sea of impressive traits.”

“Aran Gil-galad was a wise ruler and a great warlord, who led our people during a difficult time,” added Findalor, the respect in his voice evident. “But he could not deal well with people leaving him; understandable, I suppose, knowing his history.”

“You know nothing of this?” Suddenly, Aracáno felt ashamed by his own ignorance. It was family history, and obviously people expected him to know it.

“He died on the Grinding Ice before our ancestors would reach Middle-earth,” Celebrían came to his aid, “and the Lady Meril was not very forthcoming with details.” She turned to Aracáno. “After Aran Fingolfin had challenged Morgoth to single combat – and lost – your brother sent his wife and his son, who was still just an elfling, to Lord Círdan in the Falas, for their own safety. It was a wise move, but I doubt that a young child would have understood it.”

“How could they not tell him even that much?” she demanded from Findalor. “How could they release him from Lórien without telling him a thing about his family?”

Findalor shrugged. “Lord Irmo prefers his charges to learn such things from the family itself, instead of from third parties,” he turned to Aracáno, who was still stark white with shock. “Yes, my Prince, that was what your father, the High King of all Noldor in Aman, did. After the Dagor Bragollach, when the Siege of Angband was broken and his troops utterly defeated, Aran Fingolfin thought all his nephews dead, and hope fled his heart. Instead, he was filled with cold rage; such terrible rage, the legend says, that even his closest, most trusted warriors feared to look at him. In his rage, he rode out from Eithel Sirion and smote a blow on the gates of Angband, calling Morgoth forth to do battle with him and him alone.”

“He must have been insane with wrath,” whispered Aracáno. “Did Morgoth come out?”

“Oh yea, he did,” answered Findalor grimly. “He had reassumed his old fana permanently upon returning to Middle-earth: a shape of majesty and terror, dark and huge. It was a great battle, they say; your Adar fought like never before, and he appeared as far and terrible as any of the Valar. But Morgoth... Morgoth had brought forth Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld. Thrice he smote the King’s shield, and thrice did the King rise and lift up his sword again, giving the Dark Lord seven great wounds in their bitter struggle. And ever afterwards did Morgoth fear the House of Fingolfin, remembering those wounds that pained him for a long time to come.”

He paused, awed himself by that incredible feat no other Elf had ever been able to repeat, and Aracáno listened to him, wide-eyed and awestruck. He always knew his father was one of the greatest among the Eldar, but he had never dreamed of him performing such an amazing deed.

“But in the end, even the King grew tired and stumbled backwards; and Morgoth put his foot on the King’s neck, pinning him down with the weight of a falling hill,” Findalor finally continued. “Yet even then, the King did not give up. He raised his sword Ringil one last time, burying it in the heavy foot that was pinning him down; and the black blood of the Dark Lord gushed forth, filling the rifts torn by Grond during the combat.”

“It still could not save Atar, though, could it?” whispered Aracáno, tears of pride and grief trickling down his face.

Findalor shook his head. “Nay, it could not. But when Morgoth finally broke his body and tried to throw it to his wolves, Thorndor, Lord of the Eagles came, attacked him and wounded him in the face; then the Eagle took your father’s body and carried it to Gondolin, to Aran Turgon, who buried it with great honour. No evil creature ever dared to come near to that grave.”

“I still cannot imagine how Atar was able to wound Morgoth,” murmured Aracáno, drying his tears. “He was a Vala, after all!”

“True; but one who had taken on a permanent hröa, which made him vulnerable to weapons, like other incarnates,” explained Celebrían, remembering how she had once asked the same question. “Unfortunately, your father’s heroic deed only slowed down the coming of the inevitable end, and Fingon, who became High King after him, was slain in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, only a few decades later – without ever seeing his wife or his son again.”

“I am not sure Aran Gil-galad ever forgave his father that,” added Lindefal grimly, and Celebrían nodded.

“I cannot blame her, to be honest,” she glanced at Findalor with a wry smile. “At least you had the decency to say proper farewells before riding into a battle from which you knew you might not return.”

There was heavy silence lying between them for a while – then Lindefal suddenly broke into a wide grin.

“Well, at least it explains Aran Gil-galad’s fit of temper when Elrond decided to leave the court of Lindon and build his own, hidden settlement in the Misty Mountains.”

“Gil-galad was against the founding of Imladris?” asked Celebrían in surprise. “Elrond never said me anything about that.”

“Not surprising,” replied Findalor softly. “The High King was Elrond’s mentor, his lord and his friend; he would never speak ill about him. But yea, tempers were flying high in those days. It was after the destruction of Ost-in-Edhil and the horrible death of Lord Celebrimbor at Sauron’s hand…

“Wait, wait!” Aracáno interrupted him. “I know not what you are speaking of. Where was this Ost-in-Edhil, and who is Celebrimbor?”

“You would know him as Tyelperinquar, I assume,” answered Celebrían quietly. “Ost-in-Edhil was the chief city of Eregion, where he had settled with his followers.”

“What?” Aracáno became stark white again. “Tyelpe is dead? But he was barely out of childhood when we left!”

“Well, yea, he could call two millennia his own when he died,” reminded him Findalor. “Time stood not still while you were tarrying in Mandos, my Prince. Eregion, the Land of Hollies, was a beautiful place east of the Misty Mountains, near the great Dwarven city and the mines of Moria; and Ost-in-Edhil was said to have been a city of great beauty that rivalled the port towns of Lindon; although I never got to see it myself.”

“It was indeed,” said Celebrían. “I lived there with my parents for a while when I was very young. Master Aranwë was one of its metalsmiths, and Master Pengolodh, too lived there from time to time. Celebrimbor was a good lord of the city; it flourished under his leadership... ere he would make the fatal mistake of taking Annatar in.”

Findalor nodded. “So I heard. When we arrived there with troops sent by the High King to relieve the embattled city, under Elrond’s command, it was already burning, though. Our forces were too weak, and we were beaten back. Were it not for your father coming with more troops, my lady, we would have been slain, too, to the last Elf. With joint efforts, we could drive out the rearguard of Sauron’s already retreating army, but for Ost-in-Edhil – or for Celebrimbor himself – it was already too late.

“What we found among the ruins was too terrible to describe,” added Galenbrethil, her face pale and her eyes haunted by the memories. “I was a young healer, for the first time joining the troops in a battle. It has been so long ago, and I have seen so much more since then, but that is what I still see in my dreams sometimes.”

“At least you managed to get out Erestor; well, Elrond did,” said Lindefal with false brightness. “Imladris would not be the same without him.”

Lindefal nodded. “We did, but only Galenbrethil knew Elrond previously; they were trained together in the healing arts.”

“You were?” he could not tell why, but Aracáno was surprised by that. Perhaps because Galenbrethil was just a commoner, and a Sinda at that, while Elrond was of royal blood.

“We were,” she answered. “I showed the ability to channel the hröa’s own healing energies at a very youthful age, and as this is a rare ability, I was sent to the royal court to be trained by the Master Healers there.”

“She can do much more than just that,” added Findalor with almost proprietary pride. “She may appear fragile to you, but you should have seen her when she was a battle healer, setting broken bones with ease and suturing horrible wounds on many battlefields; moving among the wounded and dying to give comfort and hope in uncounted sleepless nights and long days.”

“As I should be,” replied Findalor seriously. “I would have gone to Mandos a millennium earlier than I actually did without you. You saved my life after that battle, never forget it. I know I won’t.”

“It would have been a waste to let such a staunch warrior die, after all our terrible losses,” returned Galenbrethil.

“Enough of the mutual admiration, you two,” Lindefal interrupted. “We were telling Prince Aracáno about the founding of Imladris, remember?”

“And me,” said Celebrían, “as Elrond never spoke of the beginnings, and I was not yet his wife at that time.”

“One day you will have to tell us how you and Elrond first met,” said Galenbrethil. “That is one tale I have wanted to hear since your wedding; it would be a very moving one, I am fairly certain.”

Unexpectedly for all, Celebrían began to giggle. “I am not the right person to ask,” she said. “You will have to pester Elrond about it. For, you see, when we first met, I was not even born yet.”

“It happened during a Sea Festival in the Grey Havens, or so I am told,” she then explained, “at a time when my mother was rather heavily pregnant with me. The first time I actually remember having met Elrond was well after the Fall of Eregion.”

“Which was a terrible blow for us all,” Findalor picked up the original tale again. “Lindon remained the only strong Elven realm west of the Misty Mountains, and more survivors and refugees came into the seaside ports every day, weary and afraid and bereft of all hope. That was when Elrond came up with the idea of a new settlement; a safe haven where these people, who had lost everything, could begin their lives anew, far from the smouldering ruins that had once been their homes as well as from the ports that were even then threatened by Sauron’s increasing power.”

Aracáno nodded. It made sense to him. “And my nephew did not like it?” he asked.

Findalor glanced at Lindefal. “I think you can tell it best. You were one of the King’s scribes in those days.”

“I was,” agreed Lindefal, “and thus unwillingly the witness of their arguments. And some arguments those were! Each point Elrond made – and those points were more than justified, let me tell you – was countered by the King in steadily growing anger. Unforgivable things were said during those discussions, I am afraid.”

“But why?” Aracáno was flabbergasted. “It was a reasonable suggestion.”

“Yea, but you must understand what lay behind it,” said Lindefal. “Elrond was no longer content to live in the shadow of the High King, despite the fact that he had been named as Gil-galad’s heir…”

Lindefal shook his head. “High Kingship has always been held by Fingolfin’s House. Through Turgon and Idril and Eärendil, Elrond does come from that House, despite his mixed origins. Gildor, while the grandson of Finrod does not; therefore, had there been any kingdom left after the Last Alliance, it would have gone to Elrond. That was how Aran Gil-galad had decreed; only that Elrond wanted to leave Lindon and seek out his own path, and the King did not like it.”

“But he did finally receive permission to depart and found a new city, did he not?” asked Celebrían.

Lindefal nodded. “He did; but the trust and unique closeness between him and the King was broken and would not be repaired ‘til the Last Alliance.”

“During which Gil-galad and Elendil came with their huge armies of Elves and Men to Imladris, to train and prepare there for the war,” added Findalor. “It lasted ten years, and the valley needed almost as many years to recover from it. Imladris was founded as a home, not as a military encampment.”

“I know of that part,” said Celebrían. “I was there, accompanying my Adar who went to war with King Amdír of Lothlórien and his people. He left me in Imladris for my own safety, so yea, I remember those days well. Tell me more about the beginnings though. I want to know everything about how it all started.”

“I fought under him at Eregion,” replied Findalor simply. “I met him for the first time in battle and saw a leader whom I would follow everywhere. One who always saw fighting as a necessary evil to gain peace. Not a warlord who would seek battle to gain personal fame.”

Celebrían nodded. That was the Elrond she knew; the one she had fallen in love with during the Last Alliance, waiting in anxiety for his return in the very home he had given up to house armies in his valley.

“What about you?” she then asked, looking at Galenbrethil. “Why did you join him?”

Galenbrethil shrugged. “He was my friend, my fellow student; and those survivors needed more than just one healer who would be burdened by leadership at the same time. The Master Healers of the court would not have followed him. He needed my help, and I gave it gladly.”

“And here I thought you just could not bear the thought of being parted from me,” said Findalor in mock disappointment, while refilling their cups. Galenbrethil rolled her eyes but refrained from an answer.

“What about you?” asked Celebrían Lindefal. “You had a good position at court; one that many envied you for. Why did you leave?”

“My family had served Lord Maglor for two generations already,” answered Lindefal seriously. “Whatever else he might have been, he was a good master of those living in his household, and my parents and grandparents loved him dearly. He had no heirs in Middle-earth, so all who had loved him, turned to Elrond after his… vanishing. Going to Imladris was my way to keep up my forefathers’ oath; besides, I liked Elrond. He remembered my grandparents, whom I never knew – it felt like family.”

Findalor gave him a knowing look. “I imagine the High King did not like your decision, either.”

“Nay,” admitted Lindefal, “but I was just one of the scribes and a moderately able warrior if needs must be; not his personal protégée.”

Lindefal nodded. “So we did; and in the early days life in the valley was anything but lavish. Only tents had stood along the river as we were studying the site for the new settlement, seeking for the best place to build the houses. Findalor and I had been sent there in advance, together with the stonemasons, carpenters and other craftspeople who declared themselves ready to help with the raising of the city. Even some of Lord Círdan’s shipwrights had come, although they did not intend to actually stay with us, as they could not imagine a life so far away from the Sea.”

“When did all this happen?” asked Aracáno, trying to get a grasp on the timeline – it was not easy.

“It was the autumn of 1967 of the Second Age when Elrond finally arrived in the valley, with a group of warriors and their families, as well as refugees and survivors who wanted to begin a new life,” answered Galenbrethil quietly.

“1967 of the Second Age,” murmured Aracáno. “By then, I had been dead for two millennia, sitting in Mandos without knowing what was going on in the outside world. ‘Tis strange to imagine how much I have missed.”

It was hard to say anything to that; the ellith and Lindefal exchanged uncomfortable glances and avoided to look directly at him. Findalor, however, who had walked in the same shoes himself, threw a comforting arm around the young Prince’s shoulders.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I only spent four hundred years of the Sun in Mandos myself, but even in that short time, things have changed a lot. And as I was born in Middle-earth, these lands were foreign country for me.”

“He hated it here, at first,” smiled Galenbrethil ruefully. “He kept trying to sneak onboard one of the ships from Mithlond and return with them, even if it would mean to leave me behind.”

“I felt like a fish out of water,” admitted Findalor. I wanted to go back; to the places and people and things I had known in my previous life. But it does not work like that. Once one of us has set foot in the Undying Lands, we cannot turn back. The least those of us who have come through Mandos.”

“At least you were born in Aman,” said Lindefal to Aracáno. You have come back to your home of old.”

Aracáno shook his head. “I was very young when I died; most people are not even aware of the fact that Atar had a third son. No-one but my Ammë had ever missed me; and not even she truly needs me – or it would have been her to greet me at the Gates of Return, not Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen.”

“And they must have had their reasons,” replied Aracáno bitterly. “Just as they must have had their reasons to send me to Merilindë, instead of letting me go to my mother… or to stay with Uncle in Tirion.”

“I imagine they thought that courtly life would be too much both for you and for Elenwë,” argued Celebrían. “I know it would be too much for me. In Lady Meril’s house, the three of us will have the time to become familiar with each other – and with life here.”

“And then what?” asked Aracáno bluntly. “Elenwë can wait for the release of Turucáno. You can wait for your family to follow you. But what am I supposed to do? There is no need for younger princes in Aman anywhere. That is why I joined the revolt in the first place – for all the good that it did for me.”

“You can always learn a trade and go into business,” said Findalor, grinning. “That is what I have done, shortly after my release.”

Findalor nodded. “That I am. But you cannot live from that, and while I am in charge of the town’s defences, Tavrobel does not truly need a warlord or anything like that. So I had to give up being a warrior and had to learn an honest trade.”

“Let me guess,” Aracáno gave the heavy shoulders, strong arms and broad chest of their host a calculating look. “You are a smith or a stonemason.”

Findalor laughed. “Nay, I am not. Actually, I am a glass blower. I make all the flasks for my wife’s medicines, and simple drinking vessels for the people in town. They do not have the beautiful and fragile shapes the master craftsmen of Imladris produced,” he added with twinkling eyes, and Celebrían had to laugh, too, for it was hard to imagine him doing such delicate work indeed, “but my wares are solid enough, and the townspeople seem to like them.”

Aracáno shook his head. “I cannot imagine myself as a craftsman; I do not have the skills. Turucáno was a truly gifted metalsmith, and Findaráto could carve stone like few others, but Fin and me, we always were useless when it came to such things. That is why we were trained as warriors. We were good at that – not that it would help me on the Ice.”

“Well, ‘tis too early for you to decide what you want to do with your new life just yet,” said Findalor. “You have barely left Lórien. Give it time; you will find your way, never fear.”

Aracáno was not so sure about that, but the reassurance of the older, more experienced Reborn calmed him down a little. He decided that he liked Celebrían’s friends. They were understanding, they did not expect him to behave as he had earlier, since they had not known him in his first life, and they were a lot of fun.

If he thought about it, he liked Celebrían a great deal, too. She might be Artanis’ daughter, but she refreshingly lacked the haughtiness of her mother. She was… nice, and she clearly missed her family. That was something Aracáno could understand all too well.

“Tell me more about Imladris,” he said. “And about the Last Alliance. Was it then that you fell in love with Elrond?”

“Nay,” replied Celebrían, surprised by the ease with which she could actually speak about those days. “It happened ten years later; when he returned from the war and began to rebuild his ravaged home. He was grieving and bereft, and yet he did not give in to despair; nor did he flee to the West as so many others would. He returned home and began everything anew, and I knew then that I wanted to help him with that. And I wanted to help him heal.”

“Of course, Elrond had already been in love with her for yéni,” added Galenbrethil, grinning, ”but he had been too shy to speak of his feelings. Celebrían had to corner him and practically force him to confess his love.”

“With Artanis as his future mother-in-law?” Aracáno wiggled his eyebrows. “I am not surprised. She could make warrior Maiar quake in their boots; and I cannot imagine her to be happy about Elrond’s mortal blood.”

“She was not,” admitted Celebrían, “but my Adar led armies with Elrond and valued him greatly, and so I had, at least, his support. It was not the deciding factor, though. I would have stowed away with Elrond if I had to, even if it meant that my parents would never speak with me again. It was my choice, not theirs.”

For a moment, there was a steely glint in her eyes that reminded Aracáno eerily of her mother. She might be of a much gentler nature than Artanis, but she was by no means weak.

“In the end, it was their love for each other that won even the Lady Galadriel over,” said Galenbrethil, who had been witness of their courtship, smiling. “All could see how devoted they were to each other; soul-bound, even before they would consummate their bond. And for the first time since I had known him, Elrond was finally truly happy.

“And we were happy for him,” added Lindefal. “He had a harsh enough life in his youth; he deserved happiness.”

“If anyone did, it was him,” agreed Findalor; then he rose from his seat. “Well, we have pondered over the past long enough. Do you want to see the rest of the house now? We have put much work into it and like to show off the results.”

The guests laughed and agreed to the tour, while Galenbrethil went back to her workshop to look after things and Lindefal retreated to the kitchens to prepare the noon meal. He was the best cook of the three of them, and they wanted to treat their guests properly.

In the meantime Arafinwë and his Queen had finished their second day of negotiations with the Town Council and were returning to the Rowan Tree Inn. This time it had been about disputed fishing rights in the Bay of Eldamar, thus Elulindo had also participated, since Eärwen, being the Noldotári, could no longer speak for her father. Thanks to his long friendship with many in the Town Council, matters had been settled to everyone’s satisfaction, and now he was returning to the inn with them.

“Where are our younglings today?” he asked, when they reached their chambers and found no sign of Celebrían and Aracáno.

“Visiting Celebrían’s old friends in town,” replied Eärwen. “If I have understood correctly, they had lived in her household for many yéni but have Sailed a long time ago. She seemed glad to meet them again.”

“She is coming around nicely,” said Arafinwë. “Better than we expected, in fact. And Lord Irmo seems to believe that she and Elenwë will be good for each other. I hope he is right. Elenwë will be under a lot of pressure as Turucáno’s Queen, I fear. It may become too much for her.”

“She is stronger than you give her credit for,” said Eärwen. “I am more concerned about Aracáno, to be honest. At least Elenwë has a purpose; ands he has some of her descendants within reach, too. Aracáno is more or less alone. I find it strange that Lord Irmo would not tell Anairë of his return. Poor dear has been grieving for her loved ones since the Darkening…”

“That is the very core of the problem with Anairë,” a familiar voice said, and Nornorë shimmered into corporeal existence near them. “She has grown too comfortable in her grief. She has found her identity as the dowager Queen of the Exiles and the mother of dead heroes, and she enjoys the role, whether she is willing to admit or not. Aracáno has no place in those settings; being dismissed as unimportant by his own mother would negate the very reason of his rebirth.”

“And what reason, pray tell, would that be?” asked Elulindo with marked sarcasm.

“To begin a new life, one not lived under the shadow of his brothers,” answered the Maia. “Lord Námo’s foresight revealed that it would be a life on Tol Eressëa, but not even he can tell what kind of life it might be. Therefore the best thing we can do is to keep him here, separated from Anairë.”

“’Tis a dangerous game your Masters are playing,” warned Arafinwë. “We cannot keep them apart forever; he has already asked for his mother, several times.”

“And yet this is what we must do, at least for the time being,” replied Nornorë. “’Tis fortunate that Aracáno was so young when he died; he is more inclined to listen to you than his brothers, who had been Kings in their own right, would do.”

“I do not like manipulating him, no matter how noble the reason may be,” said the Noldóran with an unhappy scowl.

“We are not manipulating him,” said the Maia patiently. “We are protecting him from being hurt at a time when he is still emotionally vulnerable.”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as the King’s fair face darkened in fury.

“Stop calling me that!” he hissed. “I have worked for three Ages of the Sun to heal the wound caused by Fëanáro’s madness; do you think you could be a little less condescending towards me by you, all of you? That I would deserve some straight answers, at the least, when Lord Námo still refuses to give me back my own sons?”

Eärwen, shocked by her husband’s violent reaction, laid a soothing hand upon his arm. “Ara, calm down. I am sure Lord Námo has his reasons.”

“Then perhaps he should consider the courtesy of sharing them with me,” Arafinwë shook off her hand and stormed out of the room.

Elulindo gave the Maia a wry look. “He does have a point, you know. If you, Powers, were just a little more forthcoming with answers, much grief could have been prevented in the past – or would be prevented in the future.”

“’Tis not that simple,” replied the Maia. “You of all people should know that we often do not have the answers you often expect to hear.”

“Then you should be honest about that, at the very least,” said Elulindo sharply. “Right now, Arafinwë cannot understand why he must still be bereft of all his children. He may have resigned to their loss Ages ago, but the arrival of Artanis’ daughter has torn the old wounds open again. And now Elenwë and Aracáno are reborn, but none of his own sons have been released – he is understandably hurt and disappointed. More so if one considers Findaráto’s deeds and sacrifices. If any, he would have deserved to be released by now.”

“The time of one’s rehousing has little to do with their previous deeds, and you know that,” returned the Maia. “They must heal ere they can be released; and they must be willing to return to Life. It takes as long as it takes. No-one can be rehoused ere they would be ready.”

“And as always, that is the only answer you would give us,” answered Elulindo coldly. “I think you should go now and leave it to us and our limited understanding to comfort our own. Leave us. Now.”

After a moment of hesitation Nornorë faded away, thinking himself back to Kortirion to consult Erunyauvë. It seemed that Merilindë was not the only one still in need of a great deal of healing.

Author’s notes: We don’t actually know anything about Celebrimbor’s mother. In my unfinished story “The Sins of the Father” I made her a Vanya because… well, because I could, frankly. I also gave her a daughter, who would be younger than Celebrimbor.

Eldamas, the place where the Elves serving the Valar live belongs to Fiondil. I accidentally borrowed it, believing that it was a canon name. *g*

The next couple of days were marked by unmistakable tension from the Noldóran’s side, and Eärwen, too, seemed troubled – even a little unhappy. That appeared to make Aracáno uncertain beyond the level Reborn usually were; perhaps a bit frightened, too. So Celebrían took him under her wings.

Fortunately, Galenbrethil and Findalor had taken a liking to the young Prince and gone out of their way to make him feel welcome. Thus he and Celebrían spent most of the day in their house, watching them during work and talking about whatever happened to come to their mind.

Celebrían, who had picked up some basic skills during her marriage with Elrond – who was, after all, the most skilled healer east of the Sea – even helped Galenbrethil and young Ilvar (who turned out to be not only Galenbrethil’s apprentice but also her son) making simple medicines. Her skilled fingers proved very useful at rolling pills, and the smell of the herbs in the workshop made her feel like at home. She kept expecting Elrond to come through the door and check on their work.

Aracáno was fascinated by the art of glass blowing. He even gave it a try, but all his efforts earned him were several minor yet painful burns. Apparently, he was clumsy with such delicate skills indeed. Galenbrethil dressed his burns and tsk-tsked over them, reproving her husband for letting the Prince injure himself. Aracáno, of course, felt honour-bound to defend Findalor, pointing out that it was his own fault, but Galenbrethil was not so easy to persuade about that.

All in all, he had a good time, and after the third day, they agreed to drop the titles and call him simply by his name. He even asked what it would sound like in Sindarin, since that was the language they all spoke; even though they understood Quenya and Celebrían even spoke it with some efficiency. He decided, though, that Argon was not the name by which he would like to be known, declaring that it sounded stupid.

Time seemed to go by swiftly in such delightful company, and they were both surprised when one day Lindefal told them that the festival in the northern settlement had ended and Lord Gilfanon and his household had returned to the House of the Hundred Chimneys.

“Lady Vainóni sent word that you are welcome to visit any evening you want,” he said; then, turning to the Noldóran, he added. “And Lord Gilfanon expressed his hope that he would be able to see you in his house ere you would leave for Aman again, your Majesty. You have not paid them a visit for several yéni.”

“He is right, beloved,” commented Eärwen softly. “If there has ever been a long-overdue visit, this is it. Lord Gilfanon has always been a good friend of your House; you owe him a little courtesy, even if you are the King.”

Eärwen sighed and kissed him on the cheek. “And seeing him always brings back painful memories, I know, but that is not his fault. You cannot keep ignoring him because you are still hurt; it is rude, and it is not right.”

“What would I ever do without you?” he asked, only in half-jest, for Eärwen had been his rock in the storm for three Ages of the Sun – and even before, when the Trees had still been alive and he had to act as a mediator between his father and his two strong-willed, temperamental brothers.

“Why, you would be completely lost, of course,” replied Eärwen with a straight face, and everyone burst out in laughter.

And so the time of a royal visit in the House of Hundred Chimneys was negotiated with the help of the ever-efficient Lindefal, and two days later Arafinwë, Eärwen, Elulindo, Celebrían and Aracáno were ready to go. It had been decided that they would ride; the House was but a few miles outside the town itself, on the other side of the Bridge, but they did not want to arrive dishevelled and covered with the dust of the road.

Besides, being royalty meant certain expectations towards their persons, as Eärwen pointed out, giving her brother – who had been against a trip on horseback – a quelling look.

“I am sure that you can still handle the horrors of a saddle, háno,” she said drily. “’Tis not something one would easily forget.”

Elulindo grinned. It was not so that he could not handle a horse – he was an Elf, after all, and an ancient one with awesome powers at that – he simply preferred to walk. And as he rarely had to act in his capacity as haryon to the Lindaran, for their brother Vailimo usually stood in for him, he did not have much hang to ceremony and pomp, either.

“Besides,” Arafinwë intervened smoothly to prevent an endless banter promised by the twinkling eyes of the siblings, which, according to previous experience, would have delayed them beyond help, “Aracáno needs to practice his riding skills. After several Ages in Mandos, I am sure it is necessary.”

They all laughed, and so the horses were brought forth and the royal party mounted, accompanied by only two guards, more as a symbol of their position than out of true necessity. The Noldóran, his Queen and Aracáno were all dressed formally, in tunics and robes of heavy, royal blue silk or velvet, embroidered and girdled with gold. Elulindo wore white, in Telerin fashion, also richly embroidered with silver and pearls.

Celebrían, however, was clad in the fashion of Lothlórien. Her soft grey raiment had no other ornament but a girdle of interlinked leaves, wrought in silver. Her hair, plaited and coiled on the nape of her neck, was bound in a cap of silver lace, netted with small, glittering white gems, shaped like tiny stars.

“I am a Sinda,” she replied with a shrug when Eärwen gently criticized the plainness of her clothing. “We do not have the hang to pomp.”

“You are the daughter of a Noldorin princess, though, and if memory serves me well, your mother was quite good at keeping up appearances,” said Eärwen.

Celebrían shrugged again. “That might have been so in Aman. But back home, neither of us counted as royalty, and ‘tis good so, as far as I am concerned. I take after my father, both in looks and tastes. If that embarrasses you, Daernana, I am truly sorry, but this is who I am, and I do not intend to change into someone else – someone Elrond may not even recognize when he follows me one day.”

If Eärwen was hurt by the rejection – and she might have been, as she had been already planning to completely renew her granddaughter’s wardrobe – she gave no sign of it. She could not force Celebrían to change her fashion sense, after all. She might be her granddaughter, but she was by no means a child, having been the mistress of her own house and the Lady of Imladris for nearly three millennia.

Arafinwë gave his wife a sympathetic smile. It was not an easy thing to deal with previously unknown grandchildren who came with a life of their own and three thousand years of experience, instead of as small elflings. Eärwen had always liked to fuss over their offspring, and now that they were all grown – and most of them gone – she very obviously missed it.

Well, perhaps Aracáno would not mean being fussed over a little, the Noldóran thought. He looked like someone in serious need of reassurance.

They crossed the Bridge of Tavrobel more than an hour before sunset, and then turned away from the main road to take a lane on the right. It had deep banks and great overhanging hedges, and under those they rode for a while, listening to the perpetual whisper that seemed to live among the tall trees beyond the hedges. ‘Twas a conversation between the leaves and the wind, and the unseen birds in the tree-branches; but the soundless laughter of the Súruli that had fascinated Celebrían so much during her first visit was now absent.

After a mile or two, the lane led them up to the now-familiar great gate cut into the high hedge of withered grey stone. And before the gate, Lindo and his Silvan wife, Vairë, were waiting for them, now clad in the usual sombre colours preferred by the Tol Eressëans save for festivals.

Seeing the approach of the royal party, they both bowed deeply, but again it was Vairë who spoke the words of welcome, speaking in Quenya as a courtesy to the Amanians, in her soft, pleasant voice:

“Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo, Your Majesties; Lady Celebrían. Welcome to the House of Hundred Chimneys. Enter and be merry.”

While the Noldóran returned the greetings with the proper words, Aracáno watched in amazement as Lindo opened the gate with a light touch. Behind it, the House came in sight, low and huge, spreading over the whole hilltop like a small colony of its own. The once white stone, of which it had been built, was now grey and weather-worn from its extremely high age, yet still fair and venerable. Aracáno stared in open-mouthed awe at its seven high gables, high, red-tiled roof, and small balconies. He could see that the trees that grew around it inside the hedge – beeches and oaks, and even the odd holly tree – were high and strong and very old, too.

“’Tis huge!” he finally exclaimed. “And so very different from the many-spired palaces of Tirion! Well, as far as I can remember,” he added with a grimace.

Arafinwë nodded. “Different indeed; for it serves a different purpose. I have never seen another house quite like this, either.”

“But I have,” said Celebrían with a wistful smile. “This is what the Last Homely House east of the Sea, our home in Imladris, used to look like in the Second Age, a few yéni after it had been built. ‘Tis quite different now, of course; Imladris is no longer a fortress, and tastes have changed a lot in the recent Age, but it does bring back memories.”

“Oh, yes, very good ones. ‘Twas my home, after all; and I was very happy there.”

Eärwen shot him a quelling look, but he just stared back at her in confusion. Only when Celebrían went stark white, the impact of her loss hitting again full force, did he realize hat he had asked something that should better have been left alone, and his face crumpled in misery.

“I am sorry,” he whimpered, tears of distress swimming in his eyes. “I was rude, and now you will hate me! Please, I did not mean to hurt you, honestly!”

Celebrían’s heart went out to him. It was not his fault, and how could she be angry with an innocent child in a grown ellon’s hröa? With a conscious act of will, she overcame her terror of being touched by a male and took him into a motherly embrace.

“Sssh, do not cry,” she murmured gently. “I do not hate you; why ever should I? You cannot know what happened, and I shall not tell you, not yet. ‘Tis enough for you to know that I came here in a great need of healing that I could not find anywhere else. Now, dry those tears and calm down.”

Aracáno wiped his eyes and his nose with the piece of fine linen Eärwen gave him with a stern expression, and then he looked at Celebrían helpfully.

“Of course we are,” replied Celebrían, relieved to be able to let go of him; holding him took a great effort, and she was not sure how long she could have endured it. “One does not break a friendship for an honest mistake.”

“One does not?” Aracáno was still not entirely sure that he had been forgiven.

“Of course not,” answered Celebrían reassuringly. “Come now; we should not make the Master of the House wait.”

“Nay indeed,” said Vairë. “We have just finished the evening meal, and the singing and storytelling is about to begin. Your arrival was well-timed.”

She and Lindo led the guests on the stone-paved path under the trees to the House, going straight to the Great Hall that Celebrían had first visited shortly upon her arrival to Tol Eressëa. The wide room, with its high ceiling and the three great fires burning upon low hearths made of smoky stone – one at the far end and one on either side of the middle of the hall – was as she remembered it: warm and welcoming.

But the trestle tables had already been dismantled and the seats rearranged, so that members of the household and guests were sitting in two great half-circles, consisting of several rows, facing the empty place between the two hearths in the middle, which was clearly the stage where the minstrels would perform. No candles were burning this time, save for those in the sticks fastened to the wall, on either side of the main door, and all was in a warm gloom. The colourful jewels worn in the hair and upon the breasts of everyone were glittering in the firelight like Lady Varda’s stars.

Opposite the main door, near the central fires, a number of seats had been arranged for the Master of the House and his most respected guests. Some of those were empty, clearly meant for the Noldóran and his family, others were already occupied. Among the guests Celebrían could find many familiar faces, notably Ivárë and Elemmírë, Master Pengolodh, Aranwë and Legolas, who gave her a broad smile.

Others, though clearly people of some importance, were unknown to her. One in particular, a tall, willowy elleth, clearly a Noldo by her stunning features, was sitting on Lady Vainóni’s left. The two had more than a passing similarity, which could only mean that they were related somehow, with the marked difference that the wide eyes of the stranger were black like the night – not unheard of in some very old families among the Noldor, but not a frequent trait, either. Said eyes were framed by long, silky lashes and shadowed by elegant black eyebrows, thin as if painted with a fine brush on silk and arched like the wings of a bird.

The elleth’s face, framed by slightly wavy, ink-black hair that she wore unbraided, save for a few delicate plaits woven into a network with small gems, seemed almost red in the firelight, although it was, in truth, quite pale. She was wearing a deep burgundy gown of heavy, figured silk over a pale gold undertunic. The gown had a wide-cut, round neckline, seamed with the same meandering pattern in gold thread and small topazes as the seam and the long, trailing sleeves that were slit to the elbow, revealing the tight sleeves of the undertunic, and were held together above the elbow by a border of the same pattern again.

It was an unusual design that Celebrían had never seen before. Not in Aman and not back in Middle-earth, either, although it would have been greatly admired in Gil-galad’s court. Perhaps the elleth was an artisan who designed her own clothes. The pendant of golden filigree and topazes that she wore around her neck was of very unique design, too.

On her left side a tall ellon sat, wearing a sleeveless robe over a knee-length tunic, both made of dark purple, almost black brocade, interwoven with the finest gold thread. His dark hair, arranged into an intricate pattern of braids, gleamed red in the firelight, and his features seemed vaguely familiar to Celebrían, although she was quite sure that she had never met him.

She understood the reason when she spotted the eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanor emblazoned upon the breast of his tunic; he had a vague similarity with Celebrimbor, even though his bearing clearly marked him as a seasoned warrior.

Aracáno was also staring at the ellon in open-mouthed shock. However, in his case, the shock was clearly born of recognition.

Celebrían was equally shocked by his outburst. This was Maglor, the greatest minstrel of the Eldar, save for Daeron of Doriath? The one who had defended the most vulnerable area of all Noldorin realms in exile, the one named Maglor’s Gap after him, until the Dagor Bragollach? The repentant son of Fëanor who had saved Elrond and Elros after the sack of the Havens of Sirion and fostered them, loving them as if they had been his own?

Elrond had often spoken of his foster father in fondness and sorrow. How, after the Great Battle, Maglor had tried to repudiate that terrible Oath of theirs. How Maedhros had persuaded him to steal the Silmarils nonetheless, slaying Eönwë’s Vanyarin guards in the process. How he had been burned by the hallowed Jewel, his deeds having made him unable to bear its touch. How he had thrown it into the Sea and wandered off, singing in pain and regret…

Speaking of which, was he not supposed to be still roaming Middle-earth, alone and unrecognized? And how could have the horrible events of his life marked him so little?

The ellon looked up in surprise at Aracáno’s outburst, and then he smiled ruefully.

“Nay, not truly,” he said. “I fear you have mistaken me for my father; many due at first sight.”

“I am Morwinyon Canafinwion, currently the head of the House of Fëanor – or what is left of it, which is not much,” he explained; then with a respectful nod towards the elleth on his right, he added. “This is my mother, the Lady Helyanwë – but I assume you know her already.”

Aracáno shook his head. “Only from hearsay; we never actually met. By the time your parents wed, our respective Houses were no longer exactly friendly to each other.”

“A fact that I deeply regret,” said Lady Helyanwë; her voice was deep and soft like that of a dove. “Tis my hope that we may redeem the mistakes of the past one day.”

Watching her son with open curiosity, Celebrían now could see that it had not been the firelight only that gave Morwinyon’s hair a reddish gleam. He was a genuine redhead, although darker than most; which was not surprising, considering that his granddam and three of his uncles had red hair; and so had Celebrimbor, for that matter. The nickname fiery smith had not meant his gift at the forge or his tempers alone. But Celebrimbor had inherited the blue eyes of his Vanyarin mother, tinted with the more common grey of the Fëanorians, while Morwinyon’s eyes were black like those of the Lady Helyanwë.

And he had been named for the brightest star of the heavens, apparently. A strange name for a Fëanorian; as a rule, they all had Finwë as part of their names. But perhaps Morwinyon had chosen to use his mother-name – more so if Maglor had felt it necessary to burden his firstborn with his own name.

As Aracáno was still too shocked for coherent speech, it was Arafinwë who took it upon himself to explain things.

“Morwinyon was born while you were trudging across the Ice,” he said. “None of those who had left for the Outer Lands have learned of him, although he marched with us to the War of Wrath and fought valiantly to the end. With all other males of his House dead and his atar still missing, the responsibility of the House of Fëanor was laid upon his shoulders, even though all the House can count right now are four ellith and himself.”

“Four?” Aracáno frowned again. “There is Lady Nerdanel, and Lady Helyanwë… but who are the other two?”

“The mother of Tyelpë and his sister,” replied Morwinyon. “They were shunned by their Vanyarin kin, thus they came to live in Formenos with us.”

“Formenos?” exclaimed Aracáno. “Why would you wish to live in that dank hole where the first blood in Aman had been spilled?”

“For a long time we did not have any other choice,” said Lady Helyanwë drily. “We were blamed for the Revolt, even for the Kinslaying. At least in Formenos we were safe.”

“Our husbands and fathers had murdered their own kin at Alqualondë,” pointed out the lady grimly. “Those were terrible times, and people needed someone to blame.”

“More so as the Kinslayers themselves had fled, leaving it to the rest of us to pick up the pieces,” commented Ivárë acerbically; as one who had befriended the shoreline pipers early on, he tended to take their side in such debates.

Lady Helyanwë paled and stiffened in her chair, and Elemmírë elbowed her bondmate sharply in the ribs. Lady Vainóni rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Vanyar!

“As Lady Helyanwë said, those were hard times for everyone,” intervened the Noldóran in a no-nonsense manner. “Trying to point a finger at one person or another leads to nowhere – even less so after three whole Ages, when the one ultimately responsible is still out of reach and shall remain so for a very long time yet. These are not the kind of tales we were hoping to hear tonight.”

“’Tis not I whom you should ask for forgiveness,” said Arafinwë coldly, but Lady Helyanwë waved off his concerns.

“Leave it, my Lord King. I am used to such comments; and while Master Ivárë may have been rude, he was not entirely in the wrong. My husband and his brothers are guilty of Kinslaying, several times over. The blood of the innocents they had slaughtered left a taint on our entire life. No matter how long a time has gone by since those events, we are still not welcome in many paces in Aman.”

“Would they reject me, too, because Fin had helped Maitimo and the others at Alqualondë?” asked Aracáno, clearly distraught by that possibility.

Eärwen patted his arm reassuringly. “Not if I have something to say about it,” she declared forcibly.

“Can we stop this nonsense now?” asked Eärwen. “As my lord husband has rightly said, these are not the kind of tales we would wish to hear today.”

The Master of the House, who had been listening to the debate with detached patience, smiled at her. “What kind of tales would you like to hear then, my Lady Queen?”

“I believe we should leave the choice to my nephew,” replied Eärwen. “He has only recently been returned to us and had missed so much.”

“That would be only just,” Lord Gilfanon agreed. “Well, Prince Aracáno, the choice is yours. What would be your pleasure?”

Aracáno thought about that for a moment. There were so many things he would have liked to know, at first he could not even decide which one to ask for to begin with.

“I would like to hear how the Sun and the Moon came into being,” he then said. “I lived my first life in the Light of the Trees and died in darkness on the Ice. I want to know where the new lights have come from.”

“That is certainly a tale worth telling,” nodded the Master of the House in agreement. “But where are we to find the right one to tell it, I wonder?”

“Perhaps…” began Aracáno hesitantly, “perhaps Lord Morwinyon would do the honours. After all, is he not Macalaurë’s son?”

To his surprise, Morwinyon began to laugh so hard that he nearly fell out of his seat.

“Oh, trust me, you would not wish to be subjected to my singing,” he said. “I have a voice like a frog and could not carry a tune in a basked before me if my life depended on it.”

“I seriously doubt that that would be true for any Elf I have ever met,” she said. “I can imagine it even less about you.”

“Why?” asked Morwinyon. “Just because my atar was a minstrel? I assume you, Lady Celebrían, that for an Elf, I am a terrible singer. Even some of the mortals fighting with us in the War of Wrath put their fingers in their ears when I joined my battalion’s battle song. Some even said that I could defeat Morgoth with my singing alone.”

Morwinyon shrugged. “I am a metalsmith. Sure, I cannot compare myself with Anatar or with Uncle Curufinwë, but I was taught by Mahtan himself, and by his son Tulkastor, and they say I am a decent enough craftsman. So, if you need a piece of jewellery that does not do anything beyond looking pretty, I am your Elf.”

“He does nice work,” said Lady Helyanwë, touching her beautiful pendant. “He made this for me when he won his master’s title.”

Celebrían nodded, impressed. If the pendant was any indication, Morwinyon was much more than just decent in his craft. Not as gifted as Celebrimbor, perhaps, but that was probably better so. That way he was in no danger to become overwhelmed by his own creation one day.

Aracáno, in the meantime, was despairing of his chance to hear the tale of the Sun and the Moon, for it seemed that there was no minstrel present who could have told it correctly. Seeing his dejected expression, Lord Gilfanon had mercy with him and bade the others to take their seats and fall silent.

“For while we do not have minstrels among us tonight, save for Ivárë, who is not fond of this particular lay, his heart mourning the loss of the Trees even after all those Ages, we do have here someone who had learned the tale directly from Lady Varda’s handmaids,” he said. “Let therefore Lindo raise up his voice and tell us yet more of the splendour of the Valar and their work – a theme that never wearies him.”

Celebrían, Aracáno, and indeed a great many other guests who had not known him of old, looked at the doorward of the House of the Hundred Chimneys in surprise and amazement. For Lindo was a very modest Elf, blending with his surroundings so well that most forgot about his presence in no time. Not many knew that during the entire First Age he had lived in Eldamas, serving Lady Varda.

Now, however, he rose from his place, where he had been sitting on a low bench among the other members of Lord Gilfanon’s household, and walked to the centre of the hall. There stood a deep chair with craven arms and feet: the Storyteller’s Chair, the same one that had been used during the Feast of Double Mirth in Legolas’ open Hall of Tales.

“I shall then tell the tale of the Sun and Moon and of the Stars, so that young Prince Aracáno may hearken to his desire,” he said. “A tale of the time after the flight of the Noldoli, when they were but newly fled, and when there was still darkness and confusion in Aman.”

In that very moment the Great Gong could be heard to sound far off in the House with a deep, rolling noise, signalling the beginning of the night. Soon thereafter Ilverin came in, grinning merrily, and took his place among the others. The Master of the House turned to his doorward with an indulgent smile.

“Oh, but I would not mind to hearken to Master Lindo’s tale, however long it may take,” said Aracáno eagerly.

Lord Gilfanon laughed. “That may be so, my Prince, but we only have this one night for it.”

The others laughed, too, and made themselves comfortable. Everyone knew that while Lindo’s tales tended to last, they were well worth the waiting-

Author’s notes: I follow here the first version, the one told in the Book of Lost Tales, up to a certain grade, including some lines of slightly altered dialogue. Not all the way, though, as I didn’t want to contradict any important events in the Silmarillion.

The further fate of the lost Valar is revealed in my other story, “The Vault of the Dead”.

Sauron’s “true” name is my invention and was kindly introduced by someone from the Silmfics Yahoo Group. Alas, I no longer remember who it was.

“You must know that at the time when the grievous news first came to the Valar, I used to live in Eldamas, with quite a few other Elves who served the Valar,” began Lindo. “In fact, I was the only one among the Noldoli who had pledged myself to the Lady Varda. Most of our people chose to serve Lord Aulë, who loved them above all other Elves and taught them all they knew and gave them great stores of wealth; or Lord Oromë, who taught them the proper way to hunt. Those who dwelt in Lord Manwë and Lady Varda’s mansion, apprentices rather than true servants, were mostly Vanyar,” he added, with an amused glance in Elemmírë’s direction, “and at first none of us would believe that the Noldoli had indeed left.”

“We were quite naïve and more than a little ignorant,” agreed Elemmírë sadly, “and the death of the Trees had shocked us to the core.”

“Nonetheless, the tidings kept coming unto us, and by many different messengers,” continued Lindo. “Some were of the Vanyar, who had heard the speech of Fëanáro on the central square of Tirion and had seen the Noldoli depart thence with all the goods they might convey. Others were of the Solosimpi, and they brought the dire tidings of the seizing of the swanships and the dread kinslaughter of the Haven and the blood that lay upon the white shores of Alqaluntë.”

His voice took on a certain singsong quality, without actually singing, and he fell back to the use of old-fashioned names of people and things, which was apparently part of the storytelling tradition among the Tol Eressëans rather than everyday usage as Celebrían had first believed. She had to admit that for someone who was not a minstrel, he was the most pleasant to listen to of all the tale-tellers she had heard since her arrival.

“Lastly came some hotfoot from Mandos – I seem to remember that it was Nornorë – who had gazed upon the sad throng nigh the strands of Araman, and then we knew that the Noldoli were far abroad; and Lady Varda wept, and we all wept with her. For now the darkness seemed black indeed without the bright spirit of our brethren, and we understood that more than the outward light of the fair Trees had been slain.”

Celebrían stole a look at the troubled face of Aracáno, who seemed to be reliving some dark memories from those long-gone days, and gave his arm an encouraging squeeze.

“Remember, all this is but ancient memory by now,” she whispered. “It cannot hurt you any longer.”

Aracáno gave her a grateful look and a tremulous smile before turning his attention back to the storyteller. Once again, she was reminded of her sons, when they had been still very young and frightened. But again, he had also been very young at the time when he died.

“Atar Mahtan told me that Lord Aulë reacted even more badly to the flight of our people,” Lady Helyanwë was saying in the meantime, “for he deemed them ungrateful in that they had bidden him no farewell; and for their ill deeds among the Solosimpi, he was grieved to the heart.”

“Indeed,” said Lindo. “He is even known to have forbidden speaking the name of the Noldoli unto him ever again.”

“He did not deny his love those few faithful who remained about his halls, though,” said Morwinyon. “He even visited us in Formenos a few times. I remember playing at his feet as a small elfling. He tolerated me for my great-grandsire Mahtan’s sake; but he refused to take me as an apprentice as he had once done with Tyelpë.”

“His disappointment was very great,” admitted Lindo. “They say he had not grieved like that since the betrayal of Rautacarmo.”

“Who is Rautacarmo?” whispered Celebrían to her grandsire. The name metal-shaper said her nothing.

“He was Lord Aulë’s chief Maia, ere he would defect to Melkor,” explained the Noldóran. “You would know him as Sauron.”

Celebrían nodded her thanks; she had known, of course, that the Dark Lord of Mordor had once been one of the Powers, but it was still strange to hear him being mentioned by his true name. For her, for all inhabitants of Middle-earth, the fallen Maia was Evil incarnate. It was hard to imagine that he had not always been like that.

Lindo, in the meantime, went on with his tale, describing in great detail the hunt of the Valar for Melkor. Which, according to his recount, had availed nothing. Melkor had already escaped his pursuers and left Valinor for the Outer Lands.

“Wherefore Lord Manwë sent Thorondor, King of the Eagles, into Endórë, while Lord Tulkas and many of the others still ranged the land; but Thorondor came not back for a long time,” he explained. “We who dwelt in Eldamas saw Lord Manwë stand beside the darkened Trees; and his heart seemed heavy as he pondered deep and gloomily, for at that time, not even he could see any hope.”

“I wonder why that would be,” said Legolas. “Is Lord Manwë not the one among the Valar in whose heart Ilúvatar speaks to provide guidance?”

“He is,” answered Elemmírë in Lindo’s stead, for of all Elves present, she was the one who knew the Elder King most intimately. “But Ilúvatar entrusted the fate of Eä into the hands of the Valar, and ‘tis up to them to act as its guardians at the best of their knowledge. Ilúvatar does not give them detailed instructions about how to do it, for they, too, have been gifted with free will. Therefore they are ultimately fallible, just as we are. Or had Melkor not been the greatest of all once? And lo how deep he has fallen!”

“He was not the only one, either,” commented Ivárë. “Remember all the lesser Powers that he had seduced to his side; some of whom are still out there, threatening the Outer Lands! Many evil spirits were gathered to him upon his return.”

“Indeed, and those were the very tidings that the Great Eagle brought from Endórë when he came again on strong wings through the dusk and alighted on the boughs of darkened Silpion,” said Lindo. “Yet he also told the Elder King something else he had seen on his way back: a fleet of white ships that drifted empty in the gales, burning with bright fires. And a great host of Elves upon the Outer Shores, as they all gazed westward, while some were still wandering the Ice. For know that this was at the place where the cags of Helkaraksë could be found, and the murderous waters of Qerkaringa flowed of old, that are now stopped by ice.”

Just as Lindo was saying that, Aracáno was caught in a flash of terrifying memories. He could literally feel the freezing cold of the Ice like a myriad of fine, sharp needles upon his skin, his own breath encrusting his face with a fine layer of frost as he was trudging on the treacherous, slippery surface. He relived the gnawing hunger and the fear again, trying to find his footing in the darkness, while the stars were glittering high above him upon the black sky, pale and cold and impassive.

He felt Elenwë’s cold fingers slipping through his own as they went beneath the thick layer of ice, the freezing water filling their lungs, cold and salty and bitter. There was a desperate need to cough, but it only pressed more seawater into his nose and mouth, ‘til everything went cold.

When he came to again, it seemed to him as if Ages had gone by. Thus he was greatly surprised to find himself in Gilfanon’s Great Hall again, sitting in his chair, and Eärwen was washing his face with a damp cloth.

“He is coming back,” she said with a relieved sigh. “What happened to you, Ara?”

“C-cold,” he replied with chattering teeth and clung to her like a small elfling to his ammë. “C-cold and d-dark… it w-was so c-cold and d-dark…”

Eärwen was a little confused by that answer and frankly, so were the others. It was Arafinwë who first realized what must have happened.

“’Twas a memory,” he said; then, looking at the storyteller, he added as an explanation. “Aracáno died on the Grinding Ice.”

“You could not know,” said the Noldóran. “’Tis not common knowledge; and even fewer people know that he has recently been released from Mandos. Newly re-housed Elves often suffer from such unexpectedly resurfacing memories, I am told. ‘Twas not your fault, Master Lindo.”

“Nay,” said Lady Helyanwë in sorrow. “’Twas the fault of those who betrayed him, leaving him with but two choices: turn back or brave the Ice,” she rose from her seat and knelt before Aracáno. “As one of those people was my own husband, I therefore ask your forgiveness on his behalf. I cannot give you back the life you have lost or the choices you have missed. However, I would gladly make amends, should you ever need support in the new life you are just beginning.”

“And should you simply need a friend, you can always call upon me,” added Morwinyon. “We are family, after all – assuming that you are willing to admit kinship with us.”

“Why should I not?” Aracáno frowned. “I may not have been very close to your father and his brothers, save perhaps Ambarussa and Ambaráto, but I do not blame either of them for their atar’s madness. Whatever they might have done afterwards, my death is not their fault. Besides, I think we would all fare better if we could stop tearing old wounds open.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Arafinwë nodded in appreciation. “Let us set aside our old grievances and listen to Master Lindo’s tale. After all, is it not the tale of how light hath returned to the world?”

“It is,” said Lindo, “yet there was much sorrow, even for the Valar, ere that would happen. I saw them return from the Hunt in a most dishevelled shape; for they had hunted Melkor in incarnate forms – otherwise not even Aman could have borne the fire of their wrath.”

“Too bad they did not think of that before breaking Beleriand,” was Legolas’ dry remark.

Lindo frowned for a moment, not quite liking such remarks about the Valar, but then decided that it was not worth starting a fight. Instead, he picked up the tale again.

“The first to hearken to Lord Manwë’s summons was Tulkas Poldórea; weary and dust-covered and still simmering with anger. Seven times had he encompassed the plain of Valinor in all its width and thrice had he scaled the mountain-wall, and all those measureless slopes and pastures. Meadows and forests had he traversed, burning in desire to punish the spoiler of the Blessed Realm. With him came Menelmacar, the chief of his warrior Maiar: wounded and weakened so much that his lord had to support him. For he had come across Meássë as she fled to join Melkor, and that warrior goddess smote him and got away with his blood on her hands, for which she had been called Maerwitha, the bloody-handed, ever since.”

“What has become of her?” asked Aracáno. “I remember some childhood tales about Makar and Meássë, the twin warriors, the strongest and most savage ones of the Valar. I always wondered how they could find their place among the other Powers; how could they possibly fit in.”

“They could not,” replied Lindo,” though they had tried for the while, and their strength and wildness had been a great asset to the Valar in the Battle of the Powers, when Melkor had been first defeated and Chained. Yet they grew discontent during the Peace of Arda, for bloodshed and warfare was all that they would delight in; and thus they were seduced to Melkor’s side in the end.”

“As for what became of them – we know not,” added Master Pengolodh, in his best lore-master mode. “Some say that Drauglin, the father of the werewolves, was actually Makar, assuming a bestial form, after having given in to his bloodlust and his basest desires; and that Meássë eventually became Thuringwethil. But whether there is a kernel of truth in those tales, I cannot tell, and the Powers refuse to answer.”

“No wonder,” commented Legolas, darkly amused. “Even the rumours must be embarrassing for them beyond measure. With kinfolk like that, who needs enemies?”

His light-hearted remark lifted the mood a little, which had probably been his intention. Lindo, too, smiled briefly ere going on with his tale.

“Lord Irmo came next and leaned against the withered bole of Silpion, and wept the wrack of his quiet gardens by the trampling Hunt. ‘Where,’ he complained, ‘shall I take the wounded of this Hunt to rest and heal? Lo, the beauty of Lórien is destroyed; it has become a wasteland, and I know not how to restore it again without the Light of the Trees.’ For then like now, living things needed light to grow, even in the Blessed Realm.”

“I recall the return of Lord Ossë from the Hunt,” said Elulindo. “Never before had we seen him so exhausted; and never again. His eyes were dim and he gasped, leaning on a staff of the size of a huge tree, and was very much athirst. For mighty as he is about the seas and tireless, such desperate travel across dry lands spent his vigour utterly. He did not even have the strength to shed his fana and follow Lord Manwë’s summons; which is why Salmar went in his stead, while the lesser sea spirits busied themselves to nurse their lord back to his old strength again.”

“Yes, Salmar came with embittered heart; yet not as bitterly as Lord Aulë, lover of Arda and of all things made or gained by good labour therefrom,” agreed Lindo. “For of all the Valar he had loved Valmar most wholly, and Tirion, and all their treasures; and the beauty of the wide plains without, and their ruin cut his heart. With him was his spouse, the Earth-queen, who had hunted with the other Valar and was spent. Yet Lady Vána and Lady Nessa wept as maidens at the fonts of golden Kulullin.”

“I heard, though, that Lord Ulmo came not to the Trees,” said Elulindo, “but went down to the beach of Eldamar, and there he stood staring into the gloom far out to the Sea. Often he called with his most mighty voice as though he could draw back the rebels to the bosom of the Valar if only he called them insistently enough.”

“As if they would have listened,” commented Elemmírë with a rather un-ladylike snort.

“We did hear him, though,” replied Aracáno, to everyone’s surprise, as no-one had expected him, of all people, to add something to the tale. “Even struggling across the Ice, we could hear his calls, like a rolling thunder over the freezing water. That, and the deep, longing music he was playing on his magic conches.”

“Indeed,” said Lindo, “as to him alone, save mayhap Varda, the Lady of the Stars, was the flight of the Noldoli a greater grief than even the ruin of the Trees.”

“How can that be?” asked Legolas in surprise. “I thought if anyone, he would be wroth with them, for what they had done at Alqaluntë. ‘Tis always said that he loved the Solosimpi most dearly.”

“So he did; and when he heard of their slaughter by the Noldoli, he grieved indeed,” Lindo agreed. “Yet anger hardened not his heart. For Lord Ulmo is foreknowing more than all the Valar, save perhaps the Lord of Mandos; more than the Elder King, even. Perchance he saw many of the things that should spring from that flight, and the dread pain of the unhappy Noldoli in the Outer Lands; and the anguish with which they would pay for the blood spilled at Kópas, even though he wished that it would not be so.”

He declared this in a most solemn manner, and many in the audience were deeply touched. Legolas, however, shook his head in tolerant amusement.

“You Amaneldi speak of Ennorath as if it were a place of impenetrable darkness and permanent suffering,” he said. “I assure you that it is not. Beleriand itself was the fairest land possible, rich in wide plains, fair meadows, enormous mountains-chains and silver rivers. What is still there of it is equally beautiful, or so the newcomers tell us. Our people were happy enough to live there, despite the ever-present threat that came from the North. As for the Exiles: yea, nearly all of them suffered much and ended badly. However, without them we could not have hold off the armies of Angband as long as we did. We lived scattered in the woods and were but lightly armed. Once the war machine of Morgoth set off from Angband, we would have been mowed down like dry grass.”

He paused and looked at Arafinwë. “Without your son, we would never have befriended the Edain, whose bravery, and strength helped to keep our cities safe. Without your brother,” he added, turning to Aracáno, “we would not have had the safety and splendour of Gondolin to begin with. And without your husband and his brothers, lady,” he turned to Lady Helyanwë, “Morgoth’s forces would have overrun us from the North right after his return to Middle-earth. “Neither we nor the Sindar were a tightly organized people. The only true stronghold was Elu Thingol’s hidden kingdom in Doriath, but we all know that Queen Melian alone could not have kept Morgoth out forever. Even if she had not abandoned her subjects after Thingol’s death.”

“Are you saying that the death of the Trees was necessary?” asked Ivárë with a frown. “But why would Ilúvatar want the loss of something so beautiful and hallowed?”

“I did not say it was necessary; or that Ilúvatar would have wanted it,” corrected Legolas. “All I say is that Ilúvatar can turn something horribly wrong into something good. The Revolt of the Noldor, despite the hideous deeds some of them performed, gave the Outer Lands several yéni of peace.”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay, it was not. ‘Tis easy for you to judge, looking at those events from the safety of Valinor; for us, it was a question of life or death. Without the realms of the Exiles that held back the dark storm of Angband for so long, we might all be Orcs by now.”

“Am I?” asked Legolas, his voice sharp. “Ask Lord Gimilî what it meant being enslaved in the iron mines of Morgoth for yén upon yén. Ask him about the torture chambers of Utumno, where our captured kin were broken and twisted into hideous monsters by unspeakable methods and through pain beyond endurance, until the bond between hröa and fëa was broken and they who were meant to last ‘til the end of Arda became mortal. Ask the Valar where they had been while all this was happening?”

Legolas shook his head again. “Nay; for the evil he wrought, I blame Melkor alone. “Tis true, however, that the Valar could have been more watchful. If they chose to release Melkor from his chains, they should have kept a closer eye on him.”

Suddenly, there was a swirl of rainbow-coloured light and Fionwë blinked into bodily existence in the middle of the hall. Like at the time of his recent visit to the Noldóran’s palace in Tirion, he wore an ankle-length, midnight blue tunic, gilded armour and mail and a long, sapphire blue cloak.

“You think they know it not?” he asked. “In his purity, Lord Manwë could not comprehend such depths of evil as it had grown in the heart of his fallen brother; and bitterly has he lamented his own naïveté long afterwards. Yet our Masters could not intervene ‘til the curse of Fëanáro had been fulfilled – their Oath was of such nature that it bound the hands of the Valar themselves.”

Fionwë nodded. “Not indeed; and now Salmar is lost for us forever, just as his brother and sister were lost, much earlier.”

“Lost?” repeated Elulindo. “How could one of the Powers get lost? I heard from Lord Ulmo’s people that Salmar had once been counted among the Valar but got reduced in his status for some reason I never learned. But this is the first time I hear about him having any siblings.”

Fionwë sighed. “’Tis a very delicate matter; one that is not often discussed, even among my own kin,” he admitted. “But yea, Salmar and his twin brother Ómar, and their sister Akairis, were the youngest of the Great Valar. They entered Eä after Lord Tulkas even, and fought in the Battle of the Powers valiantly. Afterwards, however, they vehemently opposed the plan to bring the Elves to Valinor, arguing that Ilúvatar had meant the Outer Lands to be their home; and when they were outvoted, they refused to bow to the decision of the assembly and removed themselves from the Circle of the Powers.”

“You mean they were cast out?” asked Elulindo. Fionwë shook his golden head.

“Nay, they left voluntarily. Well, Akairis and Ómar did. Salmar stayed, at least for the time being, accepting the status of Lord Ulmo’s chief Maia – not that he could truly change his true nature, of course: it was an act of defiance. After the death of the Trees, however, he felt that his siblings had been right, and he simply left, following them wherever they might have gone.”

She had known Salmar in her childhood and remembered him as a kind and gentle spirit who had delighted in playing with the elflings on the shore. ‘Twas hard to imagine that the one she believed to be one of Lord Ulmo’s vassals had been, in truth, one of the Valar – and a fierce warrior at that – yet it was clearly the truth.

Fionwë shook his head. “Once one of our kind – or one of the Valar – remove themselves from the Circle that connects all Ainur, we no longer can feel them. They are lost for us, unless they choose to seek connection again.”

“I can only speak of Salmar,” said Eärwen thoughtfully, “but knowing his great love for our people, I cannot rule out the possibility that he might have returned to Endórë, to help those living in Morgoth’s shadow.”

“If ‘tis so, we never learned about it,” replied Fionwë in sorrow. “Not even during the War of Wrath, the only time when any of us set foot in the Outer Lands, did we have any tidings of our lost kin,” he turned to Lindo and gave him a prefunctionary bow. “Forgive me to interrupt your tale, Master Lindo, but I was in the neighbourhood and felt that I needed to set some things straight.”

“You Ainur seem to be ‘in the neighbourhood’ a lot,” muttered Legolas darkly. “Do you think that after all those Ages we may be able to stand on our own feet, without you mothering over us all the time?”

Fionwë shrugged. “We have always been around you, even in Endórë, where we were not allowed to show ourselves or interfere directly. That is our task, appointed to us by Ilúvatar: to be the Guardians of Eä and the Eruhíni, and only Ilúvatar can decide when that task is fulfilled and we can end our labours.”

“I wish they would stop doing that,” muttered Legolas, still not entirely convinced.

Elulindo laughed. “Why should they? They like to show off as much as we do. Powers or not, they are very like us in many ways – or rather we are like them.”

“We were certainly much alike in our grief and confusion when they finally came together and Lord Manwë spoke to them and told the tidings of Thorondor and how the chase had failed,” Lindo picked up the tale again. “At the time, even the Valar were bewildered in the gloom and had little counsel. Each one sought his home and places of old delight – now dead – and there they sat in silence and dark, pondering. Some of them, though, went to the Ezellohar again and again, and gazed wistfully at the faded Trees as though those withered boughs could one day shine with new light again.”

“But that did not come to pass,” commented Lady Vainóni softly. “Valinor was full of shadows and of gloom, and we who had been left behind by our fathers, husbands or brothers, wept and could not be comforted; less so when tidings came of the bitter sorrow of the Noldoli in the northern lands.”

“Of that I cannot say much,” admitted Lindo, “but there are those among us who were witnesses and could share their memories.”

He looked at Aracáno and Gilfanon; and with great emphasis at Arafinwë, who did not seem to appreciate the hint.

“What do you want me to share with you, Master Lindo?” asked the Noldóran coldly. “Do you want to hear how our host marched endlessly along the shore ‘til Eldamar was dim and forgotten far behind us, and the ways grew wilder and more impassable as it trended to the North? Or how the fleet, taken by force and at the cost of many lives from our kin at Alqaluntë, coasted beside us not far out to the Sea, faring with my brother’s people on board slowly in those sluggish waves? Do you want to know how we finally made it to the dreadful passage of Qerkaringa, full of evil currents and eddies of desperate strength, where islands of floating ice swim, grinding and crashing together with a dread noise and destroying both great fish and vessels, should any dare to go there? Or do you wish to hear how my brother,” he all but spat the word,” suddenly seized all the ships that had survived the long coastal journey and slipped away secretly with his sons and with all whom he deemed true to him, and put out to the Sea, leaving behind Nolofinwë and the rest of the host in Araman?”

“I still wonder how they could cross such evil waters so begin with,” said Legolas, when Arafinwë fell silent, still shaking with anger as those horrible days resurfaced in his memory. The Elven ability to recall events long past with full clarity did have its disadvantages sometimes.

It was Elulindo who gave Legolas an answer, as he was the one most familiar with the Sea and the coastal formations of Eldamar, having sailed along the long eastern coast many times with Lord Ossë and his household.

“You must know that the coasts of Eldamar, and those coasts that continue northwards beyond Alqaluntë, trend gradually to the East,” he explained. “After uncounted leagues, more northward even than the Mountains of Iron, the Great Seas used to dwindle to a narrow strait, thanks to a westerly bend of the shores of Endórë. In those days – ere it was destroyed in the War of Wrath – a narrow neck ran out of the western lands towards the eastern shores. Yet it was of ice and snow and torn into gaps and clips – and it was all but intraversable.”

“The Icefang, yea. ‘Twas the remnant of the old and terrible ices that crept throughout those regions ere Melkor was Chained, and it maintained itself there due to the narrowness of the Sea and the jamming of the ice-isles floating down from the deepest North whither winter had withdrawn. As there the Sea was narrow, the fleet of Fëanáro could pass it without loss, and first of all the Noldoli he set foot once more upon the shores of Endórë, landing at the mouth of the firth which was called Drengist and ran into Dor-lómin.”

“The land that would be part of your brother Findecáno’s realm for near five hundred years of the Sun,” added Lord Gilfanon for Aracáno’s sake, whose eyes began to glaze over. “But that was a long way to come yet. For after the ships had landed, Maitimo, Fëanáro’s firstborn, spoke to his father, asking which ships would be spared to return and bring the rest of the Noldoli over to the Great Lands. He especially wanted to be reunited with his cousin, Findecáno the valiant.”

“’Tis no surprise,” said Aracáno with a shrug. “Fin and Russo had always been closer than brothers, from early childhood on. But how would you know it?”

“As King Arafinwë said, Fëanáro took with him all those whom he deemed true to him,” replied Gilfanon. “I was one of those; for he remembered that I had been a close friend of Finwë, since the days of Cuiviénen. Like everyone, even Maitimo, I thought that he simply wanted to be the first to set foot in the Great Lands again and would send the ships back for his brother and the greater part of the host.”

“Nay, it was not,” Gilfanon agreed. “For Fëanáro was seized by madness, laughing as one fey as his wrath was fully unleashed. He declared that what he had left behind he now counted no loss; that it had proved but needless baggage on the road. ‘Let those who cursed my name curse me still!’ he cried, ‘And whine their way back to the cages of the Valar, if they can find no other!’ And he ordered the ships to be burned.”

“To tell the truth, we were all shocked,” answered Gilfanon with an apologetic shrug. “Even Maitimo, who alone stood aside as Fëanáro and his sons set fire in the white ships of Alqaluntë. Thus in that place, which was called Losgar, at the outlet of the Firth of Drengist, the fairest vessels that ever sailed the Sea ended in a great burning, bright and terrible. I am told that even Nolofinwë and his people saw the light afar off, red beneath the clouds.”

“Oh indeed, we saw it,” said Aracáno darkly. “Atar knew at once that he had been betrayed and left to perish in misery – or go back in shame.”

Aracáno stared at him in dismay. “Oh no, Uncle Arfin, Atar never blamed you for turning back; no-one of us did! We all understood why you chose to go back, you and all those who followed your example. Atto’s heart was bitter, ‘tis true, but against the House of Fëanáro, never against you. And at the moment when we saw the fire of the burning ships, he desired as never before to get, by some way, to Endórë and meet Uncle Fëanáro again.”

“That,” said Legolas dryly, “would have been a most spectacular meeting, I deem; and not a very brotherly one.”

Aracáno nodded. “Nay, it would be not. Atto could be fierce when in rage. ‘Tis a good thing that they never met face to face again. Our House had loaded enough guilt upon itself at Alqualondë already; for not all of us had been guiltless in the Kinslaying.”

“Actually, I was – but not due to my own valour. Had I been in the vanguard, I might have thrown myself into battle, alongside of Fin, without asking whom we were fighting or why,” he looked at Eärwen contritely. “I am very sorry, Aunt Eärwen. I fear we all were more than a little insane back then. It seems to me that Uncle Arfin was the only one to keep his wits about him at that desperate time.”

“Or perchance I was more desperate than the rest of you,” replied the Noldóran dryly, “and seeing that I could not even bring my own children back to their senses, I saw no other way than to turn back.”

Eärwen squeezed his hand. “Well, I for my part was deliriously happy that you chose to come back. Losing our children was already more than I could have dealt with alone. Losing you, too, would have been beyond my strength. And what would have become of our people, the ones who remained in Tirion, without your rule and guidance?”

“Mayhap so,” allowed Eärwen, “but I could not have held out without you. Or rather I would not wish to continue living on in Aman alone. You promised me to stay with me ‘til the end of Arda – I would not accept anything less.”

The mighty King of the Amanian Noldor actually blushed at that, and everyone pretended not to notice it. To steer the conversation back to less personal topics, Legolas turned to Aracáno.

“Was the rest of you truly so guilt-ridden that you would rather brave the horrors of the Ice than your Telerin kin?” he asked. “We of Middle-earth are glad that you did, mind you, but I heard that it was a long and wretched journey.”

“That it was; as long as it lasted for me,” replied Aracáno with a self-deprecating grimace. “I died early enough, truth be told. And so did Elenwë, the poor thing.”

“The rest of Nolofinwë’s host wandered on, though,” supplied Lindo, “and their valour and endurance grew greater with each hardship they had to face. For they were a mighty folk, newly come from the Blessed Realm, not yet weary with the weariness of Arda; and the fire of their hearts was young. Thus, led by Nolofinwë and his surviving sons, and by Findaráto and Artanis, who would not be denied, they dared to pass into the untrodden North and – there being no other way – they endured the terror of the Helkaraksë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldoli thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardness and woe.”

“I imagine that it was so,” commented Legolas. “Is it true that it took them ten years of the Sun to cross the Ice?”

Gilfanon nodded. “Yea, and many aside from Lady Elenwë and Prince Aracáno perished there. It was with a lessened host that Nolofinwë set foot at last upon the North of Endórë, where those of us who had turned away from Fëanáro after the burnings of the ships met them.”

“Little love for Fëanáro or his sons had those who still marched behind him and blew their trumpets in Endórë after the first rising of the Moon,” added Lindo.

“The Moon!” cried out Aracáno in dismay. “Master Lindo, you promised me a tale of the making of the Sun and the Moon! How did we end up with recounting the events of our dreadful flight instead?”

He seemed close to tears, like a small elfling that was denied a long promised treat in the end. Gilfanon looked at him in sympathy.

“Forgive us, my Prince; sometimes a tale just wants to be told, whether we plan to tell it or not. We shall end this particular tale here, for Lindo has lengthened it mightily, and it is already well beyond midnight. But we shall fulfil our promise to you. Let us have another tale-telling, three nights hence. It shall be one of greater ceremony, and music here shall be when all dwellers of this house are gathered together at his feet to hear Lindo relate the making of the new Lights.”

That promise mollified Aracáno considerably, but the Noldóran shook his head in regret.

“I fear that we cannot stay much longer,” he said. “We have already delayed our return by several days; we need to set sail tomorrow at first light. And Lady Meril is expecting Celebrían and Aracáno back, I deem.”

Gilfanon smiled, knowing that it was well within his might to deal with that problem.

“I shall send a message to our Queen and invite her for a visit, together with her other charge,” he promised. “And if Lady Celebrían and Prince Aracáno do not want to remain in the inn alone, they can move to our house. We have room enough, and we would welcome their company.”

Arafinwë was clearly of two minds about that suggestion, but Celebrían, remembering her first visit in the House of the Hundred Chimneys, agreed enthusiastically. Seeing her delight, Aracáno promptly chose to come with her; truth be told, he dreaded the thought of staying in the inn alone, under strangers. Thus arrangements were made and messages were sent, and it was agreed that the two of them would remain in Tavrobel a little longer.

In the next morning, the royal party of the Noldóran left the Rowan Tree Inn for the harbour, where the Tinwerîna, Elulindo’s ship, was waiting for them to take them back to the mainland. With them went Elulindo himself – not that his sailors could not have crossed the Bay of Eldamar safely without him, but he had been on land for days and was growing restless.

Before boarding the ship, Arafinwë took his leave from his nephew, warning him to go on things slowly, as he was but recently reborn and needed to grow into his new life gradually. Then he turned to Celebrían.

“We hope that as time goes by and your healing makes headway, you will come and visit us in Tirion,” he said. “It was once the home of your ammë, after all; and now it is your home as well. Who knows, you may even like it there,” he added, smiling, but there was great sadness in his eyes.

All of a sudden, Celebrían felt ashamed for her reluctance. These were her grandparents, after all, and she was the closest thing they could have to their long-lost daughter.

“I will, I promise,” she said, and she meant it. “I just need a little more time. I am still getting used to be separated from everything – and everyone – I knew and loved all my life. ‘Tis confusing and frightening. But I shall come.”

“Take all the time you need,” her grandsire said. “Whenever you come, we shall be ready to take you in, for as long as you want to stay.”

With that, he and Eärwen kissed her and Aracáno on the brow and turned away to board the ship. Just a little later, the Tinwerîna was but a faint glimmer upon the waves.

Author’s notes: Regarding Orodreth’s parentage: I follow the Silmarillion version. Yes, I know it is considered revised, but I don’t really care. I prefer Gil-galad as the son of Fingon, and I prefer Finduilas as Orodreth’s daughter and Orodreth himself as Finarfin’s son. To me, it makes much more sense, and since there are at least two different versions of everything in the First Age stuff, I am taking the creative freedom to choose that which appeals to me more.

Lindir’s origins have been established in my story “Innocence”, which can be read on FF.Net.

Celebrían and Aracáno spent the following two days making themselves more familiar with the House of the Hundred Chimneys. It did not take them long to realize that it was a mission of a lifetime. Well, that of a mortal lifetime, in any case – even for Celebrían, who had the advantage of having lived in the Last Homely House East of the Sea in Imladris, a building of vaguely similar layout, for millennia.

The House reminded them of a labyrinth; and an enchanted one, at that. There were more doors than anyone, even an Elf, could have hoped to keep count of. They all looked alike, but not all of them led into workrooms or sleeping chambers or porches used by the dwellers of the House. Some of them simply opened into walk-in closets filled with pottery or linens or other supplies needed for the care and feeding of the numerous inhabitants and even more numerous guests. Some even led to pantries or cool rooms or wine cellars.

One could never know in advance where they would get by passing such a door – unless one had already spent there a yén or two.

The permanent dwellers, too, were a colourful mix. Some of them had been members of the lord’s household since the Great Journey. Others had come to live with him and his lady wife after the War of Wrath. Again others were recently – or not-so-recently – re-housed and felt better in the peace and quiet of the House than outside, where they would have to face all the changes that had happened during their extended stay in Mandos.

Changes they were still not ready to deal with; something Aracáno could understand all too well.

“The House has grown a great deal since it had been built at the end of the First Age,” explained one of the long-term dwellers, a Noldo by the name of Gelmir. “Whenever it becomes too crowded, we simply add another wing. The Council of Tavrobel keeps this area unpopulated for this very purpose; for they know this refuge is needed by many.”

“You helped to build it?” repeated Aracáno in surprise. “You have come here right after the War of Wrath, then?”

Gelmir nodded. “That I have. My friend Arminas and I were originally of Lord Angrod’s people; I mean Lord Angaráto’s,” he corrected himself, seeing Aracáno’s blank look, “and lived in Dorthonion. When our lord and many of his followers were slain in the Dagor Bragollach, we wandered to the southern regions of Beleriand and settled with the people of Lord Círdan. For many years of the Sun to come we were his messengers, travelling all over Beleriand on his behalf.”

“Oh!” said Celebrían in a sudden moment of revelation. “You are that Gelmir then, the one who led Tuor to the Gate of the Noldor?”

Gelmir nodded and smiled, clearly delighted that his name was still remembered in Middle-earth.

“Indeed I am. Arminas and I were on our way to Nargothrond; for Lord Círdan had received an urgent message from the Lord of the Waters, and we were sent to deliver it to King Orodreth of Nargothrond… your cousin Artanáro,” he explained for Aracáno, who frowned.

“He was, for some four hundred years of the Sun,” Gelmir agreed. “But then he left his realm, the largest of all Noldorin realms in exile, to fulfil a solemn oath given to Barahir of the Edain, and left his kingdom in the care of his brother.”

“Not the best choice, if you ask me,” someone muttered, and another Noldo, very obviously one recently re-housed, walked into the room, just in time to catch the tail end of their conversation.

“This is my friend Arminas,” Gelmir introduced him. “Forgive his manners; he has been released from Mandos less than a year ago, and his emotions are still a little volatile. More so if it comes to certain persons from the past.”

“Well, I am right, am I not?” demanded Arminas. “Finrod should never have chosen Orodreth to follow him on the throne of Nargothrond!”

“He did not have many choices left,” pointed out Gelmir logically, “with both Lords Angrod and Aegnor already slain. Unless he wanted the Lady Artanis to rule the kingdom, that is.”

For a moment, Celebrían got the mental image of his mother as the Queen of Nargothrond: sitting on the high throne, wearing a crown of mithril – beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night, fair as the Sea and the Sun and the snow upon the Misty Mountains, dreadful as the storm and the lightning and stronger than the foundations of the earth. Yes, she could very well imagine Queen Galadriel ruling an empire with a delicate hand in an iron glove.

“And why not?” asked Arminas, obviously having no difficulties to imagine the same. “Stubborn elleth as she is, she would not have let that little upstart of a mortal tell her how to be a Queen. Nargothrond would probably have prevailed for many yéni to come.”

“He means Túrin,” explained Gelmir. “The two of them had a little… falling out when we finally reached Gondolin.”

“That must have been quite the journey,” said Celebrían. “I saw maps of Beleriand often enough to know that the distance between he Mouths of Sirion and Nargothrond was enormous.”

“It was,” admitted Gelmir. “More so as we went by ship to Drengist first, to seek for the hidden city of Turgon – Turucáno,” he added with a sideways glance at Aracáno, “but we found it not. ‘Twas while journeying inland that we came upon Tuor and took him part of the way through the Gate of the Noldor.”

“Why did you want to find Gondolin?” asked Celebrían. “I understand that Aran Turgon did rarely welcome anyone from the outside.”

“Yea, but Lord Círdan had a message for him as well,” replied Gelmir. “He did not know that Lord Ulmo had already chosen a different messenger: Tuor himself. How could we possibly know what the somewhat wild young Man would become one day?”

“How indeed,” said Arminas in agreement. “Therefore we took our leave from him, and –after spying upon the gathering Orcs in the Pass of Sirion for a while – we travelled south to deliver Lord Ulmo’s message to Aran Orodreth, at least.”

“What was the message?” inquired Aracáno, while Celebrían, who knew the answer, of course, smiled sadly. It was family history for her – but that did not make the outcome any less tragic.

“That Nargothrond should shut its doors,” replied Gelmir, “and that the bridge before said doors should be demolished to prevent a creeping evil from finding the gate. “

“I imagine that Artanáro was not delighted to hear that,” said Aracáno, darkly amused. “He was always more than a little reluctant to make any hard decisions. He was born a follower, not a leader.”

“Alas, ‘tis true,” sighed Arminas. “And what made things worse, at that time he greatly relied upon the counsel of Túrin, who scorned our words; for it was upon his advice that the bridge had been built; and it was he who always pressed the King to go forth openly to war.”

“Of course, it did not help that Arminas then asked him if he was of the House of Hador,” added Gelmir, grinning. “I never saw a Man getting so red in the face with anger as him.”

Aracáno stared at him in confusion. “Why would such an innocent question anger him so much?”

“In Nargothrond he was known under the name of Agarwaen, for he did not want it known that the son of Húrin resided there,” explained Gelmir.

“He had quite the reputation, and not necessarily a good one,” muttered Arminas darkly. “I wish Artanis had been there. She would have put that arrogant pup – and her fool of a brother – to their places.”

“Arminas became angry then and upbraided Túrin for his lack of courtesy and unwillingness to listen to the advice of others,” supplied Gelmir helpfully. “More so when those others were a Vala and the Lord of the Falathrim.”

“I assume that Artanáro still did not listen,” said Aracáno, and Arminas shook his head.

“Nay, he did not; and his folly led to the destruction of Nargothrond by Glaurung, he Father of the Dragons, who crept over that cursed bridge and sacked Aran Finrod’s beautiful city. Orodreth fell in battle and Glaurung made what was left of Nargothrond his lair for the next few years of the Sun.”

“Until Túrin’s sword slew him, you mean,” corrected Arminas. “Without the sword forged from the heart of a falling star and strengthened by the skill and magic of Eöl the Dark Elf, Túrin could never have succeeded.”

“Says everyone with a common sense,” retorted Arminas. “Think about it: how many had wounded Glaurung before, and to what end? Lord Azaghâl, the Dwarf-King of Belegost, Aran Fingon and his mounted archers in battle… but no common weapon could slay him. For he was the oldest of his kind, strong and full of malice and great, evil power – ‘twas the deed of the sword, not that of the hand wielding it.”

“I think you are being a little unreasonable in your dislike of Túrin,” said Gildor mildly.

Arminas shrugged. “So what? That Man never brought aught else upon us, Elves, but sorrow.”

“As was his father, but did we ever see Húrin killing people left and right, just because he was in a foul mood?” countered Arminas. “Nay, my friend; you and every other Elf may see that Man as a great hero; for me, he shall never be aught but a hot-headed, selfish and arrogant brat.”

Gelmir shook his head in tolerant amusement; this seemed to be a fairly old argument between the two of them and one that would not be laid to rest any time soon – if ever.

“How do you people think about Túrin back in Endórë?” he then asked from Celebrían. “Is he remembered as a hero or as a villain?”

“As a hero, mostly; at least among Men,” answered Celebrían truthfully. “Although my father has never forgiven him the death of Beleg Cúthalion, however accidental it might have been. And even though, ultimately, it was the Dragon’s deceit that caused the horrible death of Finduilas in the hand of Orcs,” she shuddered, realizing, for the first time, the chilling similarities between her own fate and that of her cousin, “my mother keeps blaming Túrin for it.”

“See? Not all are blinded by false glory back in the Outer Lands. Had Lady Finduilas kept faith to Prince Gwindor, and had Aran Orodreth listened to him instead of following Túrin blindly, the blood of Finarfin would not have dried out in that line.”

“The truth is, Orodreth’s line has not died out,” she said. “Gwindor and Finduilas consummated their marriage ere he would ride out to fight in the Nirnaeth, you know. The two had a daughter whom they named Faelivrin. She only turned away from him after he had returned from his long captivity; for while he had been away, she had fallen for Túrin. Gwindor accepted her choice, as he had become but a shadow of himself, even though he never stopped loving her.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Gelmir nodded. “A most tragic story, one that is often told. But no-one could ever tell what has become of the child.”

“Then you probably asked the wrong people,” answered Celebrían, “for I happen to know that she was rescued from the Fall of Nargothrond and married later a minstrel of the Falathrim. Their son, also a minstrel, was long the Warden of the White Tower of Elostirion and guardian of the chief palantír that is kept there to this very day. Alas, both he and his wife were slain by raiding Orcs during one of their journeys. Their only son, just a babe at that time, was found by Aiwendil the Wizard, and raised by him for many years, ere he would give him into our care. The boy still lives in Imladris.”

“Prince Gwindor has a great-grandson?” asked Arminas in surprise. “That will please him to no end, once he is done healing in Lórien. Is the boy a warrior, too?”

“Oh, no, he never wielded anything but a kitchen knife,” replied Celebrían with a fond smile. “He is a minstrel, like his father and grandsire have been; they say the greatest one since Daeron of Doriath.”

“According to Gildor Inglorion, his parents named him Ingwil,” said Celebrían. “But Aiwendil named him Lindir, and that is the only name he has ever listened to. He is a strange one: sly and sweet and a little wild – and more innocent than any Elf has been since the Awakening, or so they say.”

Celebrían gave him a sharp look. “You know…? But how can you? Only a handful of chosen ones have ever been told of the true nature of the Istari.”

Gelmir shrugged. “I know the name; and I heard that a few chosen Maiar have been sent to Endórë in disguise. “Twas easy to count two and two together. I used to help with the Reborn in Lórien while waiting for his return,” he nodded in Arminas’ direction. “You cannot work closely with Lord Irmo’s people and not learn things that are not otherwise common knowledge.”

“Almost a yén ago,” Arminas smiled sheepishly. “I know, I know. I ought to have calmed down and adapted to a different life better by now. I assume I am just a little slower to mature than most others.”

“He always had a quick temper,” Gelmir revealed, but he was smiling at his friend nonetheless. “Endórë suited his nature better, and he still misses his old life. We both do, which is why we dwell under Lord Gilfanon’s roof.”

Gelmir shrugged again. “We were both born in Beleriand while Lord Angrod and Lord Aegnor were holding Dorthonion for Aran Finrod. We knew nought but war or watchful peace for a very long time. It took me literally yéni to get used to life in the Blessed Realm. Arminas will get around eventually, too. But we shall always miss our old home. Everyone does who had known Endórë,” he gave Celebrían a sympathetic glance. “So shall you, my Lady, I fear.”

Celebrían nodded. She had not expected anything else. Middle-earth had been her home; the only home she had ever known, and she had not left it out of longing for Valinor. She had left it for she had no other choice, and knowing she would never see it again broke her heart.

Elrond would have no other choice, either. He had displayed the first, so far vague signs of Sea-longing already, which would force him to Sail, sooner or later. He had made his Choice two Ages previously, and once the Longing hit, an Elf had to Sail – or to fade. The blood of mortal Men in his veins enabled him to fight the Longing, longer than any other Elf could hope to do, and he used that mortal strength, for he still had work to do in Middle-earth. But he would succumb to the call of the Sea, once his work was done; and then they would be together again.

About the possible choices of her children she rarely dared to think. Elrohir had seemed content enough with his life as an Elf and with his long-ongoing betrothal to Aquiel, Gildor’s niece. But In Elladan, the call of mortal blood was very strong; should he repeat Elros’ Choice, Elrohir would be hard-pressed to choose between his twin and his betrothed.

She was so wrapped up in her memories that she only belatedly realized that someone was talking to her. She blinked to clear her head of the unbidden thoughts, looking up into the worried face of Aracáno.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked in concern. Celebrían forced herself to smile.

“Everything is fine, Aracáno, worry not on my behalf. I was just remembering my home.”

“I am truly sorry, my Lady,” Gelmir offered lamely, but Celebrían waved off his concern.

“Do not be. My memories of my home are happy ones. Now, why do not show us the garden you were talking about? I believe we can all use some delightful distraction.”

On the next day, after the evening meal, household and guests gathered in the Great Hall of the House of the Hundred Chimneys again, and Aracáno was growing very excited, hoping that he would finally get to hear the tale of the making of the Sun and the Moon. ‘Twas a slightly different group tonight, with the Noldóran and his Queen gone; Ivárë, too, had followed Elemmírë back to the mainland, to spend some time under Lord Manwë’s roof with her.

In exchange, Meril and Elenwë had arrived in the late morning, accompanied by Tirannë and Nielthi and a small group of guards. There had been a happy reunion, with tears of joy, between Elenwë and Aracáno; they had missed each other very much, having grown close due to their shared fate. Elenwë, though, seemed to have outgrown some of her insecurities during the short time of their separation. She looked truly queenly now, sitting between Meril and Celebrían, while Aracáno chose to sit on Celebrían’s other side.

She also appeared to be finding back to her old self in the way that now she was showing marked Vanyarin sensitivities in her clothing, too. She was wearing a gown of shimmering turquoise silk, shot with gold, with tight sleeves, the collar and cuff embroidered with wires and leaves in dark green, interspersed with small topazes. Over this was a sleeveless robe of dark royal blue brocade, trimmed with gold knotwork embroidery, the sides open almost to the hips. Her golden hair was braided with turquoises and emeralds and wreathed around her head like a natural coronet.

Meril’s attire was very similar, only in midnight blue and dark burgundy red, embroidered with silver. Together, they were like day and night. Celebrían, still wearing her simple grey raiment in Lórien fashion, was like a morning full of silver mist compared with them, but no less beautiful, Aracáno found.

When the evening meal was over and the trestle tables had been dismantled and the seats rearranged, someone put the Storyteller’s Chair into the centre of the Hall again. To everyone’s surprise, though, Lindo did not take the Chair tonight.

“I know a great deal about the making of the Sun and the Moon,” he explained, “but only from hearsay, of course. We Elves were not around when the most important part of the work was done. Therefore, as I wanted to give Prince Aracáno the most accurate recount of those events, I have asked for the help of someone who was actually part of the great task,” he smiled and raised his voice just a little. “Ilmarë, if you would like to join us?”

There was a brief glimmer of light, and then Lady Varda’s handmaid stood in the middle of the hall, clad in a gown of white samite and a robe of white brocaded silk, the long, trailing sleeves of which swept the floor. Her golden hair was braided in Vanyarin fashion and held together by a gilded net, sewn with white pearls. She could have been an Elven princess by her looks, but for the hidden power emanating from her graceful form.

“Greetings,” she said in her melodious voice that sounded like a carillon of silver bells. “Master Lindo thought that you would want an eyewitness report on the making of the Sun and the Moon; and as my brother Fionwë is fairly useless at telling ancient tales – quite frankly, he is too impatient for the truly interesting details – I was asked to come in his stead. Now, this is a long tale; one that will take most of the night to tell, so we should begin immediately. Take your seats, my children, listen and learn.”

All Elves of the House, starting with the smallest elfling to its Master and Mistress, who could remember Cuiviénen, after all, obeyed eagerly. For how often did they get to have a Maia telling them a tale no-one but the Powers themselves had ever known?

Ilmarë took the Storyteller’s Chair, arranged the folds of her robes around herself and was silent for a moment, as if arranging her memories.

“As Master Lindo has already told you the last time, Valinor was full of shadows and gloom after the death of the Trees, and the Elves wept and could not be comforted,” she then began, and no-one bothered to ask how she could know what had already been said. She was a Maia, after all, and one of the highest ranks. “It took us, even the Valar, a considerable length of time to accept that light was gone from Valinor, for ever, and never again would the Trees bloom at their appointed times. Only the light of the stars remained, save where a glow lay about the fountain of Kulullin that was playing still, albeit but a shadow of itself. And also a pale gleam still lingered near Telimpë, the Vat of Dreams. Yet even these were dimmed and tarnished, for the Trees no longer brought forth dew for their replenishment.”

“For us, who had known the darkness of Endórë, a darkness full of hidden perils, this was a time of great fear,” added Lady Vainóni quietly. “For it seemed to us as if Melkor had been triumphant, destroying the light a second time, like he had destroyed the Lamps of the Valar; and that Eä would drown in everlasting darkness and the Valar had no longer the means to save it.”

Ilmarë nodded. “A fear we could understand very well. Therefore, attempts to save what could be saved were being made already, in the hope that the Trees could somehow be rekindled. Lady Vána and Lord Irmo called many of us and of the Elves dwelling in Eldamas to them, and led by Urwendi – for Silmo, the guardian of Silpion, had been slain by Melkor’s dark servants – we gathered as much light of gold and silver in enchanted vessels as we could and carried them to the ruined Trees.”

“Wait just a moment!” Galenbrethil, who – together with Findalor and Lindefal – had been invited to this night of storytelling – interrupted in bewilderment. “You speak of light as if it were some kind of liquid, though everyone with eyes to see can see that it is not.”

“’Tis not now,” corrected Ilmarë. “Yet in the days of old, when the Trees were still alive, it was. That was how it could be collected in Lady Varda’s wells and how she had made the great stars to celebrate the Awakening of your people, using the dew of Silpion.”

“Save for the Seven Stars, or so the oldest legends say,” supplied Master Lindo, his eyes twinkling. “For they are said to be the sparks from Lord Aulë’s forge, whose brightness in the ancient heavens urged Lady Varda to make their rivals; yet this she supposedly never achieved.”

“I have heard about this legend myself,” replied Ilmarë, laughing; and there was so much joy in that sound that all who were listening to her smiled involuntarily. “Some minstrels are most eager to colour the tale with loving details: how Lord Aulë would fling down his great hammer in joy over the Awakening; how that hammer would strike some ingots of silver upon the stone floor of the smithy; how its magic would smite silver sparks to life – sparks that would flash from the window of the smithy out into the heavens…”

“So ‘tis told,” said Lindo, smiling. “’Tis also told that Lady Varda, seeing this, would take of that radiance in the basin and mingle it with molten silver to make it more stable; and then she would fare upon her wings of speed and set stars about the dark firmament in very great profusion, so that the skies would grow marvellously fair and their glory would double…”

“A lovely tale,” allowed Ilmarë, “but that is all it is: a tale. The kernel of truth in it is that Seven Stars were set at that time by the Lady Varda, to commemorate the coming of the Elves.”

“And Morwinyon, who blazes above the world’s edge in the West, she happened to drop in her great haste as she fared back to Valinor,” added Morwinyon, the Elf named after said bright star, and laughed.

“That is indeed the true beginning of Morwinyon and his beauty,” agreed Ilmarë with a straight face. “But we were speaking about the Darkness of Valinor and how the Valar tried to rekindle the Two Trees. As I said, we carried all the light that we could gather to the Ezellohar that was lying in gloom. There Lord Irmo sang wistful songs of magic and enchantment about the wounded bole of Silpion, watering the roots with the radiance of Telimpë lovingly. Lady Vána did the same with Laurelin, singing old golden songs of the happier days and bidding her maidens to dance their bright dances, as they were used to dance upon the sward of the rose-gardens near Kulullin.””

“That was a risky thing to do,” commented Legolas. “I assume there could not be such a great store of the liquid light remaining in Valinor.”

“Nay,” admitted the Maia, “and their actions may seem wasteful in your eyes. Yet you must know that this draught never failed to refresh the heart of Laurelin, and she bare ever in return a fruit of light more plentiful than her guardians gave.”

“Not this time, no,” Ilmarë agreed. “This time, all our singing and enchantment was of little worth, and though the roots of the Trees seemed to drink all that we might pour, we could see no stir of life renewed, nor the faintest gleam of light; nor withered leaf glowed with sap, nor blossom lifted its drooping stem. And the other Valar sat darkly in their halls, grieving, and it seemed that there was no remedy for their ills – for the ills of Aman indeed. For Lord Irmo and Lady Vána put forth their spells to no avail – and Lady Vána wept.”

“It must have been frightening for the Eldar, to see that not even the Valar had been able to heal the wounds of Laurelin and Silpion,” said Celebrían softly. “They were used to living in the light of the Trees – methinks the gloom of Valinor was more terrifying for them than for those who had lived in Middle-earth, under the twilight of the stars.”

“It was frightening for us all,” confessed the Maia, “for we did not understand how this could have happened. Therefore we were looking for answers, and many thought that the reason for their failure was that no word of the Earth-lady, mother of magic, had been mingled in their spells.”

“Sounds reasonable,” commented Galenbrethil. “After all, was it not the Lady Yavanna who had created the Trees in the first place?”

“Not alone; not without the help of others,” corrected Ilmarë, “but your point does have its merits, and many of us were of the same opinion. Thus we went to seek out Lady Palúrien, in the hope that by the power of her magic the Trees may regain some portion of their ancient glory, and then, if light be renewed, Lord Aulë and his people may repair the hurts of our fair realm, and happiness will be once more between Erumani and the Sea.”

“’Twas the last hope for Aman, or so we thought,” added Lady Vainóni. “Alas that it did not work like that!”

“Nay, it did not,” agreed the Maia. “For when we called for the Lady Yavanna, she came and asked what we would need, and hearing our request she, too, wept and told us that these two Trees may never bloom again, and others like them may not be brought to life for many ages of the world. ‘Many things shall be done and come to pass, and the Valar grow old, and the Elves come nigh to fading, ere you shall see the rekindling of these Trees,’ she said, and we, who were listening to her, were frightened and wept with her. For never before had Kémi, the Earth-lady, been hard of counsel or lacked a song of power that would heal the hurts of Eä.”

“A nasty surprise it must have been for the rest of you,” said Lindefal lightly, trying to lift the mood a little.

Several Amanian Elves gave him looks of reproval, but he just shrugged and grinned, not willing to buy into the general mood of doom and gloom. He had seen his fair share of horrible things, but his irrepressible nature had always won the upper hand, and he saw no reason in brooding over past losses.

Surprisingly enough, Ilmarë did not seem the least offended. In fact, she grinned back at Lindefal, her grin full of mischief.

“That it was, and many of us were not willing to accept it,” she said. “We kept beseeching Lady Yavanna to put forth her power – but she refused, saying: ‘Such is of fate and the Music of the Ainur. Even the Valar cannot create such marvels as those Trees a second time; not now, when the youth of Arda is past; nor may all my spells avail to do what you ask of me.’ Needless to say that we were even more shocked hearing this,” she added dryly, and the Elves filling the Hall laughed.

“However, Lady Vána was not willing to give up hope just yet,” Ilmarë picked up the tale again when they had quieted down. “She turned to Lord Aulë next, him who is called i-Talka Marda – the Smith of Arda – for the might of his works, asking him how were we to obtain light that is needful to our joy. ‘For what is Valinor without light,’ she argued, ‘or are you losing your skill, as your spouse seems to have done in this hour of oppressing darkness?’”

Morwinyon, a smith and pupil of the greatest Elven-smiths himself, frowned at that. “But light cannot be fashioned by smith-craft, can it?”

“Nay, it cannot,” said Ilmarë, “nor could have any even of the Valar devised it, were the sap of the Trees of be dried for ever.”

“Somehow, I cannot imagine Lady Vána to be content with that answer,” said Legolas.

“And you would be right, for she was not,” replied the Maia. “And even more ill-content she became when Lady Yavanna reminded her – and the rest of us – that in our grief we thought only and always of Valinor, forgetting the world without. ‘For,’ so the Earth-lady said, “my heart tells me that it is time for the Valar to take up once more the battle for Arda and force back the powers of Melkor.’”

Legolas nodded, a faint smile playing upon his face. “The Lady Palúrien has always been the one to concern herself with the fate of Middle-earth and those who dwelt upon the eastern shores. Even in the darkest hours, when our ancestors were still pursued by the Hunter, she and Lord Araw often crossed the Sea between Valinor and Ennorath, bringing us the corn for lembas and hunting the monsters of Melkor. Which is why we Nandor have always had the greatest respect for them, more so than for any other of the Powers. For they never forgot about us who remained faithful to the lands of our birth.”

“Nay, they did not,” said Ilmarë in agreement. “And at the time when darkness seemed to return to Eä, ‘twas Lady Yavanna indeed who raised her voice for those that were left behind. Yet in her grief, Lady Vána comprehended not her sister’s mind, thinking only of her Tree of gold, and was not to be consoled. Lord Manwë and Lady Varda, though, and with them Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna, retreated from the rest of us, and in secret conclave they took deep and searching counsel one of another, and at the last they had come to an agreement, in hope that their plan may work out.”

“Was it that when they thought of creating the Sun and the Moon?” asked Aracáno eagerly. Ilmarë smiled at him in a motherly manner.

“That it was indeed. Yet the night of storytelling before us is still long, and ere I continue, you may need some refreshments, so that your attention would not wane.”

She snipped with her fingers, and all of a sudden there were columns of shimmering light, which coalesced into the shining shapes of a surprisingly great number of Maiar, all holding small drinking vessels in their hands. There was Erunyauvë and Nornorë and many others that Celebrían did not know, all clad in festive garb, the emblems of their Masters embroidered upon their breasts. The vessels in their hands were of gold or mithril, funnel-shaped and with flared rims, like flowers, yet otherwise completely unadorned.

“Drink, my children, and allow this glorious draught to lift the shadow of grief from your hearts,” said Ilmarë. “For listening to past sorrows is a dangerous thing, and I shall not continue my tale before it would cure your ills to joy and merriment, leting your hearts rejuvenate again and grow full of song.”

The Maiar began to distribute the vessels among the audience, and all Elves accepted the drink with grateful nods and words of thanks. In a moment, Celebrían found herself facing Erunyauvë, who was offering her a mithril vessel full of some fragrant drink that seemed to glow like liquid gold.

“Why, it is what you have been asking about, child,” she replied. “’Tis limpë, the drink brewed by Lord Irmo and his people, designed to cure the hearts those who have come from great perils to the West, to find healing and a new life.”

Author’s notes: Of limpë there is very little said in the Book of Lost Tales. I used the Ent-draught as a template when describing it, although it turned out quite differently.

I-kal'antúlien means “Light hath returned”. Again, I’m following the descriptions of the Lost Tales here where the making of the Sun and the Moon is concerned.

Celebrían stared at the graceful vessel offered to her – a vessel clearly not made by Elven hand – in deep reverence. This was also limpë, the legendary draught of the Blessed Realm? And it was being offered her freely, all of a sudden? During her stay in Meril’s house, she had tentatively enquired about it, but Meril had always evaded her, saying that she was not ready for it yet. That she had some healing to do on her own first.

She looked over to the Lady of Tol Eressëa who was accepting her own vessel from one of the Maiar.

“Nay; ‘tis mine,” answered Ilmarë in Meril’s stead. “The tale Prince Aracáno has asked for is a dark yet glorious one. Tasting limpë ere you would hear it to its end will give you a heart to fathom its glory in its fullness. Drink child, and be not afraid. You are strong enough now to receive Joy.”

Celebrían found that statement a little strange, but then again, she found the Maiar peculiar creatures to begin with. Still, she saw no reason to deny herself the pleasure of the famous drink of Valinor, concocted by the Lord of Dreams and his people themselves. Thus she accepted the fragile vessel from Erunyauvë and took a careful sip.

Unlike miruvor that was clear, colourless and unfolded its warmth and flavour only in the aftermath, the fragrance and spicy sweetness of deep amber limpë filled her mouth and nose immediately. It caused a sparkling, almost ticklish feeling that made her laugh, and from the corner of her eye she could see the others sitting nearby smile and laugh, too.

Aracáno was positively giggling, like a very young elfling after his first cup of wine. Elenwë’s pale, beautiful face became rosy with the warmth of the wondrous draught, and even Meril smiled and appeared to forget her burdens for the moment.

“Go on and drink it all!” encouraged her Erunyauvë. “It will not make you drunk, I promise; nor will it make you embarrass yourself in any way.”

Celebrían did not question the Maia’s promise. In truth, she had no real fear that she may make a spectacle of herself, should the drink rush to her head. She just wanted to make the experience last as long as possible, for it was a glorious one. She could not remember having ever tasted anything quite like it: like the heat of summer, the sweetness of wild berries, the freshness of a mountain spring and the fragrance of a garden full of immortal flowers rolled into one savour.

When all drinking vessels had been emptied, the Maiar collected them and simply faded away to allow Ilmarë to pick up her tale again.

“As I said, Lord Manwë held counsel with his spouse, the Star-Kindler, and with the Smith of Arda and the Earth-Queen,” she began, “and when they had come to an agreement about what was the needful thing to do, the Elder King sent out messengers to call together all the folk of Valinor once more. And we followed his summons, Valar and Maiar alike, gathering in Lady Vána's bower amidst her roses, where Kulullin's fountains were still playing, for the plain without lay now all cold and dark.”

Ilmarë grinned at him. “Even more so as the leaders of the Elves had also been summoned, to sit at the feet of the Valar and take part of their counsel,” she replied. That was something that had never been done before; but as the return of the Light was the concern of us all, Lord Manwë felt that they should be present, too.”

She paused and smiled at the Lady Vainóni, who nodded thoughtfully, clearly having been present at that meaningful gathering. Perchance as part of Queen Anairë’s entourage, who had still been acting as Queen Regent, as Arafinwë had not been crowned yet at that time.

“We were all fairly shocked by the invitation,” remembered the Lady of the House, “the Noldoli before all, as we had not expected that the Valar would even want to see us ever again. Not after the majority of our people had rebelled against them. Lord Manwë, however, had other concerns, as his words soon revealed.”

“Indeed,” said Ilmarë in agreement. “For those same events had opened the eyes of the Great Valar rather ungently, making them realize that they had well-nigh forgot the outside world that now lay without hope for better days; and of the younger Children of Ilúvatar that were soon to come.”

“You mean the Secondborn,” said Legolas. It was not a question, but Ilmarë nodded nevertheless.

“I do. In his wisdom, Lord Manwë recognized the hand of Ilúvatar in those events; for by allowing the Trees – that filled our land so much with loveliness and our hearts so much with mirth that no wider desires would come into them – to wither and die, the One forced us to turn our thoughts to new devices that would shed light upon both the Great Lands without and Valinor within."

“Are you saying that Ilúvatar wanted the Trees to die and darkness to come upon the Blessed Realm?” asked Morwinyon with a frown. Ilmare shook her head.

“Nay; I am saying that the One allowed it to happen; to shake us up and out of our self-content, fake safety, and remind us of our duties as Guardians of Arda.”

“It was indeed,” confessed Ilmarë, “and thus we listened spellbound as Lord Manwë explained the desing, which he, the ladies Varda and Yavanna and Lord Aulë had forged in their secret counsel. ‘This is now the third time we make our efforts to bring light into dark places’ he said, ‘and both the Lamps of the North and South, and the Trees of the plain, Melkor brought to ruin. Only in the air has Melkor no power for ill; thus ‘tis my counsel that we build a great vessel brimming with golden light and the hoarded dews of Laurelin, and set this afloat like a mighty ship high above the dark realms of Arda. There shall it thread far courses through the airs and pour its light on all the world twixt Valinórë and the Eastern shores."

“But I always thought that of the two great lights the Moon was the older,” said Celebrían in surprise. “That is what all our tales say: that the Moon first rose when High King Fingolfin entered Middle-earth; and it would cross the skies seven times ere he would rach Hithlum and the Sun rose for the first time.”

“And so it was,” answered Meril. “I was there. I saw it with my very eyes.”

“So it was in Endórë indeed,” agreed the Maia, “for the Valar did not release the new lights into the outer world ere they were certain that it would be safe. In Valinor itself… that was a different matter.”

“Different indeed,” murmured Lady Helyanwë. “That is something I can remember vividly.”

Meanwhile, Aracáno had been getting seriously upset by all the delay for a while, and now he lost his diminishing patience for good..

“If you keep interrupting, I will never hear the tale,” he said accusingly, and the others laughed.

“Perhaps,” said Elenwë, speaking for the first time in that evening, “yet I do find all this endlessly fascinating. I must admit that I never gave much thought to what the Valar were doing in my former life; and we both have missed so much, Ara!”

“Exactly!” prompted Aracáno. “The first rising of the Sun and the Moon, to begin with – if we could manage to get to that point within this night still!”

The older Elves, particularly those who never left Aman, gave him disapproving loooks, finding his behaviour unbecoming of an Elf, and a prince at that. But Ilmarë just laughed.

“You are right, of course, and I shall endeavour to keep a straight storyline,” she promised. “Now, Lord Manwë designed the course of the ship of light to be between the East and West, for Melkor held the North and Ungweliant the South, whereas in the West was Valinor and the Blessed Realm, and in the East great regions of dark lands that craved for light.”

“I thought Ungoliant had followed Morgoth to Middle-earth and was beaten into retreat by his Balrogs at Lammoth,” said Legolas in surprise, ignoring Aracáno’s exasperated groan.

“She did and she was,” agreed the Maia. “Yet the South was still very much filled with her darkness and with foul creatures that dwelt in those black shadows.”

Legolas nodded. “I see. But why would Lord Manwë think that Morgoth would have no power in the air?”

“Because that is the truth,” replied Ilmarë simply. “Some of the Valar, due to their nature, can travel speedily through Vilna and the lower airs, even if wearing their incarnate form. Yet none of them, save Lord Manwë and Lady Varda and their people, avail to pass beyond. For this was the device of Ilúvatar when they chose to come to Eä: that that they should dwell forever within the world if once they entered it, nor should they leave it, until the End came, being woven about it in the threads of its fate and becoming part thereof.”

“Does this mean that you are bound to Arda, just as we are?” clarified Legolas, clearly stunned as the Maia nodded.

“That we are indeed; ‘tis a fate our Masters accepted gladly as the consequence of their guardianship, and we who have pledged ourselves to them share it with joy. Yet more, to Lord Manwë alone, knowing the purity and glory of his heart, did Ilúvatar grant the power of visiting the uttermost heights beyond the stars, so far above the world that no finest dust of it, nor the thinnest odour of the cretures living upon its surface, nor the faintest echo of their songs or sorrow comes there. There walks Manwë Súlimo often, and watches it gleaming palely far below with love, and he is very near the heart of Ilúvatar – closer than any of could ever hope to come.”

“It did not fit well with Morgoth to see the privileged status of his brother, I deem,” commented Legolas, “seeing that he was once considered the greatest of his kind.”

“He was indeed,” said Ilmarë sadly, “and he lost his place due to his own early choices. You shall yet hear how greatly his envy was increased when the great vessels of radiance set sail; now, however, you need to know that most of the Valar found the words and the wisdom of Lord Manwë moving and his purpose good.”

Ilmarë shrugged. “Well, truth be told, Lord Irmo was less pleased than the others, for he feared that it would mean the loss of the quiet and secret places that he loved so much. And Lady Vána still had no other desire than to rekindle the Trees, vain though that desire seemed to all else.”

“But if memory serves me well, Lord Manwë’s design failed in the end,” said Morwinyon. “I was but an elfling at that time, yet I seem to remember hearing Anatar Mahtan and Uncle Tulkastor complain that Lord Aulë and his people – among whom they were both counted – failed to device any substance that was not too gross to swim the airs or too frail to bear the radiance of Kulullin; and not even Lady Varda’s efforts could help.”

“Memory does serve you well,” replied the Maia, “and such Lady Vána and Lord Irmo begged the Elder King to command the Earth-lady to attempt the healing of the Trees after all.”

“Which she did in the end, did she not?” asked Galenbrethil. “All our tales tell us about the powerful songs of Lady Palúrien that cajoled forth one last fruit from Laurelin and one last blossom from Silpion, which then were made into the vessels of Light by Lord Aulë himself.”

“Then your tales are wrong; or, at the very least, they only know half the truth,” answered Ilmarë. “For while that was the end result indeed, the path leading there was a stony one. At the Elder King’s request, Lady Yavanna did put forth her power indeed, loath though she was, for she feared – and rightly so – that her strength would not be great enough for such an enormous task.”

Galenbrethil stared at the Maia in bewilderment. “If not her, who then? No other had ever commanded over strength like hers when it came to living things, or so they say.”

“So they say, and ‘tis true, too,” agreed Ilmarë. “But some tasks are too difficult to approach alone even for one of the Great Valar, as you will see. In any case, Lady Yavanna agreed to do the Elder King’s bidding – all she asked for was some of the radiance of white and gold.”

“But had Lady Vána and Lord Irmo not poured out all of that upon the roots of the Trees?” Lindefal asked with a frown.

“Not all of it,” replied the Maia, “but unstintingly indeed. Therefore Lords Manwë and Aulë would spare only two small phials of what little was left, saying that if the draught of old had power to heal the Trees they would be blooming already.”

“And yet the Lady Palúrien tried it nonetheless,” said Galenbrethil; again, it was not a question.

Ilmarë nodded. “That she did. There she stood sorrowfully between the darkened Trees, trembling and very pale with the effort she put forth. The phial of gold she held in her right hand and the one of silver in her left, lifting them high, ‘til flames of red and of white arose from each one like flowers, and the very earth shook and opened up, bringing forth a rainbow of flowers and plants about her feet: in whites and blues on her left, in reds and gold on her right. A multitude of sweet scents filled the gloomy air and the Valar themselves were stunned to utter silence by that. Then she cast each phial upon its proper Tree and sang the most powerful of all Songs of Power: those of unfading growth and and those of rebirth after death and withering… ‘til she, too, fell silent all of a sudden, and swooned.”

“I remember,” murmured Lady Vainóni. “All Valinor was shaking with the outpur of Lady Palúrien’s power. For like water had she poured it out upon the earth, and like water had the earth sucked it from her; and she was laying there, trembling and frightened, and others had to help her back to her feet. The Trees, though, stood still gaunt and stark, and we all wept beholding them; them and the Earth-lady, who was utterly drained.”

“We all were shocked, seeing that not even the Lady Palúrien could repair the harm done to our beloved Trees,” said Ilmarë in sorrowful agreement. “Lord Manwë did attempt to encourage us, telling us that beauty had not yet perished from the earth, nor had all the counsels of the Valar been turned to nought. But we were bereft of hope and all left the place, grieving, save for Lady Vána, who clung to the bole of Laurelin and wept.”

“It seems that she was the most devastated by the loss of the Trees,” said Galenbrethil.

“She was,” replied Ilmarë. “So much that Lady Varda asked us – Urwendi and myself – to stay behind and keep an eye on her, lest she would harm herself in her despair.”

“Can something like that happen to the Valar at all?” asked Celebrían doubtfully.

“No such thing is known to have ever happened,” answered the Maia, ”but yea, we Ainur do suffer from loss, disappointment and hurt feelings as much as you Edar do – perhaps even more. Fortunately for us, we can perceive the love of Ilúvatar more directly, and thus we are able to heal from such hurts faster and more completely.”

“How comes then that Morgoth and his followers had fallen from grace so utterly?” wondered Galenbrethil. “Knowing such love should prevent one from turning evil, should it not?”

“It should,” Ilmarë agreed,” but you have to accept love for it to do you any good; ‘tis never forced upon you. And those who cannot accept love will find no other path than that of malice and hatred – which, inevitably, will lead them into the Everlasting Darkness.”

Hearing those words, Morwinyon suddenly became very pale and grim-faced, and Lady Helyanwë began to cry silently, for they were reminded of the terrible Oath of the Fëanorians that had bereft them of father and husband,. Celebrían’s heart went out to them; for whatever Macalaurë had done upon his return to Middle-earth, he must have been a good and noble person once, and most likely a loving husband and a doting father.

She wished she could say something to comfort his wife and his son. But this was neither the time nor the place for that, and she knew it. She was determined, however, to speak to them as soon as the chance offered itself. But first she wanted to heart the end of the tale as much as Aracáno did, for in many places it seemed to differ from the legendarium in the librarly of Imladris considerably.

“She kept weeping, and she wrapped her golden hair about the bole of Laurelin, while her tears were dropping softly at its roots,” replied Ilmarë, clearly moved by that memory. “And behold, as the dew of her gentle love touched those withered roots, a sudden pale gleam was born among the darkened branches.”

“But-but I always thought it was Lady Nienna whose tears rekindled the Trees for a short time,” exclaimed Celebrían in surprise. “Are then all ancient tales wrong?”

“Nay, they are not,” answered the Maia. “For ‘tis true that the tears of Lady Nienna have healing powers beyond imagination. However, the Trees were well beyond healing already; only love could make them bring forth fruit and blossom one last time. And thus Lady Vána gazed in wonder as where her first tears fell a shoot sprang from Laurelin, and it budded, and the buds were all of gold, and golden light came from them, like a ray of sunlight beneath a cloud.”

“It must have been a breath-taking sight in all that gloom and shadow,” said Celebrían softly, remembering what it had been like when she had first spotted the light of the torch carried by her sons, in the dark den of the Orcs that had captured her. Back then, all she could feel was shame and horror that Elladan and Elrohir would see him in that shape; now she realized that it had been the first ray of hope.

“It was indeed,” Ilmarë agreed,” and Lady Vána ran out upon the plain, and she lifted up her sweet voice with all her might, so that her hymn of gratitude could be heard ‘til the gates of Valmar, so that all the Valar could hear it. And while at first they thought it to be the voice of lament, they could soon perceive the great joy in it; and the words they could hear repeated over and over were I-kal'antúlien, Light hath returned.”

She paused for a moment to allow her audience to let the enormity of that fact sink in fully. Then she smiled and went on.

“You can probably imagine the murmur of amazement a-rising all over Valmar. We all gathered around the Ezellohar in excitement, and when we beheld Lady Vána beneath the Tree and the new shot of gold, a mighty song of praise and joy burst forth on every tongue. The Eldar came running up from Eldamas, and they were amazed beyond measure and praised Lady Yavanna, believing that her spels had proven mightier than her foretelling.”

“Oh indeed,” Lady Vainóni suddenly laughed out loud, “and when Lady Yavanna protested, saying that her spells played but a lesser part, and that it was mostly her sister’s gentle love and her tears that had worked the miracle, few of us were willing to believe it.”

“So this is how it came into the tales that Lady Palúrien had re-awakened the Trees,” Legolas, too, laughed. “Not even the testimony of a Vala can take it up with a stubborn legend, it seems.”

“Apparently,” Ilmarë agreed, looking very amused. “However, she also reminded us that her foretelling had been true, and that we all would see it all too soon.”

“That the Trees would no longer bloom, nor would they shine in their glory of old,” reminded him Lindefal, and Ilmarë nodded.

“You are right,” she said. “For as we were standing there, gazing on Laurelin, those golden buds opened and put forth leaves; leaves that were different from the ones of old, as they were entirely of finest gold. And even as we watched, the branch sprouted golden blossoms all along its length, so that it was thronged with flowers. Yet as soon as the blossoms opened fully, a sudden gust of wind came up and shook them from their slender stems, blowing them our heads like tiny jets of fire.”

“To us, it seemed like golden rain,” said Lindo, his eyes misty with memories, “And while some feared a great evil at work, others chased after the shining petals as small elflings chase after butterflies, far and wide, and gathered those they could catch in baskets.”

“Only to have those baskets go up in fire,” laughed Lady Vainóni, “unless they were made of wickerwork of golden threads or other metals. Nothing else might contain those ardent blooms, and if one tried it nonetheless, the petals were lost again. Many have suffered burns, too; I fear the screams could be head to the farthest corners of Mandos.”

“And you would be mistaken,” replied Ilmarë, but she was smiling. “No sound from outside can reach the Halls of Mandos or those who dwell within. But we were talking about the golden blossoms of Laurelin, I believe. You must know that one of these was greater than the others, shining more brightly, and more richly golden; and while it swayed to the winds, it alone fell not. Instead, it kept growing, and as it grew, it was fructified by its own radiant warmth. Then its petals fell and were collected and treasured by the Eldar, above all by those skilled in smithcraft, and a single fruit hung from the branch: a fruit of great beauty.”

“And of that fruit Lord Aulë later wrought the vessel of the Sun,” added Morwinyion. “Anatar Mahtan would often speak to us about that.”

“Yea; but that was later,” said Ilmarë. “Right then, the golden leaves of the bough grew pale, and they shrivelled and shone no more, and dropped to the eart, dying. The fruit, however, waxed wonderfully, filling with all the sap and radiance of the dying Tree: like quivering flames of amber and red it shone under the translucent rind, smooth as a glass transfused with gold. And the bough bent under its weight, as it hung before our eyes as a globe of throbbing fire.”

“It must have been beautiful… and frightening beyond measure,” murmured Findalor. He was used to the fiery beauty of liquid glass in his workshop, yet he knew that it would be but a pale shadow comapred with such glorious radiance.

“You are right: it was both,” Ilmarë agreed, “and we were fearful that the branch might snap under the weight, and the fruit of wonder would be dashed to the ground, and the last flame of Laurelin’s life would be lost. Therefore Lady Yavanna begged Lord Aulë to bear up the branch upon his mighty shoulders. Yet the Smith of Arda was just standing there as one lost in sudden thought; for he realized that now he had found the right substance for his great work. Then he called for Lord Tulkas to aid him, and together they severed the stem of that fruit.”

“Nay, it did not,” admitted Ilmarë. “All those who beheld their doing were astonished at his ruthlessness. Loudly they murmured against those who would anew ravish the Tree, and Lady Vána in particular was in great ire.”

“Did no-one attempt to hinder these two in their task?” asked Elenwë, with a hint of queenly disapproval in her gentle voice. “I cannot imagine that the other Valar would see it and do nothing.”

“Some of them might have been in disagreement,” allowed the Maia, “yet no-one dared to approach them, for even they could scarcely bear upon their shoulders that great globe of flame and were staggering beneath its weight. Lord Aulë called us upon our lack of wisdom and patience; but while doing so, his foot went astray and he stumbled, and even Lord Tulkas might not bear that fruit alone, so that it fell, and hitting stony ground, it burst asunder.”

“Oh, no!” Aracáno murmured in great distress, so wrapped up in the tale that he quite forgot that the Sun had been sailing the upper airs for the last two Ages undisturbed. Such was the magic of tales told by the Powers themelves. “What happened to th elight in the fruit? Was it lost forever?”

“Worry not, for that is not what happened,” answered the Maia. “When the fruit broke, such a blinding radiance leapt forth from it as not even the full bloom of Laurelin had ever produced; and even the eyes of the Ainur were dazzled, so that we stumbled back. That light spilled right into the basin of Kulullin, and a pillar of fire rose from its depths, smiting the heavens that the stars paled above it and the face of Taniquetil, though far off, became fiery red for a moment, ere that column of light would collapse again.”

“Nay, it did not, for Laurelin was truly and irrevocably dead,” admitted Ilmarë. “But the heart of Lord Aulë was filled with joy nonetheless, for now he had the right material for the making of the ship of light that would surpass even the Elder King’s desire; and now Lady Varda and many others, even Lady Vána, understood his purpose and were glad.”

“It must have been heavy labour, even for the Valar themselves, to get the broken halves of that fruit to Lord Aulë’s smithy,” said Lindefal. “Though I still cannot fathom why would they need to do so bodily. Could they not simply sing the Sun-ship into existence? Was it not how they had built the rest of Arda to begin with?”

“Nay, they could not,” replied the Maia, “for by entering Eä, we Ainur, too, are bound to its natural laws. Not as completely as you are, of course,” she added with twinkling eyes, seeing the disbelief upon their faces, “for where would be the fun in that? Yet not even the Elder King can merely snap with his fingers and make things happen. In some cases we have to labour just as hard as you do.”

“I remember the great excitement when the mighty basket of twisted gold was wrought, in which to transport the fruit of noon,” said Morwinyon with a soft smile. “I was still very young and got constantly underfoot while Anatar Mahal and Uncle Tulkastor were hammering and twisting the gold filaments – for days to no end, it seemed, although in the endless gloom no-one could tell how much time had truly gone by. One of Lord Aulë’s people was there, too, who did the weaving of the golden strings with great power and even greater skill; his voice sounded most amazing, for it seemed that he exercised all his power through it, despite that he did the actual weaving with his hands.”

“Curumo,” supplied Lindo, seeing a great many blank faces around. “He was the greatest of the Aulendili… well, after the fallen one, that is. His Songs of Power were mightier than swords and hammers, even though he much delighted in ordinary smithcraft as well.”

“And I was deadly afraid of him,” added Morwinyon with a rueful smile. “He had a way of looking down at one as if we were but vermin; and me being the son of a rebel and a Kinslayer already, it was hard to deal with that.”

“You were a child, and Curumo had no right to treat an innocent child with disdain for the sins of his father,” said Meril sharply. “Whatever we might think of your atar and uncles, none of what they had done was your fault. Sometimes I wonder if it was truly wise to let Curumo loose on the clueless people of Endórë.”

“So far, he has proved to be a great help for the free peoples of Middle-earth in their long twilight struggle against Sauron,” she replied and saw some in the audience flinch; those were people who had fought the Dark Lord and his minions for many yéni, back in the Great Lands. “Although I must admit that I prefer the company of Mithrandir and Aiwendil, personally.”

“Who is Mithrandir?” asked Master Lindo with a frown. His knowledge was centered around the distant past, and he rarely bothered to follow more recent events.

“You would know him as Olórin,” explained Meril, who was apparently well-versed in the happenings and the balance of power back in Middle-earth; small wonder, considering how many of those returning from the Outer Lands were going in and out of her house. “But we should allow Ilmarë to finish her tale ere we would launch into a different one, should we not?”

Her tone made it adamantly clear that this was not a mere suggestion, and such was her authority among the Tol Eressëans that people hurriedly murmured their apologies and fell silent at once. Ilmarë, though, just smiled and seemed amused by the scene.

“As Morwinyon said, a huge basket of twisted gold was made,” she then went on with her tale, “and strewed with the collected petals of the last bloom. Then we laid into it the halves of the fruit of noon; and uplifting it with many hands, we bore it away with much singing as hope reawakened in our hearts.”

“Where did you take it?” an elfling from the audience asked, wide-eyed with excitement. Celebrían recognized Galenbrethil son Ilvar.

“Why, to the courts of Lord Aulë, of course,” answered Ilmarë,” and that was where the great smithying of the Sun began. A cunning and marvellous task it was, the greatest of all great works of Aulë Talka-Marda, the number of whose works is legion. He and his people wrought a vessel of the perfect rind of the fruit: a vessel translucent and shining, yet of tempered strength. For he overcame the brittleness of the rind with mighty spells of his own, so that in no way would be its subtle delicacy diminished.”

“And it was light enough to swim the upper airs nonetheless?” asked someone, clearly a smith himself, yet one born in Middle-earth, as his eyes did not hold the remembrance of the light of the Trees, doubtfully. “Even though the mightiest of the Valar had stumbled under its weight?”

“O yea, it did,” said Master Lindo. “And when the liquid light from Kulullin was poured therein, it neither spilled nor dimmed; nor did the shining vessel take any injury from that ardent radiance but it would swim the air more lightly than any bird. For Lord Aulë had fashioned it like a great ship, broad of beam, laying one half of the rind within the other so that its strength would not break.”

“But a ship needs sails and ropes,” said another one from the audience; a Teler by his silver locks. “How could they find any cloth that would bear the heat of the very Sun, without burning to ashes at the first touch?”

“We had no such fabric at our disposal, of course,” Ilmarë admitted, “at least not yet. Not unless Lady Vána, repenting of her past murmurings, cut short her golden hair and gave it to Vairë the Weaver, who then wove sails and ropes of it with her people. And those sails and ropes were stronger than any mariner had ever seen, and yet fine like gossamer.”

“Oh, they were indeed,” said Lady Helyanwë, smiling. “I was one of the weavers who worked on the sails; never before and never again did I work with such exquisite thread.”

“You worked on the sails of the Sun-ship?” Aracáno looked at his cousin’s wife with a mix of surprise and respect.

She shrugged. “Lady Vairë found that I needed to do my part in the struggle for the return of the Light; and besides, as Formenos had not been cleansed yet at that time, I dwelt under her roof for a while.”

“Of course not; in their mansion in Valmar. I never actually caught sight of Lord Námo; not that I would want to.”

“And I blame you not, although if you asked those who have passed through Mandos, they might tell you unexpected things about its lord,” said Ilmarë. “In any case, now that the Ship of the Heavens had been fitted with matching sails and ropes, fastened to her masts and spars of pure gold, she was made ready to climb the skies. The last, unfading petals of Laurelin were gathered like a star at her prow, and tassels and streamers of glittering light were hung about her bulwarks, and a flash of lightning was caught in her mast to be a pennant…”

Such power had her words that her audience could clearly see with their inner eyes the great, diaphanous vessel, filled to the brim with the blazing radiance of the fruit of the noon, transferred from gold Kulullin. They could almost feel the scorching heat of the liquid light in her belly as she was tugging her cords like a captive bird, trying to escape to the upper airs. It was a glorious sight, glorious and frightening, even for those who had not yet been alive – or had lived in the Outer Lands – when all this had happened for real.

“And then the Valar gave the ship a name,” continued Ilmarë. “They called her Sári which means Sun, but the Elves of Eldamas called her Ur which means fire; and many other names does she bear in song and in verse.”

“Oh indeed,” said Master Lindo with a dreamy look upon his face. “The Lamp of Vána is she named among the Valar, in memory of Lady Vána's tears and her golden tresses, which she sacrificed; and the Noldoli called her Galmir, the goldgleamer, and Glorvent, the ship of gold…”

“While the Moriquendi of Endórë call her Bráglorin, the blazing vessel, in their laments over the loss of starlight, and many a name beside, which are even less flattering,” supplied Legolas with a grin.

“And her names among Men are so numerous that no Man had ever fully counted them,” finished Lindefal laughing, him being the one with the most experience in Mannish customs.

“True, all true,” said Ilmarë, and she was laughing, too. “And while that wondrous galleon was a-building, other folk were labouring near Ezellohar, where the Two Trees once grew. A great basin they fashioned there, the floor of which they wrought of gold and the walls of which were of polished bronze, and an arcade of golden pillars wreathed with fires encircled it from all directions, save the East. When it was finished, Lady Yavanna set a great and nameless spell around it, and when most of the liquid light from Laurelin’s last fruit was poured therein, it became a bath of fire.”

“For which it is called Faskalanúmen, the Bath of the Setting Sun,” added Lindo. “For when the first sunset came on Valinor, and Urwendi returned from the East, here was the ship drawn down, so that its radiance be refreshed for the new voyage in the next morning, while the Moon held the high heavens.”

“Hold on!” interrupted Aracáno. “We heard naught about the making of the Moon yet. And how did Urwendi become the Mistress of the Sun anyway? Last time I heard she was one of Lady Vána’s handmaids, who helped watering the roots of Laurelin.”

“That she was for a while, though she had had a different allegiance before,” replied Ilmarë. “But that is another tale for another night – one in which my brother Fionwë is not lurking around, listening to our entertainment. For he had never truly overcome the loss of the fiery maiden of the Sun, and ‘tis better not to cause him unnecessary heartache.”

Many of the audience protested at first, but Ilmarë was not moved by their pleas. Instead, she pointed out that the night was almost over, and even Elves needed some rest before they could listen to more ancient legends. Having said that, she simply faded out of bodily existence, and there was nought the Elves could have done about it.

Therefore, the gathering slowly dispersed, although many chose to walk out to the ancient Bridge of Tavrobel and wait for the sunrise, which they would doubtlessly watch from very different eyes. Celebrían and Aracáno were among those, and, after some hesitation, Elenwë joined them, too.

“You said that my atar entered Hithlum at the very moment when the Sun first rose,” whispered Aracáno to Celebrían, “and that flowers leapt from the earth right before his feet. I wish I could have been there to see that.”

“So do I,” admitted Elenwë. “There is much in the history of our people in Endórë that I do not mind having missed. I wonder sometimes, though, if such wonders were not worth the price, after all.”

Celebrían nodded thoughtfully. “They say that great beauty always comes at a great price,” she said soberly.

For some reason, she had to think of Lothlórien and its golden glory and asked herself what kind of price her mother might have paid for preserving it.

Author’s notes: Just a little reminder: Morwinyon is an OC. His mother, however, is not, even though the Professor never cared to tell us her name.

Celebrían half-expected to be fatigued after such a long night; she still tired easily, not having completely recovered from her ordeal yet. To her surprise, though, she fell invigorated in the morning, more so than she ever had since her captivity.

“’Tis the healing power of limpë,” said Lady Helyanwë, with whom she found herself sitting at the breakfast table, smiling “It not only opens your heart for song and music; it also rejuvenates your fëa. Alas that its effect fades with time,” she added with a sigh.

“But surely you need no such draughts in Aman,” said Celebrían. “Hallowed by the presence of the Powers, merely dwelling there has always given our people great strength.”

“That might have been so for the older generations,” replied Lady Helyanwë with a shrug, “but it has been my experience that we – the ones of my own age – do not differ all that much from our cousins in Endórë; no matter what certain Vanyar would like to make you believe.”

Celebrían found that statement fairly stunning. “I was told that those who dwell in the Blessed Realm do not weary of Arda the way the ones remaining behind in Middle-earth inevitably do after a long while.”

“That may be so; and many of those who were born before the Darkening can indeed resist the pull of fading, even if they had lived since the Awakening,” answered Helyanwë. “However, those who lived in the twilight of Endórë, before the rising of the Sun and the Moon, have grown strong on their own, without the help and the protection of the Valar; and that is a strength that will never betray you.”

“Have the Valar ever betrayed you?” asked Celebrían quietly. For her, the idea did not sound quite as blasphemous as it would for an Amanian Elf.

“In a matter, they have,” replied Helyanwë. “They have summoned our people to Aman with the promise of safety. Safety from Melkor and all his fell creatures. A safety that they failed to deliver. Or do you believe that nine out of ten Noldor followed Fëanáro because they would care for his Silmarils? Nay; they followed them because they understood how dependant from the Valar they had become, and that it had not, could not keep them safe, in the end.”

Celebrían fell silent while sipping her tea, for there was undeniable truth in Helyanwë’s words. She thought of her mother, the formidable, beautiful, strong-willed and yet oh so bitter warrior princess of the Noldor; and then of her father, the Lord of the Trees, calm, soft-spoken and yet powerful in a way Galadriel could never be. Because his strength came from his unique bond with the lands of his birth; from the spirit of the trees and the blessing of the waters.

Celeborn was at home in Middle-earth, which was why he never lost hope, regardless what else he had already lost: everything and everyone he had known in his youth. Galadriel, however, no matter what strength and knowledge she might have brought with her from Aman, would always remain a guest.

Just as like the mellyrn of the Golden Wood would cease to grow and blossom without the power of her Ring. For like her, they were not of Middle-earth and will always be alien to those lands.

“Where comes your strength, lady?” she then asked. “What gave you the strength to endure the shunning of your own kin? What little you told us was enough to understand that those could not have been easy times for you, after your husband and his brothers had left.”

“Please, there is no need for honorifics between us,” Maglor’s wife smiled gently. “Helyanwë will do just fine; we are family, after all – are we not?”

“In more ways than you might believe,” Celebrían returned her smile. “Very well, then. What gave you the strength to hold out after his departure, Helyanwë?”

“The hope that one day he will return,” answered Helyanwë simply. “That is a hope to which I am still holding on.”

“You are willing to take him back, even after those Ages, despite that he has left you behind?” asked Celebrían, remembering Meril’s bitter jibes against Fingon.

Helyanwë nodded. “Oh, he begged me to go with him; and I was tempted. But I did not have the courage of Merilindë and Elenwë. I did not want to drag my only child, young and precious to my heart as he was, into unknown dangers.”

“And he did not insist to take his son?” Celebrían’s respect for Maglor went up another notch. “I know that Curufin all but abducted Celebrimbor, despite the protests and the tears of his wife.”

“Macalaurë was nothing like his brother!” Helyanwë scowled a little at that. “He would never take our son from me. He understood that I feared his atar’s madness – I always had, long before the Darkening – and would not force such a decision upon me; to choose between him or the safety of our son was hard enough.”

“I still do,” replied Helyanwë with a resigned smile that was full of very old pain. “How could I not? When I first looked in those luminous eyes of his, when I first heard his voice, low and sweet like that of a dove, I was lost forever.”

“Odd; Atar always said it was Uncle Fëanáro who wanted this marriage very much, because you were related to his ammë,” commented Aracáno, who had just joined them at the breakfast table to snatch some of the apple-filled leaf cakes – a delicacy Celebrían remembered fondly from her first visit – and grinned unrepentantly when Helyanwë rolled her eyes.

She could not remember anyone having ever mentioned the family of Fëanor’s first, ill-fated wife. Probably because everybody she personally knew descended from Indis, the second one. Everybody save Celebrimbor, that is, but he had died when she was still a very young elleth.

“Only very distantly,” replied Helyanwë, “although ‘tis true that it was Fëanáro who arranged for me an invitation to the court.”

“Why would he need to do that?” Celebrían was a little bewildered. Back in the Second Age, such formalities had not been needed in Gil-galad’s court. People had gone in and out as their business with the King or with any of his courtiers had demanded.

“Aracáno is right in that I was the only unattached elleth of Míriel’s family,” explained Helyanwë. “Ours is an old and respected clan, but one of no particular influence. Without Fëanáro’s arrangements, Macalaurë and I might never have crossed paths. For this one deed, I am grateful; for I cannot imagine living anyone else, even if our time together was painfully short.”

“And yet you did not follow Macalaurë to Formenos,” said Aracáno thoughtfully. “Nor did Curvo’s wife, although they already had children when Uncle Fëanáro was sent into exile.”

“Nay, we did not. We were both afraid of Fëanáro, to tell the truth. We were not as spellbound by him as his sons were and could feel the madness in him, long before it would have shown itself.”

“They say he became unbalanced when Nerdanel left him,” said Aracáno. “Not that I would blame her, the poor elleth.”

“Most likely,” Helyanwë agreed. “But I could never blame Nerdanel, either. Which wife would willingly take second place in her husband’s heart, behind some jewels? By that time, Fëanáro was already obsessed with the Silmarils beyond help.”

“He was not the only one,” said Celebrían darkly. “I cannot fathom what the loss of the Trees meant for Aman, of course, being just one of the lowly Moriquendi myself – and happy enough with that – so I would likely never understand why was everyone after those cursed baubles. As I see it, they have never brought anything but sorrow and harm.”

“Well, they were most astonishingly beautiful,” admitted Aracáno, “if one could judge by the short glimpses we were allowed to catch of them at the beginning. Before Uncle Fëanáro would fall under the spell of his creation completely and would jealously shot them away in the vaults of Formenos.”

“So they were beautiful,” returned Celebrían with a shrug. “And what good did their beauty bring us? The Revolt of the Noldor, the Fall of Doriath, three respective Kinslaying and a mother who left her small children to almost certain death to ‘save’ one of them. Without your husband,” she glanced at Helyanwë, “my Elrond would have been slain like many other elflings in Doriath or in the Havens of Sirion; and the line of the Sea-Kings of Men would never have existed.”

“I heard about that,” said Helyanwë slowly, “and I always wondered how it came to it.”

“How it came to what?” asked Morwinyon, joining them at the table, taking the empty seat on Aracáno’s other side. “Morning, Cousin Ara, Lady Celebrían.”

“That your father would take Eärendil’s twins into foster care,” explained his mother.

“Oh that!” Morwinyon helped himself to some leaf cakes. “That is a tale I would like to hear myself, seeing that I do not know my atar at all.”

“We conceived our son in the night before our parting as a token of our love and a future reunion,” said Helyanwë softly. “By the time he was actually born, his atar had already reached Endórë.”

“I know; you Uncle Arafinwë has already explained that he was born while we were crossing the Ice,” replied Aracáno a little impatiently. “But he went to Endórë with the Host of Valinor, did he not?” he turned to Morwinyon. “If you fought in the Great Battle, how comes that you did not meet your atar?”

“Oh, I did meet him briefly,” answered Morwinyon with a brittle smile. “Him and Uncle Nelyo, too; and his young fosterlings, whom I could not truly tell apart,” he added with an apologetic glance at Celebrían. “But that was at the last war council only, and they both were busy with Eönwë, Prince Ingilmo, Kings Arafinwë and Ereinion, Lord Círdan and other important people. We barely had the time to greet each other. Although,” he laughed briefly, “he certainly seemed shocked enough to see me – and Uncle Nelyo perchance even more so.”

“No wonder; you look very much like your atar,” Aracáno nodded. “A resemblance a third party would notice much faster. ‘Tis a shame, though, that the two of you did not get the chance to know each other.”

“Perhaps; perhaps ‘tis better so, considering what happened after the War was won,” replied Morwinyon darkly. “Growing up without him and yet being shunned for hid deeds in my entire youth had been bad enough, but I hoped he would repent and go back on that cursed Oath of his. Instead, he chose to become a Kinslayer a fourth time,” he glanced at Aracáno. “Did they tell you, what they had done, him and Uncle Nelyo? How they slaughtered Eönwë’s Vanyarin guards, to get those blasted jewels?”

Aracáno nodded glumly. He had heard all about the end of the War from Meril during his stay in Kortirion; it had been a dark tale.

“But you may not know that one of those guards happened to be Tyelpë’s uncle,” said Morwinyon, “who had joined the Host with the express intention to find his nephew and persuade him to return to Aman; to his mother and his sister.”

“He would have failed,” said Celebrían simply. “Celebrimbor would never have left Middle-earth, not voluntarily.”

“That does not change the fact that Ioringil never got the chance to give it a try, and that it was my atar’s fault,” replied Morwinyon. “Small wonder that Aunt Vanyanis refused to speak with us for the next yén or three.”

Helyanwë nodded sadly. “Those were hard times; perhaps the hardest since the host of Fëanáro had left. We knew, of course, that they had done deeds of great folly and of cruelty – the bitterness about what had happened at Alqualondë had lasted long – but that they would neither repent nor atone for them had shocked us all.”

“The more strange did I find that the young sons of Eärendil would introduce themselves as members of the House of Maglor,” said Morwinyon, frowning. “After all, my atar took them with him after he and my uncles had massacred Eärendil’s entire household.”

“I can tell you the tale as Elrond had told me,” replied Celebrían, “yet you must keep it in your mind that his memories were those of a small, frightened elfling, relived many yéni later and with much reluctance.”

“I would still wish to hear it,” said Morwinyon. “There has been so much rumour and so little of it that I could believe… I would like to know the truth as seen by one who was there.”

Celebrían nodded. “Very well then. Apparently, tidings came to Maedhros that Elwing had escaped from the sack of Doriath with the Silmarils and was dwelling by the Mouths of Sirion. For a while, Maedhros made no demands, for the memories of the deeds in Doriath were still plaguing him. Yet after a while their unfulfilled Oath began to torment him again, and he gathered his remaining brothers around him and sent messages to the Havens. They promised friendship – if the people of Sirion would yield the jewel.”

“Which they did not, I assume, or else it would not come to another massacre,” said Morwinyon grimly. Celebrían sighed.

“Nay, they did not. Elwing would not give up that which Beren had won and Lúthien had worn and for which Dior the fair had been slain. Although,” she added wryly, “if you ask me, I think she was simply obsessed with the Silmaril like everyone else.”

“What about the people of the Havens?” asked Helyanwë. “Did they agree with her?”

“Apparently so,” answered Celebrían, shaking her head. “They seem to have believed that in the Silmaril lay the healing and the blessing that had come upon their houses and their ships, and they would not give it up; least of all while Eärendil, their lord, was out on the Sea. And thus it came to the last and cruellest of the Kinslayings; the third of the great wrongs achieved by that accursed Oath.”

“But how could atar and his brothers bring up enough warriors to destroy a settlement filled with the survivors of Gondolin and Doriath?” Morwinyon wondered. “Those were battle-hardened people who had faced dragons and Balrogs in their days.”

“That they had,” allowed Celebrían. “But they were still not very numerous. They had sent messages to Círdan and to the High King, asking for help, of course. But the ships of Círdan and the troops of Gil-galad arrived too late, despite their haste to the aid of the Elves of Sirion. Maedhros and Maglor had already won the day by then, though they alone remained of the Fëanorians, for both Amrod and Amras had been slain.”

“They say it was a horrible battle,” said Helyanwë, pale and gaunt-faced with guilt, even though she could hardly be blamed for the ill deeds of her husband. Perhaps she simply felt guilty for still loving him.

“They call it a battle, though in truth, it was none,” replied Celebrían. “It was slaughter. The sons of Fëanor – those who had still been alive – came down suddenly upon the refugees like a raging storm and destroyed them without mercy. ‘Tis said that some of their people stood aside in the fight; and that some few rebelled and were slain upon the other part for aiding Elwing against their own lord, for such was the sorrow and confusion in the hearts of the Noldor in those days. When Círdan and Gil-galad finally reached the Havens, all they found were smouldering ruins, full with the dead and the dying. Elwing was gone and so were her sons, and at first they thought that the boys, too, had been slain.”

“But they were not,” said Aracáno, already familiar with that part of the story. Celebrían nodded.

“True; they were not. They were captured, after their mother had chosen to save the Silmaril instead of her children; and Maglor took pity of them and cherished them and raised them as if they were his own. And love grew eventually between them, as little might be thought. Although I am told that Maedhros was not always happy to have them underfoot,” she added, laughing.

“Why not?” asked Morwinyon in surprise. “Had he not tried to save Elwing’s twin brothers after the sack of Doriath?”

“He had,” Celebrían agreed,” but he never succeeded and thus never had to deal with two sullen boys who would resent him and try their best to make his life miserable. Your atar had succeeded; and knowing the tempers of my own children and those mortal princes we had fostered since the fall of the North-kingdom of Men, who came from the very same stock, I imagine that Elrond and Elros must have been a handful.”

Celebrían nodded. “Oh yes,” she said, smiling. “I imagine that – his heart being sick and weary with the burden of that dreadful Oath – Maglor was glad to atone for what he had done. Perhaps he was missing you, too: the son he had never known. I believe in a way they rescued each other mutually: he saved the boys from death and the boys saved him from going mad. In any case, Elrond has fond memories of him. He saw that they were properly taught in lore and healcraft, seeing that they had inherited some unique healing powers from their ancestor, Melian the Maia. And he had them trained in arms, too, knowing that they would need it one day.”

“They turned out well enough in the end, too,” Lindefal, who had chosen to spend the short hours of the remaining night in the House of the Hundred Chimneys, sauntered in and plopped down to the table across them; breakfast was an informal affair under Lord Gilfanon’s roof. “One of them became the greatest lore-master of Middle-earth and led armies against Sauron throughout the Second Age. The other one became King of the Edain and founded a dynasty the line of which is still unbroken now, two whole Ages later. I would say, your adar did a decent job with them.”

“Has anyone seen him since the end of the War of Wrath?” asked Helyanwë hopefully.

Celebrían and Lindefal shook their heads in unison. It was Lindefal who answered, his memories of the Second Age being more extensive.

“Not that I would know; at least no-one who would recognize him,” he said. “Although Elrond had searched for him yén upon yén in the Second Age. After the Last Alliance, nearly all surviving Noldor chose to Sail; today, Elrond would probably the only one to recognize him.”

“You forgot my naneth,” Celebrían reminded him. Lindefal gave her a jaundiced look.

“I doubt that Lord Maglor would risk to be spotted by the Lady Galadriel, unless he had a death wish,” he countered. “And even if he had one, there are easier passages to Mandos than being intimidated to the Halls by your lady mother’s sheer willpower.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Elrond’s former aide virtuously. “But I am not wrong. Not in this, you know that. Your naneth would be the last person Lord Maglor would reveal himself to.”

“There may be some truth in that,” Aracáno laughed, too. “Artanis always had a fearsome temper. Even Moryo and Turco found it better to back off whenever she was in one of her fey moods – which was practically all the time.”

“She has softened a great deal through her marriage,” said Celebrían defensively. Yea, her mother was not always easy to get along with, but she did not like it when others were making fun of her.

Aracáno gave her a shrewd look. “Really? Now I would like to meet your atar even more than before.”

“Wait,” Lindefal interrupted. “Who are those people you were talking about?”

“My late and usually ill-tempered cousins, Morofinwë and Turcafinwë,” explained Aracáno. “You probably heard about them mentioned by their Sindarin names, but I am still mixing up those.”

“Yea, because all those names ending with –finwë are so easily kept apart,” muttered Lindefal.

“He meant Caranthir and Celegorm,” supplied Celebrían. “Naneth and Aracáno’s sister, Írissë, used to go hunting with them in their youth, back in Aman.”

“They were good friends,” said Aracáno a little sadly, “like I was with the twins. ‘Til Uncle Fëanáro decided to twist his sons into his personal army, that is.”

“I still cannot understand how he would manage to do that,” murmured Lindefal. “I mean, those sons of his, they all started off as good, decent Elves, did they not? I heard that Celegorm the Fair had once been the pupil of Lord Araw himself, back in Aman, learning much about animals from the Lord of Forests – how could he then turn around and slaughter the people of Doriath, who were much loved by his former mentor?”

“Like his brothers, he was too proud for his own good,” answered Helyanwë tiredly. “He, Moryo and Curvo were the worst of the seven; though – unlike the other two – he acted more by force than by deceit.”

“Well, he was a great warlord, you have to give him at least that much,” said Lindefal with some reluctance. “When Morgoth attacked Fëanor’s host upon their return to Middle-earth, Lord Celegorm and his people slaughtered the entire second Orc army in the Battle-beneath-the-Stars, near Eithel Sirion. It was the same battle in which Fëanor was slain by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, near Angband, and Lord Maedhros was captured and chained by his wrist to Thangorodrim,” he added as an afterthought, for any ignorant Amanian Elves present.

“You know much about the ancient battles,” commented Morwinyon, “yet you seem too young to have witnessed them yourself.”

Lindefal shrugged. “My grandsire was the aide and personal scribe of your adar,” he explained. “’Tis all family history for me.”

Lady Helyanwë looked at the auburn-haired Elf in surprise. “I know only one of the house clerks who had followed Macalaurë to the Outer Lands. You must be Fionaur’s grandson, then.”

Lindefal nodded. “That I am, my lady. And though I never personally met my grandparents, as they both perished in the Dagor Bragollach, when Maglor’s Gap was overrun and the great fortress of your husband broken, while I was born after the War of Wrath myself, my adar always spoke of Lord Maglor with the utmost respect. My family has always owed him their allegiance; a fealty that I gladly transferred to his foster son,” he added, with a smile in Celebrían’s direction.”

“It comforts me to know that he has kept enough of his true self to still command such respect and loyalty,” murmured Helyanwë. “Then all may not be lost for him, in spite of the terrible things he had done. Perchance one day he will find the courage in his heart to return; to face judgement and atone.”

“If that ever happens, you can call upon me, and I shall fulfil the obligations of my forefathers, aiding him in any way I can,” swore Lindefal. “He was a good lord and master to them, whatever else he might have been.”

“And should he need someone to speak for him while Elrond dwells in Middle-earth still, I shall do so on behalf of my husband,” promised Celebrían. “For he was as a father to Elrond and Elros, at a time when they needed one most; a good father, of whom my beloved always spoke with great fondness and gratitude.”

“Lady Galadriel would hardly approve of your defence of Lord Maglor,” warned her Lindefal.

Celebrían shrugged. “I rarely could do anything my naneth would ever approve of – including my marriage,” she replied. “It never stopped my from doing the right thing,”

“I believe so,” answered Celebrían. “I know you can hardly imagine it, as you cannot have memories of your adar; in that, I can help you.”

“What way?” Morwinyon clearly found that hard to believe. Celebrían smiled.

“Elrond and I have always shared a very strong bond, and I am privy to most of his childhood memories; good on bad ones alike. Many of those are centered around your adar. I can share some of them with you if you want to learn more about him.”

“I am not sure I can face such things just yet,” confessed Morwinyon. “I have grown too used to not knowing him during all those Ages. He was but a dark shadow, looming above me ominously, making others turn away from me in dismay. Had he cared to at least speak with me before the Great Battle, things might have turned out differently. HE might have become a real person for me. But once again, he chose the accursed Silmarils instead of the son he had left behind, unborn, without a second thought – I do not think I wish to see him lavishing all the love and attention he had denied me upon strangers he had chosen to become his sons.”

“I understand that,” said Celebrían gently. “Deep within you, there is still that little elfling who was abandoned by his ada before even being born. Such hurts accompany us our entire life. But sooner or later, you will have to forgive him – if not for his sake, than for your own.”

“I will,” replied Morwinyon coldly, “when he learns to ask for forgiveness.”

“I truly hope Elrond will choose to Sail, soon,” she said. “Then the two of you can sit together in some dark corner and complain about your respective fathers endlessly. I am sure you will get along splendidly.”

“Well, at least his atar did not do anything people would shun him for, even after two entire Ages,” said Morwinyon darkly. “On the contrary: he saved us all.”

“But by doing so, Eärendil, too, left his family behind, unprotected,” countered Celebrían. And Elwing also chose the Silmaril over her children. You see, you have no reason to envy each other. Yes, your adar raised two strangers in your stand. But at least your naneth has always held to you, and for that, you should be grateful.”

Morwinyon still had a sullen expression, but Helyanwë gave Celebrían an amused smile.

Celebrían grinned. “I have twin sons; can you imagine how jealous they sometimes could get when one of them believed the other one would get more attention?”

“That was nought compared with the fight about which one should be allowed to baby-sit their sister a couple of yéni later, though,” commanded Lindefal, also grinning like a loon. “They almost came to blows sometimes.”

“Oh, I remember Ammë telling me that Fin and Turucáno were not a tad better when Írissë was born,” laughed Aracáno. “Apparently, all big brothers are a little obsessive when it comes to their baby sisters.”

“Well, I would not know,” declared Celebrían with dignity. “I am an only child, as you know. We have at least that much in common,” she added for Morwinyon, who still looked a bit out of his depths, now that she had rattled him out of his comfortable self-pity.

Maglor’s son accepted the olive branch with the hint of a smile and a barely visible nod. In certain things ellyn apparently never grew up, Celebrían decided – not for the first time in her life – and ruthlessly suppressed the memory of her grown sons behave like elflings at the least appropriate times.

Author’s notes: Once again, I follow the version described in “The Book of Lost Tales” when it comes to the making of the Moon.

There are certain elements of canon where I took some poetic licence, but – as far as I know – they do not contradict anything that is expressly written in canon, so I hope nobody is upset about that.

The rest of the day was spent with private conversations. Celebrían rejoined Meril’s household for the day, while Lindefal took Aracáno with him to the Rowan Tree Inn to meet some visitors from the mainland who apparently wanted to see him. He did not tell who those visitors were but promised to bring back the young prince well in time, so that Aracáno would get the chance to hear the second part of the tale.

Helyanwë and her son were markedly absent all day. Celebrían suspected that Meril’s presence had something to do with that. The Lady of Tol Eressëa made no secret of her dislike of any son of Fëanor – or their families.

“’Tis not so that she would have any particular grudges against Macalaurë,” explained Elenwë when Meril happened to be beyond earshot. “’Tis more the old rivalry between her and Maitimo. She could never truly forgive Findecáno for choosing his otorno before his own family so often. Not that I would blame her,” she added, her gentle features hardening in anger. “Had Turucáno neglected me the same way for any friend on Arda, I would have taught him the true meaning of suffering before he would meet his first Orc.”

Somehow Celebrían had no doubt whatsoever that she would have done exactly that. Elenwë might have looked like a porcelain doll, but she was by no means a weakling. This was the elleth who chose to follow her husband across the Grinding Ice, after all – and she was a Vanya, with all the stubborn pride so characteristic for the First Clan.

“I assume Fingon will have to do a great deal of grovelling, once he gets released, if he wants to get back in Meril’s good graces,” she said.

“I am not certain that will ever happen,” she finally said. “I am not sure Findecáno would want to be reconciled with his wife; and I am fairly certain that even if he would, Merilindë would not take him back. She said so quite clearly.”

“…cannot force her to take him back,” replied Elenwë with a shrug. “The most they could do would be to make them live under the same roof, but what good would that do to anyone?”

“True,” for a moment, Celebrían was deeply in thoughts. “But why would Fingon not wish to return to his family?”

“When you pass through the Halls of Mandos, you cannot do so unchanged,” explained Elenwë quietly. “When you go through judgement, all pretensions and lies are stripped away from your fëa – you are forced to look at yourself and your deeds with the eyes of unveiled truth. ‘Tis a painful experience, but it also shows you what was truly important in your life, regardless of the expectations you had been trying to fulfil.”

“My love to Turucáno and our daughter, and their love for me. But I had known that already, or I would not have followed him on his mad quest to Endórë.”

“And what do you think was it for Fingon?” Actually, Celebrían was quite sure about the answer; she just wanted confirmation.

“His friendship with Maitimo,” replied Elenwë without hesitation. “But again, that is something everyone knew already. It had been so since their childhood; and according to what Merilindë tells me, it only got worse in Endórë.”

“That is still no reason for Meril to shun Maglor’s family,” said Celebrían with a frown. “They have no blame in all this; and they have been abandoned, too. The mortals have a saying: misery loves company. I thought theirs hared fates would bring them closer to each other.”

“Oh, but there is a difference,” replied Elenwë. “Helyanwë still loves her husband and cannot wait to have him back. She gas forgiven him everything already; and I fear that is what Merilindë cannot forgive her. She is full of bitterness towards Findecáno and begrudges Helyanwë her forgiveness.”

“He believes that Helyanwë has forgiven Maglor too easily?” clarified Celebrían.

Elenwë nodded. “I think so, yes. But she forgets something important: Helyanwë could always be certain of her husband’s undivided love. Macalaurë might have followed his atar on the path that led to the downfall of their entire House, out of filial duty – and you must understand that very few could withstand Fëanáro’s unique power of persuasion, least those of his own blood – but in his heart was Helyanwë alone. That was why he agreed to go without her – to spare her the perils of such a journey – and why he gifted a child upon here ere he would leave: so that she would always have something of him.”

“That,” said Celebrían dryly, “is one interpretation of things. Many would see it as if Maglor had abandoned his pregnant wife to chase after the accursed jewels of his father.”

“And I am fairly certain that is how Merilindë sees it,” Elenwë agreed. “But she is mistaken. I remember much clearer what things used to be like. As I was dead in the last two Ages, my old memories have not got overshadowed by more recent ones. I can tell you that Macalaurë was devoted to his wife, ad it broke his heart to leave her behind.”

“Why did he go then?” asked Celebrían. “He was a grown Elf, not some frightened elfling that would need his adar all the time.”

“As I said: you cannot even begin to imagine Fëanáro’s spell over his sons and over those who followed him devoutly,” replied Elenwë with a sigh. “Besides, Macalaurë also went for Maitimo’s sake. They were the sanest ones from Fëanáro’s get; without him, Maitimo would not have been able to control his brothers.”

“Such control as it was!” returned Celebrían bitterly. “It was not the others who led the attack on the Havens of Sirion and slaughtered those few who had miraculously survived Gondolin and Doriath. Those were Maedhros and Maglor!”

“I thought you liked and respected Macalaurë for what he had done for your husband and his brother,” said Elenwë in surprise. Celebrían nodded.

“I do. But that does not mean he did not have the blood of my father’s kin on his hands. And he has yet to come forth and ask for forgiveness.”

“If he does… will you grant it?” asked Elenwë quietly, and Celebrían nodded again.

“For Elrond’s sake, yea, I will forgive him. But I cannot promise to forget.”

“Fair enough,” said Elenwë with a shrug. “Now, why do we not go out into the gardens and allow their beauty to make us forget our woes for a while?”

The gardens of the House of the Hundred Chimneys proved very beautiful indeed, and they spent quite some time there, resting and teaching each other songs the other one had no means to know before. In the afternoon Aracáno, too, returned from town, explaining them that he had met some subjects of his father’s, who had also been recently released and came to live with their families in one of the lesser settlements of Tol Eressëa.

“Someone I should know?” asked Elenwë dutifully, but Aracáno shook his head.

“Unlikely. They were but simple guards at Atar’s court in Hithlum, I understand, born in Endórë already. Still, they wanted to renew their oath of fealty to our House, and as I am the only prince of our family currently alive…” he shrugged. “’Twas nice, though. They told me a great many stories from the time when Atar was High King of the Noldor-in-exile. Those must have been grand times. I wish I had lived to see them.”

“So do I, despite all the danger and darkness they had to face,” admitted Elenwë wistfully. “But let us look forward; we cannot live in the past, and I for my part am eager to hear the other half of Ilmarë’s tale tonight.”

She was clearly not alone with that, for barely had darkness begun to fall, people started gathering in the Great Hall of the House. By general agreement, supper had been served in the kitchens, taken individually, so that there had not been any need for rearranging the Hall, and the telling of tales could begin at sunset.

As soon as the first candles were lit, Ilmarë, too, shimmered into existence in their midst, glowing gently in silver and white and pale gold like some great pearl. She looked around the gathering, which was even greater than in the previous night, and smiled.

“I see you are all desirous to hear the rest of the tale,” she said, “therefore I shall waste no time and get on with it at once. As you doubtlessly remember, we stopped last time at the point where the Sun-ship was finished and received its names – or, at least, some of them, as more would follow in time – and was straining impatiently to be away. Lord Manwë, though, looked at its glory, and his heart was concerned.

“‘Who shall steer us this boat,’ he asked. ‘Who shall guide its course above the realms of Arda? For even the fanar of the Ainur may not endure to bathe in this great light for long, I fear.’ For so subtle were those radiances that, if set in the air, they neither spilled nor san; nay, they would rather rise and float away far above Vilna, buoyant and incredibly light as they were.”

“Nay; and why should she?” replied Ilmarë. “She survived when Melkor had broken the Lamp of Gold and spilled the liquid light over her fana; and later she was the one to water the roots of Laurelin with light; she and her maidens. Thus she begged leave to become the mistress of the Sun; and as Lord Manwë did give his consent, she made herself ready for that glorious task. She summoned her maidens, and together they cast their raiment aside and descended into the basin of Faskalan, so that its golden foams covered their forms completely; and even the Great Valar were like stone with fear, for no-one knew if we would see them ever again.”

“Would that even be possible?” asked Aracáno, fascinated by the dreadful image. “Can a Maia truly die, like on of us?”

“Not like one of you, we cannot,” replied Ilmarë, “for our fanar are mere raiments and our spirits cannot be destroyed, as we came from the Timeless Halls. But we can suffer grievous wounds when in bodily form; indeed, many of us have in the Battle of the Powers, and it took them a long time to recover. Urwendi herself was terribly wounded when Melkor destroyed the Lamps, which has made her fearless and all the stronger after her recovery. But no-one of us knows what would happen to us, should our fanar be utterly destroyed while we are still wearing them. And that was what we feared when Urwendi and her maidens went down into the pool of Faskalan, boldly, as bathers go into the Sea.”

“Nay,” a different voice, sounding deep and musical like a bronze bell, answered, and Fionwë shimmered into existence next to his sister. “After a while, they came again to the brazen shores; and they were not as before, for their fanar had become translucent and shone with liquid fire from within. Light flashed from their limbs as they moved; and no raiment could endure to cover their glorious bodies anymore. Like air they were, as they trod as weightlessly as sunlight does on the earth; and they climbed upon the Sun-ship with no word of farewell to anyone they had left behind. And the vessel heaved against its cords, so that our combined strength might scarce restrain it.”

All were spellbound by his words, which sounded like the lyrics from some ancient song: old, powerful and full of fire. All but Ilmarë, that is, who turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought you were not supposed to sneak around here, unclad, eavesdropping on us, brother,” she said. “I did my best to keep you away from tonight’s tale – what good is it to relive the memories of painful loss?”

“But those are my memories, too,” argued Fionwë, “and I shall not be free of this pain ‘til the end of Arda and beyond. I have accepted that fact; for am I not reminded of my loss every morning when i-Kalavente, the Ship of Light, enters the heavens through the Gates of Morning?”

The Elves listened to their argument slightly bewildered, and it was Aracáno, with the impatience of the young and the innocence of a Reborn who finally dared to ask.

“The loss of my heart and the loss of all hope that it would ever be found and accepted by the one I had lost it to,” answered Fionwë with a melancholy smile. “For I had conceived a great love for that bright maiden right after entering Eä for the first time; and her loveliness then, when bathed in fire she sate as the radiant mistress of the Sun, set me aflame with the eagerness of the Valar themselves. Alas that she no longer had eyes for me after her wondrous change.”

“You could not bear her touch; she would bur your fana to ashes,” she reminded him gently. “She had become what our fallen brethren, the Valaraucar had originally been meant to be: a pure vessel of the Flame Imperishable. She is beyond your reach now, and shall remain so ‘til Arda is remade… and perchance beyond that, for she had been called to a higher destiny than any of us.”

Aracáno glanced from one Maia to another in surprise. “Never in my whole life spent in Aman had I heard that Maiar would fall in love, too,” he said. “We knew of Lady Uinen and Lord Ossë, of course, but we always thought them to be the exception.”

“And you are right, for they are,” answered Ilmarë. “As a rule, we Maiar do not forge hat kind of bond with another one of our own, for we find our fulfilment in serving our Masters and Mistresses. But as you said, there are exceptions, and the Lady and Lord of the Seas are not the only ones.”

“That is sad,” commented Aracáno. “To find love against all odds, only for it to be unrequited ‘til the Remaking or beyond. I assume the rest of you, who know no such bond, is better off without it.”

“Is that truly what you believe?” asked Fionwë with a somewhat pained half-smile. “Have you, too, not nurtured a secret love for someone who would not, could not return it, in your heart all your life? Or have you been cured of it when you passed through Mandos? I am told that such things happen sometimes; not often, but they do happen.”

Aracáno became stark white and did not answer, making it crystal clear for anyone with eyes to see that no, he had not been cured from his unlucky love during the endless yéni he had spent unhoused in the Halls of Mandos.

Celebrían briefly wondered who the elleth might have been and why had she not returned his love. After all, he was of royal birth, handsome, brave – and eminently likeable. Of course, she knew that the ways of the heart were unpredictable sometimes; and perhaps the elleth was already bound to someone else. That, too, happened sometimes; rarely, but it did happen.

“Such are the ways of the heart, and even the Ainur are powerless in the face of love,” he said. “And thus I had no other choice than step back and allow Urwendi to go her way, the one laid down for her by Ilúvatar. Now, at last, by our Lord Manwë’s command, we climbed the long slopes of Taniquetil and drew the Sun-ship along with us – not that it would have been such a great task. And as we stood on the wide space before our lord’s great doors, the ship was mooring on the western slope of the mountain, tugging at its bonds impatiently. So great had its story already become that sunbeams were pouring out over the shoulders of Taniquetil; there was a new light on the sky, and even the waters of the Shadowy Seas beyond were touched with a fire they had never seen before.”

“It must have been an awesome sight,” commented Elenwë. “Awesome and frightening; more so for the creatures of the Seas that had known nought but shadows previously.”

“’Tis said that all creatures that wandered Eä stood still in awe and fear,” replied Ilmarë in agreement, “as Lord Manwë bade Urwendi to steer the ship of light above Arda that joy may search out its darkest corners and all things that were still sleeping within its bosom may awake.”

“Yet Urwendi did not answer; nor did she waste a glance backward, looking out eagerly to the East instead,” added Fionwë, sorrow clouding his unnaturally bright eyes. “Therefore Lord Manwë ordered us to release the ropes that held her, and the Ship of the Morning rose straightway above Taniquetil, floating in the upper airs like a giant bird of fire. And as it rose, it burned brighter and purer steadily, ‘til all Valinor was filled with radiance; and the vales of Erumáni and the dark waves of the Shadowy Seas were bathed in light; and golden sunshine spilled all over the dark plain of Arvalin, save only the deep places where Ungweliantë’s clinging webs and darkest fumes still lay too thick for any light to filter through.”

“’Tis strange to image such dark places within Valinor itself,” said Celebrían, shivering with the memory of another deep, dark place, filled with malice and pain. “How is it possible that Ungoliant slipped through your guard and found her way into the Blessed Realm? How could your vigilance have failed so utterly?’

“She did nothing of the like; nor did our vigilance falter,” he answered. “She had always been there, ever since that part of Arda had taken shape – due to the corruption of Melkor and his sowing the seed of discord into the Great Music of creation. Yet in that hour we were not bothered with the darkness of the Gloomweaver; for a great dawn had come upon Eä, and as we looked up, we saw that heaven was azure blue, like Lord Manwë’s raiment, and the stars had fled. And Lord Manwë sent a gentle wind that blew from the cold lands in the North to meet the Sun-ship and fill its gleaming sails; and white vapours mounted from the misty seas below towards her, so that her prow seemed to cleave a white and airy foam.”

Such was the power of his words – for not only was he a mighty warrior among his fellow Maiar, seconded by his brother Eönwë only, but also one of their greatest poets – that the Elves could actually see, with the eyes of their minds, the Sun-ship rise above the world majestically.

They could see indeed the Mánir, the spirits of the air, fluttering about the Sun-ship, drawing it by golden cords higher and higher, ‘til it was but a disc of fire wreathed in translucent veils of splendour that slowly wandered from the West. And as it drew further on its way the light in Valinor grew mellow, and the shadows of the mansions of the Valar became long, slanting away towards the waters of the Outer Seas; but the greatest and longest of all shadows was the one cast by Taniquetil itself.

“… and thus come to the first time that it was truly afternoon in Valinor,” Fionwë finished his tale, smiling.

“That is all quite right,” he said, “yet you forgot to mention that to such vast heights did the Sun’s great galleon climb, while blazing hotter and brighter still, that soon its glory became greater than even the Valar would have expected. Its light pierced everywhere, and all the deep vales and darkling woods, the bleak slopes and rocky streams, lay dazzled by it, and even the Valar were amazed, understanding that they had unleashed a power beyond even their imagination.”

“Great was the magic and wonder of the Sun in those days of bright Urwendi,” Fionwë agreed, his eyes becoming somewhat… misty with old memories.

“Perhaps so,” allowed Ilmarë, taking back the storytelling from him, “yet not so tender, nor so delicately fair as the Golden Tree had once been. And thus whispers of new discontent awoke in Valinor, and angry words ran among the Valar themselves. Lord Námo and his sister were particularly wroth, saying that Lord Aulë and Lady Varda would forever be meddling with the due order of the world, making it a place where no quiet or peaceful shadow could remain.”

“Erm… not exactly within mine, they did not,” Ilmarë tried to look suitably contrite. “But Erunyauvë happened to be fairly close, and…”

“… and you Maiar love gossip as much as we do,” Elenwë realized, laughing.

“Not that we would have to rely on gossip entirely,” said Helyanwë quietly. “Everyone who walked by could see Lord Irmo sitting and weeping in a grove of trees beneath the shade of Taniquetil, from where he looked upon his gardens stretching beneath, still disordered by the great hunt of the Valar, for he had not had the heart for their mending.”

“True,” said Ilmarë, “the gardens of Lórien were in a sad state. The nightingales were silent, for they could not bear the heat dancing above the trees. The poppies were withered, and even the evening flowers drooped and gave no scent anymore. And Lord Irmo’s people gathered around Telimpë in sorrow, for it gleamed wanly as still waters rather than the shining dew of Silpion, so overwhelming was the great light of day.”

“Small wonder that the Lord of Dreams mourned the twilight of the night, which had always been his realm,” commented Lady Vainóni softly. “Those were trying times, even for one of the Powers.”

Ilmarë nodded. “Mourn he did, truly, and calling out to Lord Manwë, he begged him to call back his glittering ship. For indeed, the eyes of all Eldar and those of us wearing a fana ached from its flaming; and beauty and sleep as they had known earlier were driven away. So much did some mourn the old loveliness of Laurelin, and Silpion that they would have preferred the darkness and their memories to this new, harsh brightness.”

“Well, Lady Vána was certainly less than content,” Fionwë agreed. “She was complaining that Kulullin's fount was dulled and her garden wilted in the heat, and her roses lost their hues and fragrance; for the Sun then sailed nearer to the Earth than it now does.”

Celebrían nodded thoughtfully. “I remember Ada telling me tales about how all the Sindar in Middle-earth were shocked and nearly blinded by the first rising of the Sun, having known nought but soft starlight until then,” she said. “And the Avari sing laments about the end of starlight to this very day, ‘tis said. I imagine it must have been even worse in Valinor, which had to bear the first, untamed brunt of the Sun.”

“Even so, Lord Manwë was disappointed with his brethren and chided them for their fickleness and discontent,” replied Ilmarë. “But they were not appeased; not until Lord Ulmo came in from outer Vai, that is, and spoke to them, saying: ‘Neither the counsels of Lord Manwë, nor yours are to be despised- For in what did truly lie the great beauty of the Trees? In change and in slow alternation of fair things, the passing blending gently with that which was to come.’”

“That is very true,” said Lady Vainóni. “Life is change – for us as much as for the Powers themselves; and everything that withstands the inevitable change denies life itself.”

“Quite so,” Ilmarë agreed, “and those words of wisdom coming from the Lord of Vai touched the heart of Lord Irmo, filling him with great longing. Thereupon he went out to the plain, and there he sat beside the stock of Silpion for four daytimes – which was the length of four bloomings of Laurelin of old – and the shadows gathered shyly round him.”

“I thought there were no longer any shadows in Valinor,” Interrupted Aracáno, in understandable confusion.

“You have not paid proper attention,” answered Ilmarë. “At that time, the Sun-ship was sailing far to the East, for Lord Manwë had not as yet ruled its course and Urwendi was allowed to steer it as seemed good to her. And thus the darkness of the mountains fell across the plain, and a silver mist rose from the Seam and a vague and flitting twilight was gathering once more in Valinor. Yet Lord Irmo was still not appeased, sitting there, pondering why the spells of Lady Yavanna had been wrought upon Laurelin alone.”

“That is something I was wondering about myself,” said Helyanwë thoughtfully. “Why were all so concerned about he Golden Tree that they almost forget about the white one, even though Silpion had been the older of the two?”

“All save Lord Irmo and his people,” corrected Lindo; but Helyanwë shrugged.

“Which did not change the end results much, as they were clearly in the minority,” she pointed out.

“Quite so,” said Ilmarë, “yet about the whys and wherefores I cannot give you any satisfying answer, I fear. All I know is that Ilúvatar planted a great urgency in the hearts of Lord Aulë and Lady Varda; and even among the Great Valar, those two are known to pursue their goals most diligently.”

“You mean they simply punched through, and Lord Irmo, being a more… moderate stool, stood no chance against them?” asked Aracáno, grinning.

Ilmarë laughed. “Something like that, yea. But worry not about Lord Irmo, for he has his own, subtle ways to reach his goals nonetheless. And he can be as headstrong as any of his brethren, once he puts his mind to it. And that was exactly what he did in that hour of untamed fire: he sang to Silpion, complaining that Valar were lost 'in a wilderness of gold and heat, or else in shadows full of death and unkindly glooms,' and as he sang, he touched the cruel wound in the bole of the White Tree.”

“Had he hoped to heal it, after all that time?” asked Elenwë with a frown. “I know that Lord Irmo is the Master Healer of Arda, but methinks even he could have done little against the poison of Ungweliantë that had murdered the Trees.”

“Not very much, ‘tis true,” the Maia agreed. “Yet his love for Silpion and the power gifted upon him by Ilúvatar – the power to heal all living things as far as healing was still possible – did awaken a faint glow in the depth of that terrible wound, as if some radiant sap would still stir within. And lo, a low branch above his bowed head burgeoned suddenly, and leaves of a very dark green, long and oval, budded and unfolded upon it, and all who saw this miracle rejoiced.”

“For a moment anyway,” added Lindo. “Ere they would realise that the rest of the Tree remained bare and dead as it had been during the seven days since the fruit of noon had been born upon Laurelin.”

“Even so, it was an awesome sight, one that filled our hearts with hope again,” said Lady Vainóni. “For as we all came, drawn nigh by the wondrous song of Lord Irmo, we saw that the new leaves were crusted with a silver moisture, and their undersides were white and set with pale gleaming filaments. And even buds of flowers grew upon the bough, and they opened in such great loveliness that all who saw had tears in their eyes as they looked upon them.”

“Alas that is lasted but a very short time,” sighed Lindo. “For all of a sudden, a dark mist rose from the Sea and gathered about the tree, and the air grew bitterly cold as it never before had been in Valinor, and those blossoms faded and fell, and our tears of joy turned into tears of sorrow in a heartbeat. And the Lord of Lórien was greatly distressed, more son than he had been before.”

“Small wonder, seeing the miracle he had worked on with all his might being destroyed in the wink of an eye,” said Gilfanon. “Have you ever learned what had caused it? With Morgoth off to wreak havoc in Endórë, who else had the power to do such a cruel thing?”

“One of his lieutenants, who had gone back on his oath of fealty sworn to Lord Manwë, answered Fionwë quietly. “Always had he great skill at manipulating the lower airs, and once he entered Melkor’s service, he used his skills to wreak destruction upon all things of beauty that the rest of us had built with great love.”

“You mean Sauron?” asked Celebrían with a frown. “Was he not one of Lord Aulë’s people?”

Fionwë shook his head. “Nay, not him; you probably never heard of this one, as he was among the first followers of Melkor and left us well before the Battle of the Powers. But as he remains unclad most of the time, he can travel at will all over Eä, and is very hard to get hold of.”

“Even if we would speak his name, which we do not, it would say you nought,” replied Fionwë, “for he only ever had one in the ancient and holy tongue of Valinor, which had fallen out of use after the coming of your ancestors. Our true names are long and complicated, and we tell them no-one save our own kind, for they have the power to summon those who wear them, and that would be a dangerous thing, for you and for us, both.”

“And if somebody knew the true names of the Valar, could one summon them that way, too?” he then asked.

The laughter of the two Maiar mingled like a carillon of bronze and silver bells.

“Only if Ilúvatar himself does the summoning,” Fionwë answered when their mirth had calmed down a little. “You may see us all as the Powers, and you would be right, for we are. But there is a profound difference between us and the Valar; so profound that you cannot even begin to imagine. Much greater, indeed, than between our people and yours; for did not Melyanna wed Elwë Singollo, despite the difference of their nature? No such thing between a Vala and Maia would be possible. Ever.”

Aracáno nodded in understanding, although he was clearly a bit shocked by all the new things he had been told. Then he consciously pushed it away into the back of his mind for further consideration and returned to the actual tale.

“So, what happened after all the new blossoms of Silpion had fallen?” he asked.

“Not all of them fell,” corrected Ilmarë. “There was a single one at the branch's end that, when opening, shone with its own light, and no mist or cold could harm it. Indeed, it appeared to suck up those very vapours and transform them into the silver substance of its own body; and it grew to be a very pale and wondrous glistering flower, glistening whiter than the purest snow upon Taniquetil.”

“Its heart was of white flame that throbbed, waxing and waning marvellously,” added Lindo, “as if it had a life of its own.”

“Oh, I would see that it had, truly,” said Ilmarë. “Lord Irmo called it 1the Rose of Silpion’, and it grew and grew ’til it became but a little smaller than the fruit of Laurelin. There were ten thousand crystal petals in that flower, drenched in a fragrant dew like honey; but that dew was, in truth, silver light, akin to the radiance of Silpion of old.”

Again, even though Ilmarë was not quite the poet like her brother, the audience could see the marvellous blossom of the Silver Tree with their mind’s eye in all its awesome radiance.

“A joyous moment for Lord Irmo, I deem,” said Elenwë, smiling. As a Reborn with first-hand knowledge about the Lord of Lórien and his moods, she could imagine better than most what that miracle must have meant for the Vala.

“Joyous indeed,” replied Ilmarë, “and he was so enamoured of the Rose’s loveliness that he would suffer no-one to draw near; nor would he allow the blossom to be plucked gently down, even after the branch upon which it hung had yielded all its sap and withered. For he desired to see the Rose grow mightier than the fruit of noon, more glorious than the Sun.”

“And he thought that a good idea?” asked Elenwë with a frown. “Had it not been his main complain that there was already too much light in Valinor?”

“Quite so,” agreed Ilmarë, “yet even the Valar can get a little greedy from time to time. But it did not come to that; for the withered bough snapped under the weight, Rose of Silpion fell. Some of its dewy light was roughly shaken from it, and here and there a petal was crushed and tarnished…”

“Nay, it was not,” replied Ilmarë, smiling, “although Lord Irmo was fairly devastated by the sight. He wept and did his best to lift up the Rose carefully, yet it was too great and too heavy, even for him- Therefore he sent Minethlos, one of his people, to Lord Aulë’s halls; for there was a great silver charger, and they set the last bloom of Silpion upon it for everyone to see; for despite its hurts its glory and fragrance and pale magic were very great indeed.”

“That still does not explain how it ended up on the skies, though,” said Aracáno.

“Nay indeed,” answered Ilmarë, “but that is another tale for another night. Tonight, I shall only reveal to you what Lord Irmo suggested, after having mastered his grief: that the Valar build another vessel to match the galleon of the Sun, and that it should be made from the Rose of Silpion. And thus, in memory of the waxing and waning of the Two Trees, for twelve hours should the Sun-ship sail the heavens and leave Valinor, and for twelve should Silpion's pale barge mount the skies; and so there would be rest for tired eyes and weary hearts."

“And the other Valar recognized the wisdom of his counsel that echoed Lord Ulmo’s former words and agreed that it should be done,” added Fionwë. “But that tale we shall tell you tomorrow; for the night is growing old already.”

Many in the audience protested, but the two Maiar simply smiled and faded away from their midst, and there was nought that could have been done about it. Aracáno in particular was very disappointed that he still would not get to hear the end of the tale for another day. He felt as if the Maiar would make him wait deliberately, and it annoyed him to no end.

Ere he could have thrown a temper tantrum, though, Meril laid a soothing hand upon his forearm.

“Come with me,” she said. “We shall take a walk in the moonlit gardens of the House, among the night-blooming flowers of Lady Vainóni, which are a true marvel; and I shall tell you what it was like when the Moon first rose above Middle-earth.”

Aracáno was instantly consoled and followed her eagerly out into the gardens, with her handmaidens in tow. Celebrían and Elenwë, who both had grown quite fond of him, exchanged smiles that were almost motherly.

“Has he always been like this?” asked Helyanwë. “I am afraid I never met him in his former life, although I knew of him, of course.”

“You mean like an elfling craving attention?” Elenwë clarified. “Yea, I fear he has. But it was not his fault, not truly. Both his brothers and his sister could be quite overwhelming, having taken after Atar Nolofinwë; they were strong-willed, adventurous and even a little ruthless in pursuing their goals. Mild-mannered as Aracáno had always been, he had little chance to get out of their shadow.”

“Very much like Ambarussa and Ambaráto, I deem,” said Helyanwë thoughtfully. “Now I understand why they liked him so much, even though he never visited them in Formenos… or for quite some time before, I am told.”

“Probably so,” Elenwë agreed. “Now, what would you think about a moonlight walk of our own? Those night-blooming flowers have a sweet fragrance that rivals the evening flowers in Lórien. And perhaps Celebrían can tell us more about Endórë, or even sing us a few songs in that Grey-Elven tongue. I find it fascinating, despite its sometimes harsh sounds.”

Author’s notes: Once again, I follow the version described in “The Book of Lost Tales” when it comes to the making of the Moon.

They spent the next day pursuing personal interests. Celebrían went over to Galenbrethil and Findalor’s house to spend more time with her old friends, helping Galenbrethil in her workshop and watching her young son with a certain amount of envy and nostalgia. When had her children been so young?

She wondered whether they were missing her terribly; or perhaps they were relieved no longer have to watch her slow fading. She, for her part, missed them so much that it hurt; but being with Galenbrethil and her family brought back a certain sense of home. It was not the same, of course, as having her beloved ones around, but it helped.

Aracáno decided to pay a visit to Helyanwë and Morwinyon, who were staying with some Reborn subjects of Maglor’s – unfortunately not ones he would have known from his previous life, as they had been born in Middle-earth already. But at least he could talk with his cousin’s wife and son about old times… as much as he remembered them, for his memories were still fragmented at best.

Elenwë remained in the House of the Hundred Chimneys with Meril, where they could work on rekindling their old friendship undisturbed. Three Ages were a long time, in which Meril had changed a lot, becoming a different person from the one Elenwë still had in memory. But they had been very good, close friends once, and now hoped that in time they would be able to build a bridge over that huge chasm history had opened up between them.

The dwellers and other guests of the House went after their daily business as usual. Of the Maiar there was no sign, but that did not surprise anyone. They could – and did – come and go as they pleased.

Celebrían did not return to the House ‘til shortly before sunset. Galenbrethil had insisted on keeping her for the evening meal, and she did not truly mind. As wondrous as the House was, as kind and wise and caring its Master and Mistress were, she did not belong there. She belonged with Galenbrethil and Findalor and Lindefal, who had known her for an Age and a half, and who simply loved her for herself, instead of respecting her for her mother’s or grandsire’s sake. Therefore she gladly stayed in their house, reminiscing old times and feeling almost happy.

When she finally did get back, it was near dark, and the Great Hall was set up for another round of storytelling. Meril and Elenwë apparently kept her a seat empty and were waving her to join them. She did so, gratefully, followed by the rest of the almost-late-comers, and the audience fell silent.

Only then did she realize that the storyteller had arrived. To her surprise, it was not Ilmarë, though. Not even Fionwë, or anyone else of the lesser Powers. It was an Elf – but not a usual one. Not by far.

At first glance she had nearly mistaken him for Morwinyon, because of his russet hair and broad shoulders. There was even a slight resemblance of features. But a second, more thorough glance revealed that this Elf was older; much older. Not only had he the reflected radiance of the Light of the Two Trees in his dark eyes, but also that slight hardness of features only those who had known the darkness of the Outer Lands would show. Either he was one of those born in Aman who had gone to Middle-earth with the rebel Noldor – or someone who had participated in the Great Journey.

But even more than that, those dark, unfathomable eyes had a veiled light of their own; a light akin the one she had seen in Elulindo’s eyes, who had, after all, kept exalted company all his life – and Celebrían understood that this was a sign that an Elf possessing such light was one to live in great closeness with the Valar themselves.

Compared with the others filling the Great Hall, he was very modestly clad in a plain tunic of earth brown worsted wool, with gathered sleeves. It was completely unadorned, save for the stiffly embroidered emblem upon his breast: that of a hammer and anvil, encircled with fire – the emblem of the Aulendili. The plain linen shirt underneath was dyed dark brown, almost black; several shades darker than his tunic. His breeches were leather, also dyed brown, and he wore supple, black leather ankle boots.

His hair was braided in a fashion Celebrían had never seen before, the main purpose of it appearing to be to keep it out of his face, and bound upon his wide brow with a circlet resembling interlinked golden ranks with small leaves enamelled in green and tiny blossoms made of rubies. Bracelets wrought in the same fashion held together the sleeves of his tunic – most likely his own handiwork. Celebrían could not remember having seen such exquisite jewellery before, not even in her childhood, visiting Celebrimbor’s workshop in Ost-in-Edhil. The leaves and blossoms seemed alive in a manner one would have thought impossible for mere hand-wrought items.

As soon as the audience had fell silent, Ilmarë shimmered into existence in their midst. This time she was wearing blue: a tight-sleeved undertunic of luminous sapphire silk, and above that a sleeveless gown, azure blue and shot with gold. Her hair, unbraided, fell to her hips in heavy golden waves, knotted in places at the sides and in back in small, intricate plaits, adorned with sapphires.

“Greetings,” she said, her voice clear and ringing like a silver bell. “Now that we have come in our tale to the shaping of the Moon, I thought I would invite someone who had actually taken part in that great labour,” she smiled at the Elf in the Storyteller’s Chair. “Master Mahtan, if you would do the honours?”

Celebrían felt her breath catch in her throat. This was Mahtan, the father of Nerdanel, Fëanor’s wife? The legendary smith of the Noldor, of whom the Elven-smiths from Ost-in-Edhil – some of which had ended up living in Imladris eventually – had spoken with such hushed reverence? Mahtan Rúnyandur, Lord Aulë’s prize pupil and close companion? The same Elf who had gone to Sirunúmen, banged on the very gates of Formenos, publicly disowned Fëanor as his son-in-law, berated Aran Finwë himself for his blindness and then taken his daughter home, declaring that Fëanor no longer deserved to have her as his wife?

He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he looked up with mild curiosity. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and the strength of his personality hit her with the force of a summer storm. Yea, she could vividly imagine him doing all those things; and that not even Aran Finwë would have dared to stand in his way.

She briefly wondered how much of that strength Nerdanel might have inherited. A lot of it, most likely. How else would she have managed to put up with all those arrogant, headstrong Finwëans, including her husband and her own seven sons?

It lasted but a heartbeat; then the great smith turned his attention back to the Maia and smiled; a smile of solemn joy, despite all the pain he must have seen in his long life. A life which had probably begun at the Waters of Awakening – although, as Celebrían realized with a jolt, practically nothing about it was known in Middle-earth.

Nothing beyond the fact that he was Nerdanel’s father and had been the one who first taught Fëanor the art of smithcraft.

“I would be honoured to share my memories from those dark and glorious days,” he said in a pleasantly low-pitched voice, aiming his words at the Maia. “Now I understand why I felt the sudden urge to come to Tol Eressëa and visit my kin at this time – it was you who summoned me, was it not?”

“Actually, it was Lord Irmo, or so I believe,” corrected Ilmarë; then she smiled and waved a hand in the direction of Elenwë and Aracáno. “These two have been recently released from his care, and we are currently trying to help them bridge the gap between their previous lives and now. As they were both lost on the Ice, they never saw the Sun and the Moon rise; nor have they heard the tale of their making; which is why we are trying to tell it as accurately as we can.”

Mahtan nodded, turning his wise, ancient eyes to Aracáno. “You are Nolofinwë’s youngest, are you not? I remember you as an elfling, getting underfoot all the time while your atar was learning how to shape metal in my smithy,” he said. “Even then, you were full of questions and could never be satisfied with the answers you got. Very well then; I shall tell you about the making of the Moon, if that is your desire.”

“I am not a lord, elfling; just a simple craftsman who was never afraid to make his hands dirty in order to earn a living. Master Mahtan will do; that is a title I had earned with honest work. The only one I ever used or was ever proud to bear.”

There was quiet amusement among the audience, although some – mostly of the younger generation and presumably of noble origins who liked being addressed with honorific titles – looked vaguely insulted. Celebrían smiled nostalgically. Master Mahtan’s response reminded him of Elrond who, too, refused to be seen as aught else but the Master of Imladris. And while he had not actually protested against being addressed as “Lord Elrond” – Men in particular had always been hung on such titles – he had never really cared for them.

“All right then,” said Mahtan, leaning back in the big chair, “listen to me, my children, for I shall tell you what was the manner of the shaping of the Moon. Lord Aulë would not dismember the loveliness of the Rose of Silver, which was still resting on the great silver charger in his smithy in Valmar; a charger like a table of giants, or so those say who actually had seen the stone giants in the great mountains of Endórë before the Great Journey. I am afraid I am not one of those myself.”

Again, there was soft laughter in the rows of the audience, and Celebrían found herself laughing with them. Yea, she supposed, the stone trolls must have existed at least as long as Elves had; and the thought of such an ancient Elf not having seen any of them was, well… amusing.

“In any case,” continued Mahtan, “Lord Aulë called to him some of us who had lived in his household since our arrival to Aman; those who had never rebelled against him or the other Valar, and consorted with the jewel-makers. For you must know that of all Eldar only the Noldoli of old, of whom that benighted husband of my daughter had the greatest fame, knew the secret of subtly taming the light of Laurelin and Silpion to their use; and even we dared use our knowledge but very sparsely.”

“Which was a wise decision if you ask me,” said Gilfanon. “Certainly, he Silmarils were the greatest of such jewels ever made by Elven hands – and see what chaos and destruction everyone’s greed to possess them had sown!”

Mahtan nodded thoughtfully. “Quite so. But Fëanáro and his sons, Curufinwë before all, had lain up in secret places in Sirunúmen a great store of crystals and delicate glasses, and some of us knew some of these stores; but my daughter knew them all. And thus we collected everything that had been stored there and brought it to Lord Aulë’s halls. Lady Varda even sacrificed some of her stars to give limpid clearness to the fashioning of the Moon. And together with Lord Aulë and his people, we brought into being a substance thin as a petal of a rose, clear as the most transparent Elven glass, and very, very smooth.”

Mahtan shook his head. “Nay, it was not. Like mithril, ‘twas light yet very hard; but Lord Aulë had the skill to bend it as he had wanted and to give it any shape he had in his mind; and naming it, he called it virin.”

“I never heard of a substance by that name,” the previous voice said, and looking for its source, Celebrían recognized in the audience Aranwë, one of Gondolin’s smiths in his time.

“You cannot,” replied Mahtan, “for it could never be recreated again. With the perishing of Fëanáro and our best craftsmen who had worked with him closely, the secrets of the making of such delicate jewels, crystals and glasses have faded from memory; and I always worked with metal and stone myself. Yet at that one time, the creating of virin was possible; and of virin Lord Aulë built, with our modest help, a marvellous vessel.”

“The Ship of the Moon,” supplied Aranwë, “or so I have often heard Men spoke of it. They even imagined some mystical craftsmen steering it: the Man of the Moon they called him.”

“And they may not be entirely wrong, though this was unlike any barge that even sailed on Sea or air,” answered Mahtan. “It was rather like an island of pure glass, albeit a rather small one. Many tiny lakes dotted its surface, encircled by with snowy flowers that shone like mother-of-pearl, for the water of those pools was the radiance of Telimpë. In the centre of that shimmering isle a great cup of virin was wrought, and therein the magic Rose of Silpion was set; and as it gleamed there, the glassy body of the vessel sparkled wonderfully.”

“But how can an island sail on its own?” Aracáno, enchanted by that description, could not help but ask. “One needs sails for that; and masts upon which to fasten those sails. How could aught like that be built on that crystalline stuff Lord Aulë had made?”

“Ordinary masts and sails could not be used, of course,” agreed Mahtan. “But this was a vessel wrought by the Smith of Arda himself, and he knew whom to ask for help.”

“Oh, oh, I think I know whom he asked!” Aracáno was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. “It was Lady Vairë, was she not?”

Celebrían had to admit that it would have been logical to ask the Weaver of Arda herself and her handmaids to make the sails, but Mahtan just shook his head again and smiled.

“Oh, no; mere fabric, even if woven by the hallowed hands of a Valië, would never have been delicate enough for such a vessel. For its aery masts, rising upon it, glittering white like icicles were slender beyond measure; and the sails caught to them by the finest threads were the handiwork of Lady Uinen, who had woven them of white mists and foam. Some of them were sprinkled with glinting scales of silver fish; others were threaded with tiniest stars like points of light – like sparks caught in snow when Nielluin is shining.”

“Stars?” repeated Aracáno, completely baffled. “How did you manage to weave stars into those sails?”

“’Twas not our doing, to tell the truth,” admitted Mahtan with a sideways glance at Ilmarë, who shrugged.

“Lady Vairë’s people are not the only ones who know how to use a loom,” she said primly. “So what if lady Varda let me have some of the baby stars that had no other use anyway? They looked good, worked into those sails!”

“So they did,” admitted Mahtan. “And thus was the Ship of the Moon completed, the crystal island of the Rose; and the Valar named it Rána, the Moon; but the Vanyar dwelling near Valmar called it Sil, the Rose, and many a sweet name beside. In fact, they were outdoing themselves in making up more and more names for the new Light, one sweeter than the other.”

Lady Vainóni suddenly laughed. “The more amazing is it, that the one that actually stuck was Ilsaluntë; the silver shallop it has been called among the First Clan ever since.”

“Whereas our people called it Minethlos, the argent isle,” commented Legolas of Gondolin, whom Celebrían had only now spotted in the audience, "and the Noldor of Middle-earth named it Crithosceleg, the disc of glass.”

“At least it used to be custom in the First Age, or so I am told,” said Findalor, grinning. “In my time we simply said Ithil; and the Sun we call Anor.”

“That may be easier for you, children,” said Mahtan, not unkindly. “I for my part prefer the old names, though, that had the ancient music of creation in their sound still. But I am an old Elf who likes to dwell on the days past; and perhaps you, young ones, are right.”

“This is not a question of right or wrong,” said Gilfanon. “Past and present both we need to observe in order to build a future that would prevail. Now, tell us about the Man in the Moon, or whoever it is who steers Ilsaluntë; for I have heard many a strange tale about that, back in Endórë, and even here, and would know the truth of it, if you are willing to share it.”

“I would, if I know more than you do,” replied Mahtan. “Yet I deem there is one who knows all about it,” he added, looking at Ilmarë, who smiled.

“Indeed I do; and I shall tell you all about it, for ’tis no great secret, you see. As Silmo, the original caretaker of Silpion, had been slain by Melkor’s servants, it was Tilion, another one of Lord Irmo’s people, who begged to sail upon the oceans of the firmament in the Barge of the Moon. He might not do so, however, for neither was he of the spirits of the air, nor might he find a way to cleanse his being of its earthwardness as Urwendi had done.”

“Speaking of which,” Aracáno interrupted, “how could Urwendi and her maidens done such thing? How comes that their fanar had not been destroyed?”

“They had already been wounded by the golden light when the Lamps had been destroyed,” explained Ilmarë. “Wounded and hallowed by it, and after they had recovered, it would no longer harm them. Yet even if Tilion had dared to enter Faskalan, it would have availed little; for then the Rose would have shrivelled before him.”

“But surely someone had to be found to steer the Ship of the Moon!” exclaimed Aracáno.

“Indeed, and the right one was found soon enough,” replied Ilmarë. “For Lord Manwë asked Ilinsor, a spirit of the Súruli who had always loved the snow and the starlight and who had aided Lady Varda in many of her great works, to steer the gleaming boat of Ilsaluntë, and he gladly agreed. With him went many other spirits of the air, arrayed in robes of silver and white, or of palest gold; and that is why so very few of them can still be found in Arda. For they have gone with Ilsaluntë, to tend to the Rose of Silpion, and now they only watch the heavens or the world beneath from their little white turret next to the Rose.”

Celebrían remembered the first night she had spent in the House, right after her arrival to Tol Eressëa, when she had been lost and bereft of all those she loved most, heavy-hearted and sad. She remembered the laughter in the trees and the glimmering shapes of the Súruli as they had danced in the moonlight and the stars that had shone through their translucent bodies. She remembered how they had visited her in her dreams, keeping the night mares at bay. How she had learned in their presence to laugh again.

She was sorrowed to learn that so many had left Arda, though she hoped that they were happy, travelling across the skies in gleaming Ilsaluntë.

She shook her head lightly, forcing her attention back to the tale itself and its tellers. Ilmarë had fallen silent, mayhap pondering over those long-gone events, but Mahtan’s dark eyes shimmered with amusement as he was explaining them how Lord Irmo’s plan to bring the mingling of gold and silver lights back to Valinor again had failed in the form it had originally been devised.

“You must understand,” he said, “that the white radiance of Silpion had never been so buoyant and ethereal as was the golden flame of Laurelin; nor was virin anywhere near so light as the rind of the bright Fruit of Noon. Therefore, when the Valar laded the white ship with light and would launch it upon the heavens, it would simply not rise above their heads.”

“Ouch!” muttered Aracáno. “Lord Irmo must have been very unhappy when that happened!”

Several Reborn present, also acquainted with the Lord of Lórien and his moods, nodded in grave agreement. They were all glad having been either dead or in Middle-earth – or not even born yet – when that had happened. Mild-mannered as Irmo was, for a Vala anyway, and compared with his more forbidding siblings, it was better not to cross him on a bad day.

“And that was not all,” continued Ilmarë, clearly in agreement with the Reborn about letting cranky Valar lie, while Mahtan seemed strangely unconcerned about their possible wrath. “You must also know that the living Rose continued to give forth light; light that was shimmering like mother-of-pearl and thick as honey. That light then condensed upon the isle of glass, producing a dew of glistening moonbeams that weighed the vessel down. While the increase of the Sun-ship’s flames would buoy it, Ilinsor has to return at times, so that the overflowing radiance of the Rose can be stored in Valinor against dark days.”

“Light can be stored?” asked Aracáno doubtfully. “Like wine or grain, you mean?”

Mahtan gave him a wry smile. “Not with our methods, it cannot,” he said. “But there is a pool, well-hidden somewhere near the dark southern wall of Valmar, built with walls of silver and white marble by the Valar themselves. Dark yews shut it in, planted by the hands of Lady Estë in a maze so intricate that the few unfortunate fools, who have ever entered it, never came out of it alive.”

“That is not correct,” interrupted the Maia. “They do not leave it unchanged would be the right thing to say.”

“Mayhap so; if the fact that those who do come out again, instead of fleeing straight to Mandos, go in seclusion in some hidden corner of Lórien and remain there ‘til the Remaking is what you Ainur call a change,” countered Mahtan.

“Anyway,” continued the smith, clearly too used to having Maiar around him to be intimidated by a single one, “that pool is named the Lake Irtinsa, and there Lord Irmo hoards the pale dewy light of the Rose. And when the white flower of the Isle wanes and barely shines, it must be refreshed and watered with its silver dew, much as Silpion was wont of old to be.”

“Hmmm,” said Legolas of Gondolin thoughtfully. “Is that the reason why we saw Ithil’s barge float upon the airs for fourteen days, back in Middle-earth, and then for fourteen nights we could not? And why even in those fair nights when it was visible it never showed the same aspect, while Anor always did? I am no sailor myself, but I imagine that an overburdened vessel would have difficulties keeping its course straight.”

“Quite so,” Ilmarë agreed. “The bright galleon of Urwendi voyages even above Ilwë and beyond the stars, cleaving a dazzling way across the heavens, highest of all things, and thus is little bothered by winds or motions of the airs. Yet Ilinsor’s barge is heavier and not so filled with magic and power; nor does it travel above the skies ever, but sails in the lower folds of Ilwë, threading among the stars.”

“But if it travels so low, then the high winds would trouble it at times, would they not?” Aracáno, who had loved boats in his previous life and understand much of their working, asked. Ilmarë nodded.

“Lord Ulmo’s people could explain better, but yea, at times the winds are tugging at Ilsaluntë’s misty shrouds; often these are even torn and scattered, and Uinen and her maidens have to renew them. Sometimes even the petals of the Rose are ruffled, and its white flames are blown hither and thither like a silver candle guttering in the wind. In such times Ilsaluntë leaves and tosses about the air; and thus if you watch it from Endórë, often you only see the slender curve of his bright keel, his prow now dipping, now his stern. In other times it sails serenely to the West, and even the Rose can be seen up through the pure lucency of its frame.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. “Those are the fairest and brightest nights indeed; when Ithil shows its full face. The entire earth is washed with silver on such nights, and white beams chase away the deep, quick-moving shadows; and radiant dreams soar on cold wings about the world – and even the Twilight People, born under starlight, look upon the Barge of the Moon with gladdened hearts.”

“You should tell that Lord Irmo,” replied Ilmarë, grinning. “After three Ages, he is still mourning the faint marks of bruising the Rose had suffered at its fall and will bear them likely forever; or, at least, ‘til the Remaking.”

“I shall tell him next time I run into him,” promised Legolas with suspicious serenity.

Somehow Celebrían had the impression that the Lord of Eglavain had never actually met the Lord of Lórien and did neither expect nor particularly wish to do so any time soon.

“Now, tell us how the Valar managed to get the ship into the air after all?” he requested.

“Oh, it was a difficult task, even for them,” said Mahtan with a smile full of fond memories. “We all helped to draw the silver ship once again up the steep sides of Taniquetil. Lord Irmo’s people marched in the first rows, of course, singing songs that had not been heard in Valinor since the murdering of the Trees. Still, ‘twas much harder than the lifting of the Ship of Morn had been, although everyone was pulling at the ropes with all their might. Until Lord Oromë came and harnessed a herd of wild white horses before the vessel; and thus it finally came to the topmost place.”

“Just in time to meet the galleon of the Sun, returning from the East,” added Lindo, smiling, “It gleamed golden from afar; and we all marvelled at the wondrous sight of the glowing peaks of many a mountain far away, and of isles glimmering green in seas once dark.”

“That we all did, including the Valar themselves,” Ilmarë agreed. “Most enticed of all was Ossë, though, seeing that the Sea was now blue; almost as blue as Ilwë, the realm of the Elder King, the beauty of which he had always envied. Lord Manwë, though, reminded him that the Sea was not blue alone but also grey and green and purple, and most beautifully flowered with foaming white. The most exquisite jewels made by Fëanáro’s own hands could not outrival the waters of the Great and Lesser Seas when sunlight drenched them.”

“That is very true,” said Legolas thoughtfully. “When we Sailed west on the Olórë Mallë, I found that not even the great forests of Beleriand that now lie under the Sea could come close to the shimmering, ever-changing colours of the waves; and their beauty eased the heartache I felt upon the loss of my home of old. But have you not said that the Sun-ship was sailing far West in the upper airs still; too far away for its light to work its miracles, most of the time?”

“I have, and it was,” replied Ilmarë. “And for that very reason sent Lord Manwë my brother Fionwë – who is the swiftest among us all to move about the airs – and bade him say to Urwendi that the galleon of the Sun should come back to Valinor, for the Valar had counsels for her ear. And Fionwë fled most readily, for he had loved her since they had entered Eä for the first time. And now, bathed in fire as the radiant mistress of the Sun, her loveliness set him aflame more than he had ever been; and most desirous he was to see her again.”

“But Urwendi had no interest in him – or did she?” asked Elenwë, clearly feeling sorry for the Maia. She was a gentle soul who wished happiness for everyone.

“Nay,” admitted Ilmarë, “though she did bring her ship back above Valinor, albeit reluctantly, for she found great delight in the freedom of the upper airs. Lord Oromë then cast a noose of gold about the prow of the Sun-ship, and it was drawn slowly down upon the earth. And when it happened, the woods upon Taniquetil glowed once more in the mingled light of silver and of gold that reminded us all of the blending of the Two Trees in happier days. Ilsaluntë, though, paled before the galleon of the Sun till almost it seemed to burn no more.”

“Thus ended the first day upon Eä,” added Lindo, “and it was very long and full of many marvellous deeds. And as the Sun-ship was drawn down, the glow upon the mountains faded, and the sparkle of the seas went out as the evening deepened.”

“You said, though, that there were many stealthy lairs in the South, where the primeval darkness still lingered,” said Elenwë, and Ilmarë nodded.

“Indeed; and it did creep out again as the Sun was in the skies no more. But Lady Varda saw the steady shining of her stars and was glad. Far upon the plain was the Sun-ship drawn, and when it was gone, Ilsaluntë was haled upon the highest peak of Taniquetil, so that its white lucency fell out from there over the wide world and the first night was come.”

“And that was the very night in which we entered Middle-earth at last, with the host of Atar Nolofinwë,” added Meril softly. “We gazed at the heavens in amazement, for we understood that there would be no more darkness within the borders of the world, only night. And night is a wholly different thing, thanks to the gentle white radiance of the Rose of Silpion.”

“You could see the peak of Taniquetil from the shores of Beleriand?” asked Celebrían in surprise. “I know that the Sea was not yet bent at that time, but was the distance not too great for that? After all, had the host of Aran Fingolfin not needed about ten years of the Sun to cross the Ice?”

“”Nay, we could not see so far,” admitted Meril. “Fortunately for us, the Moon did come to Middle-earth.”

“Indeed, it did,” said Ilmarë in agreement. “For Lord Aulë filled the brimming vessel of the Rose with white light, and many of the Súruli glided on white wings beneath it and bore it slowly up to set it among the company of the stars. There did it swim slowly, pale and glorious; and Ilinsor and his peers were sitting upon its rim and with shimmering oars guided it through the sky. Then Lord Manwë breathed upon its bellying sails till it was wafted away towards the Outer Lands, the beat of its unseen oars against the winds of night fading and growing faint.”

“Which it circled seven times ere the Valar would release the Sun-ship,” added Meril, “and we travelled in its gentle silver light from the western shores to Hithlum and our hearts were filled with hope once again.”

“But why did the Valar hold the Sun back?” asked Elenwë. “Surely not just so that they could admire the mountain-peaks and the waves of the Sea glittering in its golden radiance?”

“Nay, that was not why,” said Ilmarë. “But the peoples of the Outer Lands, who had never known aught but starlight, would have been scared and blinded by the glorious brightness of the Sun. Thus the Valar let them get used to moonlight first, ere they would be subjected to the harsh radiance of the Sun,” she smiled at Celebrían. “I am told that when that gleaming galleon first appeared above the dark forests of Endórë, the Children of Twilight were quite frightened anyway.”

Celebrían nodded. “So my adar tells me; and he ought to know, as he was born under starlight in the deep forests of Doriath.”

“For us, though, who had been deeply shocked by the death of the Trees and the following darkening of Valinor, the rising of the Sun was a marvel and the return of hope,” said Meril quietly. “We had just reached Hithlum when it approached upon the western sky in all its glory – for its path had not yet been changed – and a rainbow of brilliant colours emerged from the twilight that had surrounded us until then,” she glanced at Elenwë, then at Aracáno. “And that was when Findecáno and I decided that we would have children in the Outer Lands – as a sign of hope, and that those lands would be our home ‘til the end of Arda,” she sighed, her beautiful face clouding with sorrow again. “Little did we know; and perchance it was better so.”

“Usually, it is,” agreed Ilmarë. “But the deeds of the Noldor in Beleriand are not our concern tonight – a night that has already grown old. We promised to tell you the tale of the making of the Sun and the Moon; and that, I believe, Master Mahtan, Master Lindo, Fionwë and myself have done between us. For this is all we know to tell of the building of those marvellous vessels and their launching on the air.”

The majority of the audience nodded, with the exception of Aracáno, who looked crestfallen.

“But-but that surely cannot be all!” he protested. “For I seem to remember that at the beginning of the tale Master Lindo promised us words concerning the present courses of the Sun and the Moon and their rising in the East. And I for one – by the leave of all others present – am not minded to release him of his word yet.”

Some sitting near him – Elenwë before all, but, surprisingly enough, also Legolas and even Master Aranwë – nodded in agreement, clearly eager to hear more. Lindo, however, just laughed.

“Nay, I remember no such promise,” he said, “and should I have made it, then it was rash indeed. For the things you ask are in no way easy to relate; and many matters concerning the events in those days in Valinor are hidden from all, save the Valar themselves. Unless we find someone close enough to them; someone willing to tell us about the hiding of Valinor,” he added, with a meaningful look in Ilmarë’s direction.

“I cannot make any promises; not without asking Lord Manwë and Lady Varda first,” answered the Maia. “Let us therefore end the telling of tales for tonight, and meet again in three days’ time. You shall have enough to think about while I find out how much more my Masters are willing to share.”

With that, she simply faded away, but his time no-one seemed to mind. Their minds were full of bright images from the wondrous tale they had been told; and thus many of them went out to the bread clearing a little further behind the house just between the gardens and the forests of Eglavain, to sing and dance in the moonlight.

Celebrían was one of those, and she was pleasantly surprised when she found out that while Morwinyon might not be able to carry a tune to save his own life – something she still found hard to believe; he was the son of Maglor, after all! – he was a skilled and graceful dancer. So she danced with him – and with Legolas, and Aranwë, and a great many other ellyn, for the moonlight dances of Tol Eressëa were in a fashion that did not require any actual touch between the dance partners – and it felt good and liberating to move around to the music again, without fear from the darkness. She felt light and free like a dancing butterfly in the wind, and, at least for this one night, she was happy.

“She has begun to heal, although she still has a long way before him, and there will be relapses,” Erunyauvë, who was watching the frolicking of the Elves from the roof of the House – unclad, of course – said. “The tasting of limpë has helped, I deem. Still, it was a risky move, offering it to her so soon.”

“I know, and I did have my doubts about it,” she confessed. “But Lord Irmo found that she would not have enough strength to begin the healing process on her own. She had been wounded too deeply; before all in her spirit. She was already fading when she boarded that ship, and used up most of her strength, just to keep going.”

“’Tis a marvel that she had held on to her life for as long as she had,” added Nornorë, who was also standing on the roof with them. “Not many others would have. Lord Námo was impressed.”

The other two Maiar were mute with shock for a moment. ‘Twas not a common thing that anyone would impress the dread Lord of Mandos, least of all one of the Children. How had a mere Elf from the Outer Lands managed it?

“Love,” Erunyauvë finally said. “It was her love to Elrond and to their children that kept her going; and that gave her the strength to leave them, to spare them the pain of seeing her fade away. And was it not Love that had brought Eä to being to begin with? Why should it not give an elleth the strength to hold on to her life? Love is stronger than fate and burns brighter than the heart of the Sun – would it not burn even under the waves of the Sea?”

“True,” allowed Ilmarë; then, with a wicked smile that transferred to her brethren despite their non-corporeal form, she added. “Of course, being the daughter of Artanis Arafinwiel, the most stubborn and headstrong one of all Finwë’s strong-willed grandchildren, must have helped, too.”

The three Maiar laughed in agreement, their laughter filling the air with soundless joy. Then they faded away completely, leaving the Elves to their amusement.

In the next morning Meril surprised everyone with her announcement that she intended to return to Kortirion, and that right away. In fact, her handmaids had already packed her travel bags, ready to depart.

“I no longer wish to waste my time with listening to ancient tales,” she explained to her crestfallen charges. “I have work waiting for me, back at home; and I prefer looking forward to the future, instead of lingering in the past, anyway.”

“But I do want to learn more!” protested Aracáno. “Who knows what other tales Ilmarë still has to tell? ‘Tis easy for you to dismiss it all; you were here, you saw it all with your own eyes, but I… I was dead, for three whole Ages! I know nothing!”

“I understand that, Ara, and I am truly sorry,” said Meril with uncharacteristic gentleness, as if she were talking to a small elfling. “But I cannot linger here any more. I have duties.”

“Well, I do not!” Aracáno crossed his arms like a particularly stubborn elfling. “And I want to stay and have some more fun!”

“I would prefer to remain here a little longer myself,” said Elenwë. “Many former subjects of Turucáno live in this town, as you know, and some of them have asked to meet me.”

“You do not have to meet anyone you are not willing to,” reminded her Meril, seeing that she was not entirely comfortable with the idea.

Elenwë nodded. “I know. But they see me as their Queen, even though I never sat upon the throne of Ondolindë. And as Turucáno is trapped in Mandos still, and no-one knows the fate of Itarildë, I am all that they have left.”

“They still have Eärendil and Elwing,” pointed out Meril, but Elenwë shook her head.

“What support could somebody as alien and remote as the evening star be for anyone? Eärendil is but a symbol – few of them have ever met him as a child – and Elwing, who has never lived in their city, is perchance even less than that. My return, although most had never met me before, gives them hope; something to hold onto ‘til their King returns. It is my duty to give them that hope.”

“And I would not dream of keeping you from fulfilling your duty,” said Meril. “But you have been entrusted into my care; both of you. I cannot leave you behind.”

There was a brief shimmering in the air, and in the next moment Erunyauvë was standing in their midst, clad as if she were one of Meril’s handmaids.

“There is another solution,” she said. “I shall stay here with them until they grow tired of the past and choose to look into the future. When they have come so far, I shall escort them back to your home. Would that be satisfactory for everyone?”

Both Aracáno and Elenwë nodded, though the former looked a lot more enthusiastic about the whole thing. After a moment Meril sighed and gave in.

“What about you?” she asked Celebrían. “You are my guest, not my charge; the choice is yours.”

Celebrían thought about that for a moment. “I, too, shall stay here for a while yet,” she then decided. “I wish to spend some more time with my friends. We can all return together when these two are willing.”

“You are welcome to stay in the House of the Hundred Chimneys for as long as you need, of course,” said Lady Vainóni. “You would not be the only permanent residents, as you know.”

The two Reborn accepted the offer gratefully. Celebrían, however, shook her head.

“I thank you, my lady, but I believe I will be more comfortable among my own people. Galenbrethil and Findalor have offered me one of their guest rooms, and I accepted. I shall be visiting from time to time,” she added, seeing the crestfallen faces of the Reborn, especially that of Aracáno, “or you can visit me, whenever you fell like. But ‘tis time for me to begin rebuilding my life, and I can do that best surrounded by people of my household of old.”

Meril nodded thoughtfully. “Yea, I believe you are strong enough to move on. Depending on others would only make you weak again. But what are you planning to do in Tavrobel? You are used to run a large household – what will you do with all the time you will suddenly have at your hands?”

“Well, I can always help Galenbrethil with her herbal remedies,” answered Celebrían with a shrug. “I have some practice with that. I think, however, that I will go to the Tower of the Wise and learn. I have been married to the greatest lore-master of Middle-earth, for an Age and some, and there were times when I felt woefully inadequate. Not that Elrond would ever treat me like that,” she hurried to add,” but unlike him, I was never instructed in sagecraft. Oh, I did read a great deal! I even learned Quenya to understand the older books; but it all happened haphazardly, without any particular order. I would like to change that.”

Lady Vainóni nodded, clearly impressed. “’Tis a worthy goal; and it will put all that spare time you will have to good use.”

“Not to mention that it will enable you to discuss deeper topics than just old times with your husband, once he feels ready to Sail,” commented Erunyauvë with twinkling eyes.

“I, too, want to learn more about what happened after my death,” said Aracáno. “So I might accompany you in the Tower from time to time, if you do not mind.”

She meant it, she truly did. She had become quite fond of the youngest prince of Fingolfin’s House who, in many things, reminded her of her sons. Or rather what her sons had been like when very young. For strangely enough, Elladan and Elrohir had lived a lot longer than her mother’s cousin – not counting the millennia Aracáno had spent in Mandos, that is.

“Oh, I do not know. I believe I would like to learn more about Uncle Laurë and his deeds in the Outer Lands; I miss him so much. May I visit you from time to time, too?”

“Of course; I would be delighted to tell you about him,” promised Celebrían. “After all, I have known him for an Age and a half; and so have Galenbrethil, Findalor and Lindefal. They will be able to tell you more than ever I can, as they used to live in the court of Lindon at the same time as he.”

“Very well,” said Meril, “Then this is settled, for the time. Now, I must truly depart and return to my duties. Do not linger too long, you two,” she looked at the Reborn. “When Erunyauvë says ‘tis time to come back to Kortirion, do so.”

“Do not make me change my mind,” warned Meril; then she turned to Erunyauvë. “I thereby entrust these two into your more than capable hands.”

The Maia smiled. “Worry not. Is hall keep a close eye on them; especially that one,” she nodded in Aracáno’s direction, who sputtered with indignation.

And so it came that Celebrían, Elenwë and Aracáno took their leave from the Lady of Tol Eressëa for a while. Meril-i-Turinqi returned to her house in Kortirion, in the great korin of elm trees and continued to rule the Isle, a Queen without a crown or a title but with all the wisdom that was required to do so.

The two Reborn stayed in the House of the Hundred Chimneys, under the protection and care of Erunyauvë the Maia, and Celebrían…. Celebrían began to build herself a new life.

This is not how I originally planned to end “Elvenhome”. I wanted to finish it at 40 chapters because, well, that is such a nice, round number. But the muse died on me, and while I am certainly capable of going on by sheer willpower – have, in fact, done so many times – this is not the kind of story that can be forced. Inspiration either comes – or it does not.

So, instead of a nice, round number of chapters in, oh, another six years, I decided that having a nice, finished story now would be better. There will be a second part, definitely, picking up the tale a hundred or so years later, when Celebrían finally feels strong enough to move on to Aman itself, at least temporarily; and perhaps even a short third part, eventually, in which Elrond and Celebrían will be reunited. I cannot tell when, though. As I said, Inspiration must come on its own, in this case.

In the meantime, I am planning to pick up some old WIPs again, namely “Emissary of the Mark” and “The Book of Mazarbul”, which are also overdue for an update. Other than that – whatever the muses are willing to do.

My heartfelt thanks for the interest and support of all those who kept reading and reviewing – you know who you are. I hope you enjoyed the trip to Elvenhome and will be back for more, eventually.

Elvenhome by Soledad