The full title of this work of mostly (non)sense is:

The Rise and Fall of Beleriand, being a faithful and unchronilogical chronicle of the elvish kingdoms of the first and second ages of middle earth, by one who was not there.

OR

Encaitariel’s Guide to Nargothrond and Its Denizens

AKA

Opuscule quod non sequitur
(Known to my computer merely as "WIVN?!")

But seriously, it is just a collection of trifles.

Author’s Note:

Way back in the early part of the Last Age (or so it seems), I began posting (what I had planned to be) a series of stories about Gildor Inglorion. Eventually, Real Earth began interfering with Middle Earth (as it is wont to do) and I ceased posting. Indeed, for a time I had ceased serious writing altogether. However, those characters (and not a few whom you have not yet had the dubious pleasure of meeting) would not remain silent, and gradually bits and pieces of their lives began to emerge. Bits and pieces which I would jot down here, there or on my computer; for all intents and purposes, there to remain as a disjointed, unfinished mish-mash of thoughts. Many times over the past few years I have felt the desire to continue where I have left off, if only for my own sake, but one thing or another always got in the way.
Recently, though, I have been revisiting Anglo-Saxon history in anticipation of the impending release of The Professor’s Beowulf. As a result, since I have always seen Tolkien’s Magnum Opus as being Art Imitating Life, the voices are clamoring once more, and Lindan, especially, is demanding why I have not finished his story. And who am I to argue with my own creation, yes? So I have been revisiting my old Inglorion files, my self-critique of which I will not belabor here. Suffice to say, I have begun a process of revision and expansion. I have, however, determined that I will not post any of that until it in some way resembles completion, as I have never forgiven myself for apparently not completing what I had started.
Which brings us, in a long-winded and roundabout manner, to the present work. This will be just as the (not in anyway pretentious or tongue-in-cheek) title states above: an unapologetic, unchronilogically arranged, collection of bits. These will vary in length and structure and mood (and interest, I daresay). These are the bits that I have collected (and continue to collect) about my Nargothrond and those Elves who inhabit her: some are character sketches, some (unposted) responses to challenge prompts I have seen here or there, and some are just bits of scene to flesh out relationships. Some will never been seen outside of these chapters, but others may eventually find a place and context within a larger work.
I hope also that you may find some pleasure in these little bits and glimpses: for this is indeed the backbone of my Nargothrond.
As always, I thank you ahead of time for taking the time and attention to read.
~ Encaitariel ~

...
 
List of Characters:
(* Denotes an Original Character)

*Anórel - an elleth of Ossiriand, sister of Dórion
*Dórion - an ellon of Ossiriand, brother of Anórel
*Ereglas - a lord of Nargothrond, brother of Silmë
Finduilas - daughter of Orodreth, a Lady of Nargothrond
Finrod - king of Nargothrond
Gildor - foster-son of Finrod
*Lindan - a Lindarin Lord of Nargothrond
*Silmë - a lady of Nargothrond, sister of Ereglas

Gildor and Lindan: point of reference

SA 1300 – Gil-Galad’s palace, Osluin, Lindon

Gildor exited the palace out onto the highest terrace overlooking the Lune. Passing under the archway of mingling holly and silver ivy which led out to a wide lawn, he saw Gil-Galad’s gardens trailing down to the shore below in all their magnificence. At any other time, he knew that he would find his quarry down among the trees near the bottom, but given his friend’s current situation, he knew that would not be the case today. At least he hoped the tiucár was that sensible. Gildor shook his head at the absurdity of that thought, and began putting together the most scathing lecture he could imagine, to be prepared should he find the stubborn ellon in question anywhere he shouldn’t be.

Luckily, for his friend’s sake, he found Lindan lounging propped against the side of the palace on the broad railing surrounding that terrace level, reading. Gildor tucked the (he thought) very creative censure back into a corner of his mind, ready to pull it out again when he next needed it (which, knowing Lindan as he did, would not be too far in the future). The leg his friend had stretched out in front of himself was still bandaged to the knee, but showed no signs of blood seeping through, and his complexion was a lot healthier looking than the last time Gildor had seen him. All in all, judging by his position on the railing and the fact that he was out here at all, Gildor guessed (with not a little relief) that Lindan was healing well, if slowly.

"It’s been so long since I’ve seen you read, Nando," he said, "I had forgotten that you knew how."

“Ha, ha, very funny, Golda," Lindan returned in Lindarin, catching the wineskin Gildor tossed to him without looking up from his book. Giving it an experimental shake, he spared the Noldo a dubious look.

“Falathrin,” Gildor said. “From that tavern you and Galdor like so much. What’s it called, again? ‘The Drunken Gull’?”

The other’s look became withering. “The Dancing Gull, as you know perfectly well,” Lindan said, tucking the wine under his arm and returning his attention back to his book. “The ‘Drunken Otter’ was that Orc-nest in Balar that you got us thrown out of.”

Gildor merely shrugged. “There’s no reason to get tetchy. It all seems one to me: every rowdy hole of a Falathrin tavern seems much like any other. Next time, don’t get your leg nearly torn off by a mangy draug, and you can get your own wine.” When he didn’t receive anything other than a half-hearted “harumph” from his friend, he continued with a devious smirk. “It must be your barbaric Úmanyarin taste.”

"We Lindi are more civilized than you pompous Goldas like to think us. We are, all of us, taught to read at an even earlier age than you Edeli. If we do not have as may books as you Goldas, it is merely because we prefer quality over quantity in our literature. You should try it sometime." He looked up from the book, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "This book now, really is very interesting, mela. I find myself in agreement with the author more than I would have thought; it having been written by a Noldo, and all."

Gildor lifted an eyebrow and walked closer to his friend. He craned his neck to try to get a look at the words on the page, but Lindan closed the book with a knowing smirk.

"So, what's the book, then?" Gildor asked crossing his arms and leaning back against the rail. The sun was warm, the sea breeze was cool coming off the Gulf, and he was willing to humor his friend’s game. "I must, indeed, read such a great work for myself, if it is the cause of you agreeing with a Noldo on anything, tiucár."

Lindan's grin widened. "Pengolodh is going to have to be careful. His title as preeminent Loremaster is going to be challenged quite soon, I think." His expression turned purely impish. "Young Erestor has written a book.”

When his friend's glee only continued to grow as the silence between them lengthened, Gildor decided to take the bait.

"Has he, indeed?" He asked, feigning shock. "And what has that loyal young son of Nargothrond written a book about, onóronya?"

The Linda made a great show of turning back to the title page for reference, all for effect, of course: Lindan remembered perfectly anything he had read even once. "Our not-quite-so-young-as-you-think scholar has written… 'A Critical History of the Kingdoms of the First Age'."

That was, honestly, not what Gildor had expected. He stared at his friend, in unfeigned bemusement. "He's written a what?"

Lindan (mostly) nimbly dropped down from the terrace railing and leaned back against it, arms crossed in insouciant imitation of Gildor. "'A Critical History of the Kingdoms of the First Age'," he repeated with obvious relish. "He calls it The Rise and Fall of Beleriand."

"The what?!"

“Yes, exactly,” Lindan nodded, biting back a smile, though his eyes fairly glittered with mirth. "I especially like this part, here," he opened the book, allowing a brief glimpse of the pages to Gildor. While he could not actually make out anything coherently, he recognized Erestor’s own penmanship; so this was the young scholar’s own copy, or one he had made especially for the Dana. (A small, petty part of Gildor wondered if his youngest cousin had made him a copy, too; but he quickly dismissed the thought.)

"He attributes the decline of the kingdoms of Beleriand to the obstinate pride of their leaders,” Lindan continued, pointing to a particular paragraph. “Among other things."

"He what!?" Gildor tried to grab the book, but Lindan pulled it back quickly. The Linda began walking (somewhat stiffly) around the lawn, leafing through the book as he continued. Gildor stared after him in increasingly confused consternation.

"Some might say that it is too soon to write such criticisms of our departed heroes. There are, after all, more of us still in Endor who have lived through the Destruction, than have not,” Lindan’s impersonation of their old tutor, Enyalmo, was perfect; until he ruined it by continuing with his normal, impish delight, waving the book vaguely to the north: “Ereglas, I know, will be quite incensed when he finds out. More so, I imagine, when he finds out that his own sister, Silmë, helped make copies."

Lindan stopped and faced Gildor with his hands clasping the book behind his back, a serene smile of pride on his lips. Gildor’s eyes tracked the book’s movements, looking for an opening to snatch it away from the infuriating Nando.

"I knew that young cousin of yours had a good head on his shoulders, despite being a Noldo. This," Lindan again gestured with the book, "is merely what I have been saying for all these yéni since I first met you Amanyar at Ivrin. I'm glad to see that someone has actually listened."

Gildor, resolving to have a talk with Ereinion's newest councilor sooner rather than later, decided to steer the conversation in another direction.

"I find all this very fascinating, mela," he said as lightly as he could. "I also think that our most esteemed guest from Mithlond will find it even more so."

"The Havens?” Lindan's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What guest? Arminas hasn’t decided to grace us children with his presence again, has he? If that’s the case, then please gwador, detain him for as long as you can while I hobble my way back to the Emyn Luin."

It was Gildor's turn to smirk in impish glee. "Ah, no, onóronya, no need for you to hobble anywhere," he said. "Our guest is not Arminas, but he certainly is one of the most impossible Eldar it's been my misfortune to know, present company notwithstanding."

Lindan's eyes narrowed more as Gildor added, as innocently as he could, "The Valar have sent him to us, onóronya."

"The who have what?"

"The Valar, melanya," Gildor repeated, nodding. He was finally able to snatch Erestor's book from Lindan’s slackened grasp, and began paging through it. "Erestor is sure to have a whole section devoted to him in here, as much as he has always loved the tale."

Gildor finally found what he was looking for towards the back of the book. The image was very well drawn, but he expected no less. Although it was unsigned, he recognized Elrond's hand in the sure, flowing lines. No one who had seen Elrond's maps, would mistake this image for having been drawn by anyone else. The lack of signature was also expected. Gildor knew that the peredhel would not have wanted to be credited for his contribution to his friend's book, lest any of that credit be misdirected away from where he felt it belonged. The image lacked the bright colors and ostentatious decoration often used in depictions of this subject, but it was all the more moving in its simplicity. Most of the detail was devoted to the two central figures: the one shining bright, dwarfed, but defiant; the other menacing in its dark, smoldering shadows. Gildor felt cold dread shudder down his spine looking at it. For one who had most likely never seen the real thing, Ëarendilion had caught the terrifying essence of creatures that had once been Maiar. Everything else around those two figures faded out of focus, as befitted a memory, or battle-sight.

Gildor turned the book and presented the image to Lindan.

"A very old friend has been returned to us, mela," he said with a genuine smile.

tiucár: hard-headed one, stubborn (Quenya)

Nando, Nandor: wood elf; one of the many terms for the Third Kindred of Elves in Middle Earth. Because the word means “those who turned back”, it is not appreciated among the woodelves, who call themselves Lindi or Danas. (Sindarin)

Golda, Goldas: Noldo (Nandorin)

draug: wolf (Sindarin)

Edeli: High Elves (Nandorin)

Lindi, Dana, Danas: what the woodelves call themselves (Nandorin)

onóronya: my brother (Quenya)

yéni: temporal unit of measure roughly equal to 144 years (Quenya)

mela: friend (Nandorin)

melanya: my friend (Quenya)

Finduilas: object in motion

Finduilas could never bring herself to pay much heed to anything her great-uncle Finrod said; king, or no. Unlike her young brother, Ereinion, who idolized the King of Nargothrond, Finduilas was of a disposition which was not easily awed. In this her father said she was very much like his Aunt Galadriel. Usually this was said fondly, but increasingly over the years it was said in exasperation.

It was not that she did not have any respect for her father, or her Head of House, quite the opposite was true. The fact of the matter was that Finduilas had always known her own mind very clearly, and saw no reason to rely on anyone else’s opinion to interpret the world. As she saw it, the problem lay not with her, but with everyone else’s desire to express their opinion about how she ought to live as a Lady of the House of Arafinwë: Finrod had his views, her father had his views (no matter how infrequently he expressed them to her in words), Aunt Aernellien had her views, and Enyalmo, Finrod’s household tutor, most certainly had his views. None of which were Finduilas’ views, and that was what mattered.

So when Uncle Finrod spoke (lectured) she listened, she nodded and offered affirmation when appropriate, and then she proceeded with her life as she saw fit. If it happened to not conform to what someone else thought, she refused to lose any sleep over it.

Even her cousins and her peers among the young Lords and Ladies of Nargothrond had their own ideas about her life: Gildor frowned, Meordel sighed, and even little Ivorien looked at her with those wide, innocent (sometimes scandalized) eyes. Only Gwindor had ever looked at her with anything other than preconceived expectations. Only he had calmly taken her as she was; no matter what.

This, of course, was not something others saw when they looked at them. No, all anyone ever cared to see was the son of a minor House of Nargothrond trailing after the headstrong niece of the King like a puppy. No one seemed to see the deep and contradicting truth at the heart of their relationship: that she, who had never needed anyone else since she was a very young child, needed this ellon just as much, if not more, than he appeared to want her.

Alone of those in Nargothrond, it seemed to her, he let her be who she wanted to be (his Faelivrin) and not who everyone else expected her to be (Lady Finduilas Finarfiniel). She honestly did not know what she would do without him. Until, of course, she had to.

It was agony, the time after the Nirneath when she thought him dead. (And it was infinitely better to think him dead than as a thrall of Morgoth, as some suggested, although never to her face.) She felt lost and without a center, spinning around within herself while the world around her seemed to stagnate. All of these feelings, though, seemed to pale in comparison to what she felt when Gwindor actually returned from the dead.

He needed her then more than she had ever needed him, and in ways she could not even begin to comprehend. For the first time in her life she felt compelled to change for the sake of another; to be and to become anything Gwindor now needed her to be. She struggled with this urge as she had never struggled with anything in her life. Just desiring to give of herself did not seem to be enough. Nothing in her experience, or in her desires, to this point had prepared her for this kind of internal struggle. Her joy at his return was heartfelt, and she was sincere when she said that his physical alterations mattered less than nothing to her; and yet she struggled.

It was then, within that incessant maelstrom of her fëa, that her heart first took notice of Gwindor’s companion. He was certainly not the first mortal she had seen, but her heart had never beheld a being like him before. He seemed a manifestation of strength and forceful purpose, even standing amongst the Eldar. The force of his will was so great that she would be stopped, immovable and focused, whenever he entered a room. His eyes showed a fire of spirit which whirled even more than the storm within her own breast. It pulled her in, faster and faster, until her world spun more than it ever had and she no longer cared if she lost her balance.

It was then that she recalled one thing Finrod had told her which still stuck in her memory. The Apanónar, he said, experienced Ëa differently than the Eldar did: their senses were not as keen; they could not feel the hum of the Song within their fëar; and time seemed to rush by for them, to drive them ever desperately forward. She had been bored by the philosophical discussions the King seemed to delight in, but this statement stayed with her because it seemed a very odd thing to say. It made no sense: for how could one experience a thing in any other way than how it was? Looking into this mortal’s eyes, however, she knew.

And yet even as her heart turned, her mind looked back and grieved that she was abandoning one who so clearly needed her. Her failure and unfaithfulness burned in her. And in a rare moment of self-insight, Finduilas felt understanding and compassion for the Unfaithful of Nargothrond, whom she had in the deepest part of her fëa derided for heeding the words of the Fëanorionnath and refusing their King.

It was Gwindor’s calm acceptance of all this, though, which hurt even more. It was a spear of ice being thrust into her fëa, and she felt she was dying, even as she was being reborn. The knowledge that Túrin Adanedhel could not love her (even as she increasingly and secretly hoped that the Mormegil would) did nothing to dissuade her heart. For, she thought with bitterness, when had Finduilas Artarestiel ever cared for the opinions of others?

And so she let herself be swept up, as more and more Nargothrondrim were being swept up, in the trailing fire of the Adanedhel’s determination; allowing herself to be enmeshed within his doom.

It was only as she stood staring transfixed into cold, reptilian eyes within the very halls of her City, the world crumbling and burning unheeded around her, that she finally realized the converse of Finrod’s statement. In that moment, as never before in her life, the whirlwinds were stopped and all voices were silenced. She existed only as a single point amidst the great expanse of nothingness: everything was her past, and everything was her present. For one eternal moment she felt the slow, backwards pull that was Time for the Eldar.

And those cold, knowing, eyes mocked her.

Apanónar: mortal men, literally “the after-born”

Ëa: the world, but more specifically “all of created being”

fëa, fëar: soul, innermost being

Finrod: se wídfarende cyning

The following excerpt is reprinted from the first Quenya edition of The Rise and Fall of Beleriand: A Critical History of the Kingdoms of the First Age, Volume 1: Anarórë Núméva, by Erestor Lindonéva (published by Enyalmo Parmatan, under the authority of Ereinion, Ingaran Eldaliéva).

Finrod Felagund was not born to rule.

While many may consider this statement disrespectful, more or less heresy of the basest kind, it is nonetheless true both in terms of birth and in terms of temperament. Nor does it mean that his ability to rule was in any way lessened.

The lineages of the noble houses of the Amanyar have been laid out elsewhere in this work, and so do not require reiteration here; save for the reminder that Arafinwë’s line was the farthest from the Crown in the House of Finwë. So while Finrod and his siblings were raised to enjoy their royal status (and expected to live up to it), they were not constrained by the responsibility of governance. Left to his own devices, then, the future King of Nargothrond was allowed to develop his own natural inclinations towards whatever ends he desired.

Arafinwë’s eldest son possessed three innate traits which, once tempered by the experiences of his youth in Valinor, particularly shaped the manner of his rule in Endorë.

Firstly, Finrod was insatiably curious. He drank up knowledge faster than the tutors of the House of Finwë were able to provide him resources; and so, while he was still quite young, he was raised for a time amongst his Vanyarin kin, in hopes that they could satisfy his curiosity. It is to be imagined that much of the King of Nargothrond’s more abstract knowledge and skills in reasoning were learnt there, at the feet of Taniquetil and the Powers who dwelt there.

Secondly, unlike most other Noldor who delight in making, Finrod delighted more in knowing. It has been said that it was a common saying amongst the Noldor of Tirion that Prince Findárato could out-think even High King Ingwë. This was fond overstatement, of course, for Finrod only ever bested Ingwë in debate once; and that never in the public forum. It is uncertain what the issue in question was, exactly, as few who were there remain in Endorë, but what is certain is that there were few among even the Vanyar (delighters in the abstract that they are) who could match the speed and dexterity of Finrod’s mind.

It was also said, with much more veracity, that there were even fewer who could win against the Noldorin prince at the game of Pélë, which the Valar had personally taught to the Eldar. In fact, so great was Finrod’s love for and skill at this game that in Nargothrond it became a required object of study for those in the higher echelons of society. It remains equally popular with the survivors of Nargothrond within the Court of Lindon to this day.

Lastly, Finrod was rarely content to remain in one place for any length of time. This does not mean that he was inattentive or lacked perseverance, for when his attention was directed at something he was single-mindedly focused; and he never left off until he had completed what he had set out to accomplish. He was, however, given to wanderlust; but not wanderlust brought on by discontent.

Finrod approached everything with a sense of boundless wonder; from the smallest flower to the highest mountain peak, and from the woes of the lowliest servant in his father’s household to the most obscure ontological inquiry. He was a scholar, but Arda was as much his place of learning as the libraries of the Eldar.

This, then, was the true heart of King Finrod’s character: that he was, and always remained, an explorer and adventurer above all else. (The stories of his Company’s travels in Aman under the Trees, and his many near escapes from danger, are widely enough known that they need not be repeated here.) He was, in the language of the clan of Men who lived closest to Nargothrond, se wídfarende cyning, the far-wandering king.

Of all the appellations he acquired within his lifetime, this was one he especially liked. As those who were close to him attest, he saw it as a mark of humility – that he was not unduly tied to either his possessions or his creations – and a reminder of words he ascribed to a Vala: “Love not too well the works of thy hands, nor the devices of thy heart.” These were words which haunted him, and seem to have been taken as his watchword throughout his life in Endorë.

Finrod was a natural and charismatic leader, but only a ruler by force of circumstance: being the head of the House of Arafinwë in Exile. He was aware of his dignity as a scion of the House of Finwë, and accepted the leadership of his House without question, but seemed devoid of the “pride of kingship” which others (both before and since) have displayed. According to those who knew him well, his frequent long absences from his City (even if it were just to visit Cirdan at the Havens or the Laiquendi who dwelt around Ivrin) were his way of coping with what he felt was the stagnation of fëa caused by kingship.

There are those who, with the backward-looking and all-seeing eyes of the present, would say that it was this exact trait, a restlessness of the fëa, which led to the downfall of Nargothrond. They would criticize Finrod for leaving his people open to the attacks, both physical and mental, of the Sons of Fëanor whom he welcomed within his walls. There are still more who would say that, honor and hospitality notwithstanding, he doomed his People when he welcomed his wayward cousins. Others would criticize him for not appointing a better (stronger, wiser) steward to leave after himself (we shall, however, leave discussion of Artaresto for a later time); and even those who would say (and, indeed, have said with the tongue of the hlocë) that it was a heedlessness of his responsibility as King, and not a scrupulous heeding of honor, which led to his accompanying the Apánona, Beren, to his death.

To those people I would say this: that it was Finrod Felagund, se wídfarende cyning, who had the greatest hand in the shaping of Beleriand, and all which has come after; both the good and the ill.

It was Finrod, more than any other member of the House of Arafinwë, who acted as a liaison between the Amanyar and the Úmanyar. Elu Thingol would trust no Amanya except his kin, and the rest of the Sindar of Beleriand followed his lead in this as in everything else. While Cirdan was of a less volatile disposition than the king of Doriath, it was to the eldest son of Arafinwë that he most often sent for counsel; and with whom he seemed most willing to deal. The Ossiriandrim, likewise, welcomed the king of Nargothrond among them, when they had previously maintained themselves apart from the rest of Beleriand.

Yet, the Peoples of Beleriand were not only Eldar. Few Quendi have had a better relationship with the Dwarves than Finrod. So much so, that his most widely know epessë, Felagund, is of Dwarvish origin.

It must also be remembered that it was Finrod who, first in the Western Realms, discovered Men. For a number of years after the first clans of the Apanónar had crossed the Ered Luin, he lived among them. He both taught them the language and customs of the Eldar, and learned of their language and customs. What other prince of the Noldor would have been so even-handed in dealing with these strange mayfly Children? The importance of the Houses of Men in the history of Arda cannot be debated.

Nargothrond was the lynchpin amongst the disparate Peoples of Beleriand; and without Finrod, there would have been no Nargothrond. So while he may not have been born to rule, it was Finrod Felagund, as se wídfarende cyning, who shaped the history of the kingdoms of the western lands.

_______________________________________________________________

se wídfarende cyning: the far-wandering king (Anglo-Saxon – used here to represent one of the ancient languages of Men)

anarórë núméva: sunrise in (of) the west (Quenya)

Amanyar: elf of Aman (Quenya)

Úmanyar: elf who refused the journey to Aman (Quenya)

Pélë: means “stone”; I envision this as being like the ancient game of Go (Quenya)

Artaresto: Orodreth’s Quenya name

hlocë: serpent (Quenya)

Apánona, Apánonar: the after-born, Men (Quenya)

Quendi: the collective name for all Elves, meaning “those who speak” (Quenya)

epessë: nickname, title (Quenya)

Gildor and Elrond: amalindë

ca. Second Age 3 – Gil-Galad’s palace, Osluin, Lindon

Retuning to Osluin after a patrol along the Ered Luin wearied Gildor more than the actual patrol did. Even in Nargothrond, he had never enjoyed the sophistry and political maneauvering to be found in every king’s court. Thankfully, the drama in Finrod’s City had been kept to a minimum until the end. With so many disparate peoples rubbing shoulders within the narrow confines of Forlindon, Osluin was a different story. He knew the young High King meant well. Gildor didn’t even doubt that Gil-Galad’s courtiers meant well, from their own perspectives. Nevertheless, the High King’s Court wearied Gildor as nothing else ever had, and he actually welcomed wandering up and down the mountains.

This particular patrol, however, had been especially arduous. Spring had come late and wet; Arda seeming to still be unsettled from what was coming to be called “The War of Wrath”. Gil-Galad, perhaps sensing the restlessness amongst some of his Lords, had called for Gildor and his Company even before the late snows had melted away. He desired, he said, to build an outpost in the forests further to the north: both to serve as a base for further exploration, and to encourage resettlement among the Noldor and Sindar who still clung so close to his Court.

The land which had once been fair, lush Ossiriand was now mostly marsh and fen. Had the land still been frozen solid, the going would have been much easier, but frozen marsh gave way to slush and sucking mud. Even Ereglas, who ever since a cold Dorthonion winter nearly four yéni before never complained of the ardors of the trail, was forced to regret coming along. The homeward journey took nearly twice as long as the northward one.

When he finally rode in through Gil-Galad’s gate, however, it was a very fine mid spring day: bright, dry and warm. Reaching the steps of the palace, Gildor was met by Elrond Ëarendilion. The young perelda stood quietly by the head of Gildor’s horse as he dismounted, patient and attentive as a page. His air of (poorly-concealed) anticipation reminded him of something Edhrail had once told him: that only princes could act so freely without loss of princely dignity; lesser nobles did not have such freedom, nor such a compulsion. Even now, looking down on him from his horse, Gildor could not mistake the young perelda for anything but a prince of the Eldar.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Elrond said as Gildor dismounted. “I would ask whether you’ve had a pleasant journey, but I can tell by the state of your horse that it was not.”

“Hmm, I’ve had better,” Gildor replied with a small smile. “But I’ve also had worse.” He placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder and, nodding to a groom who came to take charge of his mount, began leading him up the steps. “Where’s Ereinion?”

“The king is in conference with Cirdan, my lord, otherwise I am sure he would have been here to greet you himself. We weren’t expecting you back quite yet; you’ve only been gone two months.”

Gildor shrugged, then quickly shifted to the side as a harried looking palace worker hurried by, arms full and gaze distracted. “We made tolerable time going north, despite the weather, and found what we were looking for. I didn’t see much reason to go further while the weather was as bad as it was.”

“Is Ossiriand much changed? I wish I had seen more of it before the Change. Lindan says it was quite beautiful.”

Gildor hummed noncommitally. “It is changed, but the form of the land is still recognisable,” he said. “Lindan claimed he didn’t recognize anything, but I think he just suffers from the Mortal malady of a failing memory and can’t remember his own birthplace.” He sent a conspiratorial grin towards Elrond, who returned it with a laugh.

“I wish I could have gone with you,” the young ellon said wistfully. “I want to explore this new land; to pass beyond the Emyn Uial and travel the lands to the east.”

Gildor cast a speculative glance at his companion. “Perhaps when I return north later this season I will ask Ereinion to let you come along.” At Elrond’s startled, hopeful look he continued: “After all, the High King will need someone to make some halfway decent maps of his new outpost.”

Elrond’s smile was bright and clear, and Gildor treasured it all the more for knowing how rare it had been since the young ellon had been parted from his twin. Elrond’s delight now made up in advance for the pains he knew he’d have trying to convince Ereinion and Erestor that the young prince would be better served travelling the wilds with him, rather than confined to the dusty libraries of Osluin. Although it was difficult to say whether their reticence came more from their concern for the younger ellon’s court education, or their desires not to lose their “playmate”; for the three younger ellyn had become nearly inseparable in the last few years.

They continued down the Halls of Gil-Galad in companionable silence for a while. The bustle of the more public parts of the palace giving way to the more deserted calm of the wing Gil-Galad reserved for family and special guests. When they reached the door to Gildor’s chambers, Elrond hesitated in the open doorway, until the older ellon invited him in.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a table in the center of the room, “and you can tell me everything about Osluin I will be glad I missed.”

Elrond shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, unless you’ve been following the Court gossip.” Then he smiled a smile which Gildor suspected heralded no good. “Oh, there is something you might be interested in: shortly after you left this spring there was a… disagreement between Lady Galadriel and Lord Erestor. Things have been very… interesting since then.”

Gildor chuckled to himself as Elrond continued to relate the misadventures of his young cousin. Shrugging off his cloak and tossing it over a neary chair, he unslung his travelling pack and his covered harp. He took the harp out of its travelling bag and set it on the table, before moving across the room to begin unpacking.

After a lull in his story, Elrond said, “This is a very old instrument, my lord. Did you make it?"

Gildor turned to see the young perelda slowly ghosting his fingers along the knots and vines carved into the harp. "Nay, nessë," he said, voice heavy with memory. "I did not make it. And it is not really mine, but my king's."

Elrond’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t recall the king having anything as lovely as this,” he said thoughtfully. “And I don’t think this is Lady Eirien’s work, either.”

“And you would be right on both counts. I may follow Ereinion’s requests when it suits me, but he is not my King.”

Seeing confusion on the young lord's face, Gildor reached out to run a finger along the delicate carving.

"This is the Amalindë," he said in a voice hushed with memory. "It is the harp of Finrod Finarfinion."

"But I thought that he took his harp with him when he went with Beren? All of the tales talk about him battling Morgoth with songs of power."

Gildor smiled. For all that the young perelda was past his majority, he heard in his voice the petulance of an elfling who had just been told his favorite hero didn’t actually exist. "Finrod, like Ereinion, had several harps. But this one was his favorite, and his constant companion until the day he left Nargothrond for the last time."

"Well I remember the day he made it," Gildor continued. "It was not long before the building of Nargothrond, when we were visiting Doriath for a time. My father sat for a whole day in the Garden of Melian, carving and stringing it. I was about your age at the time, and I sat beside him, enthralled. I was supposed to be composing a song for Daeron, but I could not turn away as those vines and knots took shape under my father's hand. As he was finishing, I looked up to see Queen Melian watching us. How long she stood there, I do not know, but my father did not seem suprised to see her. The blessed Queen smiled and laid her hands on the harp. Fëaran, she called it, the 'soul of the king'. How well she knew my lord, she who is kin to the immortal Valar," Gildor became lost in thought for a while, remembering that day an Age ago.

Gildor focused back on the young perelda before him. "As I said, this was before the founding of Nargothrond. Finrod was not yet a king, and thought it presumptuous to call his harp 'the king's soul'. So he named it Amalindë, 'the blessed song', and called it thus ever after. When he left his City for the last time, he took his Valinorian harp, and left the Amalindë with me. And it has traveled with me ever since."

Elrond looked from the harp to the older elf before him in awe. "And do you play it, my lord?"

Gildor chuckled. "Aye, nessë, indeed I do. It reminds me that even in bent lands, life can still be blest."

"I would be afraid to touch it."

Gildor laughed in full. "As my father once said, an instrument is made to be used. Once you cease using it, it ceases being what it was made to be and becomes a mere curiosity." gildor became grave once again. "The greatest service I can do to the memory of my king is to continue to make his soul sing."

Elrond looked away for a moment, deep in thought; then looked up to Gildor uncertainly. "May I play it?" He asked.

Gildor narrowed his eyes at the peredhel for a moment. "Can you?"

Elrond nodded. "Oh, yes. Maglor taught me."

Gildor nodded his head, and Elrond reverently cradled the harp and began to gently pluck the strings. As the young ellon played, Gildor thought he recognized the influence of the second son of Fëanor in the tune, but did not think it was one of his composing. He wondered if it might not be one of Elrond’s composing.

"I think," said Gildor quietly after a time, "that under different circumstances, I could have well admired Maglor Fëanorion. Of all his family, he had the most sense. If only he had always followed it, and not his elder brother."

Elrond stopped the harp strings with his palm, and looked gravely at the elder Noldo, for a moment looking far older than his years. "Both Maedhros and Maglor," he said, "are constantly pained by their past deeds. It is just that Maedhros has no outlet for his pain; and love binds Maglor to his family too much to ever let him forsake them."

Gildor shook his head. "Love?" He asked incredulously. "I often wonder if that family knows anything about love."

Elrond gazed at Gildor in silence for a while, his face impassive and eyes not betraying a thought. "Maglor told us what they did to you," he said at length, the harp of Finrod still clutched in his hands. "And how you chased them like a being possessed, and held your sword to Maedhros' throat."

"He told you that?"

Elrond gave a small smile and shrugged. "Maedhros used to always curse your name whenever we heard tidings of you. One day, my brother asked why. I guess Maglor deemed us old enough to know what had happened to our mother's brothers. I think that you were Elros' secret hero for years after that." Gildor raised an eyebrow. "Well," said Elrond with an impish grin, "Maedhros can be rather intimidating."

________________________________________________________________________

perelda: half-elf (Quenya)

nessë: young one (Quenya)

Ereglas and Silmë: convergent point

First Age 20 – Mereth Aderthad, Ivrin

A Note on Names: As this takes place during the very early years of the Noldor’s Return, I have chosen to maintain their Quenya names. Please refer to the list at the end for their Sindarin equivalents, if they have one.

…

The afternoon before the ceremony inaugurating Ñolofinwë’s great Feast of Reuniting found Findárato sitting in his pavilion with his brother Angárato. They had just spent a very enjoyable couple of hours entertaining Círdan; and all in turn being entertained by Findárato’s young foster-son, Cálion.

Finally, his over exuberance had led Angárato’s sister-in-law, Ëarnyellë, to come collect him to begin preparing for the evening’s festivities. Cálion had reluctantly allowed himself to be led away, all the while continuing to fire rapid questions at the lord of the Falas. He left with the laughter of his elders trailing after him.

Círdan had taken his leave shortly thereafter, but not before leaving the elder sons of Arafinwë with another exhortation that they at least be completely honest with their kinsman Thingol about the Noldor's sudden return. Adding, with a forbidding countenance, that he feared the fate of the entirety of Arda depended on how this issue was handled now.

And thus for a time afterward, Findárato and his brother sat in silence, Anor’s slowly waning light and the sounds of the bustling camp around them filtering through the pavilion’s walls. Both thought on the truth in the Shipwright's warning, yet neither was able to see a way around it. Their thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the tent pole.

Edrahil stuck his head into the pavilion, looking between the two elder sons of Arafinwë. His concern at the sudden gravity of the atmosphere was plain, but he did not comment.

"Herunya," he said, entering and addressing Findárato. "There is a lady of the Ingaran's court waiting to speak with you."

"A lady?" Findárato asked, puzzled. He looked to Angárato, but his brother just shrugged and got up to pour them both some more wine. "Did she give you a name, Edrahil?"

"Yes, herunya. She says she is Sívëa Caineniel, and is here to speak with you about some children who are in her care."

Angárato chuckled. "Planning on turning Minas Tirith into a nursery are you, brother?"

Findárato shot his brother a jaundiced look. "Valar-forbid, little brother." Suddenly, he leapt up from his chair and paced over to his desk. As he began leafing through the papers in his strong box, he snapped his fingers at his steward. "Edrahil, what was that letter I received shortly before we left? You know, the one that was counter-sealed with my uncle's endorsement?"

Edrahil walked over to Findárato, smirking. "You mean the one tied with the lavender ribbon, herunya?"

"Lavender ribbon, hanno?” Angárato laughed long and hard this time, almost overfilling his goblet. “Was it drenched in perfume, as well? Anything in particular you wish to share with the family, Finda?"

Findárato directed his glare at Edrahil this time.

The steward just grinned unrepentantly, pulled a letter out from under a pile on Findárato's desk, and handed it to his lord. After Findárato snatched the letter from his hand and began reading it, Edrahil leaned against the desk and turned to Angárato. "You laugh, nildo, but you don't see the stacks of frilly, perfumed letters your brother receives every day. In both Quenya and Sindarin," he said with mock seriousness. Then he added, with a grin in Findárato's direction, "And, you don't have to deliver them to him with his morning tea and have your ears assaulted by your brother's very… creative language." He ducked just in time to miss the slap Findárato aimed at the back of his head.

"That's enough of that, tócar," Findárato said. "It's not nearly as bad as you make it out to be."

"As you say, herunya," Edrahil replied with a mock obeisance.

Findárato merely sighed and shook his head. "You're as bad as Cálion, nildonya. He at least has his age as an excuse. What's yours?"

Edrahil spread his hands. "You know what they say, Findárato, 'familiarity breeds contempt'," he said with a smile.

Findárato laughed and shook his head. "Contempt, indeed. Between you and my brother, here, I get no respect at all." He gestured at Edrahil with the letter, before handing it to his brother to look over. "I remember this case, now. Show the lady and her charges in, Edrahil."

Edrahil threw his lord a smirking salute and left.

“If it is respect you want, Finda” said Angárato, still chuckling, “then you need to cease spending so much time with those who know you as well as we do. Perhaps you can awe some of these Úmanyar into showing you the respect you think you deserve, condonya.”

His brother merely sent him an unamused glare.

Suddenly, a loud splash sounded from the back of the pavilion, and Cálion’s whining rose in a crescendo. Findárato raised his eyes beseechingly to the ceiling.

Angárato chuckled into his wine, eyes twinkling evilly. "You know, hanno, Artaresto was never this much trouble when he was Cálion's age."

Findárato leveled his best 'righteous older brother' glare at his younger brother and said, "But, as I recall, you were."

At that the second son of Arafinwë shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. He began to studiously look over the letter. "So, more children to plague my wife’s poor sister?"

"Thankfully, no. These ones aren't my responsibility. They have an uncle willing to take them in. Although what Varyamo thinks he’s going to do with two young children, and no nís to take care of them, I do not know."

Angárato hummed in agreement. "I didn't know Varyamo had any siblings."

"Neither did I, but obviously he did." Findárato sighed. "How many more children's lives are going to be disrupted by what we did?"

Edrahil re-entered with another knock on the tent pole; a tall, pale lady following him. The lady offered a respectful obeisance to both sons of Arafinwë. “My lords,” she said, “I am Sívëa Caineniel, wife of Aran Ñolofinwë’s late chamberlain.”

Findárato returned her greeting and offered her a chair at the table nearby. The young boy who followed her remained by the pavilion entrance, and his sister half hid herself behind him.

Findárato sent Edrahil back out to find Varyamo, and then took a moment to study the nís and her charges. The lady’s dress and hair were styled in the intricate, flowing style of the Amanyar, however the colors she seemed to favor fell more in the rich, earthy palette of blue and red and green of the Sindar. In her bearing, she exuded confidence and self-assuredness as only one bred in the court of Finwë could claim. Looking at her standing there, respectful, yet proud, Findárato did not think her a lady to be easily swayed by either fear or desire for adventure. He idly wondered what her story was; why she had chosen to become an Exile.

The young boy with her appeared to be in his mid-forties. He had his hands jammed into the pockets of his cote, but his eyes were keen and roved about, taking in every detail of place and people. His face was set with a sullen expression, and Findárato had the impression that the young Noldo was searching for a means of escape. But for all of the hurt apparent in his bearing and expression, there was a keen intelligence behind his eyes which gave Findárato hope that healing was possible for this young one; if properly guided.

The young girl, appearing no older than Cálion, clung to his arm as if her life depended on it. Her wide eyes gazed at the tall néri before her in bewilderment. Findárato's heart went out to her and what she must have gone through at such a young age, to make her so timid and dependant on her brother. When the girl's eyes found his, he offered her his warmest smile and was delighted when her eyes lit up and she gave him a dazzling one of her own. The young boy noticed, a frown deepening on his face. He drew himself up defiantly, subtly placing himself more firmly between his sister and the strangers around them.

After a moment of silence, the lady addressed herself to Findárato. “My lord, I wrote you regarding two children whom I have had in my keeping. This is Silmë.” She held out a hand to the young girl and smiled at her, beckoning her closer. The young girl returned the smile and, with a glance up at her brother, timidly walked over. The boy’s frown deepened to a scowl, but he reluctantly followed. “The boy,” Sívëa continued, smile wearing away somewhat, “is her brother, Ercassendil…”

“Ereglas.”

Sívëa frowned at the boy and tugged on the hood of his cote. “You will not show disrespect to the princes by interrupting, yonya.”

“I am not your son,” the boy said in stilting Sindarin, hostility simmering in his eyes. Then he shifted to glare challengingly at Findárato. “And I call myself Ereglas.”

The young girl, Silmë, tugged on her brother’s hand. “Háno,” she said with her own displeased frown. Ereglas turned his glare from the prince to his own feet, muttering an almost inaudible “Sorry”.

Sívëa sighed and Findárato could see some of the veneer of calm poise disappear, showing the frayed edges beneath.

“They are orphans,” she continued. “They were found wandering amongst our Company after the assault on Angband, when we first arrived in this land. No one knows to whom they belong, and they would not say anything other than that their parents were gone. They are obviously Noldor, even if the boy refuses to speak in Quenya; when he speaks at all. But no one in either Aran Ñolofinwë’s party or in Maitimo’s would come forward to claim them. So, after both my husband and my son were killed in the Assault, I took them in thinking…” She shook her head a bit ruefully. “Honestly, I know not what I was thinking. Only that both they and I were alone. It has not been easy for any of us, however. Peace and healing have been difficult to find, and so when I learned that they may yet have living kin, I felt that it was my duty to attempt their reunion.”

“That is a very understandable feeling, my lady,” Findárato said. “These children are not of your blood, so your compassion and desire to take them in are all the more commendable. I see no shame in now wanting to reunited a family. The Valar alone know how many families have been broken and torn apart by recent events.”

The prince must have unknowingly touched on something which had been troubling the lady, for she closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them, she was visibly lighter in fëa, and seemed firmer in her resolve.

“But how did you come to think that they might have kin in my brother’s service?” Angárato asked.

Sívëa looked to the boy, Ereglas, who refused to meet her eyes. She laid a hand on Silmë’s head and drew the little girl into her arms. She went willingly enough, but never let go of her brother’s hand. In the brief moment before the lady responded, Findárato watched the three of them, and it nearly broke his heart to see how distant they all were despite their physical proximity.

“I overheard them speaking of their mother,” the lady said. “Once I had their mother’s name, it was easy enough for me to discover that her father’s name is Vëon. Fortunately, I had heard Vëon’s name before in passing, and knew that he is in service to Prince Arafinwë. With the King’s blessing and assistance, I sent letters both to yourself and to Maitimo to see if he had any other children here in Endorë.”

“Maitimo?” Angárato asked in surprise. “If you knew their grandfather works for Atar, why did you apply to him?”

Ereglas scowl fiercely at the lady, who returned his gaze calmly. “I couldn’t be sure, my lord,” she answered, looking away from the boy and back to the sons of Arafinwë, “that they did not have kin in that camp. In any case,” she waved away the suggestion, “I have received no response from the Fëanárioni.”

“And their mother does, indeed, have a brother in my service,” Findárato added.

At that moment, as if on cue, Edrahil returned. He stood in the pavilion entrance until Findárato nodded to him. “I have found Varyamo, herunya,” he said. “Should I show him in?”

Findárato held up a hand, asking Edrahil to wait, then turned to Sívëa. “You have fulfilled your obligation, Lady,” he said. “If you wish to take your leave now, my brother and I would be honored to see these children reunited with their kin.”

The lady looked steadily at the prince. “I thank you, my lord,” she said, “for your concern, and indeed for your assistance in this matter. However, I will stay and see for myself what manner of nér this Varyamo is. He may have the higher claim by right of blood, but I will not leave Ereglas and Silmë to a worse situation than what we have now. They have had too much of that, I suspect, ‘til now.”

Findárato nodded approvingly and then asked Edrahil to show the children’s uncle in.

…

Some time later, after the hopeful and emotional meeting of Varyamo and his sister’s children, and after he had been left alone in his pavilion, Findárato sat for a while in deep thought. He was glad that one breach, albeit small, had been healed. That was, after all, what Ñolofinwë had wanted from his Feast of Reuniting. However, as he had asked his brother less than a half an hour earlier, he wondered when their deeds after the Darkening and their coming to Endorë would cease to haunt them; when innocents would cease to be harmed because of Noldorin passions.

Ereglas in particular troubled his fëa. The child had the frightened and fey look of a cornered wolf, and the way that he had always placed himself between his sister and strangers… Findárato wondered what it would take, and what kind of sacrifices it would require, to heal that child. The intelligence and depth of feeling he had seen led him to believe that the child could be brought back, if enough love and patience were shown to him.

The first thing that he would do, though, was introduce little Silmë to Ëarnyellë. While he knew that the nís didn’t need another child to look after, that Cálion was sometimes handful enough, he also knew that Silmë would need a nís in her life. And he could think of none better in Endorë than his brother’s sister-in-law.

He made a resolution to look in periodically on Varyamo and his niece and nephew, and to do whatever he could to help them.

"Atto! Atto, guess what I saw!"

He was roused from his thoughts by his own foster-son running into the room and leaping into his lap. Cálion’s feet were bare and his hair was still wet from his bath. He was wearing a good pair of dark green leggings and a matching silk under tunic, but he seemed to have run out before putting on his over tunic, or letting Ëarnyellë fix his hair.

Wordlessly, Findárato gathered his son into his arms, heedless of his damp squirming. He thanked every Power he could name that he had been in a position to save at least this one child, and fervently prayed that the young brother and sister he had just met would receive the same grace.

…

(All words are Quenya, unless otherwise stated.)

Ñolofinwë: Fingolfin

Findárato: Finrod

Angárato: Angrod

Cálion: my childhood name for Gildor

Arafinwë: Finarfin

Edrahil: the one exception; I see him as being a Noldo, but I have not settled on a Quenya name for him.

herunya: my lord (-nya being the possessive ending)

hanno: a word for brother

nildo, nildonya: friend, my friend

tócar: essentially, blockhead

Úmanyar: Elves not of Aman

condonya: my prince

Artartesto: Orodreth

nís: female Elf

Amanyar: Elves of Aman

nér, néri: male Elf/Elves

yonya: my son

háno: another word for brother

Maitimo: Maedhros

Fëanárioni: sons of Fëanor

Gildor and Lindan: homecoming

FA 588 – Lindon

 ...

Beleriand was no more.

The Elves of Beleriand, tied to Arda as they were, mourned its loss as intensely as the loss of their own kin. It seemed incomprehensible that a whole land – the forests and rivers and hills where they had lived, and so many of their loved ones had died – should disappear. Some fled east, never to be heard from again. Most, however, gathered together in what was left of Ossiriand, now called Lindon in honor of the People who had lived there for yéni.

It was there in Lindon, on the southern shore of what had once been a pass through the Blue Mountains and was now a great gulf called the Lune, that Ereinion Gil-Galad built his new city. Osluin he called it, and its building began with the aid of the Amanyar before they returned to the Blessed Realm.

Not all of the remaining Eldar in Endorë would remain within either the narrow confines of Lindon, or the narrow (as they perceived it) confines of the High King’s rule. Hosts of the Nandor and Sindar of Beleriand departed to wander the new lands of Eriador. Some of the Lords of the Noldor chaffed in Lindon, as well; the old urge to explore and carve out for themselves reasserting itself in this new time of peace.

One day, in late autumn, Gildor stood on the shore of Lune, gazing out across the restless Sea to where he knew the great river Narog and the hills of his home used to be. His fëa was feeling as restless as the sea before him; as untethered and futile as the waves which seemed to cross and tumble over each other in their rush to the shoreline, only to fall back into the sea and begin again.

Though his cousin Ereinion had asked him to stay in Lindon, Gildor did not feel as if his life had purpose anymore. He was a Lord of Nargothrond. Finrod had made him what he was, and without Nargothrond or its King, he was nothing. This feeling had been a long time in rising to the surface, for it had been nearly a century since the destruction of his City, but in the intervening years the Nargothrondrim had still needed him. He supposed that he had simply been too busy for such introspection.

Now, though, there was peace and the Nargothrondrim, as a people, were no longer separate from the rest of the Eldar who gathered around Ereinion’s court. They apparently no longer needed him in any capacity. And yet, he did not feel a pull either West or East. For the time being, he simply existed and that was not enough to give his life meaning.

As he stood contemplating the restless waves and his equally restless fëa, he heard the light approach another. Glancing back disinterestedly, he saw Lindan approach. His friend seemed inordinately pleased with himself, and Gildor was momentarily distracted from his self-pity. He narrowed his eyes at the Linda, but did not speak. For a while, neither moved, listening to the breathe of the sea and the whisper of Ulmo's song. Finally, Lindan turned to his friend.

"How is it, nildonya," he said, "that, wood-elf that I am, your Goldë ears can still hear me? It is something which has always puzzled me."

Gildor snorted. "The way you’ve been swaggering around since we arrived here in Lindon, I doubt not that a troll could hear your approach."

"I have not been swaggering," Lindan spluttered. "Lindi do not swagger."

“Oh, yes, I see now. Pardon me,” said Gildor with a grin. “You Nandor do not swagger, you strut.”

Lindan spluttered again, beginning to turn red in the face. Gildor’s grin turned decidedly wicked.

“Parade? Walk ostentatiously?”

Gildor heard Lindan mutter what sounded like some very colorful imprecations against “pompous Goldas”, and struggled not to laugh. He decided to take pity on his friend. “You have seemed rather unaccountably pleased with yourself lately, my friend.”

Lindan merely sniffed at him, and turned to gaze out at the Gulf, a frown deepening on his face. Silence reigned between them again for several minutes. Finally, Lindan gave the Noldo a considering glance.

"I have travelled full circle, nildonya," he said slowly. "We are standing in my country here." He turned to take in the slowly rising white city behind them, the Blue Mountains further east, and the green lands to the south. "It has been nearly a whole age since I last stood here in Ossiriand. You would not think to see it now, but I was born not very far from here. A fëa always feels lighter when it walks in the land which gave it birth."

Gildor looked at his friend in wonder. The Linda's face was bright and his gold-shot eyes were shining, but unfocused, gazing inward at memories of his childhood, before his family had followed his grandfather to attend King Ñolofinwë’s Mereth Aderthad.

"Then I wish you joy of your homecoming, otorno," Gildor said quietly.

Lindan returned his gaze to the Noldo, and eyeing him speculatively. "And what of you, Gilchen?" he asked. "I have heard some of the Eldar here in Lindon speak of taking ship to Aman once the Host of the West leaves. Do you, too, desire to walk the land which gave you birth?"

Gildor sighed and shook his head. "Nay, nildonya," he said, turning his gaze away from the sea. "What is there for me in the West? All who might make Aman my home again dwell now in the Halls of Mandos."

Lindan suddenly stamped his foot, muttering an oath. He took his friend by the shoulders. "Stop it!" he said. Gildor was surprised at the force in his voice. "Enough self-pity, Golda. We have all been very concerned about you lately, and it is time that you stop wallowing in yourself. You act as though your life had come to an end. You mourn for your lost loved ones?” The Linda looked him in the eye, a depth of emotion burning in them which Gildor had rarely seen. “So do I. And so does every other being in Ennor. Do you think you have lost more than any of the rest of us? Your parents? Your king? Your friends? Have we not all lost the same? They are safer now than they have ever been, are they not?”

He gestured out at the sea. “You mourn for Beleriand which is now lost to us?" When Gildor only remained looking at him blankly, he turned him to face the mountains. "You think all the world has been unmade? Look!" He point over his friend's shoulder, past the Ered Luin. "Well did Melian call you Ranon, long ago in Doriath. You are becoming restless, I know, between these mountains and this sea. What do you think lies beyond the Ered Luin, háno? From my grandfather's stories of the Crossing of Denethor I can assure you that many adventures await us there."

Gildor pondered the mountains and his friend’s words, feeling the weight of both settle onto his fëa. Then, his attention was captured by a couple of Elves who seemed to be heading in their direction.

"And here, it seems, comes the first of those adventures."

Gildor had meant the comment as a flippant rejoinder to his friend's flowery exhortation, and so was more than mildly surprised when his friend responded by cursing copiously in Lindarin and staring fire at the approaching elves.

"I take it you know what this is about, otorno?" Gildor asked good-naturedly.

Lindan gave Gildor a sour look. "Anórel," he said, and turned to quickly retreat down the bluffs and out of sight.

"Ah ah," Gildor said with a smile, grabbing his friend by the hood of his cloak. "It’s too late for hiding, veryawë. I think they've seen us."

Lindan cursed again and stood petulantly facing away from the approaching group, arms crossed over his chest.

Gildor's bemused curiosity did not have long to await satisfaction. As the elves approached closer, Gildor was able to see that it was an ellon and an elleth. By her determined expression, and her companion’s more or less resigned one, Gildor surmised that the elleth was the leader. Their darker complexion and eyes, and manner of dress pointed them out as Lindarin.

Gildor spared a glance at his friend, who at least had grace enough to turn and face his troubles. His eyes, though, were still hard and his expression was closed.

The Lindar stopped a respectful distance from the two ellyn. The elleth glanced at Gildor and, seemingly dismissing him with a vague look of disgust, she addressed herself exclusively to Lindan.

"Mae govannen, hír nîn," she said, with an obeisance, hand over her heart in Lindarin fashion. Her Sindarin was very heavily accented, and Gildor was reminded that the Nandor of Ossiriand had secluded themselves from the rest of their kin until very recently.

Lindan responded to the elleth's greeting with a barely civil nod. "Hiril," he said tightly.

"Have you thought on our request, Denethorion," the elleth asked. Although she asked politely enough, Gildor could see that her patience was as strained as his friend's. This was obviously not a new matter between these two; and it was equally as obvious that neither of them were of a nature to accept a simple refusal.

"My answer remains unchanged, Anórel."

Gildor saw exasperation pass behind Anórel's calm demeanor. His curiosity was further piqued by this enigmatic exchange. He thought he knew everything about his old friend, but this, whatever it was, was unknown to him. He began to wonder if he had been too wrapped up in himself to notice what was going on with his friends. He wondered if Ereglas or Silmë or Eirien knew of this Anórel, and her so offensive request.

"What request is this, háno?" he asked Lindan.

But it was Anórel who answered him, though she never ceased to address Lindan. "We are of the people of Lygnô. Erynon Lygnion led us after the Lord perished many years ago. He has since perished in the changing of Arda. We Lindi feel that this is no time for us to be leaderless and unprotected. My Lord Laicognion is the last son of the sons of Denethor, our king of old. We have asked him to lead us in his forebear's stead."

Gildor looked at his old friend in surprise, this was the first he had heard of any of this. "You are kin to Denethor?" he asked incredulously.

Lindan scowled at him. "Grandfather wasn't chosen as leader of our people solely based on his congeniality, you know." Then he turned to the Lindarin elleth, his face set in an expression which Gildor found reminiscent of Finrod in judgment. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

"My friends," Lindan said, addressing the elleth and ellon in Lindarin, "I am acutely conscious of the honor which you seek to bestow upon me, but I assure you, it is an honor which I do not desire. Indeed, it is even one which I cannot accept, for my allegiance was long ago given elsewhere. I cannot remain sitting under the trees of Ossiriand, or Lindon as we now must call it, fair though they may be." And with a correct court bow, he turned to leave.

"Then it seems, Lord, that what some say is true,” Anórel responded heatedly in the same language. “You have, indeed, spent too much time among the Goldas, if you value the whims of strange unkin more than the cries of your own people."

Lindan turned back at that, gold eyes flashing, and Gildor was forced to restrain him. "How dare you," he hissed.

"Peace," said Gildor forcefully in Lindarin, turning the weight of his authority on both Lindar. When Lindan made to break away, he took him more firmly by the arms. "I said stop this."

Lindan tore from his grasp and turned away, but did not otherwise move. Anórel, however, simply stood gaping at the Noldo.

"Yes, Lady," Gildor said to the elleth, "as you see, I do speak your language.”

She recovered from her surprise, but before she could respond, the ellon stepped forward. He placed a hand on the elleth’s shoulder, but addressed Gildor.

“You are he, are you not?” He asked in stilting Sindarin. “You are the son of the Western King, Find’rato.”

Gildor was momentarily taken aback by being addressed as Finrod’s son by the Ossiriandrin ellon. Anórel rounded on the ellon, and hissed at him in agitated Lindarin.

“What does it matter whose son he is, Dórion?”

“It matters to me, sister,” the ellon said. “King Find’rato was ever a friend to our kin. I remember, when I was a child, that he came to live amongst us for a while. Lord Lygno always valued his friendship.”

“And look what it left him. Many of our people perished in the fall of the Cavern City, and his own son was killed for the Golda’s sake. But, whatever honor the father may have had, the son is merely a Golda. That is enough for me to despise him. The Goldas have caused the ruin of our people. They brought the combined wrath of the Balas and Utum down on us. Now, they take away what is left of our land. Our fair Ossiriand.” There were tears of mingled anger and sorrow shining in her eyes. “Do not talk to me of Western Kings, or sons of heroes.”

She turned to Gildor and said in surprisingly good Quenya, “And do not dare to speak to me in my own tongue. Allow me at least that one thing which has not been taken from me by you Noldor.”

Then she turned to Lindan, who had been content to remain apparently forgotten in the conversation. She looked at him for a long moment, and he straightened under her regard. She did not speak, but turned her back and walked away.

Dórion looked after her, then sighed. “Forgive us, my lord,” he said in Lindarin, the language he was obviously most comfortable in. “My sister does not mean any disrespect.”

Gildor smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, I think she does, my friend.” He raised a hand when Dórion moved to object. “But that does not matter.” He glanced over at Lindan. “As a wise Dana recently reminded me, we are all hurting these days. It is only natural to lash out when one is hurt.”

“It may be natural inclination, my lord,” Dórion said, “but it is still uncalled for.”

“Well, neither have any of use done much worthy of respect recently,” Lindan added, thoughtfully looking after the retreating elleth.

Dórion smiled, then. “Oh, but you have, my lords. More than you know.” He offered both ellyn a deep bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I ought to go after my sister.” He turned and walked away.

After a few steps, however, he stopped and glanced back at Lindan. “There are those of us, my Lord Laicognion, who share your restlessness here in Lindon and do not mind that you claim another lord. So long as he is good and wise, we do not care of what Kindred he comes, we would claim his allegiance as ours.” With that he left the other two ellyn standing by the shore is silence, with much to think on.

After some time, Gildor turned to his friend. “Welcome home, otorno,” he said with an ironic smile and ducked the swat his friend had aimed at his head.

...

nildonya – my friend (Quenya)

Goldë – This is not a real word in any of Tolkien’s Elvish tongues, nor is it meant to be. It represents some “creative linguistics” on Lindan’s part. It is composed of the Nandorin word Golda (meaning Noldo) and the Quenyan adjectival ending -ë.

Lindi – one of the collective names the Lindar call themselves by

Goldas – Noldor (Nandorin)

otorno – sworn brother (Quenya)

Gilchen – star-eyes

háno – brother (Quenya)

hiril – Lady (Sindarin)

Balas – Valar (Nandorin)

Utum – Utumno, the name of Morgoth’s stronghold, used here to mean Morgoth himself (Nandorin)

Orodreth: the hollow crown (I)

First Age 465 – Great Hall, Nargothrond

"Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold my bond!" *

King Finrod Felagund’s words clashed with the sharp rapport that rang out as he threw the diadem of Nargothrond to the ground at his feet, echoing in the fearful silence of the Great Hall.

"Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence as a beggar that is thrust from the gates." *

Having pushed his way through the crowd almost to the brink, Orodreth, commander of the Amon Ethir garrison and brother-son to the King, was arrested by these words. As their weight hung in the stillness of the Hall, he felt the warmth drain from his fëa; dizzy incomprehension settling in its place. His world was, in his life’s oft-repeated refrain, inverting and he was at a loss to understand why.

As a son of kings, nay as an ellon, he knew what he ought to do. His place was beside his uncle up on the dias, standing between him and those of little faith who stood before him. His fëa urged him forward – how easy those few steps should be. And yet, as in all his nightmares of Minas Tirith, his body would not obey. He could only stand and watch in detached horror as the scene flowed inexorably around him.

In the moment when his King's eyes passed over him, as it seemed to him without acknowledgement, his fëa burned with shame. By his inaction, he was no better than those around him who heeded the insidious words of the Sons of Fire; longer worthy to be called a prince of the House of Finwë.

With such thoughts in his heart, Orodreth watched as Edrahil, Captain of Nargothrond, stepped before the King, the fallen silver and emerald diadem of Nargothrond in his hands. The diadem that the King’s nephew ought to have raised from the ground.

Slowly, a small company formed around their Captain: Laicognô of Ossiriand, Berianon, the young brothers Nendil and Herdir, Galanon Îdhirion… ‘Only ten,’ Orodreth thought sadly.

Edrahil looked up at his King with eyes firm in resolution, his voice carrying easily through the entire Hall.

"Faithfulness bids us leave: you to honor your oath to Barahir the Brave, and we our oaths to you, our King. We beg that you give your crown to a steward to keep in trust until you return. For you remain my King, and theirs, whatever betide." *

In his immobile nightmare state, panic seized Orodreth. Had Edrahil looked to him when he spoke of choosing a steward? No, he must be mistaken. The Captain must know that Orodreth had always refused Finrod’s request, before.

But, no, Edrahil cannot mean to ask him. Finrod must remember… They must know... ‘Valar, please, no.'

The King travelled often, and for long periods of time. He often placed the wellbeing of his City in the hands of a steward. In the past, Finrod had always asked Orodreth first. In the past, he had said that he wished to place the care of his City into the hands of his brother’s son. In the past, Orodreth had always refused. In the past, his uncle had looked at him with compassionate understanding, and the duty had been passed to someone else.

Now, there was no one else. Now, Finrod would ask again, before the host of Nargothrond and the Sons of Fire. Now, Orodreth could not refuse.

He began shaking. One thought, one fear, echoing through his mind… Minas Tirith. It always came back to Minas Tirith.

At last, Finrod turned his eyes fully on his nephew. The resolve of a son of the House of Finwë burned in his gaze. Silently, he beckoned Orodreth to him.

Freed from his paralysis, Orodreth moved forward; heedless of all else around him. As in a waking nightmare, he reached the foot of the dais, and looked up at his King. Finrod’s clear, strong voice broke through the fog of his inner turmoil.

"Orodreth, son of my brother and son of the House of Finarfin, I charge thee with the care of my People, Nargothrond. My authority is thine, thy word is as mine." As he moved to place the silver and emeralds of Nargothrond on his nephew's head, Orodreth bowed in resignation.

The King pulled his Steward into an embrace of kinship.

As he held his nephew close, Finrod whispered in his ear: "Remember the words of the Vala and 'love not too well the work of thy hands, nor the devices of thy heart'."

Pulling away, the King turned and walked out the door behind his throne, his newly formed Company following.

Once again, silence reigned in the Great Hall; the multitude frozen and uncomprehending.

In the stillness, Orodreth turned and gazed out over the people for the first time as their Steward. These were his people now; there was no hope of escape or recall. Orodreth examined the curious feeling that was bubbling up in fëa as he looked out over the assembly. It was part terror and part resolve, part despair and part something else, which might have been hope, but which he didn’t want to examine too hard. It was both like and unlike the feelings he had had governing Minas Tirith. Ultimately, Orodreth hoped that the people felt more confidence in him, standing there wearing the diadem of their King, than he saw in them.

The Sons of Fëanor were the first to stir. Sure in their victory, they swept out of the Hall, those around them parting for their passage with more fear than deference. It was with a deep sense of foreboding that Orodreth noted their pleased looks. In the depths of his fëa, he knew that no good could come when those two smiled.

Then, as the weight and reality of the events they had just witnessed dawned on the Nargothrondrim, fear and dread ran as a quicksilver current through the assembly. They fled, quickly and without sound. The Great Hall emptied until the new Steward was the only one who remained.

Alone, and with no need to maintain appearances, he dropped down to sit on the steps of Finrod's dais. He removed the King’s diadem from his head and stared at it.

Such a little thing, and yet so heavy with meaning. No longer on the head of the King, it seemed to lose its power. Still, Orodreth thought it was as lovely as ever: twining silver strands, surrounding emeralds that seemed to shine with an inner fire in the light of the Noldorin lamps illuminating the Hall. There was no denying the beauty of the creation, but it no longer seemed the emblem of a great king’s power.

‘It is hollow,’ he thought with a frown, holding it loosely in his hands. ‘As hollow as the Steward who now bears it.’

“So hollow.”

He didn’t realize that the words had been spoken aloud until a pair of hands, slender and firm, touched his around the diadem. He looked up into the eyes of his daughter, Finduilas.

Her gaze was resolute as she slowly removed the silver and emeralds of Nargothrond from his hands. Carefully, reverently, she placed Finrod’s diadem upon his head.

“Not hollow, now,” she said.

__________________________________

* Quotations of Finrod and Edrahil taken from The Silmarillion, Chapter 19: “Of Beren and Luthien”.

A note about Orodreth: In all of my writings I prefer to use Tolkien’s later concept that Orodreth is the nephew of Finrod, and not his younger brother

Amon Ethir: “The Hill of Spies”, the outpost and watchtower built on a high hill to the east of Nargothrond.

fëa: heart, soul, inner-most being

ellon: male Elf

Minas Tirith: The watchtower on Tol Sirion, guarding the easiest pass into western Beleriand. The Tower was built and ruled by Finrod before the founding of Nargothrond. After the building of his City, Tolkien tells us, Finrod appointed Orodreth to command the fortress. It was captured by Sauron two years after the Dagor Bragollach (ca. FA 458), and became Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the “Isle of Werewolves”: the final resting place of King Finrod and his Company. Oh, the bitter irony...

“the Sons of Fire”: an epithet I give to the Sons of Fëanor. At this time, Celegrom and Curufin (and their people) are residing with their cousin in Nargothrond; after having been driven from their own lands by the servants of Morgoth.

“the silver and emeralds of Nargothrond”: Tolkien talks of the “silver crown” of Nargothrond, and since the Ring of Barahir (which had belonged to Finrod and was a “badge of the House of Finarfin”) has an emerald set into it, I always associate silver and emeralds with Finrod and his City.

'love not too well the work of thy hands, and the devices of thy heart’: These words were actually spoken by the Vala Ulmo to Finrod’s cousin, Turgon. (The Silmarillion, Chapter 15: “Of the Noldor in Beleriand”) However, as close as those cousins seemed to be in spirit and counsel, I always imaged that Turgon would have shared the incident with Finrod. It also strikes me as a very “Finrod” saying.

Galadriel and Finrod: a scattering of plum blossoms
FA 465

"When I closed my eyes, the scent of the wind wafted up toward me.” ¹

She smiled. Dream or osanwë, she was glad to hear the well-loved voice. She drew a deep breath full of Aman and home and memory, and finished the verse:

“Flitting from plum to pine, the nightingale sings of starlight upon snow.” ²

Her brother laughed. “So, as disparaging of my verses as you always were, you do remember.”

She opened her eyes. Above her arched the boughs of a great plum tree; in full bloom, though the grass around was lush and green. Before her spread a mountain meadow of the southern Pélori; but for Anar shining above, so like to the summers of her youth that she was struck with a sudden pang of loss. With a swiftness born of much practice, she buried the pain and turned her back on the meadow to face Findárato.

“It is a sister’s duty to be critical of her brothers,” she said archly. “Valar only know what you all would have turned out like without me.”

He laughed again, and her heart was filled with gladness at the sound. For so long he had seemed increasingly weighed down by care, his letters filled with weariness and doubts: the protection of his realm and people, the loss of their brothers, the scheming of their cousins, and the ever-constant war within his fëa between his duty as king and his desire to wander.

“Though, truth be told, your verses were far from the worst I’ve ever heard, in Aman or Endorë.”

“I don’t doubt it, fairest Artanis. All of Arda would be the less without your spirit and strength.”

They laughed again, and she took the time to really look at him: He was dressed lightly and plainly, as they had when adventuring in their youth, along this very mountain range. The diadem of Nargothrond was missing, as was any other sign of his kingly office, yet the emeralds of the ring of their House glinted in the sunlight. His loose golden hair stirred in the breeze and his shoulders were relaxed as he stood beneath the sighing plum. Though he laughed and smiled, she could see the weariness and resignation in his countenance, and yet he seemed more at peace then she had ever seen him.

For no apparent reason she was struck with an urgent sense of wrongness, as the moment when a pleasant dream turned to nightmare. What was this? Instinctively, she reached a hand to his face, but stopped before touching. Osanwë did not carry sensation, and contact could banish a dream. Whatever else this may be she dare not name, though her fëa knew.

She turned back to the meadow, Anar now beginning to fall behind the peaks, casting the clear pond and field of wildflowers where she and her brothers and her cousins had played and fought and lived in slanting red light. Findárato came to stand beside her, and they shared the view in silence until the first of Varda’s stars kindled above.

“I haven’t thought of this place in years,” she finally said.

Findárato hummed. “I’ve not found a place to equal it’s beauty in Endorë. Though, I believe that is more owing to the love and the memories shared here, than anything else.”

“Yes.”

For a moment, looking at the meadow surrounded by forested mountains, she saw them: her brothers shouting and laughing together in some game, the rules and goals of which known only to them; her mother fretting over her when she returned from wandering the woods, braid disheveled and the hem of her gown full of mud; and her father, her dear, wonderful father, sitting back and laughing at it all as he handed out their meal of fresh-caught mountain fish. Then the vision was gone, and the field was barren, save the waving poppies.

“I have been wondering what this is,” she said. From the corner of her eye she saw him turn to her in confusion. “Dream or osanwë. But it is neither, isn’t it?” She turned to face him squarely, eye to eye, and with slight bitterness said, “This is a farewell, is it not, dearest brother.” Though she always buried her pain after, she was never one to do less than acknowledge its arrival head-on.

His gaze softened with fondness and his smile now was heartbreakingly gentle. “For a time, dearest sister; though you know that my fëa will always be with yours.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and she closed her eyes, involuntary tears leaking out to spite her: his hands were warm.

“Nay, do not fret, beloved. I am at peace with my life and do not wish you to feel pain on my account.”

Her eyes flashed open and she was on the brink of snapping at him for the idiocy of that wish, but he suddenly looked above them, as if hearing his name called. Following his gaze, she saw what appeared to be one of Manwë’s great eagles circling high above them. However, when she found herself caught in it’s gaze she knew that it was the Lord of the Winds, himself. She felt the urge to shout defiance at him, as she had never done before, even when she had turned her back on Aman.

Feeling her tense, Findárato tightened his hands upon her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Artanis,” he said, and for the first time she heard the weight of kingly authority ring in his voice. “Do not throw your sorrow upon the innocent. Save your ire for when and where it is truly due.”

Then his hands fell away and gaze softened again. “Sister, I do not wish for your memory of this time to be one of hurt. That is not why this grace was given to us. I want to leave you with hope and peace, and especially with my love. And, even though it may be selfish of me, my dreams of Endorë.” He turned his gaze back to the meadow and resignation once again overtook his countenance. “I see now that my realm was not meant to last as an inheritance, and am heartily sorry for the troubles I have placed before our nephew, but Nargothrond has always been more than a city in the hills. And it is that which I leave to you.”

He cupped her cheek and his smile was heartbreakingly gentle once more. “Have hope, O wise Lady of the Golden Wood.”

And between one breath and the next he was gone.

“Findárato!”

In a panic she looked about, but she was alone with the plum tree and her memories. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she was really asking for, but wondering why everything must be taken away from her. The curse of the Exiles, indeed.

“Peace, child.”

She opened her eyes, and standing where her brother had been was a Man. He appeared to be in the prime years of his life, yet his eyes were ageless and wise, sorrowful and kind.

“I say again: Be at peace, Galadriel, daughter of Wisdom. You are not Cursed, you are Alive. You have lost much, and yet more shall be give. And again, more shall be lost and given. This is growth. It is the way of life, in the Blessed Realm, as well as the Middle Realm. Only Ilúvatar’s Halls are unchanging. You must grow, child, before you are ready to go there. Your family and loved ones are learning this on their paths, and you must learn it on yours.”

As he was talking, he reached up and broke off a branch from the plum tree, which immediately grew back again. He then began weaving the branch into a crown. Hard and inflexible as the wood was, it worked itself as easily in his hands as willow or vine; the blossoms multiplying until he had created a crown full of delicate, sweet-smelling blossoms. He placed it on her head.

“I cannot say whether your path will be harder than theirs, or anyone else’s, but it will be long and difficult. So, have hope, Galadriel. For your brother’s death is not the end of all things; nor, even, would yours be, should it chance.”

He stood looking at her serenely, and her earlier despair slowly eased as the scent of the blossoms enveloped her. She looked back at him suspiciously. She knew, somehow, that it would be pointless to ask who he was. And yet…

“You call me Galadriel.”

He smiled as if the statement, or her attitude, amused him. “That is the name given to you by your Heart, is it not?”

She closed her eyes and looked away, unwilling to talk of hearts with this strange Man-who-obviously-wasn’t-a-Man. Still, she felt more at peace in his presence. The knowledge of Findárato’s death still hurt, but its bite was less sharp; and she knew that when she finally heard the tale in full that she would be able to bear it with more equanimity. Or, at least she hoped. She smiled wanly at the irony.

The Man made another amused, vaguely pleased, sound. “Yes,” he said. “You are ready to continue on your path, now. Keep hope, child. And open your eyes.”

She opened her eyes. The taste of tears and the scent of plum blossoms lingered.

__________________________

1 - First line taken from “Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman”, by Haruki Murakami. This was inspired by the SWG October 2019 challenge: “Start to Finish”. The challenge was to pick a famous first line from the list and begin your story with it.

2 - “Flitting from plum to pine, the nightingale sings of starlight upon snow.” For good or ill, this (attempt at) verse is my own. In keeping with the origin of the challenge selection, the imagery here is mostly Japanese: Plum blossoms and nightingales (uguisu) both represent the coming of spring, hope and rebirth; pine represents longevity and good fortune, with a homophonetic meaning of “waiting”. These themes all weave throughout the rest of the piece, in however unsubtle a manner.

All Elvish words are Quenya.
osanwë - thought-speech
Pélori - main mountain range in the Blessed Realm
Anar - Sun
fëa - soul
Endorë - Middle Earth