Teitho Challenge Prompt: Out of Place. This story received second place

Summary: Glorfindel and Estel have a conversation about belonging, death, and friendship, among other things.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,                                                                            

Old Time is still a-flying:                                                                                            

And this same flower that smiles to-day                                                                    

To-morrow will be dying.

~ To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, Robert Herrick

Gather Ye Rose Buds While Ye May

A dark haired Man and a tall Elf sat on a narrow bench against the wall of a small cottage. Estel was glad to be outside with Glorfindel for it was a pleasant spring morning and the house had been smoky and stifling. His Elven Brothers were still inside negotiating with village’s headman, a Man called Amdir, for the supplies they wished to purchase for their return journey. The four of them had been scouting the outlying borders of Imladris for two weeks, training Estel in woodcraft and taking him to see the dwellings of Men whom lived in the northern most parts of the Angle.

It was the farthest Estel had ever been from home.

He had enjoyed himself greatly and learned much, especially in meeting the Dúnedain to whom he knew he was kin. He had known few Men save his Mother growing up and he found them strange yet fascinating. This little village was called Northdell by its inhabitants, nestled in a small glen a little over a league south of the East Road. This was the third Dúnedain settlement Estel had yet seen but the wooden houses with thatched roofs still seemed rustic and unlovely to his eyes. He supposed this was because he had spent most of his sixteen years in Imladris and was used to the Elven walls of stone and roofs of slate.

Estel was glad they were going home, much as he had enjoyed their trip. He desperately need a bath and would give much to never have to sleep in a habergeon and cuirass again. Moreover, he was now aware of how fortunate he was that his Father, Elrond, had agreed to foster him. After seeing their villages, he often wondered if all Men were so poor but he kept his thoughts to himself, not wishing to insult anyone. He hoped his Brothers would be done soon and that the Men would not insist they stay for midday meal.

Breaking the silence, Estel turned to his companion and voiced something that been bothering him.

“Why did you let my Brother’s treat with Amdir?”

Glorfindel shrugged gracefully. “Your Brothers always treat with the Dúnedain when we are amongst them,” he said casually.

“I know that. But why do you let them? You are the elder and hold the most authority among us,” Estel pointed out, frustrated by what he suspected was deliberate obtuseness from the Elf.

Glorfindel sighed, gazing out to the center of the village. There, sitting in a loose circle, was a gathering of young girls, the eldest of them no older than seven years. They were plucking flowers and weaving them into garlands, watched over by a woman about Estel’s age whom often glanced nervously in their direction.

“Have you seen how the Men we have meet treat me?” Glorfindel asked softly, not in Westron as he had previously, but in Quenya. Estel took this to mean he did not wish to be overheard and replied in the same language.

 “They seem apprehensive,” he admitted.

“Indeed. And how do they treat your Brother’s?” the Elf asked.

“As if they are old friends,” Estel answered honestly.

“That is because they are, Hinya.” Glorfindel called him by the endearment he had used since Estel was a small boy. “Your Brother’s have served with all of those whom are, or have been, Rangers. Even those whom are not Rangers know them for they often visit this village.”

“Yet you are not friends with any of the Men?” he asked for he knew that Glorfindel frequently fought alongside the Rangers, if not as often as his Brothers.

“I have been friends with few Men,” the Elf confessed.

“Why?”

“For the same reason I do not treat with the Dúnedain, unless it is necessary,” Glorfindel replied drily.

“Because Men are uneasy around you,” Estel nodded, understanding. He would not wish to deal with Men whom were nervous of himself, either. “But why do you daunt them so?”

Glorfindel laughed. “Look at me, Hinya. Can you not guess?”

Estel looked and tried to see the Elf as other Men might. Glorfindel’s linen raiment was finer than any Estel had seen in the village. He had divested himself of his armor and was wearing an indigo tunic embroidered at the wrists and collar with green vines. His dark brown trousers were tucked into leather boots that ended at mid-calf. Glorfindel’s intricately braided hair was the color of ripe wheat. This must seem strange to the villager’s, all of whom were dark haired, and only their women kept their tresses so long.

Yet his Brothers also wore fine clothes and had long hair and that did not seem to disturb these folk.

Yet as he considered his mentor’s face, Estel thought he could see what made Men chary around him. Glorfindel’s countenance radiated an air of veiled power that Estel had never seen in another Elf. His azure eyes gleamed with an inner light and he had a presence of indescribable otherness to him. Sitting on a rough wooden bench and leaning against the whitewashed wall of a small cottage, Glorfindel did not look as though he belonged. He appeared as a handsome jewel shining from within a mire.

“You are out of place,” Estel said quietly.

“Aye, that is a good way of putting it.” Glorfindel smiled wryly.

“Do they know who you are?” he asked, for it seem unbelievable than someone could not know the famed Balrog slayer.

Glorfindel shook his head. “Nay, most do not. Yet they can sense it, I deem.”

Estel nodded. Even if one did not know that Glorfindel was Reborn, and had returned from Aman, it was not difficult to descry the strange aura about him.

“Why do you not tell them?”

“Because as it is, I only intimidate them. But if they knew of my origins they would fear me,” Glorfindel said solemnly.

“I know your origins and I do not fear you,” he objected.

“That is because you have known me all your life, Hinya.” Glorfindel laughed quietly, glancing at the group of girls whose minder was staring at them again. She blushed and looked away quickly.

 “Folk often fear what they find usual or that which they do not understand,” Glorfindel said softly.

“Are all Men like that?” Estel asked, feeling ashamed.

“I did not say it was only a folly a Men, Hinya. We Eldar have often been just as guilty.”

“When?”

“Many times, Hinya. As in the First Age, when we became aware if your race, many of the Eldar distained Men. They were disturbed by your mortality and your illnesses for it was something they did not understand.”

“Were you one of them?” he asked cautiously, not wishing to offend.

“Nay, but I have always found the unusual to be more fascinating than frightening,” Glorfindel said, voice tinged with amusement.

They were silent for time, watching two of the girls chase each other around the circle.

“Does it ever bother you?” Estel inquired softly.

Glorfindel understood what he meant and frowned thoughtfully.

“There are times I envy your Brother’s friendship with the Ranger’s. The Dúnedain are a noble folk and I admire their fortitude. Yet I have also seen how your Brother’s hearts become heavy with grief every time one of their friends passes beyond the circles of this World.”

Glorfindel sighed and shifted on the bench. “Perhaps I am fortunate not to have many Mortal friends. Your lives are so brief. You are as these flowers,” he gestured to the white wood sorrel that grew thickly around their feet. “Blooming in Spring and fading ere Summer arrives. ‘Tis a perilous thing to befriend a Man.”

Estel frowned, feeling troubled. He had never before thought of how his Elven family would respond to his eventual death.

“Mayhap you should not have allowed yourself to become so close to me,” he said, wondering if he was worth the pain his family would feel at his death.

“Nay, Hinya. Do not considered such a thing,” Glorfindel placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have never regretted any of my friendships, not even those with Mortals.”

“Not even that time when I dyed your hair purple with blackberry juice? It took days before it all washed out,” Estel reminded him, grinning.

 “Not even then did I regret knowing you, Hinya.” The Elf laughed, shaking his head. “Yet if you do it again I may have to reconsider,” he added wryly.

Estel chuckled then sobered suddenly, his voice grave. “It still might have been wiser for you to have kept your distance. Now you will suffer at my death.”

“That may sound like wisdom, Estel, but in truth it is selfishness. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will be wrung and possibly be broken. We do well not to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but accept them. That is part of what makes them so valuable,” Glorfindel squeezed Estel’s shoulder before removing his hand.

One on the young girls approached them timidly. She wore a faded red dress and her chestnut hair was flying loose from its braid.

“What do you require, Mistress?” Glorfindel asked her gently.

The girl’s shy smile was missing two front teeth.

“I made these for you,” she handed the Elf two garlands of clover flowers.

Glorfindel grinned delightedly and promptly put one of them on his head.

“Thank you, Mistress. That was very kind of you,”

The girl beamed and ran back to her companion’s whom were watching them eagerly, tittering like a flock of sparrows.

“You look ridiculous,” Estel said, laughing at the ragged flower circlet and imagining what his Brothers would say when they saw it.

“Aye, but do you still think I am out of place here?” Glorfindel asked with a wry smile, while attempting to place the other garland on Estel’s head.

“If I say yes, will you cease?” he said, ducking to avoid the Elf’s hands.

“I make no promises, Hinya!” Glorfindel retorted cheerfully.

 “I see why Father calls you incorrigible,” Estel muttered in defeat as Glorfindel managed to force the clover chaplet onto his head.

“Elrond is renowned for his wisdom.” the Elf said sagely, thought the effect was ruined by his laughter.

 “As are you, it seems!” he snorted.

“Though doom and death shall separate us, Estel, my heart shall always be with you,” Glorfindel said solemnly. “But let us not dwell upon the darkness to come while the days are yet bright.”

“Thank you, meldonya.” Estel said softly, stooping down to pluck the bright flowers at his feet so he might weave his own garland to gift to the girl.

“Tye-melin, Hinya. Elen sillë lumenn’ omentielvo,” Glorfindel replied fondly.

Glossary

The Angle: aregionin Eriador, south of the Trollshaws and to the east of Rivendell. A triangle of land formed by the River Hoarwell (Mitheithel) in the east, the River Loudwater (Bruinen) in the west and the East Road in the north.

Glorfindel (Sindarin): in the First Age, he was the Lord of the House of Golden Flowers in Gondolin. He is most famous for saving the lives of Tuor and Idril by slaying a balrog, whom also killed him. He was reborn in Aman after his death from which ‘his spiritual power had been greatly advanced by his self-sacrifice’. The Valar sent him back Middle-earth in the Second Age to act as their emissary. Glorfindel’s power was such that even the Witch King flew from him when he drove him out of Carn Dûm in 1975 of the Third Age.  His named means ‘golden haired’.

Hinya (Quenya): ‘My child’. A contraction of ‘hinanya’.

Habergeon (English): a sleeveless coat of mail.

Cuirass (English): a piece of armor formed of a single or multiple pieces of metal or leather and consisting of a breastplate and backplate fastened together.

Aman (Quenya): ‘Blessed Realm’. A continent to the west of Middle-earth across the ocean. It was the home of the Valar and three kindred’s of Elves.

Eldar (Quenya): ‘Elves’. This is the name given to the Elves by the Vala Oromë when he first discovered them. It means ‘of the stars’ as in ‘the people of the stars’. The singular is ‘elda’.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will be wrung and possibly be broken.”: aquote from “The Four Loves” by C.S. Lewis (pg. 121). One of my all-time favorite books.

Meldonya (Quenya): ‘My (male) friend’.

Tye-melin, hinya. Elen sillë lumenn’ omentielvo (Quenya):  ‘I love thee, my child. A star shone on the hour of our meeting’. The past tense of the traditional greeting.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Sickness.

Summary: While sick with fever, young Aragorn has a strange dream.

A/N: this story was written in memory of Fiondil who passed away on January 28, 2015. I have greatly enjoyed his stories over the years and it is his Námo that I have chosen portray in this fic in his honor as my own take on the Lord of Mandos is a bit different.

Memento Mori

Estel was standing in a large hall built of dark stone. The floor was of black marble with veins of white and silver. In the center of the room was a dais and on it was a throne that was made out of what appeared to be black glass. As Estel waked closer to it he noticed that the glass had bands of purple, blue and green in it. He jumped in surprise as suddenly there was someone sitting in throne that had been quite empty. Peering at the stranger, Estel thought he must be an Elf for he was very tall and his black hair was braided.

“What do you do here, Child?” the Elf asked in Sindarin. His voice was deep like the beat of a drum.

“I…I don’t know,” Estel said in the same language. “Sir,” He added, because he felt he ought to.

He looked around but saw no one else. “I was in bed,” he explained. “I have been sick. Ada says I have scarlet fever. But then I was here. Maybe this is a dream?”

“What is your name, Child?” the Elf questioned, frowning.

“My name is Estel. What is yours?” Estel asked, trying to be polite.

 “I am called Námo,” the Elf said, watching him closely with grey eyes.

 “That is Quenya…. Námo… I think that it means, judge?” he guessed.

“Indeed it does, Child.”

“That is a silly name,” Estel said. “Who would name someone Judge?’

“Who would name someone Hope?” Námo countered, smiling slightly.

  Estel flushed. “I’m sorry. I was not being rude on purpose.”

“I know you were not, Child. Come here,” he beckoned.

Estel hesitated, then went to the base of the dais. He saw that the black tunic the strange Elf was wearing had sliver and purple butterflies embroidered on it. To his surprise, Estel was picked up and placed on Námo’s lap. Estel was too big for such things now as he was going on eight years old. But he supposed that he was considered quite small by the Elf who was so very tall that Estel’s head was below his neck. He cautiously leaned back into Námo’s chest and craned his neck to see if he could make out where the room’s light was coming from as he could see no candles or lamps.

“Do you know where you are, Child?” Námo asked.

“Not really,” he admitted. “Should I?”

“Nay, Child. I would be surprised if you did.” he replied gently. “You are in my Halls. You may have heard of them before. They are called Mandos,”

Estel shivered and Námo’s wrapped warm arms around him.

“But I can’t be in Mandos!” he protested.

“Why not, Child?”

“Because that would mean that you are the Lord of Mandos,” he said.

“I am also called that, Child.”

“But you can’t be! You are too nice. Glorfindel tells me stories about the dread Lord of Mandos and he said that he is really frightening,” Estel said earnestly.

“I shall have to have a talk with Glorfindel when I next see him,” Námo said wryly. “About the kinds of stories he tells to children.”

“Glorfindel tells the best stories. You won’t be angry with him?” Estel hoped he had not gotten his friend in trouble.

“Nay, Child. I am not angry. You need not fear for your friend,” Námo sounded amused.

“See, you aren’t very scary,” Estel observed.

“I am quite pleased to hear you say that, Child,” Námo said, laughing. “But there are many whom would disagree with you.”

Estel thought for a moment.

“If you are the Lord of Mandos, then you are not an Elf?”

“Indeed, Child. I am not an Elf.”

 “Oh,” he said, looking at the sleeve of Námo’s tunic. “Why do you have butterflies on your tunic?” Estel asked.

“Because I like them. Do you not enjoy them also?” Námo asked.

“Yes… but butterflies are not scary.” Estel said. “As the Lord of Mandos, you should have chosen something scarier.”

“I see,” Námo said, much amused. “What should I have chosen instead, Child?”

“Bats,” Estel said firmly. “I do not like bats. Or maybe spiders. Spiders are scary. My Brother’s told me that in Mirkwood they have spiders bigger than I am!” he shuddered at the thought.

“That would be frightening,” Námo agreed with a small smile.

Estel was quiet for a time.

“Lord Námo?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes, Child?”

“If I am here, does that mean I am dead?”

 “Not as such, Child.” Námo sighed. “It is difficult to explain,”

“That’s what Ada says when he thinks I won’t understand something,” Estel grumbled.

“Then I will endeavor to explain it to you, Child.” Námo said. “You are very ill and your Adar is doing his best to save you. He is of the line of Lúthien and is using powers to aide you that he does not fully understand. This has caused your sprit to flee here while your Adar is keeping your body alive.”

“Ada is using magic?”

“You might call it that, yes,” Námo said thoughtfully.

 “Then I will be able to go back home?”

“Yes, Child. If your Adar succeeds, you shall return home.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Estel asked, worried.

“Let us not consider such a thing until it happens, Child,” Námo said softly. “For now we will wait for your Adar.”

“I didn’t know Ada could do magic,” Estel said. “But what are we going to do while we wait?”

“I could tell you a story. You enjoy stories, do you not?”

“Yes! I want to hear a story,”

Námo began to tell a story and Estel listened, expression rapt. Not long after, an Elf appeared in the center of the hall. He wore a white robe and his haggard face was framed by dark hair bound in braids.

“Ada!” Estel shouted happily, squirming in Námo’s lap, seeking to run to his Father.

“Be still, Child,” Námo said, holding him firm.

Elrond paled as he saw the Doomsman of the Valar holding Estel.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing low before the throne.

“Well met,” Námo said. “I had hoped you would find your way here,”

He stood, caring Estel easily in his arms, and walked over to the Peredhel, whom stiffened. Námo handed Estel to Elrond whom took him into his arms, holding him tightly.

“Ada! Lord Námo was telling me a story about a lady named Lúthien who came here like me and sang him a song,”

“I see,” Elrond said faintly, staring at the Lord of Mandos.

Námo reached out and stroked Estel’s hair gently and the boy’s eyes drooped until they closed, the child falling asleep.

“Be at peace, I have not harmed your son.” he said gently, noticing the stricken look on Elrond face. “Yet I thought it best that he does not remember our meeting. It will be as if this was a dream he vaguely remembers.”

 “Thank you, my Lord,” the Peredhel said quietly. “For keeping him safe. And for returning him to me.”

“It was my pleasure. He is a charming child. Yet he has a destiny that he cannot fulfill it if he remains here.”

“Thank you,” Elrond repeated, clutching Estel to him.

“You cannot keep him forever, Child,” Námo said softly.

“I know,” Elrond sighed. “Yet I will cherish what little time we have together.”

“You have healed his body?” Námo asked.

Elrond nodded. “Enough that his spirit might return to it,”

“I would warn you against attempting such a thing again. It may not go as well,” Námo advised.

 “I understand. I hope to never have the need to once more employ such methods.”

“Then it is time for you to return to your proper sphere, Child.” Námo said.

“Yes, my Lord,” Elrond bowed awkwardly, still holding Estel.

“Yet I would be grateful if you reminded Gorfindel not to frighten children with tales about me,” Námo smiled wryly.

Elrond’s eyes went wide in surprise, then he laughed. “I will do so, my Lord. Yet I fear it will not do much good. Gorfindel is incorrigible.”

“Indeed,” Námo agreed, sounding amused. “Farewell, Child.”

“Farewell, my Lord.” Elrond replied.

And the hall was suddenly empty once more.

Glossary

Black glass (English): this is rainbow obsidian. The colors are caused by inclusions of magnetite nanoparticles.

Ada (Sindarin): ‘Daddy’.

Adar (Sindarin): ‘Father’.

Peredhel (Sindarin): ‘Half-Elf’.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Circles. This story received third place.

Summary: Only once did Denethor ever seek Gandalf’s council.

In Darkness Bound

"Denethor looked indeed much more like a great Wizard than Gandalf did, more kingly, beautiful, and powerful; and older."~ The Return of the King, The Lord of the Rings

“The Númenóreans answered: 'Why should we not envy the Valar, or even the least of the Deathless? For of us is required a blind trust, and a hope without assurance, knowing not what lies before us in a little while. And yet we also love the Earth and would not lose it.'” ~ Akallabêth, The Silmarillion

3017th Year of the Third Age, Stewards' Reckoning: 

“Circles within circles,” Denethor muttered as he leaned back in his chair, the mail hauberk beneath his sable robes clinking softly.

The study was small and sparsely decorated. No more than ten paces square, it was dominated by the large recessed window set into its eastern wall. The faintly rippled glass caught enough of the dreary midday light to read the document in the hand of the Steward of Gondor. There was a small fire in the hearth behind him to ward off the unseasonable chill. Denethor watched the shadows the flames cast upon the walls, his fingers tracing the scared surface of the wooden desk

“Circles within circles,” he repeated.

It had been a saying of his father’s, referring to the notion that everything was related in some fashion to everything else. The weather for instance. It was only a few weeks until Midyear's Day yet, gazing down at the White City beneath the Citadel, one could see that the seven circles were shrouded in fog—as they had been for much of the last few months. The price of wood and charcoal had already risen as folk sought to heat their houses in addition to their cooking fires.

Yet that would not be the worst of it. The persisting cold would mean that the fruit harvest would likely be poor, come autumn. The price of olive oil would rise and therefore the City would be forced to purchase less than was usual. This would result in fewer lamps lit in the lower circles at night which, in turn, would increase crime. In order to ensure the safety of people and property, men would be pulled from their garrisons along the marches of Mordor to patrol Minas Tirith.

Thus endangering them all because of a spell of cool weather.

“How many circles do you touch, I wonder?” Denethor asked as he placed the carefully copied scroll back on his desk, breathing in the familiar scents of iron gall ink and sealing wax.

His father had taught him that a good ruler could discover where the circles intersected and thus prevent many tragedies from occurring. His father had been quite skilled in this. However, in his thirty-three years as Ruling Steward, Denethor had found that discovering these intersections seldom led to the prevention of anything. More oft he was forced to watch as events he was powerless to control loomed before him as a wave does before it crashes against the shore.

The silence was shattered by a knock at the door. “Enter,” Denethor called.

The door opened and two Guardsmen in the livery of the Citadel escorted an elderly man dressed in a grey robe into the room. He looked quite cross as he was ushered into the leather chair next to the window, scowling at the unfortunate Guardsman who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. The other guard bowed before Denethor and presented him with a scabbard and a gnarled wooden staff with a queer twist of roots at its tip.

“He bears no other weapons, my Lord,” The guard reported.

“Where was he?” Denethor asked.

 “In the vaults of the Archive, my Lord.”

“Leave us,” Denethor commanded, leaning the Wizard staff’s against the wall next to him, taking care not to touch it longer than was necessary.

“Mithrandir,” He said, nodding to the Wizard as he placed the scabbard on the desk.

“What is this about, Denethor? Never before have you taken issue with me visiting the Archives,” The Wizard said testily, his arms crossed. “They did not even allow me to retrieve my hat!”

“Resulting in the considerable improvement to your appearance,” Denethor replied dryly, rather having disked the ridiculous hat the Wizard always wore.

Mithrandir snorted and eyed Denethor speculatively as he withdrew the Wizard’s sword from the scabbard.

“Where did you find this? Never have I seen the like,” Denethor wondered, marveling at the weapon’s craftsmanship.

“Nor would you,” Mithrandir stated. “That is an Elf-wrought blade I found it in a Troll's cave, if you will believe.”

Denethor returned the sword to its sheath, quite certain the Wizard was telling the truth. He was used to Men who refused to speak plainly. Yet the Wizard’s deception lay in what he did not say, for he had never known Mithrandir to utter a falsehood. Denethor had once suspected the Wizard of advising his father to supplant him with Thorongil. The anger he had felt at the betrayal had since dissipated but the mistrust of the Wizard remained.

And he now had proof that his suspicion was warranted.

“What do you wish of me, Steward of Gondor?” Mithrandir asked softly, yet there was an undercurrent of authority in his words that made Denethor’s hackles rise.

“I would seek your council,” He replied calmly, keeping his ire hidden, sipping watered wine from a goblet.

 “Never have you done so before, my Lord,” The Wizard snorted.

 “Indeed,” Denethor smiled thinly. “Yet you gave my Father council when he desired it and I would seek the same.”

The Wizard cocked his head. “Never have you trusted me as Ecthelion did.”

“Should I trust one who is not as he appears?” Denethor asked, watching Mithrandir closely. “You cannot claim to be Mortal with all the years you have endured.”

“You think me an Elf, then?” Mithrandir chuckled. “Never before have I been mistaken for one of the Fair Folk!”

 “Nay, you are no Elf. Yet you are no Man. Two thousand years ago, you told the Fifteenth King of Gondor that you were an emissary of the Lords of the West,” Denethor gestured to the scroll on his desk. “Or so King Hyarmendacil the First writes. Do you deny this?”

Mithrandir sighed looking very much like the elderly man Denethor knew he was not.

“I, and the others of my Order, were sent to assist the peoples of Middle-earth against Sauron,” The Wizard said gazing out of the window where, on clearer days than this, one could glimpse Minas Morgul.

 “Then you are truly an emissary of the Powers?” Denethor queried, feeling grimly satisfied. 

“Indeed,” Mithrandir said and turned from the window, giving Denethor a measuring look. “Yet knowing this, you still do not trust me.”

“Trust you? When those of Middle-earth have heard such claims before? You speak of trust, emissary of the Valar?” His words were dry and mocking.

 Mithrandir’s eyebrows rose at the accusation. “You know well your histories.”

“Those who do not know of the follies of their ancestors shall be doomed to repeat them,” Denethor declared. “The Elves of Eregion were fools to trust one whom was not as he appeared. Should I do the same? Why should I trust the Deathless?”

“Yet you desire my council,” The Wizard observed.

“Indeed. How the mighty have fallen,” Denethor replied, tone laced with grim amusement, his lips twisting into a wry smile.

He looked out the window himself, seeing nothing but the grey clouds that hid the City below.

“The strength of the Enemy grows with each passing year. His might will soon surpass ours, if it already does not,” He said softly. “If Gondor falters, Middle-earth falls.”

He turned to look at the Wizard. “How might I save it ere I am forced to depart from here? It may be Men’s lot to flee the Circles of the World, but not to be torn asunder. We cling to what is marred for love of the Earth and I would not lose it.’

“The Earth is marred,” Mithrandir agreed. “Yet should this not make it easier to lose?”

“And who has marred it? It is torn from us by one of your kind!” Denethor replied fiercely. “The Elves have respite from these fading lands. Mortals have not even that. Why must the pain of our mortality be increased by the pain of unending battle? We face darkness and ruin knowing even if we succeed we must eventually fail.”

“You envy the Elves even as you speak of the follies of your ancestors?” The Wizard’s voice was piercing, though soft.

Then Mithrandir sighed heavily, looking grave. “Even those who dwell in the West do not possess the Unmarring you desire, Denethor. Yet if you have read your histories, you know what is required of you. You must have hope in what will be.”

 “Hope? What hope do you speak of?” Denethor asked bitterly. “Hope that your kind shall take pity upon us and stay your kindred’s hand? Hope is how you mask your power to save or harm. Yet you would have us think it our own fault when darkness overwhelms us. I give my love to Gondor and seek to save it. I place no hope in rumors of what may be.”

“You are a fool if you give all your love to this Earth, Denethor. Trusting Sauron was not your people’s greatest folly. That was the pride and envy that drove them to attempt to take that which was never theirs. Love not too well the works of your hands and the desires of your heart.”

“Fool you name me, yet you wish us to have hope against what you yourself fear,” Denethor remarked sharply.

“Indeed. I have no other counsel to give you.” The Wizard replied.

 “And if Sauron prevails?”

“Then we shall all be in darkness bound.” Mithrandir said grimly.

They stared at one another for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the wind outside. Then Denethor called for the guards. As they entered the room the Wizard stood and the Steward of Gondor silently returned his sword and staff to him. As one of the Guardsmen was escorting him out the door, Mithrandir paused. He look back at the desk where Dethethor sat, fingering the enameled emblem of the White Tree on his goblet of wine.

“There is hope beyond your sight, my Lord,” The Wizard said softly. “Though it is not for you to bring it.”

With those words he departed with the guards. As soon as the door closed, Denethor stood and began pacing. How could it be wrong to love the Earth? To fear losing it? Yet it was clear to him that the Powers cared naught for Gondor, save as it served their designs. What shall be saved from their downfall? What the Powers willed. What they chose to protect was safe from the cruel fate that snared the rest. He stopped pacing and called the Guardsmen in once more.

“What was Mithrandir doing in the Archive vaults?” he asked.

“Master Parmandil said he was reading all the material that Isildur wrote during his time in Minas Tirith after the War of the Last Alliance, my Lord,” one of them answered.

“Bring me everything he touched,” Denethor ordered. The guards bowed and left the room.

The Wizard thought him without hope and he was correct. Denethor placed no hope in the Powers. There was no room in his heart for beings that used Men as pawns, nor for anyone whom would cast their lot with these creatures. Yet he had hope. Hope that Gondor would persevere as she had for three thousand years. He would find a way to save Gondor himself, if he must. Denethor returned to the desk, took the scroll and laid it in the hearth. It was soon alight.

“Circles within circles,” he said softly.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Opposites.

Summary: Gimli meets Legolas for the first time. 

A Study in Opposites

 “There was also a strange Elf clad in green and brown, Legolas, a messenger from his father, Thranduil, the King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood.” ~ Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring

19^th of Quellë in the 3018 Year of the Third Age, Reckoning of Rivendell:

Here is a study in opposites.

This was Gimli’s first thought as he gazed at Legolas. He and his father were sitting in a loose circle on the porch outside the Last Homely House with the others Elrond had summoned to the council. A bell had just tolled and they were waiting for the Hobbits and Wizard to arrive. The autumn morning was clear and crisp, ringing with the sounds of birds and the burbling of the river beyond.

Gimli had often accompanied his father when he acted as King Dáin’s emissary to the Elvenking. However, Gimli had never before seen Thranduil’s son and only knew who the Elf was because his father had just informed him surreptitiously in Iglishmêk. Yet Legolas was strange, even for an Elf. While everyone else’s faces were grave, Thranduil’s son seemed unduly cheerful, smiling slightly as he stared out at the Bruinen in the distance.

The Elf also seemed to be improperly attired.

Gimli’s father was wearing a white tunic, with a belt of silver and diamonds he had crafted himself. Glóin was one of the greatest silversmiths among Durin’s Folk, and even Khazâd of other Houses had sought to learn what he knew of his craft. Gimli thought that his father looked just as splendid as the Elves of Rivendell in their richly dyed robes. Even the Elf from the Havens was grand in his indigo tunic and necklace with a nacre pendant.

Yet Legolas was dressed no better than the Man, Strider, both of them clad in worn, travel stained clothes.

It had taken them twenty eight days and 160 leagues to reach Rivendell. They had traveled with his father’s apprentices, for the Old Forest Road and High Pass were increasingly dangerous. Yet Thranduil’s son had made the journey alone. Moreover, he was garbed, not in the bright mail of the Elves, but in leathers and green linen. And he was armed, not with a sword, but with a bow and long knife.

He appeared more hunter than warrior.

‘He looks like his father.’ Gimli signed covertly in Iglishmêk.

This was true, yet, it was also untrue. Thranduil’s son had inherited his golden hair and bright emerald eyes. However, the Elvenking had always seem to Gimli to possess an air of authority and power that his son clearly lacked. He also seemed to lack the wary condescension that Thranduil often displayed when forced to treat with Glóin.

‘Aye, he does.’ His father signed in answer. ‘Seldom have I spoken with him, yet I have found his temperament differs from that of his father. Still, do not drop your guard around him.
He is wiser than he appears.’

Gimli snorted softly at the notion that he would drop his guard around anyone, no less a son of Thranduil. Yet, as Gandalf and the two Hobbits arrived and Lord Elrond began speaking, Gimli could not help but wonder what made Legolas so different from his father or even the other Elves he had met.

Glossary

Khazâd (Khuzdul): ‘Dwarves’.

Iglishmêk (Khuzdul): Name of the Dwarvish sign-language.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Direction.

Summary: Oromë gives direction to a young Edain woman.

The night was moonless and the stars could scarcely be seen.

It had been over a month since the Host of the Valar had disembarked from the Telerin ships onto the shores of Beleriand. They had departed but a few days ago, after weeks of organizing supplies, Ainur and Eruhíni alike. The tents and pavilions of the encampment were placed along the western bank of the river Sirion, just south of Nan-tathren. Some distance northwest of the camp, a tall figure stood gazing at the stars obscured by the smoke of thousands of campfires.

Unlike the other sentries that surrounded the camp, he bore no arms nor armor and was clad only in leather trousers and a pine-needle green tunic. His chestnut hair was elf-braided and his emerald eyes were limned with Light. Apart from the golden circlet on his brow, he appeared little different from the many Maiar that comprised the Army of the West. Yet the ethereal glow and fey aura radiating from him suggested otherwise.

“You are headed in the wrong direction, Child,” Oromë spoke abruptly, still looking at the sky. “The Edain camp is to the south,”

A woman gasped in surprise from where she was crouched behind him in a dense thicket of heather. The Vala had been aware of her creeping steady closer to him for some time, yet had not addressed her until she was several body lengths away. The woman attempted to flee at his words but the branches of the purple heather had tangled in her faded grey gown. She tripped, falling to the ground, thrashing like a rabbit in a snare as she sought to free herself.

Oromë turned and slowly approached her. He though she was young by the reckoning of the Secondborn. She appeared full grown yet her hair held no strands of grey. The woman stared at him, panting with exertion, eyes wide with fright. When he knelt beside her, she began weeping and struggled harder against the restraining braches. She only succeeded in entangling herself further. Oromë reached out to caress her brow. She cringed at his touch, shutting her eyes tight.

“Peace, Child,” he murmured. “I mean you no harm,”

 He continued gently stroking her hair, soothing her spirit as he might a hound, waiting until the woman had calmed somewhat before he spoke again.

 “What are you doing here, Child?” the Huntsman asked.

She opened her eyes, unable to look directly at him, her thoughts fluttering as an aspen leaf in the wind; the Vala was able to discern them nonetheless.

“So you wished to prove that you not afraid of me… You are a bold one, Child,” Oromë laughed quietly to himself.

The woman whimpered.

“Ai, but you are indeed afraid,” he sobered, for even the lest of the Ainur would have been able to sense her terror.

“I-I,” she stuttered yet her thoughts were clear as was the shame she felt.

“Your fear does not make you a coward,” he corrected gently. “Unless you think me craven?”

She was so surprised by his question that she met his gaze, wondering what this Power could possibly fear.

“I fear many things, Child,” the Vala sighed. “I fear how many Elves and Men shall perish in the coming battles. I fear that I will not be able to protect them as I ought. I fear that we might win the war with my Fallen Brother yet destroy more than we save.”

Oromë looked north for a brief moment. “I fear many things,” he repeated. “Yet there is no shame in fear, Child, only in the direction you allow it to take you.”

The woman frowned at this, unsure of what he meant.

“Child, fear can dive us to valor or cowardice. The craven allow their fears to master them while the brave allow their fears to instruct,” Oromë said.

The woman’s thoughts revealed her lack of comprehension.

“Child, why do you fear me?” he asked, attempting a different tactic. “Have I ever harmed you or your people? What have I done to merit such dread?”

There was silence for a moment as the woman bit her lip, refusing once more to meet his gaze.

“You are indeed aware that I have done nothing to warrant your dismay, Child. You have let your fear rule rather than advise you,” Oromë said softly.

The woman nodded, understanding and doubt in her eyes.

 “You are correct, Child,” the Huntsman answered her unspoken misgiving. “All Men indeed fear us. Though we believe this no fault of your own.”

“W-what do you m-mean, my lord?” she asked in Sindarin, voice quavering.

“We believe that Morgoth was able to corrupt you in some fashion, soon after your creation, so that you would know terror whenever the Valar approached you.”

Oromë watched as the woman pondered this.

“You wish to know why he did this, Child?”

The woman nodded and the Vala sighed. “It was to prevent you from trusting us or seeking our aid. Morgoth is cunning and cruel. He no doubt desired that if you ever served us it would be out of the fear we inspire rather than from loyalty or love.”

Oromë laughed bitterly. “My Fallen Brother knew it would grieve us to see Men cower before us as they do him. He knew that we would not force you to endure our presence if it brought you terror.”

At his silent command the heather braches disentangled themselves from the woman’s dress.

“Return to your tent, Child,” the Huntsman said. “We will be marching on the morrow and you ought to rest while you may.”

The woman rose slowly to her feet and, even kneeling as he was, the Vala was still taller than her.

“M-might I return tomorrow night, my lord?” she requested tentatively, making no attempt to leave.

Oromë cocked his head in surprise. “Why would you do that, Child?”

“How else am I to master my fear of you?” the woman asked, shuffling her feet nervously.

 The Vala smiled. “You may come if you wish, Child. What is your name?”

“I am called Estel. Well met, my lord,” she replied, giving him bow.

“Well met, Child. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting,” he offered the Elven greeting.

The woman gave a brief smile before biding him goodnight and departing southeast, toward the tents of the Edain.

Oromë was not normally given to prescience—that was more Námo’s domain. Yet, unbidden, an image of another Mortal came to him. She was like enough to Estel that she must be kin, holding a child in her arms that was clearly Half-Elven. The vision then changed to that of a man, a winged crown upon his head and a green stone at his breast. He knew with the certainty of foresight that this man was also called Estel and the Half-Elven child was his forefather.

“A bold one indeed…” Oromë mused to the dark night.

Glossary

Eruhíni (Quenya): Children of Eru

Note: The woman named Estel is the great-grandmother of Elros’ wife. If you want to know why I think Oromë (and other Valar) participated in the War of Wrath, read the essay How was Beleriand destroyed in the War of Wrath? by Michael Martinez on his Middle-earth blog.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Stone.

Summary: Gimli’s mother wonders about the changes in her son.

Stubborn as Stone

Hlin walked slowly down the hallway heading toward the spiral stairs that led to the floor above. The walls of the Fifth Deep were comprised of greenschist, glittering faintly in the dim light of the lamps set in sconces every ten paces. Hlin did not need them; she could have made her way from the top of the mansion to its depths blindfolded. The Lonely Mountain was delved with seven levels, an auspicious number. She intended to go up to the Third Deep to purchase some gold broidery wire from Freyr so she might complete the tunic Dwalin had commissioned her to create.

Dwalin was her husband’s cousin, a prosperous pigment trader whom a variety of craftsmen contracted with for rare and exotic colors: painters, dyers, glaziers and enamellers. Hlin was pleased to have the custom of such an august Dwarf as Dwalin. She was determined to craft the perfect tunic to demonstrate her skill as a broideress. Hlin let her feet guide her up the staircase to the Forth Deep where the Gate of Erebor was the main entrance to the Kingdom under the Mountain that led into the massive Great Hall.

One could not tell that the grand hall had once been a dragon’s den.

The six bays were formed by columns inset with mosaics and gold plated chandeliers hung from the groin vaulted ceiling that rose more than twelve body lengths overhead. The floor was paved with flags of green marble while the once blackened walls were faced with ashlar courses three body lengths high. The pale green sandstone had been quarried in the Iron Hills and imported at great expense. The veneer pleasantly offset the dark floor and upper walls which were a grey-green granite hornblende that comprised much of the upper mountain.

The hall was near empty this early in the morning.

Hlin walked by the archways that led to the galleries where tradesmen sold their wares to Men and Elves as well as to their own kindred. As she passed by the Great Chamber of Thrór, Hlin could smell the food that was being prepared in kitchens. Towards the back of the hall were the lavishly appointed chambers for the emissaries and traders from Dale, Esgaroth and Mirkwood to stay. Gimli was there, sharing a suite with the son of Thranduil rather than in his room in their apartment. Hlin hesitated, seized by a sudden desire to see if her son was yet awake.

They had quarreled last night; Glóin had pleaded for calm but she and Gimli had been in no temper to listen.

Why would her son wish to petition the aldermen to allow an Elf into their quarters in the Sixth Deep? Even when the galleries had been brimming with Men during the siege last spring, none had been allowed to venture past the Forth Deep. Such a thing had not happened since the gemsmiths of Khazad-dûm were friendly with the Noldor of Ost-in-Edhil in the Second Age. Gimli had stormed out of the parlor, declaring he would rather spend the night with his friend. Her son had inherited Hlin’s obstinacy as well as her auburn hair.

Her father was a gemsmith; perhaps that was where Gimli had received his love of stone, though he was more interested in marble and slate than in Mahal’s jewels. Hlin had seen this love when they had dwelt in the Blue Mountains before reclaiming Erebor. Gimli had been but a child yet he had loved to watch the masons split stone with plug and feathers then dress it with hammer and chisel. Glóin had ensured Gimli was apprenticed to the best stonemason among Durin’s folk as soon as he came of age. Her son’s skill was great and his passion for his craft was as admirable.

Yet she never thought he would forsake his kin for such a love.

Not only did Gimli desire to bring an Elf deep within the Mountain, the boy wanted to leave the mansion to found his own delf in some mountain far to the South. Listening to Gimli describe the Glittering Caves, Hlin knew her son’s heart was taken. Still, she had reminded Gimli of his duty. He was a direct descendant from Durin the Deathless and in line to be the King under the Mountain. King Thorin III had named Glóin his heir the day his father, King Dain Ironfoot, was slain before the gates seven months past. For Thorin had a young daughter but no son as yet.

Hlin’s greatest disappointments in life were that she and her husband had not been gifted with more children and that Gimli had yet found no wife. It was not for lack of suitors. As the son of an alderman and prosperous silversmith, he had no dearth of admirers. Yet her son had not found his heart stirred by any. She and Glóin had even encouraged Gimli to ply his craft in the Blue Mountains for a time, dwelling in the mansion of the Firebeards, in hopes that he would find a wife as his father had long ago. Yet he had returned after a decade in the Ered Luin still a bachelor.

How was he to find a wife founding a delf hundreds of leagues away from any mansion?

Hlin had been wroth when Glóin and his apprentices had returned from Rivendell without Gimli. Laying in their bed at night, her husband had confided to her the truth about the journey her son had undertaken. She had been so proud… and terrified. For what chance did such a quest have of succeeding? Then, in the months after the Battle of Dale when they knew that Sauron had been defeated, she had stoically endured the lack of news as to Gimli’s fate. When envoys from Gondor had delivered the messaged that her son yet lived, Hlin had wept with joy.

Yet, now it was as if her son had returned a different person. He was prepared to neglect his duty to his people. And he was an Elf-friend! With the son of the Elvenking, no less. His quest had changed him, somehow. Hlin decided that she would speak with Gimil again today. She would remain calm and attempt to bring her son to his senses. Yet, as she made her way up the staircase to the Third Deep, Hlin knew in her heart that Gimli would not relent. There was one aspect of her son that had not changed: he was still as stubborn as the stone he loved. 

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Memories

Summary: Elrond shares a family heirloom with Estel.

The Circlet

“What are you doing, Adar?”

Elrond almost dropped the box in surprise. In the doorway stood a half-grown Mortal child. The boy was tall for his age with silver limned blue-grey eyes. His dark, shoulder-length hair was bound away from his face and he wore a white apron over his brown tunic. Elrond’s keen eyes noticed several burn marks at the cuff of one of the boy’s sleeves but refrained from commenting, knowing Estel’s mother would chastise him sufficiently once she saw the damage.

“You have completed your tasks?” he asked, beckoning the boy into his study.

Estel nodded enthusiastically as he approached the large walnut desk. “I made the calendula petal infusion and the mallow root decoction. I also turned all the jars of bloodwort oil in the cupboard. I think they will be ready for straining next week.” 

The boy shifted his feet and bit his lip, looking up at his foster father. “Are you well?” Estel asked hesitantly.

Elrond sighed, placing the wooden case gently on the desk.

“I was lost in a memory,” he answered with a smile that contained more sorrow than joy.

Estel nodded seriously.

The boy cocked his head, gazing intensely at the case, looking rather like a falcon. Clearly he desired to ask about its contents but was restraining himself. At twelve years old, he was already more perceptive that even his grandfather had been at that age. Estel’s new found maturity and self-control were welcome in a child on the verge of adolescence. Yet Elrond found he missed the child who asked an endless series of often impertinent questions and whom was rarely satisfied by short answers.

Elrond had never raised any of the Dúnedain from such a young age before; all of his brother’s previous heirs had come to him to be fostered after they had at least reached their tenth year. But Estel was different. Unlike his father Arathorn, who had resented any activity that keep him indoors, Estel was a studious and usually serious child with an unending curiosity. He could spend hours in the forge, observing the smiths or in the dispensary, helping the apothecaries.

On rainy days Estel would take to the library, spending all day reading. Lately he had taken to loitering around the kitchens and dairy where he was learning to make bread and cheese with the same enthusiasm that he had for his studies in swordplay and archery. Last year he had tracked a hind into the mountains causing the Last Homely House a sleepless night as they searched the Valley for him. When found, the boy explained that he had lost track of time and had wanted to test the skills his brothers had been teaching him.

“He is a true Golodh,” Glorfindel had wryly told Elrond, after retuning Estel to his distraught mother.

While Arathorn had painfully reminded him of his brother Elros, Estel was more like Elrond himself.

“Would you like to see inside?” he asked, gesturing to the box. “I have not looked upon it for many years.” Estel offered him a smile that was both pleased and sheepish as Elrond undid the clasps on the wooden case and opened it.

Estel gasped; laying on a cushion of leather was a circlet.

It was crafted out of strands of gold wire braided together in a complex pattern. In its center was a yellow gem, square cut, the size of a small chicken egg. Its dozens of facets sparkled in the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the large windows behind the desk. On either side of the great gem was a line of four orange and then four blue stones. These were round in shape, about the size of a thumb, yet their brilliance was as great as the large jewel.

“The center stone is a diamond the others are sapphires,” Elrond explained as he reached into the box to remove the coronet. The leather inside was so old it was cracked and crumbling; he would have to replace it before returning the case to the strongbox in his chambers.

“It is beautiful,” Estel breathed, eye wide with wonder. “I have never seen a jewel so large.”

The boy frowned suddenly looking up from the circlet. “Why do you not wear it?”

“Because this is the crown of the High-King of the Noldor. It was crafted in Valinor ere the rising of the Sun and Moon. This is Finwë’s circlet. You notice that the colors are from his heraldry device?”

Estel looked down at the circlet in Elrond’s hand once more. “If Finwë died in Valinor how did you come to have his crown?”

Elrond smiled. Estel loved history and lore as much as he himself did.

“Fëanor took it with him when he departed. Upon Fëanor’s death it was inherited by Maedhros who offered it to Fingolfin to affirm his claim as the High-King of the Noldor. Turgon recovered it from his father’s body after he was slain by Morgoth. This circlet was one of the few things Idril took with her during the Fall of Gondolin. When Idril and Tuor settled at the Havens of Sirion, she offered the crown to Gil-galad when he received the Kingship of the Noldor.”

Elrond traced the yellow diamond with his finger; the gem was cool to the touch.

“The night before final battle of Last Alliance Gil-galad entrusted this to me,” he turned the circlet over in his hand. “I wonder if perhaps Ereinion had some foresight for the next day he was slain by Sauron on the slopes of Orodruin.”

“Perhaps he desired you to become High King if he fell?” Estel asked tentatively.

“It is possible,” Elrond admitted. “Yet the High Kingship has always been reckoned though a male descendant of Finwë and as the grandson of Idril I do not qualify.”

“Then why did he give it to you, if he did not think you would be King?”

“I believe he gave it to me because he knew that I would return it to him someday. When I sail for the Blessed Land I shall bear this crown with me to present to him,” he placed the circlet back into the case carefully.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Estel asked.

“Indeed. Ereinion was as a father to me, or perhaps, as an uncle. It is likely he gave me his crown because he wished to give me hope that we would one day see each other again.”

“Do you think that we will ever see each other again?” Estel asked hopefully. “After you have gone West?”

 Elrond placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“No one knows the fate of the Secondborn after they leave the circles of this World just as none know the fate of the Eldar after Arda comes to its end,” he explained gently.

“I know,” Estel said sounding defeated.

“However,” Elrond continued. “It is known that the One is just. I do not believe that those among the Children of Eru will be doomed to be separated forever. I believe we will see each other again, though it may not be until after the breaking of the World.”

Estel smiled with a radiance greater than diamond in the circlet.

“I wish I could have known him,” Estel said as Elrond closed the case and fastened the claps.

Elrond raised an eyebrow.

“Gil-Galad, I mean,” the boy clarified. “He sounds like a very interesting person.”

“He would have like you,” Elrond said.

“Truly?” Estel asked, delighted.

“Indeed,” Elrond answered, laughing quietly. “But you ought to go change before supper.”

As the boy scurried out of his study the Elf Lord thought, Ereinion would have indeed liked you, not in the least because you are my son.

Glossary

Golodh (Sindarin): ‘Noldo’. A word based on the root gûl meaning ‘long study/magic’ referring to the love the Noldor have for knowledge.

“a yellow gem, square cut, the size of a small chicken egg”: the diamond in Finwë’s circlet is based off of the Tiffany Yellow Diamond a 128.54 carat (25.108 g) yellow diamond. It was worn by Audrey Hepburn in 1961 publicity photographs for Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Life and Death

As I Lay Dying

“Even his griefs are a joy, long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured." ~ Homer, The Odyssey

He was laying on something soft.

That was Frodo’s first thought as he awoke from what had been an uneasy slumber. He did not open his eyes as he still felt dreadfully tired. He was tempted to return to sleep when he caught a strange scent. It was cool and almost damp, like the inside of a cave, yet it was a pleasant and wholesome smell. Frodo frowned in confusion; he and Sam had been surrounded by a rivers of liquid fire as they huddled together upon the lower slopes of Mount Doom. It had been unbearably hot, the air full of noxious, choking fumes. He had been so exhausted his limbs had shaken uncontrollably. As he had slipped into unconsciousness, Frodo had not expected to ever wake again.

He opened his eyes.

Frodo found that he was in a small chamber, laying on a daybed that extended along one wall of the room. The chamber was built from dark grey stones, its walls forming a perfect square. Each wall was about twice as long as his body and the celling was thrice his height. On the wall to his left was a Hobbit sized door carved from wood so pale it was white. On the wall to his right was another similarly sized door, this one carved from wood so dark it appeared black. The only illumination came from a queer crystal, mounted on the wall opposite him, which glowed steadily with a greyish gleam so that the room seemed to be in twilight.

Frodo sat up, still feeling quite tired but even more confused and a little frightened. He was wearing a long sleeved tunic, woven of undyed linen, and long enough to reach his ankles. He was certain he had never owned any such garment, just as he was certain he had never before been in this room. He ran his hands over the tunic, thinking it was of very fine quality and quite soft but that it would be a bit difficult to move around in, long as it was. Frodo gasped as he realized that there were five fingers on his right hand.

But he remembered the pain of Gollum’s sharp teeth sawing their way through sinew and bone…

“Where am I?” Frodo wondered, flexing his fingers experimentally.

“You are in my Halls, Child,” a melodious baritone replied.

Frodo cried out, startled. There, standing before him was a strange figure. He appeared as an Elf yet was taller and fairer than any of the Eldar he had ever met. His ebony hair was braided and his head, which nearly touched the ceiling, bore a mithril circlet set with a large black gem. He wore a silver bordered robe of unrelieved black; it touched the floor and was girdled with a white sash of diaphanous cloth. Frodo backed against the wall behind him, disturbed by the way the stranger’s grey eyes shone with their own faint light.

“Who are you?” Frodo demanded, more bravely than he felt.

“I am called Námo,” the stranger replied in flawless Common Speech, features expressionless save for his queer eyes; these were alight with interest.

“That is in the High Tongue,” Frodo commented, frowning; the name sounded familiar but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it before.

“Indeed, Child. I am more often known by the name of my Halls which are called Mandos.”

Frodo felt the blood drain from his face.

“I’m dead aren’t I?” he asked in a small voice.

The Vala cocked his head, face still impassive. “Do you wish to be?” he asked.

Frodo blinked. “I… I don’t know,”

“An honest answer,” Námo commented.

“I knew I wouldn’t survive,” Frodo attempted to explain. “And I am glad it is finally over with. I just wish…”

Frodo trailed off, unable to articulate what he felt. He shook his head slightly; he could hear what sounded like singing coming from behind the white door, words too faint to make out.

“Is Sam here?” he asked. He was afraid of the answer but he felt he must know.

The Lord of Mandos shook his head. “Nay, Child. Your friend is well.”

Frodo sighed with relief.

“What happens now?” he inquired of the Ainu towering above him.

“You have a choice to make,” the Vala’s voice was grave. 

“If you leave through this door,” Námo indicated the black door with a hand. “You will enter into my Halls. Yet if you egress through this door you will return to your body.” He gestured to the white door.

“How is that possible if I’m truly dead?”

“Your spirit has indeed fled your body, Child. Yet there is one who is attempting to call you back. He is of the line of Lúthien and has the power to restore your soul to its proper house—if you allow it.”

“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered. He now recognized the voice of the one singing behind the white door; the song seemed to be getting louder but he could still not quite make out the words.

“You must make your decision swiftly,” Námo said. “Even Isildur’s heir will not be able to return you to your body if too much time has passed.”

“How long have I been here?”

“We have been speaking for only a fraction of a heartbeat.” At Frodo’s disbelieving look, he added “Without your body you cannot accurately discern the flow of time, Child. You have only been dead for several heartbeats.”

“I chose life I shall see Sam again,” he said. “And Mary and Pippin and Aragorn…” he trailed off.

“Indeed,” Námo replied. “Yet your spirit has been damaged by your quest and if you return your suffering shall be great. If you choose to enter into my Halls, you shall find rest. There you shall never feel pain and I shall heal your soul of its wounds.”

“It would be nice to just rest,” Frodo muttered, disturbed by the Vala’s words.

“What do you think I ought to do?” he asked. Námo’s eyes seemed to blaze with a new intensity and Frodo shifted uncomfortably under his regard.

“I cannot make this decision for you, Child. It must be made by your will alone.”

Frodo closed his eyes. He had a sudden memory of tramping about the Shire with Bilbo in autumn, the leaves of the trees a vivid yellow, orange and red.

“You must choose now, Child,” Námo said gently. “The time has come.”

“I want to go home,” Frodo said, determination filling him, despite his weariness.

To his surprise, the Vala’s stoic features broke into a beatific smile.

 “I am pleased, Child,” Námo said. “It is often harder to live than it is to die. It takes more courage to endure life’s suffering than to embrace death.”

Frodo stood, his head barely reached the Lord of Mandos’ waist. He gave the Vala a deep bow before he went to the white door. As he placed a hand on the knob he turned his head back.

“Thank you.”

Námo inclined his head. “Fare thee well, Child, until we meet again.”

Frodo opened the door and into a wall of song and light.

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Anonymity

Summary: Gilraen’s first morning in Rivendell.

Dawning

Gilraen placed a hand to her temple and tried not to cry. 

Aragorn's swaddling was soaked through. The dampness spreading to the sleeve of her chemise had awoken her. It was sill dark outside; the bed curtains were partially drawn and out of the glazed windows she could see stars and hear the dull roaring of a waterfall. She had fallen asleep cradling her son in her arms. The elegantly carved daybed that Elrond's sons had carried into the bedchamber of the suite stood against the wall, unused. She had not slept without her son since receiving the news of her husband’s death a week ago. Throwing off the coverlet and wool blanket, she pulled back the bed drapes and slipped out of the bed.

Lord Elrond had ordered a brazier placed in the room to ward off the early autumn chill. Some of the coals inside the bronze bowl still smoldered, casting queer shadows about the room. Taking the candle from the bedside table, Gilraen lowered it through the brazier grate, holding it against a glowing ember until the wick lit. Under the candles’ gentle light she surveyed the damage. The bed sheet was of undyed linen, finer in quality than any she owned. She wondered if it had ever been used before; linen yellowed after a few washings and greyed with body oil. Yet this sheet still retained the light cream color of newly loomed fabric.

Or at least, it had.

Gently shifting her son, she discovered that the sheet underneath him was damp and mustard colored. Gilraen groaned softly. It would take much scrubbing and soaking with lye to remove the stain, and despite her best efforts it still might faintly linger. She had not thought to ask where the laundry was. Or perhaps the Elves washed their clothes in the river? That was how most women of the Dúnedain accomplished their washing. Yet it was difficult to imagine Elves engaging in such a task. Unbidden, tears began to roll down her cheeks. This was a foolish thing to cry over. She drew several deep breaths and, mastering herself, slowly untucked the sheet from the bed, careful not to disturb Aragorn.

Gilraen sighed with relief as she found that there was a quilted worsted pad over the mattress tick, no doubt designed to protected the goose down inside. The pad had absorbed the rest of the urine so she did not need to contemplate how she might remove the soiled feathers. She was also pleased to see that the coverlet appeared unscathed. It was of tapestry work depicting a forest glade covered with flowers. On the table by the door was a washbasin. Placing it on the floor, she filled it with water from the carafe on her bed table and dipped the cloth into the basin. She had gotten it early enough that the stain was unlikely to set. She prayed it would not. It was a poor way to repay Lord Elrond's generosity by ruining linens that probably cost more than a year’s wage for most Dúnedain. 

But now she had another problem.

While she had packed spare swaddling for Aragorn, Gilraen had not thought to bring anything to fill it with as her son had not wet the bed since midsummer. She had been quite pleased when he had learned to use the chamber pot after only a few weeks of practice. There was no spare cloth she might use, either. She had taken few garments with her to Rivendell as they had no packhorse and were to make do with saddlebags. Her father had arranged a wagon to deliver the rest of her possessions to the Hidden Valley—but it would not arrive for at least a week. If only she had her ragbag with her, or even a few skeins of wool.

But she needs must find something to pad the bindings before her son managed to ruin any more linens. Sighing, she fingered the still damp sleeve of her chemise. It was older than she was as it had once belonged to her mother. The linen had discolored over time and was now an ashen blonde. She owned other, finer, underclothes. But Gilraen had chosen to bring this one, stained and frayed as it was. It was her favorite, worn soft by the years, it smelled like home. She went to the chair at the foot of the daybed where she had laid out her travel clothes to air before placing them in the wardrobe. After retrieving the dagger from its sheath on her girdle, she removed the chemise.

Shivering slightly in the cool air, she carefully ripped the seam that bound the sleeve to the body of the chemise. Gilraen hastened to liberate the other sleeve, feeling vulnerable, naked in a strange room. Slipping the now sleeveless chemise over her shoulders, she gathered the spare swaddling from her satchel containing Aragorn's clothes. Careful so as not to wake him, she gently removed the damp woolen swathes, replacing them after dropping the soiled ones into the basin to soak with the sheet. She stuffed the wrappings with the damp gown sleeve, folded so the wetness would not touch the boy’s skin. She transferred Aragorn to the daybed, covering him with the wool blanket that was still warm with the heat of her body.

Glancing out the window, Gilraen could see the Gil-Estel and knew dawn was coming.

She ought to get dressed as it was certain she would not be going back to sleep. From the wardrobe, she retrieved her kirtle, gown and clothes satchel. She opened the satchel and found a pair of sleeves, and her cylindrical wooden pin container. She also retrieved a strip of bobbin lace and a couple laces—which were sturdy round, finger-loop braids. She had brought only one gown and kirtle besides her ridding clothes due to lack of space. However, she had also taken several different sleeves for her kirtle and a variety of partlets as theses garments took little room and would hopefully fool the Elves into believing she possessed more clothes than she did. 

She sat on the bed laying the kirtle on her lap. It was sleeveless and front-lacing, made of woolen broadcloth dyed bright yellow with weld. Gilraen had woven the decorative band on the collar and bodice herself. The tablet woven trim bore a design of orange scrolls against a pale pink background. Taking two laces, Gilraen attached the chartreuse sleeves to the kirtle by passing them through the eyelets on each garment. She then pulled the garment over her head, fastened the laces and pined the wide strip of lace to the neckline. The lacework flowers were studded with beads of gold and yellow beryl.

Gilraen then slipped on the gown that had been sewn from a woolen brocade she had woven several years ago, with a pattern of orange, yellow and white flowers against a pale green background. It had a low pointed collar with sleeves that only reached to mid-forearm, both features that helped display the kirtle beneath. The gown was trimmed with miniver at the cuff and collar. Smoothing her skirt, Gilraen looked at herself in the little hand mirror that was on the wash table. The gown and kirtle were her best spring raiment, but she did not think any would discern this. She had deemed her best autumn gown as not fine enough to wear among the Elves and her winter gowns were too warm, even for late Yávië.

Satisfied with her appearance, she reached once more into her satchel and found a head covering that she was named for. This gilraen was woven from copper thread that enlaced small gems of opaque, apple-green chalcedony. After tucking her plaited hair under the network, Gilraen pulled on her stockings, tying on garters to hold them, hating the way they felt on her calves. But she must bear them. Women of her stature did not wear hose or leggings, save when riding or during the coldest days of winter. After putting on her shoes, she tied a tooled leather girdle spangled with brass rivets about her waist, wishing she had thought to bring her necklace with the emerald pendant. She would just have to wait until her father arrived with the rest of her jewelry.

Kneeling by the daybed, Gilraen stroked Aragorn’s hair.

She was loathe to leave him here alone, but it would be selfish to wake him. She had done her best to hide her sorrow from her son, only weeping at night while he slept beside her, though her eyes often burned with unshed tears. He did not yet truly understand that his father was gone. And what if he woke in this strange room without her? Yet she supposed nothing too terrible might befall him in Elrond’s house. The Half-Elf had given her a suite of rooms next to his own, across from those belonging to Lord Glorfindel, to her trepidation. The Elves would most likely hear Aragorn crying ere she did.

She nodded to herself, mind decided. Gilraen closed the door quietly and crossed her apartment sitting room as silently as she was able, egressing into the corridor beyond. She passed down a flight of stairs into the entrance hall. There was no one about. After a moments indecision, Gilraen passed through one of the doors which opened southward onto a terraced garden above the steep bank of the Bruinen. The dim predawn twilight echoed with the sound of running water and the cool morning air was filled with the faint scent of trees and flowers and the chirping of hundreds of unseen birds.

Seized by the sudden desire to see the Sun rise, she headed left along a flagged path and found that there was a porch on the side of the house looking east. She was not alone. Elrond Peredhel stood facing south, his hands resting on the stone balustrade that enclosed the porch. On his brow was a circlet of silver and he wore an indigo robe that fell to his ankles. It was trimmed with sable fur and girdled with a black leather belt embossed with silver. The Half Elf was gazing at the sky, long raven hair unbound save for two front braids. Gilraen hesitated and almost turned back but the Elf Lord turned to face her, a smile on his face.

“Fair morning, Lady,” he called in the Common Tongue.

“Fair morning, my Lord,” she greeted. Gilraen wondered, briefly, if she ought to bow but dismissed the idea. As the wife of the Chieftain she was near equal in rank to the Lord of Imladris. Her composure faltered when she remembered that she was now the Chieftain’s dowager.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Aye, my Lord,” she replied, averting her gaze. The Elf Lords’ eyes were ancient and knowing, baring an echo of the same grief she bore.

“Come, join me,” Elrond beckoned. Gilraen drew closer until they were standing next to each other.

“I try to see the Sun rise as often as I am able,” he said looking east. “It reminds me that there is still hope in the world.”

They stood in silence for a moment, gazing dark masses that were the heights of the
Misty Mountains, the sky lightening to a pale yellow halo behind them.

 “I wanted to thank you again,” Gilraen began. “For inviting us to stay here.”

The Elf Lord inclined his head. “We know that someone is hunting for my brothers’ heirs. Until they are stopped or are found, your son will be in danger.”

Gilraen nodded. Since Arador’s death almost three years ago, the Orcs attacks had tripled. What was more worrying was that the monsters themselves claimed to be seeking to eradicate
Isildur’s Heir.

“To that end, I believe that Aragorn’s name must be changed and we shall not speak to him of his heritage until he has come into manhood.”

Gilraen balked. “You mean that he shall not know of Arathorn? Of his own father? How am I to raise him to be the leader of my people if he does not know his place among them?”

 “Yet he shall know safety in anonymity,” Elrond said gently. “If most believed your son dead, the attempts on his life would cease. Is that not worth more to you than even the boy knowing of his father and inheritance?”

Gilraen bit her lip, feeling torn. She wanted her son safe—more than anything. But to deny her son knowledge of his sire and his birthright… Aragorn was so young it was not likely he would remember Arathorn, let alone any other Dúnedain. The thought of her son growing up in nameless obscurity, ignorant of his own father, like some exiled baseborn bastard… it was almost too much to bear.

“I understand your trepidation,” Elrond said quietly. “I have scarce memories of my own father.”

Gilraen glanced up at the Moring Star, without intending to.

“Yet strange as it may seem, I have mostly pleasant memories of my foster father,” he continued.

“I presume you intend to foster Aragorn?” she asked. She had long ago know that her son was destined to be fostered by the Half-Elf. It was tradition that the Chieftain’s sons were fostered by Lord Elrond as soon as they reached their tenth year. She just had not consider that it would be so soon.

 “If you are amenable,” he said. 

“It would be an honor,” Gilraen replied solemnly. Her son would need a father to guide him into manhood and if any could teach her son what he would need to survive and rule it would be the Lord of Imladris.

“Then you will agree to my proposal?”

Gilraen sighed. Her misgivings aside, she was not certain the Elf’s plan would succeed.

“How are we to convince people that Aragorn is dead?” she asked.

 “Your son is quite young,” Elrond softly. “Young children of Men often perish from illness.”

Gilraen looked at the ground, face flushing. It was common knowledge that, despite all their skill in the healing arts, one out of every six Dúnedain children did not survive to see their tenth year. Yet hearing such a thing from this ancient, immortal being made it seem shameful, somehow.

“In a week I will send word that Aragorn has contracted scarlet fever,” Elrond said. “Then five days later I will send my sons to announce that Aragorn has perished from his illness. Only those who need to will know the truth.”

He will be as dead to his people as his people will be to him. The unpleasant thought caused her to frown.

“Do not despair,” the Elf Lord said. “Your son will not lack love nor will he be kept entirely ignorant of his people. He will be made to learn your history and know the names and deeds of all his forefathers. When the time comes, he shall take the mantle of Chieftain as adroit and assiduous as any of his ancestors.” 

 “Look,” he gestured at the snowcapped mountains to the east. The pink tinged sky flushed orange above the rim of dark mountains. Gilraen and Elrond watched in silence as the Sun, a molten fiery red, slowly ascended above the distant peaks. Soft light flooded the valley and the dew upon the beeches and oaks glimmered. The low whispering wind left its hiding place among the clefts and hollows of the hills, and wandered among the rustling bushes and trees, waking the flower buds to the life of another day. In the distance a cock crowed, announcing the fragile glory of the dawn.

Glossary

Yávië (Quenya): name for the third season of the Calendar of Imladris that corresponded to late summer and early autumn; 54 days between modern 12 August and 4 October.

Gilraen (Sindarin): A netted head covering with small gems in its network worn by Elven women as well as the noble women of the Dúnedain. 

Teitho Challenge Prompt: Customs. This story received second place.

Summary: Elwing names her newborn sons.

"Now Elrond was a word for the firmament, the starry dome as it appeared like a roof to Arda; and it was given by Elwing in memory of the great Hall of the Throne of Elwë in the midst of his stronghold of Menegroth that was called the Menelrond [heaven-dome]...." ~ The Peoples of Middle-Earth, HoME Vol 12, Part 2, Ch. 12, The Problem of Ros

First New Moon of Ethuil, 532^nd Year of the First Age

"This place is lousy with Elven lords," Erellont complained, casting a scowl at the Elves mingling around the entrance to the reed-thatched Great Hall of the Sirion Havens.

This declaration earned the young man an amused glance from Galdor, once the Lord of House of the Tree in Gondolin. It also garnered a scowl from Oropher, who had come with his father, Malgalad, from the isle of Balar along with Círdan and Ereinion Gil-galad. It was fortunate that the ellon was conversing with his cousin Celeborn as he was known to be somewhat rash and overly passionate. Eärendil did his best to smile but only managed a grimace. He tried not to look at the doors of the Great Hall as a muffled groan of pain, that the Mortal could not hear, emanated from inside.

Eärendil briefly wondered how Erellont managed to talk his way past the dozen or so spear wielding guards posted around the entrances to the courtyard. He had recently befriended the Man, who was the son of a shipwright and possessed a keen sense of humor. He was not sure he wanted the young Mortal here. The yard already felt crowded for not only were Círdan and his contingent of Elves present but also most of his and Elwing's Ruling Council. It was composed of two members each of those peoples who now called the growing refugee town at the Mouth of Sirion home.

Tuor’s foster father, Annael, and Elthorn represented the interests of the Mithrim Sindar who once dwelt in Hithlum. Lord Celeborn and Lord Amdir stood for the remaining Doriathrim while Lords Egalmoth and Galdor did likewise for those whom survived Gondolin. Of the two Men on his Council, only one was present. Halzaur was tall with the flaxen hair of House Hador, of which he was one of the few surviving nobles. And there were still others in the small crowd exchanging muted conversation. Most, such as Voronwë and Hendor, were old friends yet some, such as Lord Elemmacil of Gondolin, he scarcely knew.

He glanced at the sun, noting that it was past midday.

That morning, a little after dawn, Elwing had awoken him saying her waters had broken. Eärendil had hastened into the Hall, for their chamber was one of the rooms that lined its eastern wall. He had opened the door to the right of his own room, relieved to find it unbarred. This was the quarters allotted to the maiden servants. A half dozen groggy, confused eyes stared up at him from atop their mattress spread out on the stone flags. Eärendil had felt his face flush. He had never stepped foot in that room before nor did he allow any other Man to do so.

He had summoned Zimraneth, his wife's lady's maid. She was a short woman with the dark hair of House of Bëor and a name that was a mixture of Sindarin and Taliska. Such names were common among those Mortals born in the Havens. He had then left the room, closing the door behind him so that she might dress in privacy. He had knocked on another door, this one belonging to Hendor. The ellon had been his mother's servant-retainer and they had been close since his own childhood. It had been Hendor who, when Eärendil was a child, had carried him on his back out of Gondolin as it fell.

He had sent his friend to find Gilmith, the best healer in the Havens. It had not taken long for the Hall to gather a number of servants, both Mortal and Elven, whispering excitedly like wind echoing through a sea cave. He had sent off a lad of about fourteen summers to fetch someone to send word to Círdan in Balar and to inform those on his Ruling Council of what was taking place. He had returned to his quarters and embraced his wife, still laying on their bed, stroking her hair that was soft and dark as a mink's. Her eyes gleamed bright in the dim light of dawn, shining with trepidation and anticipation.

He jumped slightly as Gilmith barged through the door, flanked by a small cohort of midwives from among the Edain. The elleth was of the Falathrim, yet was as golden haired as her brother, Oropher, and father, Malgalad, a grandnephew of Círdan. Eärendil was then politely and firmly ushered out of the room by the women. He waited in the Hall, alternating between pacing and sitting on a bench, idly polishing the gemstones on the hilt of Glamdring, his grandfather Turgon's sword. It took four refusals before the kitchen servants relented from offering Eärendil viands.

It was mid-morning when the first cry of pain rent Eärendil's fae and ears. He wanted to forcehis way into his chamber—Mortal customs be damned—but Voronwë and Hendor had all but dragged him outside. And here he waited, feeling more impotent than he ever had in his adult life. The late spring day would have normally cheered him: The fog had long burned off and the breeze carried the faint scent of flowers along with its usual tang of brine. Eärendil did his utmost not to snap at the well-meaning people who offered him insufferable small talk in a futile attempt to distract him.

It was nearly midday when Erellont walked up to him with a look of consternation upon his face, commenting on the surfeit of Elven rulers present.

"You are comparing Elven lords to lice?" Voronwë asked archly. Eärendil knew his father's friend well enough to realize he was speaking in jest. Erellont, it seemed, did not realize so, as he flushed and hastened to justify himself.

"I merely meant that it is strange for so many people of consequence to linger about, waiting for a babe to be born that is not even related to them," Erellont apologized. "I do not understand why they simply do not wait until someone sends word that the child has arrived."

Voronwë laughed and explained that, among Elves, childbirth was a joyous event in which as many relatives and friends as could possibly come attend. Eärendil said nothing but nodded in agreement. Eärendil's own birth, from his mother's story, was witnessed by Turgon and many of the Lords of the Twelve Houses. He was now deeply regretting his decision to follow Manish childbirth customs. This was the biggest concession he had ever made to his Mortal subjects' sensibilities. Among Men, childbirth was strictly a women's affair. Not even Celeborn, Elwing's closest living relative, had been allowed inside.

"Go fetch me something to drink," he told Erellont. Eärendil did not feel up to a conversation with the young man, for all that they were distant kin. Erellont was descended from Brandir, son of Bregil, of the House of Bëor.

"Do not fear," Voronwë consoled, clapping him on the shoulder as soon as Erellont disappeared into in the hall. "Your sons should arrive soon."

"I have heard Men whisper," Eärendil said quietly. "They think my Taliska is not very good—"

"And you have never seen fit to enlighten them otherwise," the Elf interrupted, wryly.

"I learn more about them that way," he replied with a half-smile. Suddenly, his face fell. "They wonder what I will do if Elwing dies in childbed. Such things are not uncommon with Men."

Voronwë frowned. "I would not be overly concerned with such talk. Your wife has less Mortal blood in her veins than you do."

"I know that," he said, frustration coloring his voice. "Yet what if..."

Eärendil did not finish when Gilmith stepped out into the courtyard declaring the birth of two healthy sons. He all but ran into the Great Hall, abandoning Voronwë without a second thought. The door to their chamber was open and he skidded slightly on the reed-strewn flags in his haste. One of the midwives was pouring sand on the floor over what appeared to be a puddle of blood and other fluids Eärendil did not wish to contemplate. Another woman was replacing the soiled floor reeds with fresh bedstraw, its sweet scent filling their chamber. He paused before their bed taking in his naked wife who was lying propped upright by pillows.

Elwing's face was red and damp with sweat. She looked tired yet also the happiest he had ever seen her since their wedding day. At her breast were two earnestly suckling babes, alike as two stars. They had their mother's sable hair but Eärendil recognized his nose and jaw in their features. Smiling broadly, he caressed the twin’s damp hair, marveling at the tiny ears that were pointed at the tips, just like his wife's. His own ears were rounded as his father’s had been. The twin on his right had his unfocused eyes open and Eärendil saw that they were mist-grey, like Elwing's but with a hint of blue that must have come from him.

It reminded him of the color of the Sea on a cloudy day.

"Which one is eldest?" he asked, gently.

"This one," she indicated with her head: the son with his eyes open.

"Have you considered a name?" This was a point of contention between them. Eärendil was raised among the Noldor, who gave their children two names, one chosen by each parent. However, Elwing was the daughter of the Sindar and they gave children only one name agreed upon by both spouses. They ended up compromising with both customs: Elwing would name both boys something that he agreed with.

"I shall call him Elrond," she said tentatively. "After the Menelrond."

"Of course," he murmured. Elwing had never gotten over losing her home and family.

"He will bring hope and light to Endor as do the stars," she stated softly, her eyes distant. "On his brow is wisdom, in his hands, healing and in his heat, kindness."

Eärendil went still, staring at his wife. It was not known to many, but Elwing possessed a measure of foresight she had inherited from her foremother Luthien. He knew that she was looking at her sons, not as they were now, but as they would someday be. Among the Noldor who had come from Valinor, it was well known that mother-names were often prophetic. Eärendil wondered if his wife was aware of this tradition or if perhaps there were other Powers influencing her. He long ago stopped believing in coincidence.

"What of the other?" he asked when she fell silent, eyes still unfocused.

Elwing frowned, gazing down at her second born. "He shall be named Elros."

"Star-foam?" he asked, not letting the surprise he felt show in his face.

His wife nodded. "He will inherit his father's love for the Sea," she smiled sadly at him. Elwing was not so enamored of Belegaer as he was and sometimes resented how it drew him away from her for long stretches of time.

"Yet he will possess my love for the stars," his wife looked at her son, frowning pensively. "He will be a great leader of Men and through him all the free races shall be blessed."

Eärendil shuddered as a frisson of Power swirled though the room at his wife's prophecy. The foretelling was a joyous one yet Elwing spoke the words solemnly and with foreboding as if she had uttered a terrible doom. Even the Mortal midwives were able to feel it, features displaying alarm and confusion that were mirrored by the thoughts in their minds. He strode forward and placed his hands on his sons' heads. The elder one unlatched from his wife’s breast and started crying. A moment later, his brother joined him in squalling. 

"Elrond and Elros, I welcome you into the world as sons of my body. May you bear your names well."

Glossary

Ellon (Sindarin): ‘male Elf’.

Elleth (Sindarin): ‘female Elf’.

Fae (Sindarin): ‘soul’.