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Summary: A young Legolas takes after his Ada in more than just physical features. A/N: For the B2MEM 2011 Challenge for March 1: Seduction. This is Legolas from Emma's and my stories, born in T.A. 2309.Here, he is an elfling of twelve, or approximately five mortal years. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ T.A. 2321 "Ada, Ada, Ada!" Little Prince Legolas pulled at the sleeve of his father's tunic as the aran walked through the market. Guards followed them discreetly, but none would begrudge Thranduil this time to spend with his youngest child. "Yes, guren?" Thranduil asked fondly, ruffling the little boy's blond hair. "What is it, my heart?" "Ada, sweets!" Legolas pointed to Mistress Eirien's sweetshop, and Thranduil laughed. "Sweets, my heart? Very well, you have been an extremely good elfling for me. What shall we have?" "Strawberry." As Thranduil nodded agreement, Legolas bounced alongside him. "And apple, and honey, and those new sweet biscuits like our Ivy learned to make, and..." Ah, the seduction of sweets! Thranduil smiled to himself as Legolas kept up his chatter. Yes, Legolas was his father's son. Once upon a time, Thranduil, too, had only had sweets to worry about. It was nice to revisit those days, even if only briefly, through his beloved elfling, Thranduil reflected, as he bought the sweets. His sweetest treasure, though, was the golden-haired child now wrapped around his legs. Be safe, my heart, Belain willing.
Summary: In a visit to Lothlorien during the summer of S.A. 2470, Prince Thranduil comes upon his favourite elder cousin, on the hill which will later be named Cerin Amroth. A/N: In mine and Emma's stories, Thranduil was born in S.A. 2445. Written for B2MEM 2011, March 2's prompt, "Defiance". ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Bri, what are you doing?" The thirty year old Prince of Greenwood the Great looked at his normally impeccably dressed cousin, now garbed in a grass stained tunic and leggings. If he didn't know better, he'd say she'd been...
"Well...look at you," Thranduil said, tilting his head to one side. "You've got grass all over."
Summary: In T.A. 2509, Celebrian was making the journey from Imladris to Lothlorien over the Hithaeglir (Misty Mountains) through the Pass of Caradhras, when they were set upon by orcs. Accompanying her were her chief ladies, including her devoted Niniel, and her guards, including Niniel's husband Magolion (these two are Emma's and my OC's and have known both Celebrian and her naneth Galadriel since they were young.) A/N: Niniel calls Celebrian by the Quenya form of her name, Telpetári. Neither she or Magolion are particularly fond of Sindarin, so Niniel generally speaks Quenya to Celebrian. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Telpetári!" How many times over the yéni have I heard that from my former nursemaid's lips? Snapped in exasperation at my wild and tomboyish ways, crooned with fondness as she cooed over my beauty. But now...this time, for the first time, it is a scream of terror. Terror rending the air. I am in a daze. Surrounded by the peaks of the Hithaeglir, we have been set upon by yrch. "Telpetári!" Again, louder. Niniel is frantic. I draw my sword and fight alongside my escort. These hours of training may have earned Niniel's disapproval, but now I sense naught but horrified, reluctant acceptance. She bears no weapon. She knows not what to do. Magolion, her husband, rides at the head of our party. He fights fiercely, a determined glint in his eyes. A fell warrior is he; he has no charm, no love for the folk of the Sindar, my father's kin, but though my cousin Thranduil is wont to call him 'son of yrch', yrch are his greatest foes, and now he shows it. Steel flies. Then arrows. Blood...where did that come from? Am I wounded? I do not feel it. The next thing I see is a whirl of russet gold, Niniel's hair flying unbound as she throws herself before me and we tumble to the ground. "Telpetári! Pitya lapsë...yeldenya, hinya, blood, there is so much blood...Telpetári..." She is frantic, holding me. "My sons..." I gasp. "They are coming, Niniel...my sons..." I have no time for her refusal to stop coddling me.
"Tye-melin, Niniel," I respond, as darkness swims up to claim me. The last thing I feel is her body going limp, before oblivion swallows me. The End
Quenya: Telpetári - "silver queen", Quenya equivalent of "Celebrian" Pitya lapsë...yeldenya, hinya - Little baby, my daughter, my child (while Bri isn't literally her daughter, she thinks of her that way as she was Bri's nursemaid). Tye-melin, ammelda yeldenya - I love thee, my best beloved daughter
Summary: Oropher, Aran of Greenwood, has a very strange "fear". A coronation gift inspires his Queen to help him conquer it... A/N: This refers back to a specific incident in AfricanDaisy's and my Thranduil series, when Oropher and Felith are still courting. Since "A Chance To Be Happy", was written solely by AfricanDaisy, and I can't put it here, I will reproduce that section here to begin with: Five long-years after the fall of Doriath, in Lindon: (quoted from "A Chance to be Happy") “Tell me something about yourself,” Felith said softly, as the night progressed. “Something that I don't know.” Absently playing with the elleth’s hair, Oropher considered this. “Something about me that you don't know? Mmm...if there’s anything you don't know about me, that’s probably because it’s humiliating and to my detriment. I could tell you something like that about my brother. He wouldn't mind.” “He would,” Felith said drily. “Please. Tell me something about you.” “Me,” Oropher sighed pensively. “All right, then. Mmm...well...all elves have fears, no? One of mine is stupid. I mean, I have normal fears. I am afraid of losing my loved ones, dying alone and in a terrible way, not making my family proud of me. But I sort of have a little...very slight phobia...of...scented candles.” Felith sat up and looked at the ellon, biting her lower lip to hold back a grin as a faint blush coloured his cheeks. “You’re scared of candles.” “Scented ones. And maybe ‘scared’ is an overstatement. It’s more like I just dislike them,” Oropher backtracked hastily. “Mhmm. You dislike them. All right, and why do you dislike them?” “When I was a very little elfling, I suppose I couldn't have been more than ten, maybe younger, my mother used to have this large collection of candles and incense. She loved them. She had them all around the house. The only place she didn’t have candles were in my bedroom, my brother’s nursery and my father’s study,” Oropher recalled, his gaze going distant as the memory came back. “Adar didn't like them. He humoured her and let her decorate the house with them as she pleased, but the study was absolutely forbidden. Anyway...one day, she brought this candle home and it had the most beautiful smell. It was just like a strawberry pie, I swear. So I figured it had to taste like a strawberry pie.” “Oh, Oropher,” Felith shook her head. “You didn't eat it.” “What was I supposed to do? I was only little,” the ellon defended himself. “And I didn't eat all of it, anyway. Just some. But I did feed a bit to my brother as well. We both ended up sick for a number of days. It was terrible. I don't have anything against normal candles, but now whenever I smell scented ones, it takes me back and I feel terribly ill. So that’s why I dislike them.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
S.A. 2458: "...So that's why I dislike them." The words rang in Felith's memory, and a smile flickered around the edge of the new-made Queen's lips. Oh, it was difficult, settling into the fact that she was now not just nobility, but royalty. But in the months that had followed the decision of Greenwood that the throne would be theirs, gifts had poured in from their neighbours in all quarters: Elves, Men, and Dwarves alike. Including a package sent from the women of Dale. Containing...scented candles. Various fruit scents, Felith noted absently; if their son was anything like his father...and the thirteen year old child was, other than in looks, his father's son...he'd be checking to see if they were made of sweets. Strawberry sweets. A wicked grin spread over Felith's face, and her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oropher!" she called, getting her husband's attention. "Yes, meleth?" he asked, completely innocent of his wife's intentions. "Get Vehiron and come here, won't you, my love..." When the ellyn were presented with the box, Felith Istuioniel, wife of Oropher Celepharnion, had the satisfaction of watching the brothers' identical horrified looks dissolve into laughter. That was one fear conquered, she thought smugly to herself. If only all fears were so easily dealt with! "Can we keep them?" she asked, all innocence, "in the name of diplomacy, perhaps..." and the ellyn snorted. "I suppose," Oropher said reluctantly, "in the name of diplomacy, of course...but if Thranduil becomes ill, he's your problem." Mercifully, in this, Thranduil had more sense, and no candle-induced illness befell the grandson of Celepharn. The matter of stuffing himself on a real strawberry pie, however, was somewhat more inevitable. "He's your son, all right, Oropher."
Summary: After Oropher's fruitless charge at the Black Gates, he and many of his people fell. Thranduil became King. What were the thoughts of his lost subjects as their faer were summoned to Mandos? Lost. We are lost…where then shall we go? The King is dead. Lost. Everything is lost. He has taken the Ring for himself, this Man, though the Dark Lord be dead. Lost. Our King is dead. Most of our people have gone. Where then shall we go, we of the Wood? Lost… We are forever lost, until World’s ending, we Oathbreakers. And yet…We seem to see one glimpse, a flash of gold in the dusk... Lost? No! All is not lost, for our Prince lives, though we do not. We are the Dead; we are lost, though he is not! Long live King Thranduil! The Lost silently acclaim the new King from their watery beds. Now, Mandos assures them, they may sleep.
We know the story of the Quest for the Silmaril from Beren and Thingol's point of view. What about his Steward? Disclaimer: Elmo is the younger brother of Elu Thingol and Olwe, and the grandfather of Celeborn. (All writing in italics is dialogue from the Silmarillion, and I do not own it.). *** I saw him standing there, bespelled. The light in the young Mortal's eyes spoke of enchantment; the enchantment of love. He turned to my elder brother, who met his eyes with an ice-cold gaze. "Who are you," bespoke my brother and lord, "that come hither as a thief, and unbidden dare to approach my throne?" I watched as he stood, frozen, unable to speak, and my niece spoke instead, giving the one who had been ensnared by her beauty her support. "He is Beren son of Barahir, lord of Men, foe of Morgoth, the tale of whose deeds is become a song even among the Elves." Her gaze pleaded with my brother's for lenience, but he would not back down. "Let Beren speak!" he commanded. "What would you here, unhappy mortal, and for what cause have you left your own land to enter this, which is forbidden to such as you? Can you show reason why my power should not be laid on you in heavy punishment for your insolence and folly?" I could think of reasons, Brother...stay thy hand! But alas, I am only Steward, and I have no right to speak so. Olwe would not have liked me to intervene. So I sat quietly and watched as the brash young Mortal, Beren son of Barahir, and my brother Elwe Singollo, called Thingol, discoursed together. But then, Beren asked for the hand of Luthien...the only treasure I knew my brother placed beyond price. He demanded a price indeed...one so heavy I feared no one would be able to fulfill its condition. No doubt my brother thought so, too. Greed drove him; greed and the desire to claim what was not his. In truth, were my brother and Beren not more alike than Elu thought? For Elu, too, had made a marriage far beyond that any of our kindred had ever made; why should he be the only to do so? Luthien spoke truly; the deeds of Barahir and of Beren his son were renowned. Why should Beren not wed her? Was he any less worthy than Elu had been of Melian? But the Silmaril...Elu had gone too far. I expected Beren to give up. But instead, Beren laughed. "For little price do Elven-kings sell their daughters; for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, then I will perform it. And when we meet again, my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last upon Beren son of Barahir." With that, and a final look to Melian and to Luthien, he departed on his quest, leaving me filled with dread. "What is this thou hast wrought, aran veleg lin?" I demanded once the Mortal had gone, enjoined to speak formally in public though I would fain grab my elder brother and shake him. "Thou hast wrought the doom of Doriath with thy greed!" "Silence thy tongue, Elmo!" I fell silent. "If the Mortal returns, he returns," Elu continued, "and if not...he does not." His gaze hardened. "But the Dark Lord is not the only one to guard his jewels well," he added, as Luthien departed. "Make ready Hirilorn, and see that Luthien does not flee." I would do as my brother and king commanded, little though I liked it...but I could not see that this would end well, for any of us.
Summary: Sequel to "Telpetari". What happened when Celebrian reached Tol Eressea? From the POV of her OC daernaneth (grandmother) Baraves, Celeborn's mother.
"Wounded! We need all Loriennildi and Estenduri to the quay!" I spin on my heels and race in the direction of the call. Reborn though I am, I have found my calling as a servant of Este. What I do not expect is the wan, pale face that looks up from the litter...the image of my son, had he only been born a daughter. Her eyes are bluer, but she is his daughter, I can feel it. A pang strikes at my heart. "Who is she?" I whisper to her attendant. "Celebrian," is his reply, equally soft. "Celebrian, daughter of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, here called Artanis." That flighty Golodh! I shake my head at that. I have never thought much of the Golodhrim, they who called us Moriquendi. Dark Elves, indeed... But I have no time to think of prejudices against the Golodhrim. As Hir Bannoth told we Reborn, all is forgiven, all debts paid. She is my daeriel, I am her daernaneth; that is all that matters. "Do you hear me, Celebrian?" Her eyes try to focus on mine, as I take her hand. "My name is Baraves. I am..." "Daernaneth," comes the throaty whisper. "Adar told me..." "Yes, child. Shh...you are hurting. Do not overtax yourself. It is well. I am here. Daernaneth is here, my darling girl." "You...and Nana..." "It does not matter, pen-neth. She did not hold that sword," I say bracingly, "nor did she approve of those who did. Hush now, my love, Daernana will look after you." Obediently, Celebrian quiets herself, eyes drifting shut. I will see her healed. As we take her to our camp with the other wounded, I hear the story from her escort, and shudder. Yrch! Creatures of darkness, servants of the Dark Lord...ai, my poor, poor daeriel. Even her husband, one of the greatest healers in Ennor, could not see her healed...but here, under my care, she will come back to herself. Someday...someday she will be well, and have her family again. For now, she has me, and that is as good a beginning as any. "I love you, child," I murmur over her, settling her into bed and tucking the blankets round her. "Sleep now, all will be better in the morning." I shall see to that, or my name is not Baraves, wife of Galadhon...which it most certainly is. Goodnight, my darling. Sleep well.
Summary: For B2MEM 2011, Prompt 8: Home. A certain Elf and Dwarf sit together after the death of their very best friend, discussing where their home shall be. Fourth Age 120 "It is very difficult," Legolas admitted to Gimli as they sat together, the Elf sipping at a goblet of Ithilien's peach wine, the Dwarf with a tankard of ale. "I will have to leave soon now, Elvellon. But this land has become a home to me." He gazed out over the throngs of people, sapphire eyes seeking out the King, dancing with his sister. "The king is dead...long live the King," he murmured, eyes prickling with tears. "May the Belain bless your spirit, Estel, wherever you are." "Aye, 'tis difficult, Elf," Gimli said gruffly, placing his rough hand over Legolas' slender one. "Aragorn was a dear friend to both of us. You knew him far longer than I did, so I will not pretend to understand your grief. No doubt it eclipses mine."
"Where will you go then, Legolas? Home to Eryn Lasgalen?" Gimli asked, "if you mean to forsake Ithilien?"
"I am not running away. I am going home," Legolas said, the light of his Being flaring with such a presence that Gimli was awestruck. "Will you come with me, Elvellon?" Legolas asked, once he had calmed. Gimli blinked. "Me? A Mortal?"
"Besides," Legolas added, "will not your lady desire to see you again?" He had the satisfaction of seeing his friend's face warm considerably.
On the day Doriath fell, one who might have been otherwise lost was turned from his path. Celeborn's POV. A/N: Any character you don't recognise is my OC. *** The world is falling down around us. Here I stand, Prince of Doriath, guarding my grandniece as she sleeps in Galadriel's arms. Well do I know what lies wrapped in her blankets, obscured from the world. What my niece and her husband have died for. Well do I know that the Sons of Feanor are not finished searching. Indeed, it is not long before a young Noldo bursts into the royal nursery, eyes blazing.
"Artanis...no....where is it? Where is it, Atar told me I have to find it..."
The world was still crashing down. But one calamity was averted. Yes, be blessed, son of Morifinwe, for staying your hand. Not all of the House of Feanor would be kinslayers.
Summary: A new father reflects on the past and the future. A/N: For B2MEM 2011, March 10 "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". Related to my story "Dear Naneth..." but the conversation's not quite the same. (The title comes from the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, "Finrod's Conversation with Andreth", so here it means "Celeborn's Conversation with Celebrimbor". Athrabeth is apparently also used to mean "Debate", and there's a debate involved of a sort...) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
"I am sorry, Celeborn." Celebrimbor sighed. "But I wished to congratulate you on the birth."
A/N: This is all Emma's and my OC's...sorry! Felith is Oropher's wife; Emlineth is the wife of Halmir, who is Felith's fourth cousin. Halmir and Emlineth's children are Thoroniel, their eldest, and their twins Fileg and Aiwen. Halmir, Fileg, and Halmir's father Dagorion are fighting alongside Oropher and Thranduil in the War of the Last Alliance. As this is all OC's, this is my first (hopefully only) ficlet not told from the POV of one of the Elmoi...but they are members of the Greenwood royal family, and the elder members were all born in Doriath. On with the story, then! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "No." Felith Istuioniel, Queen of the Greenwood, woke up in the night with that single word thundering through her mind. "No. No. NO!" she screamed, as her kinswomen came running. Lady Emlineth, her cousin Halmir's wife and chief lady-in-waiting, ran to Felith's bedside while young Lady Thoroniel and Lady Aiwen, her two daughters, clambered up on the empty, cold side of the bed that had been missing its inhabitant for several coronari now. "Felith!" "Aunt Felith!" Dropping all titles, they crowded around the one who was weeping as though her heart had been wrenched from her body. "Felith...gwathel-nin...what is it, what has happened?" Lady Emlineth clutched the Queen to her bosom as Felith's lithe frame shook with sobs. "Felith...shhh...what? What is it?"
"Was it a vision?" Emlineth asked tentatively, knowing that though the Seers of Felith's line dreamed true, in this Age where the Dark yet battled their forces, the Sight was not so reliable. Felith lifted her head, gulping back sobs, gasping for air. "No...vision...but..." She pressed a hand to her heart, and Emlineth understood. There was no way to feign that, the severing of one fae from another when bonded so strongly. Oh, the marriage was still valid; not even death would divide them fully. But Oropher was gone. Felith would know. "Thranduil is King, then," Thoroniel said softly, glancing sideways at Aiwen, who, she knew, loved Thranduil in a deeper manner than mere kinship would require. Aiwen had closed her eyes tightly, biting her lip. "Thranduil is not here, though," Aiwen said finally. "No?" Emlineth asked, raising an eyebrow. "Felith...I know it's not fair, but--" "It's not fair!" Felith all but screamed, whirling on Emlineth. "How would you like it if it was Halmir? My husband just...is gone, and you have the Belain-damned nerve to tell me what to do? Oh, be the Queen, be strong for your people! Well, they were Oropher's people, and now they're Thranduil's! My baby, my elfling, still out there, and what if I lose him, too? What are you going to say to that, Emlineth?" Felith demanded. Emlineth stared back at her, blue eyes bright with compassion.
She took the younger elleth's hands in hers. "Oropher made the ultimate sacrifice for our people. He lent his strength to the battlefield. Lend your strength to the ellith and elflings our ellyn left behind." Felith bowed her head. "I will try."
Summary: Young Legolas asks his Ada a hard question. T.A. 2319. "Ada, why do the Men cut down the trees? The trees never did anything to them," Legolas whispered, leaning against his Adar's knees. Thranduil cuddled Legolas close to his side. Thranduil's youngest, the little Prince was fairer spoken at ten coronari than Thranduil himself had been at that age; less innocent, and more observant. "The Men need wood to build their homes, to light their cooking fires, and for many other reasons, Legolas," Thranduil said gently. "You are too young to remember, but we did not always dwell in these halls. Once upon a time we, too, were obliged to fell trees for building." Thranduil's voice was deep with regret. "The forest will grow overcrowded if some of the trees are not removed, and that is not healthy." "But they take too many!" Legolas cried out. "The trees say so!" Thranduil stilled, looking down at his youngest. "Do they, guren?" he asked softly. Legolas nodded vehemently. "They do. They say so, Ada. I heard them." "Then we shall make sure they do not take too many from now on," Thranduil said firmly. He had learned to listen to the wood, though he now dwelt in halls of stone. "We will let the trees know." Satisfied, Legolas snuggled into his father's embrace.
Summary: A certain Elf worries for the safety of his son in wartime. (The POV should be obvious once read.) This is more stream-of-consciousness than normal poetry, I suppose. Pacing. Counting the steps in my study. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn about. I cannot think... Unbidden, his blue eyes swim before me. So like mine... I curse the day I sent my youngest child to Imladris without me. But I had to stay here. "Had to"? I could have slipped my own guard. I've done it before. A rueful smile flickers across my face. My Chief Advisor would have had something to say about it.
Elrond will not like it when next I see him... Belain, keep my son safe. Keep him safe. Bring him home. Of course, this prayer went unanswered. I paced for many days, cursing my Peredhel cousin until I could think of nothing else to call him. Then the letter from Lothlorien came. Cousin Cel! Mithrandir...gone? Dead? The Balrog! And my own son saw it... But...he survived. He survived. Some prayers might be answered...part way at least. His own letter came in time, from Ithilien. Gondor has a King. Arnor will be revived. Estel...Elrond's boy. Estel... My son was a Prince in a faraway land. The King of Men had returned. My son is alive, no matter where he dwells. I will go to him. Guren...my heart.... I am coming. The End
Summary: In Imladris, Frodo and Legolas have a quiet talk.
"And you...Prince Legolas?" Frodo paused. "Your father is the Elvenking my Uncle Bilbo spoke of, is he not?" Legolas smiled for answer. "So I must not call you 'my Prince', or 'my Lord'?" Frodo ventured. Legolas laughed. "Even were you to do so, I am not your Prince or Lord. Nay, Ringbearer, you may call me 'Legolas' only, for it is my honour to be your companion, and I hope, your friend." "Then, Legolas, you may call me Frodo," the Hobbit rejoined, "and I would be proud to call you my friend." The two exchanged somber smiles. "I will be glad of friends on this journey; more than Merry and Pippin, I mean, and of course, my dear Sam." "Estel...ah," Frodo said, with an understanding nod. "Yes," he agreed, "they are all close to me. I am grateful Master Elrond has permitted me to keep their company."
"I have not seen many more than seven hundred years of the Sun," Legolas said, and was secretly pleased when, instead of the expected flash of confusion, a light of understanding flared in his companion's eyes. "Of course, I am an adult, but I am much like your Meriadoc, I believe...young still, untried, born to be a leader of my race, but untested. The Master of Imladris is a kinsman of mine; he would feel responsibility toward me if aught should happen. Needless to say...my father would not be pleased." A wry smile flickered over the Elf's fair visage. "Surely Aran Thranduil would not seek to make war on Imladris?" Frodo asked anxiously. Legolas shook his head.
"You think so, young Ringbearer?" "The Belain have not forsaken us, Frodo," Legolas said softly. "They have, I think, appointed this task to you, but they have not forsaken you, for you are not alone." Frodo nodded, and let Legolas hold him as he trembled. He was afraid; but at least he was no longer alone in his fear...and for that, and the Elf's freely given friendship, he was most grateful.
Summary: Little Prince Thranduil makes his first cake...(Recipe fic challenge) A/N: Thank you to Dreamflower for helping me figure out how pie fillings and cake mixes might be made from scratch. Here's the yellow cake mix recipe Dreamflower gave me: http://baking.about.com/od/cakes/r/basicyellow.htm S.A. 2458, Greenwood. "Ivy, Ivy, Ivy!" Thranduil burst into the palace kitchen, laughing as Mistress Ivoniel brushed her flour-dusted hands on her apron before scooping him up. "Ivy, Ada says I can help you," he said brightly, beaming as she cuddled him close. "Did he, sweetling?" Ivoniel asked, hugging her charge. "And what does my elfling want to make, hmm?" "What were you making, Ivy?" Thranduil asked. "Oh, your ada wanted some strawberry cake for tonight, my little star," Ivoniel replied. "Would you like to help me? I'm afraid we haven't got enough milk left, but even so, I think we can manage." Thranduil nodded. Safely set down on a kitchen stool by the countertop, he watched as Ivoniel deftly measured and sifted dry ingredients into a bowl, letting Thranduil pour them into a baking pan. "Aren't you going to make them wet?" Thranduil asked, puzzled. His Ivy always made them wet first. "You'll see, sweetling," Ivoniel replied. "Run along and ask Raina to help you get a crock of strawberry preserves, won't you?" Thranduil nodded, and hopped down from the stool. Soon he was back with the kitchenmaid, 'helping' her carry the stone jar. Ivoniel measured out the preserved fruits and let Thranduil pour them, with plenty of juice, on top of the dry mixture. She cut pieces of butter and layered them on, then took the pan and set it in the oven, admonishing Thranduil to stay well away, as it was quite hot. "Now, we just have to wait for an hour, little star," Ivoniel told him. The hour was an exciting one; Thranduil got to eat dinner in the kitchen so he could help Ivy watch over 'his' cake. When it was finally done and cooled, Ivy let Thranduil have the first piece, and Oropher the second. "This is the very best cake in the world, my elfling," Aran Oropher told his son, and Thranduil was happy to agree, glad he pleased his Ada. *** RECIPE: Linda's Dump Cake (Linda is my mom :) ) AKA, in my not at all unbiased opinion, The Very Best Cake In The World 1 box yellow cake mix (Betty Crocker or Duncan Hines) 2 cans fruit pie filling (my mom generally uses cherry; I said strawberry here because it's Thrani's favorite) 1 cube butter, cut up Walnuts or other chopped nuts (optional) Directions: In a 9x13 baking pan, pour the yellow cake mix out and spread it out evenly. Pour the cans of pie filling on top. Do not drain first. Spread out the butter pieces across the top, followed by the nuts (if you want them) Bake for 1 hr. in a 350 degree oven. Remove from oven, cool, and cut into squares...about 10 or 12, I think.
Summary: The young king of Greenwood makes a visit to Imladris... A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins of a castle, which had crumbled mere moments ago. Its maker stood over it, clearly holding back the cry of frustration he wanted to release. All the hard work he had poured into his creation had come to naught in the end. Tears shimmered in his clear grey eyes, and he blinked them back furiously. His tutor would be displeased; he had clearly not paid enough attention to the manner of building the fortification. "What is wrong, nethben?" Thranduil knelt beside the boy, running pale fingers through his dark hair. "What happened here?"
"Erestor likes it," the youth agreed reluctantly, "as long as I don't ask everybody too many questions." Thranduil nodded sympathetically. "Mhmm, well, you have not asked me 'too many questions', young Isildurchil. You will do well." Valandil pressed close to Thranduil's side, as king and prince fortified the castle together. When they were done, it was a splendid structure, nearly as tall as Valandil himself, and the youth grinned at Thranduil. "I am glad Uncle Elrond let you come for a visit, aran-nin." Thranduil tried not to show his discomfort with the title, but he patted Valandil's shoulder and smiled. "I am glad I could visit with you, too, nethben." Prince they might call him, Thranduil thought, but not for much longer. No...soon he would have to actually enter the house of Elrond, rather than lingering outside, and deliver the news to the Master of Imladris that the boy was no longer merely the heir. More than a castle of blocks had been ruined; Thranduil's error was not so easily mended. He had failed. The End End Notes: In Emma's and my-verse, Thranduil attempted to go to Isildur's aid and that of his sons, but came to the Gladden Fields too late. Here, he has accompanied Ohtar, Isildur's squire, to Imladris to deliver the shards of Narsil, and is delaying the inevitable a bit.
Summary: A royal Elf muses on the Gift given to the Secondborn. T.A. 249, Annuminas, Arnor "He wanted to see you, Uncle." The young Dunadan offered the elven King a respectful bow, as the one he had thought of as his grandfather's brother gifted him with a sad smile. "I thank you, Arantar," Thranduil murmured. He did not say another word, but walked into the royal bedchamber, where his old friend...not old, he thought, not by far...lay dying. Dying. It was not a word that sat well on the King's mind. It was near an age ago...but seemed only yesterday...that he had ridden to Imladris, with news of Isildur's untimely death, and that of his sons. Lost. Lost...and now... "Thrani." The pet-name he'd allowed the Man to use as a child rolled easily off Valandil's tongue, and Thranduil dropped his gaze to Valandil's, seating himself on the edge of the King's bed, taking his hand. "Yes, gwador-laes." Thranduil could still feel Valandil's grip, strong in his hand. "Why do you do this?" Thranduil asked. "Why now? You are yet young..." "I have seen two hundred and sixty winters, Thrani." Valandil shook his head. "I am ready." "Ready...for what?" Thranduil felt tears prick his eyes. "What now?" He felt, rather than saw, Eldacar and young Arantar, the latter barely fifty-six, come to flank him. "For this. Eldacar, ion-nin," Valandil said, "to you I leave the Elendilmir, and the Sceptre of Annuminas, and to your heirs after you. Bear them well." "I will, Adar," Eldacar replied softly. At Valandil's request, Thranduil lifted the Star of Elendil from the cushion it lay on, and Eldacar knelt, accepting it on his brow as Valandil gave the silver rod into his keeping. "These are my legacy, gwador nin," Valandil said softly, "and my gift to you, ere I accept the Gift ordained to my race. I would not have you know only grief, Thranduil. You have ever been family. Continue to be so." "I promise, gwador laes. I promise." He swallowed hard. "I love you all, very much. But my parents and other brothers are waiting, Thrani," he told Thranduil, and Thranduil nodded silently. "I will not keep you from them, Valandil. I...I release thee." "I, too, Ada," Eldacar said softly. "I, too, Daerada." "Thank you, my brother. Thank you, my children," Valandil said quietly. "Now I would sleep." Thranduil quietly closed the heavy draperies, dimming the light in the bedchamber as Valandil's eyes closed. Valandil's chest rose and fell...and did not rise again. Thranduil bowed his head, weeping silently, and Eldacar embraced him as a brother. "You have lost a brother, aran-nin, but so long as one of my line remains alive, you shall never lose your family," Eldacar whispered. "Thank you," Thranduil said gratefully, drawing Arantar in with them, as the three, two Kings and the young Prince, mourned together. Soon enough there would be time to settle matters of state. For now, they needed each other, so they could begin to heal. Thranduil was grateful for the gift of love and support his mortal brother's heirs offered, and would give them the same in return.
Summary: An uncle and niece write to each other concerning the giving of hearts. A/N: An expansion on "Dear Adar and Naneth..." my Yulefic for Levade in 2010, where little Earendil offered to wed Elwing when they were grown. Dear Uncle Cel, Nurse says it is not proper for me to call you so. She says I should call you Prince Celeborn, or my Prince, as Adar and Naneth did, though they were King and Queen. I just wanted to know if it was all right. I have met a very interesting boy. His name is Earendil, and he is different, like I am, not a real elf. His ada is not even an elf. His ada, who he calls Atto, is a Man, Lord Tuor. He offered to share his parents with me. Actually, he said I could marry him, even though Ada and Nana wished for me to marry my cousin. I do not know where my cousin is, and he said if I was his wife, I could climb trees and fight with swords, and no one would care. Lord Tuor and Princess Idril said I might call them Atya and Emya, and that they would have me for daughter and their son's bride, when I am twenty. What do you and Auntie think of that, Uncle Cel? Love, Elwing, Princess of Doriath ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My dear niece, Of course it is quite all right to call me Uncle Cel in private letters. I can see why Lady Saelrien would be upset about your doing so in public, but after all, you are a princess; a princess without a realm. Doriath is no more. Be a child while you can, my dear one; you will grow all too quickly. You have met the son of Tuor and Idril, and he has asked for your hand? Well then, that quite proves my point. I am glad you have someone about your age to be friends with, and in time, yes, perhaps more. I have been to see Oropher and Vehiron; they agree that your betrothal to Saeldur is no longer needful unless you should wish it, and since you do not, it is all right. By the looks of things, you will grow to womanhood sooner than he is an ellon grown, and it is better for you to wed someone whose pace matches more easily with yours. You have my blessings, and your aunt Galadriel's. With much love, Uncle Cel, Lord Celeborn, once Prince of Doriath __._,_.___
Summary: While she heals in the gardens of Lorien, Celebrian encounters an unexpected visitor.
"Daernana will take care of you, my darling." The voice floated above her as she rested in the gardens of Lorien, in the place where those who needed healing and repose dwelt. Loriennildi and Estenduri alike tended to her, though Baraves remained her main caregiver. Slowly but surely, the Lady of Imladris regained her strength. It could have been weeks, months, coronari; time flowed slowly in Lorien in the West, even as it had in her home in Middle-Earth. Lothlorien was but a shallow copy, a pale echo of the realm she now occupied, and Celebrian could truly not discern how long she had remained within its borders. Baraves had left her to her rest for a time, when one of the Maiar of Irmo appeared before her, the scent of rosemary filling Celebrian's pavilion as the Maia crossed to her sleeping couch. "Greetings to you, Child. My name is Melyanna of the People of Irmo." Celebrian's mind whirled as she realised the implications of that statement. "M-Melian...Bereth Melian?" She sat up and blinked slowly, trying not to stare at the Maia, who was not garbed in the usual tabard of Irmo's People. Melyanna's hair hung in gentle waves over her shoulders and down her back to below her waist. It was not black, for that is too small a word; it was the deepest and darkest depths of a midnight sky, and the moonstones strung through it were the stars. Her raiment was a stunning snowy gown layered in delicate satin and decorated with pearls, whilst a white and gold beaded belt hung loosely upon her slim waist. Unshod were her feet, and the jewels she wore upon her fingers and around her elegant neck were dazzling diamonds. "I have not been acting Queen for a long time, child," Melian said, "though I arrayed myself as such today, and they are still my husband's people."
"That does not sound particularly respectful, Celebrian," Melian observed, though she did not sound particularly disapproving. Celebrian's cheeks flushed, but she held her head up proudly, staring up from her seat on the sleeping couch. "Well...fine then, it isn't," Celebrian conceded, but she did not sound particularly sorry. "It was not respectful, no, Child," Melian replied, and she locked her steady gaze on Celebrian. Though Melian had clothed herself in form not unlike an Elf's, there was something in her gaze which spoke of a time more ancient than even the eldest of the Firstborn could appreciate; laden with sympathy, sorrow, and wisdom of Ages uncounted. "It was not respectful, but it was quite understandable. Tell me, best beloved. Why did you leave?" Melian asked, taking Celebrian's hands in her own. Celebrian squirmed under the Maia's unwavering gaze, unable to avert her eyes and feeling like an elfling of ten. "I hurt too much to stay," she whispered. "I was losing them. My husband, my children...it hurt too much. I was dying...I would have died if I had not gone..." Melian lifted Celebrian from the couch and wrapped Celebrian in her embrace. "There now, best beloved. I am not angry. But do you see, then? I, too, was a wife and mother. My husband and children had gone before me. Some no doubt think me a fool, heartless or careless to leave my husband's realm ungirded. Yet, it was not always protected so, and even the Girdle did not stop the children of Aule in their senseless slaughter, or the wolf Carcharoth in his thirst for blood."
"Aunt Melian, if it pleases you, best beloved," Melian murmured. "Do not fear, I am not angry." Celebrian nodded.
Summary: A quest taken, a task ordained... A/N: Aewellond, "Bird-haven", is a name borrowed from Fiondil's works. This may not be what he has envisioned, but it inspired me...as did his visions of Reborn elves. The POV wanders a little...that's the Muse's fault. Hopefully it's still all right. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Aunt Melian suggested I make the journey, now that I have regained my strength, to the Tower of Aewellond, where the seabirds flock round, day and night. I have been warmly welcomed by the gatewardens of the settlement, though I know not how their Lord and Lady will perceive me....
"Our Lord is absent," Falathar said, and Celebrian smiled faintly as she realised what the Elf meant. "Oh, yes...of course," she agreed. "Your Lady...she will receive me?" Falathar and his companion, Erellont, nodded affirmation. "She is expecting you even now, beloved Lady. It has been long since she has seen aught of her kindred." It was Erellont who had spoken, and Celebrian graced him with a shy smile. "I hope she will not expect too much of me," she murmured, and their rearguard, Aearandir, laughed merrily, casting her a reassuring look. "Nay, Lady, she will not force her expectations on others. She will be pleased to see you, and to know you."
So it proved. It took many days for us to reach Aewellond; it was situated in and around a cavern by the seashore, near to the Tower where Elwing had dwelt betimes. It appeared that now the Lord of Aewellond and its Lady lived not in the tower itself, but in a grand house near to the structure. The edifice was built mainly of sandstone and limestone, both of which occurred naturally in the region. When I was conducted into the grand house...I could not quite call it a mansion, but near enough...I was met first of all by an elleth who was clearly of Sindarin descent. She gave me her obeisance and greeted us in the name of Lady Elwing. "I am Saelrien," she said, "the Lady's chief attendant, and she is waiting to receive you, Lady Celebrian." That gave me pause. I understood that I had been expected, but as yet, I did not understand how so. As far as I knew, it had been my idea to visit my kinswoman...or had it? Narrowing my eyes suspiciously, I glanced around as though my scrutiny might reveal a hidden Maia who had turned my thoughts to such a plan, and forewarned Elwing of my coming.
A merry laugh interrupted Celebrian's suspicious thoughts. "Well, now...are you just going to stand on my doorstep, or do you intend to come in?" Celebrian turned sharply to find the Lady of Aewellond standing in the doorway. Her dark hair flowed down her back, unadorned save for two dark plaits which had been secured round the crown of her head, pale pink rosebuds threaded through them. She wore an overgown of pink and blue silk, the colors shading into each other until Celebrian could not tell where one ended and the other began. The sleeves, tight to the wrist, were slashed and the sides of Elwing's gown were slit to the hips so her undergown of pale green was visible. The same green trimmed the hem, sleeves and collar of Elwing's overgown, and Celebrian thought all in all, the soft colors suited Elwing very well. Blushing, Celebrian nodded and came to meet the Lady. "I am sorry, Lady Elwing," she said softly. "I did not mean to present myself improperly." Elwing shook her head and smiled gently at Celebrian. "Enough of that, now. I was hoping you would be able to help me, my child," Elwing murmured. "I know you seek a purpose, now you are healing, and I would give you one." Celebrian blinked; once, twice. "What do you know about my thoughts? Meaning no disrespect," she added hastily, blushing again. "Oh yes, you did," Elwing said wryly, eyes sparkling with mirth. "A more opinionated young hoyden of a tomboyish elleth I've not heard of...save for myself," she allowed, "much to Saelrien's eternal dismay," she added, laughing again as Saelrien threw her a long-suffering look. "I wish I was back in Mandos," Saelrien muttered. "Two of you? You might as well just put me back there at once." All of a sudden the temperature of the room seemed to drop, and all six of them...Elwing, Celebrian, Saelrien and the three ellyn...froze as the Lord of Mandos appeared before them. "What is this, Daughter?" he said mildly, though all those present could hear the hint of steel in his tone, and Saelrien winced visibly. "What hast thou been told about wishing such on thyself?"
"I am sorry," Saelrien whispered, going to her knees in supplication before the Vala and her lady. "I will not treat my re-embodiment so lightly again."
I watched this drama play out before me, and at the last, I could not help laughing. I managed to stifle it, but not quickly enough, for Lady Elwing turned to me reprovingly. "Come here, Daughter," she said, and I blushed. Of course, she had every right to call *me* so, and I could not question it as Saelrien might. She gestured for Saelrien to rise, and the elleth stepped out of the way as I stood before Lady Elwing. "Did you find something amusing?" Elwing asked, in the tone I vow she must have learnt from the Vala who so recently stood before us. Speaking of Hir Namo...I glanced around, and saw no sign of him. "W-where did..."
"My Princess?" "Niniel," Elwing muttered wryly. "I remember Aunt Galadriel. Of course I remember Niniel. She and Saelrien got on splendidly." Niniel had once had a friend among the Sindar, then...I slowly followed my former nurse's logic, if it could be called that, piecing together the chain of events. Saelrien had died at Sirion. Perhaps Niniel had even seen it happen. And the Sindar who died at Sirion were slain because of the Silmaril. The Silmaril that rightly belonged to Feanor, though Niniel did not agree that it was right to kill to get it. She did say the Sindar were fools for not handing it over, though, and had brought it on themselves...especially...I winced, not wanting to finish that sentence even in my head. "There is no need for apologies. Let there be peace and friendship between us," Elwing replied. "And to business, if you are agreeable, Cousin." "I am not particularly used to things being that exciting, unless the excitement is instigated by elflings," I said, and Elwing smiled. "Well, we certainly have plenty of those, whether they are elflings in truth or not. Many of our number are those who have been Reborn, such as Saelrien," she explained. "Most of them died at Sirion, but others died at Doriath or Gondolin. Nearly all of them claimed Aran Thingol, or Earendil's grandfather Turgon, as their lord." "Be there for them," Elwing said simply. "Teach them what it is to live again. It has been long since you claimed a position of leadership."
Summary: A father offers his opinion on whether his son deserves the title he has been given. Rhuvendir, they call him. Master of the East, East-victor, whatever its kenning. I look to the East, and I laugh to myself. No, the victory does not belong to him, though they would give him the glory. My people do not want to place the responsibility where it belongs. Where once was only darkness...especially on the Dawnless Day...there is now light, clarity and beauty. I look down into the gardens; they flourish under Elven hands. My people...his people, I correct myself, for this is not my realm, and my home is his no longer. Not by my choice; I would welcome my child home with open arms. But his heart is his own, and he chooses to dwell here among Mortals. Mortals and Elves alike, the latter of whom name him Rhuvendir when they think he cannot hear. And for what? Of course, my son marched into the East alongside Estel and the Dwarf, his brothers-in-arms. Of course, they faced down the minions of the Nameless, leading Estel's people. But was it their victory; his victory? No. In the end, the title Rhuvendir should rest on small shoulders indeed; two pairs, in fact. I would say three, were not one dead. I had the...dubious pleasure of, shall we say, hosting that one. A disagreeable creature, that; moreso than any Dwarf! And yet, in his sacrifice the fate of Arda turned and the Black Lands were cleansed of their horror. Yes, the victory is theirs; the victory belongs to the Pheriannath, for Mithrandir told me that, yes, that...thing had once been one of them. My son is not Rhuvendir; rather, he is Taidir, the victor's support. He is content with that. Yet, he is not quite content. I see it in his eyes; I hear it in his tone. Not yet, no; but one day...one day, Estel will breathe his last. When that day comes, my son, the Taidir, will leave these shores to seek the West. Taidir he may be...but to me, East or West, he will always be guren. My heart...my Legolas. *** A/Ns: "Rhuvendir" is a title given to Legolas in this story by the young, hero-worshipping Elves who join him in Ithilien. It is constructed by me, from Rhuven = "of the east" and dir "master" based off Quenya "Romendacil" which canonically was the name of two Kings of Gondor, and means either "East-Master" or "East-Victor" (as it was usually translated). My Sindarin dictionary provided no word for "Victor" (Victory, yes, but not "victor"). "Taidir" is likewise constructed from "taid" which means "second" in the sense of "support, second-in-command" and "dir" "master". Neither of these constructed words, of course, were used for Legolas by Tolkien, but I thought they fit. Hope that helps, if anyone was confused :)
Summary: When Oropher brought some of the Sindar under Gil-galad's protection, he sought sanctuary. Sanctuary... He gave us a home, once our home was lost. Sanctuary... He protected us from the Kinslayers. Sanctuary? He could not protect us from his own people. Sanctuary? Was it, truly? Sanctuary means safety. We were not safe from taunts, from prejudices, however petty they seemed. Sanctuary... We must seek sanctuary elsewhere. My son has been hurt by the Noldor elves' poison. I do not blame my cousin, but I will not let my son fall further into danger. Sanctuary... We will find sanctuary in the Greenwood, if all goes as I hope. In three days' time, we depart. Belain help us all. A/N: In Emma's and my series, Thranduil was born in 2445 of the Second Age, and Oropher did not remove to Greenwood until 2456. There is little enough in canon about this journey, but our story deviates a bit from what little we do know...there's reasons for that. In any case, this takes place after the hateful actions of the Noldor in Lindon come to a head and the conspiracy among the Noldorin advisors to discredit and ruin the Sindar is brought into the open; it is then, in our story, that Oropher tells his distant cousin that he is taking his people and leaving. Oropher, in our-verse, is the great-grandson of Elmo, who was the younger brother of Elu Thingol and Olwe Lindaran. Olwe is the great-great-grandfather of Ereinion (following the genealogy thusly: Olwe, father to Earwen (wife of Arafinwe/Finarfin) who are the parents of Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Galadriel. Angrod (following what Christopher Tolkien said about the Silm's error) is the father of Orodreth, the father of Ereinion Gil-galad and Finduilas.)
Summary: Day 23: "Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed to have..." A/N: References are made to "Mercy found in Betrayal", an earlier B2MEM fic of mine. The definition of "Formenos", North Fortress, is something I learned from Fiondil's "In Darkness Bound." "Formandos" means "North Prison" rather than "North Fortress" The geography of Valmar and its surrounding environs is based on Fiondil's. Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed to have been the last remnant of Formenos, the North Fortress. Superstitious ones even now called it "Formandos"...at least the ones who believed Feanaro's exile had been imprisonment. Everyone avoided the tower...until one day, a hooded rider was spotted turning onto the Mall' Etellerroron, the road that curved away from the North Road out of Valmar and toward the old fortress. The Elves who saw the hooded rider go were curious about his identity, but not so curious as to follow... The lone rider slowed as hoofbeats came across the desolate ground. Why had he not heard a pursuer? Of course, he thought sardonically. A Maia or one of the Elves loyal to the Valar, come to see you are a good little elfling and do not stray from your place. He turned, brushing a lock of raven hair back from his face, and met the eyes of a dark-haired elleth. There was something hauntingly familiar about her; he felt he should know her. Valar damn it, he thought, why must I be cursed with this...this... "You interrupted my ride."
Morifinwion. Alcarin Morifinwion. Alcarin, son of Caranthir...He nodded briefly. "If I am strange, so are you," Alcarin pointed out drily. "I am here because you are here." "Why?" Alcarin demanded. "Why are you here?" the elleth countered. Alcarin scowled at the maddeningly familiar companion the Valar had seemingly thrust on him. "It is none of your business, elleth. Go away." "I'm not." "Not what? An elleth?" "Yes. No. Maybe," she said, flashing a smile at him. Alcarin growled. "I said go away, you stupid elleth." He frowned. "You're not a Maia, are you?" "Hmm..." she murmured, not answering his question. "It's not fair that you know who I am, and I do not know you," Alcarin pointed out. "By your look I would take you for a Sinda," Alcarin said cautiously. They were riding together now, riding along the Mall' Etellerroron as companions. "But what Sinda would I find here, on Valinor itself?" "Oh, I am not merely one of the Sindar," came the reply. The elleth hummed softly to herself. "You might say I have an interest in this place," she added, looking up as the old tower of Formenos loomed in the distance. "I quite like towers." "I have come to seek my anatar's grave and pay my respects to Finwe Noldoran," Alcarin told the elleth. His companion nodded. "I suppose you might say I came out of curiousity," she said. "To see where it all began; this declaration that entwined my people's fates with yours." "I killed one," Alcarin admitted, turning his head aside. "A little girl; she was crying for her mother and father, who were dead. But after that...after that, I...things changed." "Aunt Galadriel entreated you to change." She abruptly changed the subject. "I want a closer look." Suddenly, she was just not there...and a white sea-bird soared above Alcarin's head, letting out a cry before heading for Formenos. The Reborn Noldo paused as realization struck, and the familiar elleth's identity fell into place. Valar help me, he thought. Never did I think to see her again. It was, all in all, a very strange day.
Summary: Ten year old Prince Legolas (about human four or so) and his father enjoy some special time together. A/N: Helvui, in mine and Emma's (AfricanDaisy's) stories was made for Thranduil when he was born. "Once, long ago, a little rabbit lived far away, in a great kingdom. He was a very fluffy rabbit, with soft brown fur, and black eyes," Thranduil murmured, cuddling his little son close as he began the familiar tale. "He was his little master's most favourite rabbit. And his name was..." "Helvui," Legolas interjected sleepily, reaching for the rabbit in question...who was, by now, a very old rabbit. Helvui's button eyes stared back into Legolas' sapphire blue ones, and Legolas smiled, hugging the special toy. "His name was Helvui," Thranduil agreed, running slender fingers between the rabbit's floppy ears. "He was the most special rabbit in all of anywhere," Thranduil added, eyes twinkling. "Because his elfling said so." "The High King said so." "He did," Thranduil reflected, with a nod. "He liked Helvui, and Helvui's elfling, very much too. They were the High King's friends." "Cousins," Legolas reminded Thranduil. "The elfling had lots and lots of those. The High King was one." "He was," Thranduil agreed, laughing softly. "Helvui didn't, though. He didn't have any cousins at all." "Poor Helvui." Legolas looked at Helvui, who looked suitably sad. "Mhmm, poor Helvui. But he had many friends besides his elfling and the High King, you know," Thranduil said with a chuckle. "Cabor, and Huan, and Miel..." The frog, dog and cat in question sat nearby on Legolas' bed, and the elfling promptly scooped them all up at once. "And...mm...And Tyuron." "And Tyuron," Thranduil agreed, dropping the mouse on Legolas' head. The elfling crossed his eyes and squinted, trying to see what Thranduil was doing. "Silly elfling," Thranduil chuckled. "Silly Ada." "Silly Ada. All right then, guren." Thranduil shook his head. "Where was I, laes-nin?" "Mmm...the bit about Helvui, and his elfling, and his elfling's Ada and Nana rabbit and everyone moved to the Greenwood and lived happily ever after for 'most forever, and now I tickle you," Legolas said breathlessly, before pouncing his father and doing just that. Helvui and his friends tumbled in an undignified heap on the floor, and Thranduil gasped with laughter. He was not slow to return the attack, and both king and little prince were suitably tired out before long. "Goodnight, Ada," Legolas yawned, as Thranduil tucked him in bed. "Goodnight, laes-nin." Thranduil tucked the stuffed animals in with his son. "Sleep well, guren." He settled on Legolas' bed himself and stroked his elfling's golden hair, joining him ere long on the Path of Dreams.
Summary: There's been a horrible accident...
She knelt on the deck, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that broke? she thought, grimacing. Any other ship's lantern...but this one...this one...She frowned. The lamp had been hallowed by the Valar themselves. Why would it have shattered now? The Lady of Aewellond's brow creased, and she sat down on a barrel, deep in thought. Staring down at the shards and splinters in her hand, it came to her. "It's gone!" Realisation slammed into Elwing, making her laugh in disbelief. "Gone..." Shoulders shaking, she asked herself how in the names of the Valar the Silmaril could have been stolen from Vingilot. Oh, where was Earendil when she needed him? Valar spare her from whatever habits he'd learnt up there from Tilion! "Neri!" she grumbled. "Nasie!" Celebrian laughed, joining her on the deck. Then she saw the shattered lamp. "What..." "I would rather like to know that myself..." Elwing grumbled. The two gave each other measuring looks. "Celebrian, have all of Aewellond searched." "Yes, Naneth." Celebrian kissed her mother-in-love's cheek and departed on her errand. Meanwhile, secreted in the tallest tower of Aewellond, a young Noldo stared at the prize in his hand...
Summary: Hidden in the Tower in Aewellond, Elwing's young guest thinks about what to do next...
Meanwhile, secreted in the tallest tower of Aewellond, a young Noldo stared at the prize in his hand...A prize the grandson of Feanor had come by unfairly, he reflected. Stealing it so audaciously...in broad daylight, though there was no one about to see. No one drew near the Vingilot when she was in harbor save for the Mariner himself and his wife, and Earendil's three companions. No one dared disturb her when she was alone. Except for him. He had violated the hallow...taken the jewel. Wouldn't you be so proud of me, Anatar! Alcarin exulted silently, though his pride was only half-hearted; a vision of disappointed grey eyes swam before his eyes, and he faltered. Trembling, the young Reborn froze as he remembered his travels with Elwing. She had been so good to take him in when they had left Formenos together, though Earendil had looked at him askance. Are you sure? he could swear the Mariner had said. One of the Dispossessed? Perhaps Alcarin had imagined that look...but no, he was sure the Mariner distrusted him. And why not? Why not? Elwing had convinced her husband that Alcarin would behave. And yet... Look at how you repay your hostess and saviour, Alcarin! Artanis' voice, laden with disappointment, flooded his mind. Look what you have done, Cousin...I thought I had turned you from that path... "Well, it didn't save me, did it?" Alcarin didn't realize he'd shouted...or that he was no longer alone...until he heard a disappointed sigh from the doorway of the chamber. "Alcarin...I thought you knew better. I thought Nana had turned you away from that." Alcarin looked up to see the disappointed eyes he had been visualizing...but framed by silver tresses, not gold. Celebrian walked toward him, shaking her head. "Enough, Alcarin. You have taken what is not yours." And for a moment, Alcarin wondered whether he had taken it, or it had taken him...and whether he could surrender the jewel in any case. A moment that seemed to hang in the balance eternally...and finally, he made his choice.
Summary: The tale of Alcarin continues...sequel to The Tower, Changing Tides, Hidden Jewel...you get the idea :-D Kneeling before Celebrian in supplication, the Reborn Noldo cast his eyes down. "I have sinned greatly," he said quietly, "and though the Valar rendered their Judgement and declared me forgiven, yet I let the memory of my past life and the Oath keep hold of me. Forgiveness I would ask of you, Celebrian of Imladris, if you would so grant it." "Forgiveness has already been given, Alcarin," Celebrian said, ignoring the Silmaril in his hand. A white bird had been observing from the sill of the tower room's single window, and Elwing resumed her proper shape, taking the jewel as the young thief wept before them. "Forgiveness has indeed been given," Elwing intoned. "But that forgiveness has been spurned, child of Morifinwe Curufinwion." Alcarin flinched. "What is thy judgement upon me, Lady?" Alcarin whispered, bowing before her, his hands clenched. "Forgiveness is not thine, for thou hast not respect for it," Elwing said, and the Light in her eyes made Alcarin remember just who Elwing's great-grandmother was as she spoke. "Forgiveness is not thine, but Mercy shall be thy lot, Morifinwion." That was not Elwing. Alcarin jumped as the scent of a pine forest in summer breezed through the tower and suddenly everything was too bright to look at. He threw himself to the ground as Queen Melian appeared. Melian looked down on the cowering Noldo. "It is forgotten. Let this matter be held redressed." Alcarin let out a squeak of surprise. "F-forgotten...my lady? B-but why?" Melian gave him a hard look. "Because, Child, this Oath nonsense has gone far enough...and if you are truly sorry, then, frankly, these Daughters of mine have far better things to be doing than dealing further with this. Events occur in the Hither Lands that need addressing far more than you do. Try not to think yourself the center of Ea." Alcarin found himself blushing, and nodded. "Then go with Celebrian and assist her. My great-granddaughter and I must speak alone." The dismissal was so final that neither Celebrian or Alcarin dared to disobey. They gave the Maia their obeisance and hastened out of the tower. "Well, that is settled," Melian muttered. "Now, then, my dear. Earendil has told you of the children of Yavanna who hold the weapon of the Nameless, and this is where my lords will need you..." Elwing listened as Melian spoke on, sending a silent prayer to the Valar that Alcarin would not be any more trouble. Or, at the very least, any worse trouble. *Nasie!* she 'heard' Melian bespeak her in agreement, and Elwing managed a wan smile.
Summary: There was no denying it; that letter had to be composed. Elwing sits down to write a letter, shortly before Elrond departs with the other Ringbearers.
"My dear sons, I compose this letter knowing full well that only one of you will receive it from my hand, yet I feel I must write it to both of you. Though one of you has long departed the Circles of Arda...my Elros, how I shall miss you! You would be proud of your long-son; I certainly am. I have flown to Este's Isle and watched the doings of your children, and mine, in the reflecting pool she keeps for that purpose, even as my own great-aunt keeps hers. Its power diminishes even now; but Este's does not. Estel, Estel! Well did my son name you. Elrond, my son...soon we will be reunited! Soon...you will tell me tales of Estel, Aragorn, the Elessar, and the great deeds he and his friends accomplished. Your daughter will wed him, Elrond...your brother's line will cleave to yours. Ah, my children...the end of the Peredhil. The Elder Days have gone indeed, and the Middle Days fade now. Elessar's reign will usher in the Age of Men, and may the Younger Days be peaceful ones. Soon your wife will be returned to you. And your son! Yes, son, I said, though if one ignores the time he dwelt in Mandos, he is old enough to be my father. No, he has bowed to my service and asked to learn what you will teach him. Alcarin he was in earlier days; Alcarin Morifinwion. You will know that name. Bestow upon him a new one, my son...for I think he will accept the gift of a new life from you, more than anyone else. May the Valar bless you, and Lord Ulmo speed you on your way; may Lady Elbereth's stars light the Straight Road for you. Naneth Elwing, Lady of Aewellond
Summary: On the Dawnless Day, who else was affected? (Sorry, my Muse hasn't lost interest in Alcarin, of course, but...well, we'll see what happens to him later, I hope) I have never seen such darkness, in all the time I have lived. I have seen darkness, and death, and evil; seen them face-to-face and survived, when I was hardly more than a youth by the reckoning of my elders. I have led my people through the fight against the Dark Lord for far longer than I care to remember. One might suppose that any of these days...these nameless days strung up one after another...might have been my darkest day, my most despairing hour. But now, as Anor fails to penetrate the clouds which have rolled up from the south and east...as she fails to cast her golden rays upon the realm I have worked so hard to hold...steadfast as I and my people are, how can we bear this Shadow, so unlike any other? It portends death not just for my folk, but all of Middle-Earth. And my son. Aran Thranduil Oropherion's thoughts were dark and dismal as the gloom that surrounded them all. A shrill cry pulled the King from his musings as he sat alone in his study; he had drifted off while poring over battle plans. When he looked up, he saw not the Fell Beast of his imaginings, but a small hunting hawk, one of Aranel's line, sitting on the windowsill. Each of the birds had been gifted with their ancestress' name, in honour of the Lady of Imladris who had given the first, before she had even been wed. "Aranel." Thranduil held out his hand, and the hawk landed on his desk. He stroked her feathered head, and images flooded his mind; through osanwe he bid her give her secret messages. My son stands at the Black Gate! Thranduil's heart pounded. Yea, my lord, but only as a distraction for those who will save us all. Aranel's confidence filled the King, and he could see her ancestress in her...just as he saw the courage of the one who had given him the princely gift. Celebrian...Bri...He let out a sigh. Remember the words of Hurin, O King! Aranel cried. For did not thy tutors teach thee the old tales? "Day shall come again..." Thranduil whispered aloud. For all their sakes, he hoped it would. Yes. He must have hope. He would have hope...and he would hold his son again, in time.
Summary: March 30 Challenge: "You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right." --Maya Angelou
To which my Muse says...(and sorry if this doesn't make sense, may expand on it eventually) Home?. He walked here under trees Verdant and fair, blossoming with Life Trees such as he's never known For these have known no strife No blade has hewn them And no blood soiled here The paths are seldom trod And sapphire skies are clear He walked alone, son of Doriath Of Gondolin, and of Man The Peredhel walked here alone Where the clear streams ran The tale of the Peredhil was closed For those of Elven birth no more Would mate with Mortal kind And seek rest in fair Valinor.... "Do you think you might try something slightly less..." The Crown Prince looked hard at the apprentice bard, one of his Northern cousins. "Insulting?" the heir to the Stewardship helpfully suggested. "Degrading?" his sister piped up. The girl, clutching her harp, blushed rosily in embarrassment. "Children," Faramir interjected. Merilosse, Elboron and Eldarion subsided. The Steward folded his arms. "They could have made their point more diplomatically,Lindaereth. But do you think, maybe," he suggested kindly to the girl, "you might consider reworking it before presenting it to the King and Queen?" "Yes, my Lord," Lindaereth whispered. "I will help," Merilosse said, "that is...if you would like. I am sorry I insulted your song." "Yes, my Lady." Lindaereth could barely keep herself heard now. She was sixteen...the same age as the Crown Prince...but she felt so small in the presence of her Southern kindred. Attempting to sing of legends was one thing. But this was the Queen's father. She sighed and left the audience chamber with Merilosse, hoping no one would tell her uncle...her Master...just how stupid she'd been. The End A/N: Merilosse is my OC, the daughter of Faramir in "White Rose of Ithilien" (which I think I wrote last year for B2MEM, or maybe as a birthday mathom). Lindaereth is also my OC. I called her Eldarion's cousin: the family tree goes like this. Arador was the father of: - Arathorn II (father of Aragorn II Elessar) - Three daughters (Arneth, Brennil, Glasdes) - Targon (younger son, just a few years older than Aragorn himself)
Arneth - Halbarad's mother Glasdes - mother of Idhrenor (bard in his youth, and tutor in his later days) Brennil - Thalanir - father of Lindaereth (and a son, Thanguron) .Idhrenor is her first cousin once removed, not her uncle, but the Muse says he's her guardian, her Master, and she calls him her uncle. Maybe one day the Muse will expand on that...
Summary: Elrond's twins want a bedtime story. “Uncle Thranduil?” Thranduil smiled at the pair of small Peredhil leaning against his knees. “Yes, pennith?” “Tell us a story?” Elladan asked. Thranduil smiled, stroking his raven hair. “Oh? What sort of story would you like?” the Elvenking asked his small charges. “A story about you,” Elrohir suggested, “with Nana and Ada in it.” He flashed a sunny smile. “About me? Well, then. Would you like to hear about how your Nana and I played a trick on Niniel?” The twins nodded. “Now, this isn’t to be repeated, mind you…” “We promise!” And so Thranduil began to spin his tale. As Thranduil tucked in the sleeping twins, Celebrian appeared in the open doorway. “I was just going to do that, Thranduil,” she said apologetically. “What have you been telling my children?” “Nothing,” Thranduil said, a slow grin crossing his features. “Nothing that puts you in a bad light, I promise.” “What about Niniel?” Celebrian asked. Thranduil did his best to look innocent, and laughed as his cousin rolled her eyes. “Thranduil Oropherion, you are incorrigible.” “You just say so because you love me, gwathel-nin,” Thranduil teased back. Celebrian smiled innocently. “Tomorrow, Elrond will tell them a tale.” Thranduil groaned. Doomed. |
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