Written for the September 2019 "Lessons" challenge, where it placed second.

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"Kili Móinson!" The shout rang through the learning-cavern, and both Master Nýrád’s pupils jumped. Nýrád gave a gratified snort as Kili grimaced.

“Yes, Sir?” Kili managed, trying not to feel resentful. It was hard not to, though. Even now that he was nearing thirty, the age when young dwarrows were no longer considered unfit for heavy labours or war, he was still under constant scrutiny by Master Nýrád, the tutor.

His brother Fili, five years older, had left these lessons and gone on to begin learning the ways of war four years ago, so now Kili shared lessons with cousin Gimli, twelve years his junior.

Nýrád’s eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned under his bushy whiskers. “The name of the Great Goblin who was conquered by the Hobbits of the Shire, I said.”

“Oh...er…” It was something to do with that Hobbit sport, the one his father had so enjoyed. So much so that a green, of sorts, had been installed in the home-cave. Not that he had been really able to play with anyone since he turned eleven and Papa had died. Golf…something. “Golf-thimble?” he tried, then cringed as even Gimli goggled at him. Nýrád raised his eyes toward the cave’s roof and muttered an unflattering phrase under his breath.

“What have I told you, lad, about paying attention?”

“I’m sorry, Sir, I will do better, I promise,” Kili said quickly.

“That is what you said last time – and the time before that, and the one before that,” Nýrád growled.

Kili licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. “But I do mean it, Sir. I did, too. Every time.” He raked his fingertips through his thin beard, anxiety mounting. “Please Sir, I’m sorry, I do mean to pay attention, truly!”

“Well, since my lessons are not engaging enough for you, lad, I have looked into finding you a new tutor.”

That confused Kili. What new tutor? The Dwarves of Thorin’s Line had been taught by Nýrád for three generations! His confusion must have shown on his face, for Gimli was watching him in dismay.

“You may come in, Master Elf.” Nýrád sounded…not entirely happy about the Elf’s being there, Kili thought, as he strode into the learning-cavern. But Kili was intrigued. His new tutor was beardless – a traitor, then? – lithe and tall. Black hair was pulled back off his pale face with a leather tie, he wore a mithril circlet on his brow, and his knee-length tunic of blue and silver was slit to the hips, revealing a dark grey shirt and undyed leather leggings tucked into calf-high boots. Other than the boots, he had very little in common with Master Nýrád.

“Well met, Kili son of Móin,” the Elf said, and his mellifluous tones spoke of an ancient joy and sorrow mingled. Here, Kili thought, was one who would never shout at or scold him.

“At your service,” Kili said, rising from the bench and giving the Elf a bow. “Um…meaning no disrespect, Sir,” Kili began, feeling Nýrád’s disbelieving look more than seeing it from behind him. “But does Uncle Thorin know you’re here?”

The Elf laughed lightly. “Oh indeed, your uncle approved this.” His dark eyes glittered with mirth. “So best you behave for me, Little One, or you will answer to him, hmm?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kili said. “What will you teach me?”

The Elf gestured for him to resume his seat and went to the bookcase. He retrieved a book of plants, labeled in Dwarven runes. “Since history gives you no joy, perhaps some lessons on the natural world? This is…” he paused, glancing at the runes.

“Pewterwort,” Kili read obediently. “It grows abundantly in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, and in the Shire.”

“So it does,” the Elf agreed. “Do you know anything else about it?”

“No, Sir,” Kili said with a frown. He had quite forgotten Master Nýrád, who had resumed teaching Gimli. “Um…it looks like a pony’s tail.”

“Indeed, and for that reason Men often call it “horsetail.” It is used to polish pewter, which is why the Dwarves call it pewterwort, but it is also useful to treat wounds, or in strengthening baths, and can be eaten as a vegetable,” said his new tutor. “I particularly like the name ‘horsetail’ myself,” he added with an amused smile.

“Why?” Kili wanted to know. “Sir,” he added hastily.

“My name is Elrohir,” the Elf replied. “I love to ride as much as I love to teach.”

“Oh,” Kili said thoughtfully. “Thank you for coming to teach me, Master Elrohir.”

Elrohir smiled fondly on this young one. “You are quite welcome, Kili.”

Nýrád watched the two for a moment, then returned to Gimli. Perhaps, he thought, this was for the best after all. Only time would tell for certain.

Summary: Finduilas of Dol Amroth finds rest and a place of safety after her long illness, as well as an unexpected comforter.

Rating: PG

Characters: Finduilas of Dol Amroth, OC (mentioned), surprise canon character

Written for the Teitho prompt "Harbor" where it placed second.

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“Milady?” Meluiel’s voice was soft, an uncertain whisper above the cry of the gulls. “Is there aught I can do for you?”

Finduilas slowly pushed herself up on her elbows, face white. The bed of soft sand under her blanket was warm, as were the rays of Anor on her face, but she still felt a chill that had nothing to do with the salty sea air.

“Where are my boys?” Finduilas’ voice croaked, a raspy whisper. She could hear children’s laughter, and yet…

“Milady?” Meluiel’s voice sounded further away, fading into the distance. Finduilas felt the waves lapping at her feet, and though the water was cold, she somehow felt warmed inside. 

“Meluiel…where…where are my boys? My sons…”

“You do not ask for your husband, Lady of Gondor that was?”

Was. Finduilas shivered, struggling to sit up in the sand, and pulled the blanket around her thin shoulders. A shadow fell over the sun, and she looked round. This isn’t Dol Amroth. How could it be? She had been in her bed in the Citadel when Meluiel last spoke to her, hadn’t she? But…

Blinking blearily, Finduilas squinted at the shadowy figure who had come to stand beside her on the expanse of sparkling black sands. He was tall, taller even than Denethor, and his blue-black hair was elf-braided, glittering with moonstones and opals. His amaranthine gaze stared into her very soul. He wore a light grey linen shirt and over it, his knee-length sleeveless tunic was of black watered silk, shot through with threads of silver. His leggings were of wool dyed charcoal grey. He wore ankle boots of undyed leather and over all a black velvet robe with the emblem of the Sun-in-Eclipse on the breast, cinched at the waist with a belt of silver discs that alternately displayed Telperion in glory and Ithil at his full phase. His brow was encircled by a silver band, a rainbow moonstone in the center clasped between two ravens’ claws. She stared at this stranger, uncomprehending.

“Do you not wonder where Denethor is, then?” he inquired, his melodious voice dark with a foreboding she could not name.

“Denethor…” Finduilas coughed, shaking her head. “Denethor would not come to my sick-room. But where…” She took the hand he offered, allowing him to pull her to her feet in the sand. The blanket slid off her shoulders, and she stood clad in only a thin nightdress.

He drew a thick black robe not unlike his own from Finduilas knew not where, then wrapped it about her shivering frame.  “Come, Child,” he commanded. “Come and walk with me.”

They trudged through the sand, Finduilas’ bare footprints left behind in an unsteady trail while the Being, disconcertingly, left no trail behind as they walked along the shore of the harbor. Ships lay at anchor, and she looked out at them. “Where have they come from, Lord?” she asked, venturing a title for the noble stranger, “and where do they go?”

“From whence they come is not for me to say,” he replied, “and as for where they go—that is a destination none but the One who gave us all Being can say, for it is by these that the Secondborn will be ushered into His Presence. When the time comes, you will have your own ship, Child.”

“The One…who…oh,” Finduilas’ eyes widened as many things became clear. “Are these, then, the Halls of Waiting?”

“This is how they appear to you, Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil, wife of Denethor and sworn sister of Thorongil,” he replied, “and I am rightly their Lord, as you have discerned.” Lord Námo replied. “This harbor is not unlike that of Dol Amroth, though it shares much with my sister’s demesne at the Ekkaia. You may not remain here forever; eventually it is your lot to take ship. However, if there is someone you wish to wait for…” Námo gave Finduilas a piercing look.

“I would wait, if I may, for Thorongil,” Finduilas said softly. “I have much I would say to him.”

“Thou hast, then, until the passing of Thorongil, Aragorn the Second, Sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain to remain,” the Lord of Mandos agreed in his most formal tone. “Set foot aboard ship before then, Child, and I will presume it is thy wish to leave sooner.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Finduilas replied humbly. Námo nodded and led Finduilas to a small, but comfortably appointed cottage overlooking the beach. 

“Here you may remain, Finduilas, and your needs will be seen to,” he explained. He led her into the bedroom, sparsely but comfortably furnished, and tucked Finduilas into bed. She sank back into the soft mattress and pillows, feeling safe and comfortable for the first time in she knew not how long, and suddenly very tired.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Finduilas whispered. “For everything.”
“You are most welcome, Finduilas. Sleep well,” Námo murmured, and left her alone to rest.

Tree

“Do you remember the Trees, Itarillë?”

“A little.” Itarillë shivered, her head lying on Artanis’ bosom as her cousin rocked her. “They shone so beautifully. Will anything ever be beautiful again?”

“The stars are beautiful, are they not?” Artanis asked, trying to find something to cheer her cousin – if anything could be cheering in this white hell they struggled through.

“They sing to me,” Itarillë replied softly, regarding the stars in wonder. “Yet the Trees were far more glorious.”

“I am surprised you remember them so well. This has been our world for so long.” Artanis kissed Itarillë’s pale brow.

Shrub

Itarillë shivered. They were making their way across frozen but solid ground, the deep snows interspersed with occasional greenery now and then. She reached out to touch a winterberry shrub, its determination to thrive inspiring the two nissi.

“Mayhap the Valar have cursed us, ‘Tani, but they have not wholly forsaken us. We are like this shrub, I think.” She stroked its evergreen leaves with her fur-wrapped fingers, plucking two blood-red berries, and she ate one.

“They cursed Fëanáro,” Artanis replied. “His actions doomed many. Let these berries remind us of their blood spilled.” She ate the other, feeling pensive.

Weed

The shrubs grew more thickly under sparse, spindly trees, and though snow was still present, Itarillë and Artanis thought perhaps the long trek was finally nearing its end. Here, reddish stalks grew with scattered leaves, alternating below pale pink blooms. These had sprung up, they noted dimly, in the wake of a large fire. The ships. The flowers grew in such profusion they could be naught but weeds.

“Fireweed,” Artanis pronounced them, and none gainsaid her. “In memory of the ships’ burning.” They had made their crossing. What welcome would they have? What of Fëanáro, they wondered? Where was he?

Seaweed

As they made landfall, the Noldor gathered what supplies they could from the freezing waters that brushed the land. Fish, of course, but also plant life. The only green and growing thing they had been able to retrieve from the water. Seaweed, they had called it for its abundance, but they had learned to prepare it and cook it with meats or fish in a variety of ways on the journey. Now it was a staple of their diet.

They gathered under starlight, struggling to find their land legs, looking West. The stars began to fade under a silvered sheen.

Grass

“Telperion! It is Telperion!” Cries of surprise rose from the shivering Exiles, and they scrambled to see better, climbing the grassy hillocks that rose away from the shore. “The Valar be praised,” Artanis whispered.

“Dare we praise the Valar?” Itarillë wondered meekly.

“I shall, for look, they have found again the last light of Telperion,” Artanis replied. “Perhaps it is a sign.”

“A sign of what?” Itarillë fell back against the soft grass, feeling warm for the first time as the silvery light embraced her.

“Of the Valar’s forgiveness, perhaps,” Artanis suggested. “Or defiance of the Moringotto.”

“Shhh!” Itarillë yelped.

Moss

Many of the Noldor still feared the name of Moringotto. Not I, Artanis thought, for see you, O Cursed One, we have made the journey and survived. Itarillë, who had been a tiny child when they began this hellish trek, was nearly grown, and Artanis had grown, too, in more ways than one.

Itarillë was picking her way across the greensward now, to kneel by a golden-haired child, hardly old enough to toddle about. “Laurelda, put that down,” she said firmly. Laurelda dropped the rock covered in moss, green and grey as her sea-colored eyes, and reached for Itarillë.

“Emmë!”