Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: This time at the end of the chapter, as I do not want to spoil anyone’s surprise.

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30. Aracáno at the Council Hall

Aracáno’s trip to the Council Hall of Tavrobel differed considerably from Celebrían’s leisurely walk across town with the two Vanyar. For starters, there was a great deal more pomp involved – unsurprisingly, as he went in the company of the Noldóran and his Queen. And, of course, they rode up the short distance, to make a more dignified impression, with a suitable escort.

Aside from Arafinwë’s personal guards, they were given an escort of twelve honour guards, led by Captain Carnistir, in full parade regalia, with the coat-of-arms of Tavrobel emblazoned upon their front of their white tabards. The Noldóran’s banner was carried before them, as this was an official meeting with the town leaders, and both he and Eärwen had put on the finest clothes brought with them to show their hosts proper respect. Even Aracáno had been ordered to wear a formal robe in the colours of his House, as well as his atar’s personal device; and frankly, he was already beginning to regret that he had not chosen to join Celebrían, after all.

But it was too late now to change his mind, and he had no choice but to grit his teeth and go with his original decision. At least the people streaming onto the streets to see the cavalcade were all staring at Arafinwë and Eärwen. Nobody seemed to recognize him, which was a little odd. He had been, after all, a Prince of Tirion once – although, admittedly, a fairly junior and unimportant one – ad he had got as far as the Helcaraxë with his atar’s host – that should be worth something, should it not? How came that no-one remembered him? Were all those who had once known him dwelling in Aman or still residing in Mandos?

It was not so that he would want a big welcoming committee or anything, honestly. But a little attention would have been flattering. More so as, for the first time ever, his siblings were not there to steal it from him. Was it not the reason why he had been released first? And yet still no-one cared for him.

Neither his uncle, nor his aunt took notice of his disappointment, being too busy to display the proper image expected from them, and thus he was in a somewhat foul mood when they finally reached the town centre and were now approaching the Council Hall. The sheer size of it surprised him, even for such a large and lively town as Tavrobel.

“’Tis huge!” he murmured, duly impressed. Certainly, the palaces of Tirion were far superior – as far as he could remember them – but the lengthy, three-storey building could easily be compared to the royal townhouses of Eldamar.

“It also serves as the town’s central Guild House and Hall of Justice,” explained Captain Castimir, who had overheard his comment.

Aracáno nodded his understanding. Even Elves had quarrels that needed to be addressed properly and to mutual satisfaction, and as the Tol Eressëans had no central government, nor a King, it made sense that such things would be dealt with by the elected leaders of each individual settlement.

Some of the honour guards dismounted and took the horses of the visitors to the stables that lay under the building, while Captain Castimir guided them to the entrance doors. These were wide enough to pass through with arms outstretched, and the doorframe, carved masterfully of white stone, resembled of two great trees whose entwined branches formed the arch above the door wings.

Once inside the majestic entryway, Captain Castimir sent a youthful attendant – a Noldo wearing a grey tabard with the town’s device emblazoned on the front – to fetch their escort, someone named Gelimer, who would lead their Majesties to the Great Chamber. While they were waiting, Aracáno looked around him with interest to take in the excellent craftsmanship with which the Hall had been built.

The entryway alone was worthy the mansion of a King, he decided. The paned window arch above the door spilled golden sunlight across stone walls stained in pale green to complement a marble floor with veins the colour of jade. Above them, raised into the domed ceiling, hung a wrought iron chandelier, with silver fittings, that held a dozen crystal globes. The centre of the globes seemed dull and empty at the moment, but he assumed that they were, in fact, Fëanorian lamps that would burn with a cold blue light when darkness fell. Clearly, much of lost old knowledge had been preserved by the exiles in Endórë – and brought back to the West, it seemed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of light, brisk steps. Down a side hallway came a slender ellon, a Sinda by his looks, wearing a modest, knee-length tunic in dark grey, with dark breeches and a sleeveless surcoat in dark blue over it. The device of the town was embroidered upon his surcoat, as a sure sign that he, too, was employed by the Town Council. Tow armed guards accompanied him, both Noldor, wearing the usual ring mail; their long legs made his steps seem slower and more deliberate. He stopped in respectful distance and gave the royal visitors his obeisance.

“Greetings and welcome to the Council Hall of Tavrobel, your majesties,” he said in a passable, though accented Quenya; he spoke with the same slight lisp that had developed in Beleriand among the exilic Noldor, so he had to be older than he looked. “I am Gelimer, head scribe of the Council. The Council has gathered and waiting for you, if you would follow me.”

“We are ready,” answered the Noldóran with a brief nod, and the Sinda bowed again.

“This way, your Majesties.”

He led them down a wide corridor and then turned into another hallway that headed for huge double doors of carved dark wood. Along the passage were smaller side doors, and standing before one was Aranwë, clad in a formal robe of black and silver, in the fashion of the Gondolindrim, smiling broadly.

“I told you we shall meet again,” he said; then he nodded to their escort. “Thank you, Gelimer. You can return to your duties; I shall take it from here.”

The Sinda’s face fell in disappointment, and Arafinwë cleared his throat discretely.

“I believe we should allow Master Gelimer here the joy of fulfilling his appointed task,” he said in mild disapproval.

To his credit, Aranwë gave in gracefully enough; he even seemed a little ashamed. The head scribe hurried forth with renewed vigour. After all, one did not get to announce a royal visitor every yén.

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The huge doors opened noiselessly, and their guide gestured them to follow him into the adjoining chamber: a spacious room that was buzzing with hushed activity. Guards in mail ring stood on either side of the entrance, and attendants unobtrusively poured wine, took cloaks and refilled inkwells on the immense table. Tapestries of vivid colours, depicting scenes from life back in Middle-earth hung on all four walls between the tall, narrow windows. And the table…

Aracáno could not imagine a tree large enough to provide that solid, singular piece of redwood. The council table in his late grandsire’s palace in Tirion would have been dwarfed by this oblong surface that stretched over half the room’s length, from door to the far wall, where a stained glass window, depicting Tavrobel’s coat-in-arms, broke the light of Anor to a literal rainbow of colours..

At least two dozen Elves of various ages and kindreds sat around it in high-backed chairs, from which they rose with friendly smiles to greet the royal visitors with proper respect. Ellyn and ellith seemed to be there in equal measure; some of them like the tall, ash-blond Nando with the heavy shoulders of an archer, were clad in the colours and fashion of the Gondolindrim, including Aranwë.

At the table’s far end, in the position of central authority, a blind Elf sat.

The first thing Aracáno noticed about him was his extreme age. He looked positively ancient, even compared with Master Tinwë of Kortirion, and definitely the oldest Elf he had ever met. He was not particularly tall, but of wiry strength; clearly one used to deal with whatever Fate might choose to throw at him.

The second strange thing about him was that he was clad almost entirely in black: in a knee-length black velvet tunic over black leather breeches and a deep purple shirt of fine wool. His sleeveless robe, made of black brocade, was floor-length and open in the front, and embroidered with silver thread and black pearls on the hem and around the arm holes. There was something forbidding in his dark appearance, especially before the cavalcade of multicoloured light coming through the back window.

His hair was white; not silver like that of the Teleri but snow white, and he wore it in a lose knot on the nape of his neck, with only an elaborate braid adorning each temple, but even those were pulled back to keep his face free. The only piece of jewellery he wore was a signet ring with the device of Tavrobel, which he probably needed to verify the documents of the Council.

His pale, gaunt face showed definite Noldorin traits, although in an older, harder and sharper version, showing that he came from a time when intermarriage between the Clans had not yet been generally practiced. His eyes, now milky white and unseeing, had clearly been black once. He had his head tilted to the side as if constantly listening, and Aracáno now understood why the activity in the Council Chamber had been so subdued; the blind Elf most likely got his orientation through his hearing.

Gelimer, the scribe, stepped forth and announced the visitors, first in his old-fashioned, slightly lisping Quenya, then in Sindarin for everyone to understand.

“Their Majesties Arafinwë, King of the Noldor in Aman, and Queen Eärwen of Alqualondë, as well as Prince Aracáno Nolofinwion. Your Majesties, may I present Lord Gimilî of the Tatyai, lately from the House of the Hammer of Wrath in Gondolin-that-was – the head of the Council in the current yén.”

Aracáno was surprised again, for several reasons. Firstly, this was the first time since his rebirth that he would be introduced with his full (former) title as a member of the royal Clan of the Noldor. Secondly, neither the Noldóran nor his Queen seemed to be wondering about the blind Elf, whom they obviously knew. And thirdly, Gelimer had used the word Tatyai, which was an older out-of-use name for the Tatyar, the Third Clan of the Quendi, from which the Noldor originally came. That made him wonder who the old Elf could be.

Lord Gimilî rose briefly out of respect, and then took his seat again.

“Welcome, your Majesties,” he said in a deep, somewhat hollow voice. “’Tis an honour to have you among us again. It has been a long time, and we have, no doubt, much to discuss. Firstly, however, I would like to meet the brother of him who was my King.”

Gently nudged by Eärwen, Aracáno went forth and knelt in front of the ancient Elf. Being the tallest in his entire family, he was as tall on his knees as Lord Gimilî sitting in his chair, which made it easy for the elder to let his fingertips glide across the young prince’s face.

“You do share much of his looks,” he murmured, his unseeing eyes staring into a darkness that had been surrounding him for countless Ages. “It eases my heart to know that at least one of his brothers has been returned to us.”

“It wonders me that you still speak of Turgon with such reverence,” said the ash-blonde Nando who was clad in various shades of browns and greens. “After all, he ordered the death of your only son.”

Aracáno stiffened under the gentle touch of the blind Elf. Turucáno had ordered and execution? And people were discussing that so calmly?

Lord Gimilî let go of him and turned his head unerringly in the direction of the Nando.

“You know that my son was not entirely without fault in that unfortunate affair, Laikwâlassê, my friend,” he said resignedly. “His obsession with that old legend was at the root of all tragedies that happened to him and his family. Besides, at the time when he was put to death, I was still toiling in the iron mines of Mbelekôro; it was not until several yéni later that I was freed from the slavery of Angband and came to Gondolin.”

“Which old legend?” asked the Noldóran. “As I was told when in Endórë during the War of Wrath, there are many of them, few of which would be even heard of on this side of the Sea.”

Lord Gimilî turned to him with a tired smile.

“The one about Taimondo, the Swordsman of the Sky; he of the shining belt, who rises above the rim of the world to defeat the Darkness each night anew,” he answered.

The answer earned him blank looks from the Amanians.

“He means Menelvagor,” explained the Nandorin archer with the archaic-sounding name with an amused smile. “My good friend Gimli delights in using the old names for everyone and everything, not caring that the rest of us often cannot follow him.”

“For us, those were the only names we knew in all the Ages we spent in starlight,” replied the blind Elf unrepentantly. “’Tis not my fault that you striplings had forgotten all the old traditions of our people.”

“Can we not make this another argument of tradition versus change?” a venerable-looking elleth, a Noldo with the remembrance of the Light of the Trees in her deep eyes, interrupted. “You know how pointless it is, Legolas; so do not waste their Majesties’ time with such things.

The Nando bowed in mock apology. “I stand corrected, Lady Vainóni.”

For a moment, Aracáno  was somewhat confused, but he figured out quickly enough that the green-clad Nando’s actual name must have been Legolas; with the archaic version of it used by Lord Gimilî alone… which he seemed to do quite a lot, just to confuse the others for his own amusement. It was understandable that the others would grow tired of the game after a while, but Aracáno knew very little of the ancient times – few of the Noldorin Princes of Tirion had ever been educated in the matter – and his curiosity was now piqued, and it disappointed him that nothing of it might be told.

“I want to know more about that legend!” he protested, cringing a little from his own tone as it sounded positively elflingish.

“This is not the time…” Lady Vainóni, who obviously had sufficient authority to decide such things, began, but Arafinwë interrupted her with a raised hand.

“Actually, I would like to learn about those things more myself,” he said. “I was given bits and pieces in my time in Endórë, but no-one could tell me the legend in its entirety. I believe we can spare a few minutes, if Lord Gimilî is willing to share his early memories with us.”

The blind Elf nodded. “Gladly would I do so, Aran Finarfin. Come, my Prince,” he turned his sightless eyes to Aracáno unerringly, “sit with me while I walk the endless halls of my memories. It will be like talking to my long-lost son again.”

One of the councillors hurriedly vacated her seat, so that the surprised Aracáno could sit next to the ancient one. Other seats were arranged for Arafinwë and Eärwen, and the Council got seated again. Their expectant faces revealed that Lord Gimilî actually telling them something about the starlit Ages of Arda, instead of merely teasing them with the use of outdated names, must have been a rare and most valued event.

The elder took Aracáno’s hand, as if he were but an elfling, sitting at his atar’s feet, eager to learn, and began in a low, sing-song voice that seemed to come from an enormous distance; as it indeed came across many long Ages of the past, from a time when not even Tirion had yet existed.

“We woke up at the starlit mere of Koiviê-néni, when there were no great lights on the sky yet. ‘Twas the time after Mbelekôro had overthrown the Lamps of the Balî; at the time when the lands of Middle-earth, east of the Mountains of Balî-ndôre, were without light. The growth that had begun when the Lamps were shining had come to a halt, for all was dark again. Yet already the oldest living things had arisen: in the Sea the great weeds, and on the earth the shadow of dark trees. Small things walked beneath those ancient, towering trees; things faint and silent and shy. But in the deep valleys between the night-clad hills dark creatures dwelt, old and strong – bred by Mbelekôro in the North, to serve him and bend all Arda under his iron boots.”

There were nods of agreement all around from the oldest Elves present, some of whom had been probably also alive in those times. So far, it was nothing Aracáno would not have heard before, but he tempered his impatience. The elder was entitled to tell the tale in any manner he liked, and the rest of them would listen in respect.

“The Balî came seldom thither, save for Lord Arâme and the Lady Kémi, whom you call Yavanna,” continued Gimilî, for she was grieved at the darkness of Middle-earth and ill content that it was forsaken. Thos Mbelekôro could build his strength in the North undisturbed, gathering around him some mighty spirits among the Máyar. These were once the servants of the Balî but got drawn to Mbelekôro’s splendour in the days of his greatness and remained in that allegiance down into his darkness. And Mbelekôro took them and changed them into demons of terror: for their hearts were of fire and they were clad in living darkness; and Gothombauk, the Scourge of Fire was the mightiest among them.”

“The Valaraucar!” murmured Aracáno, and the ancient one nodded.

“Such were the monsters that haunted us in the Elder Days; and the Ñgwalaraukar were not the only ones. Many others, divers in kinds and shapes but equal in malevolence and cruelty, have fortunately been destroyed and forgotten since then by most; even by most of the lore-masters. And Mbelekôro, once he had looked upon the first Kwendî, began to take those of us who strayed from our first home, either to have us toil in his mines as slaves, or to be turned into his foul creatures, by torture and unspeakable horror. And thus his real spread even southward over Middle-earth, and spoiled its lands and waters with the vile of his evil.”

“Were you one of those taken by the Hunter?” asked Aracáno, fascinated and terrified by the enormity of such things at the same time.

Lord Gimilî nodded slowly.

“Yea, I was. I left our fortified settlement in the company of Morwê, our chieftain, who wanted to see the place where we were mining copper ore. For while even in those early times we Tatyai were skilled at making things that we needed and had already invented smithcraft, we had not discovered iron and its uses yet. Barely had we reached the mines, we were attacked, even though they were not very far from our village.”

He paused there, obviously fighting those evil memories, and everyone waited patiently. There was such silence in the Great Chamber as Aracáno had not heard before – not outside of Mandos, in any case.

“I tried my best to protect Lord Morwê, more so as I was wedded to Princess Morwêndî, his eldest daughter, but to no end,” the old one finally continued. “We were separated. Him they took to the torture chambers of Utubnu, as I learned much, much later, from where he was saved by our warriors, led by my son. I was taken to the iron mines with many others and toiled there for three whole Ages, fort his happened before the Chaining of Mbelekôro, and I spent what you know as the Sleep of Yavanna in those mines… until I grew blind in the eternal darkness without the starlight to ease my heart, blind and broken.”

“And yet you have escaped,” said Arafinwë in awe.

Lord Gimilî shrugged. “It truly was not my doing. When I was no more use in the mines, I was brought to Gorthaur’s stronghold at Tol Sirion, to be his personal slave and to amuse him. From there I came to Gondolin, after Luktiênê the Fair had torn down the tower and laid open its dungeons.”

“But how did you gain permission to enter Gondolin at all?” asked Aracáno. “I was told that not even our atar knew where the city was being hidden. Turucáno is said to have been very secretive about it.”

“That he was,” said Aranwë, grinning, “but the truth is, Lord Gimilî was found by one of our patrols, as he practically stumbled over the Dry River by accident.”

“If you believe in accidents,” returned the elder dryly. “I still believe that it was the unhoused spirit of my son that led me to safety; and Aran Turgon felt that he owed me for having put my son to death. Since I had once been a metalsmith and learned a great deal about iron in the mines, I became a member of the House of the Hammer of Wrath; they often recruited among former slaves, as you well know.”

“I wonder why did you not join the House of the Mole,’ said Arafinwë. “I understand that they were mostly smiths and miners.”

“Three Ages spent almost exclusively in mine shafts had been more than enough,” replied Lord Gimilî with a mirthless grin. “Besides, I was not fond of the lord of that House.”

“I cannot blame you,” muttered Aranwë. “Few of us were. At least our Lord Rog was a wise and gentle soul; a former slave himself, who understood what the others had suffered. But what does this have to do with your son’s fascination with an ancient legend – which, if I may remind you, you still have not told us.”

“Oh, it has much to do with it,” answered the elder. “That legend, too, has its roots in the starlit days. For the Lady Barathî, the one you know as Varda, looked out from Taniquetil upon the darkness of Middle-earth and was moved. Thus she took the dew that dripped from Silimê, the Silver Tree, and was hoarded in her wells, and therewith she made the new and bright stars to ease our hearts.”

“For which reason she is called the Star-Kindler and Queen of Stars,” said Eärwen quietly; she, too, was a daughter of the stars and understood the Moriquendi’s utter fascination with them better than the other Amaneldi. “She strewed the unlit skies with these bright vessels, filled with silver flame; and all those who opened their eyes to that light at Cuiviénen are called the Children of Stars. That is why my atar and our people took so long to make their final move from this very island, where they could still dwell in starlight, to Aman that was, at that time, brightly illuminated by the Light of the Trees.”

“High in North, however, as a challenge upon Morgoth, the Elentári set a crown of seven mighty stars to swing? The emblem of the Valar and the sign of Doom,” supplied Arafinwë, and Aranwë nodded in agreement.

“Many names they have been called,” he said, “yet in the old days of the North both Eldar and Edain called them the Burning Briar; and some of the more superstitious and less wise Mortals the Sickle of the Gods.”

“Quite so,” agreed Lord Gimilî. “But there were other stars that the Lady Barathî set upon the skies to shine down upon our darkened lands below; and our legends of old speak about the heroes of the heavens: mighty spirits that guide those vessels across the upper oceans. Kalakâno, for one, the Herald of the Night, who emerges glowing red through the mists like a jewel of fire. Taimondo, the son of Tulkatho, whose face and weapons gleam as silver in the night. And his sword-brother, Helluin, who always follows him closely like an azure bee.”

”If you still mean Menelmacar by Taimondo, then by all due respect, you are mistaken, Elder,” said Arafinwë cautiously. “The Valar do not have children the way we do; and Menelmacar, or Menelvagor, as he is known among our kin in Endórë, is the chief Maia of Lord Tulkas. Of that I am quite certain, as I fought on his side in the War of Wrath.”

“I know that – now,” replied the ancient one. “But in the early days we know night to nothing about the true nature of the Powers, and – like the Mortals afterwards – mistook the Balî for gods and the Máyar for their children. We had long learned the truth by the time your people returned to Middle-earth; but the old legends prevailed.”

“Tell us more about the one of Menelmacar,” begged Aracáno. “The one your son was so fascinated with. Why would he have such an interest for that particular one?”

“There was a reason,” answered Gimilî. “You see, it was said that Helluin is but an empty vessel, waiting for the sword-brother Taimondo will chose from among the Kwendî one day, gifting upon him a sword, made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star, and it would cut all earth-dolven iron like soft bread. And together, the two of them would wear off the evil of Mbelekôro, so that Barathî could replace all the stars that the Dark Lord had loosened and cast down from the sky.”

“Then in a way that ancient prophecy of yours did come true,” said Arafinwë thoughtfully. “In the Great Battle, Menelmacar and Ingilmo son of Ingwë fought side by side like brothers to overthrow Morgoth and put an end to his reign of terror. And in that battle Ingilmo did wield a sword that had been forged by Lord Aulë himself and was gifted upon him by Lord Tulkas.”

“I heard of that,” answered Gimilî, “and my heart ached for my son; for as an elfling had he already became enamoured by the idea of being the one whom Taimondo would choose as his sword-brother. Even in death, he must have been terribly disappointed when the choice fell onto another one.”

“Worry not about him,” said Aracáno. “The Dead have now knowledge about what is going on in the outside world; in Mandos, he is happy.”

The ancient Elf gave him a look full of sorrow. “The Faithful do not follow the call of Mandos, young one,” he replied. “We do not abandon the lands of our birth – not even in death.”

“But-but you are here!” pointed out Aracáno logically, slightly confused.

The old one nodded. “My fate is different from the others of my kind,” he said. “That is another tale for another time; one that we shall not discuss now. We have interrupted the schedule of this Council long enough.”

Aracáno was terribly disappointed by that – he loved ancient tales, and having found someone who was a literal well of previously unknown ones excited him to no end – but when he tried to protest, Arafinwë silenced him with a reproachful look.

“Now, be good, Aracáno,” said the King of the Amanian Noldor sternly. “Lord Gimilî was more than gracious to share his memories with us, and for that we all thank him. But we must not hinder these good people in doing the work for which they had been elected. Besides, we are here to discuss the renewal of trade agreements between Tavrobel and Tirion. I know ‘tis not as exciting as listening to ancient tales, especially such well-told ones,” he added gently. “But it is important, and as the son of the King, you must learn the importance of seemingly insignificant things.”

“I am but the third son of a dead King whose realm now lies under the Sea,” groused Aracáno. “When would I ever need to know anything about trade agreements?”

Arafinwë smiled ruefully. “That was exactly what I thought in my youth, whenever Atar summoned me to sit in court with him, rare enough as it happened,” he answered, “and see what I have become. Without the support of your aunt, I would have been hopelessly lost. You can never know when the burden of leadership may fall onto your shoulder. As a royal prince, you must be prepared for such an occurrence; and as your atar is not here to do it, I have to take over your training until his return.”

Aracáno nodded listlessly. He knew his uncle was right, but that did not mean he had to like it. He never had much interest for the affairs of state – he wanted to become a great warrior in Endórë, whose name would be praised in songs, not a King. And old tales were so much more interesting than stupid trade agreements anyway.

Lady Vainóni, the elleth that had reproached Lords Legolas and Gimilî earlier, and happened to be sitting on his other side, patted his hand encouragingly.

“Be not disheartened, young Prince,” she said in a motherly manner. “If their Majesties agree, you may visit us in the House of Hundred Chimneys later, where many old tales are told every night. My lord Gilfanon would be glad to have you under our roof for a time. You may not remember him, for you have met him but once, when you were a small elfling still; but he was an old friend of your grandsire since the Waters of Awakening and remembers the Elder Days well.”

Aracáno looked at his uncle hopefully, and the Noldóran nodded.

“I shall be delighted to meet Lord Gilfanon again myself,” he said. “It has been too long. We can make out the details of a visit in your house later, my lady, assuming that we, too, are welcome. I would not wish to impose ourselves upon you.”

Lady Vainóni waved off his concerns. “You and Queen Eärwen are always welcome, Majesty.”

“In that case we thankfully accept,” said Eärwen. “All three of us,” she added, with a gentle smile in Aracáno’s direction.

The chance to visit the mysterious house of Lord Gilfanon, of which he had already heard much from Meril’s people, reconciled Aracáno with the necessity of sitting through some boring Council meeting. He did have one last question, though, and turned to Lord Gimilî with it.

“All along this tale, you never mentioned the name of your son, Elder,” he said. “I would like to know who he was.”

In his eagerness to learn more he did not notice everyone present stiffening in their chairs; or the uncomfortable silence that fell over the Great Chamber. The blind Elf did hear the sudden ceasing of all voices around him, of course, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he smiled at the young prince thinly.

“His mother and I named him Endero,” he replied. “Later on, other people may have known him under a different name; and they will, no doubt, tell you unflattering tales about him. I do not question the truth of those tales; in his later years he must have been terribly mislead. But Kundû Endero of the Tatyai, Morwê’s heir, was a hero of his people, who fought Mbelekôro’s monsters under the shadow of the great trees for many yéni; and that is how I shall always remember him. More so here where no-one else knew him as he truly was.”

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

End notes:

Gimli the blind Elf hails from the “Book of Lost Tales, Part 2”. His personal background, however, has been partially changed. If you want to learn more about his people, you will have to lead my other story, “The Vault of the Dead”

For the stars mentioned in this chapter and the legends about them see “The Astronomy of Middle-earth” by Dr. Kristine Larsen. As she is an astronomer, I thought she would be the most reliable source.

Some of the names Gimli uses are either in Primitive Elvish (thank you, Ardalambion and Mr. Fauskanger!) or early versions, taken from various parts of HoME. I was not very consequent in the usage, as I am not a Tolkien linguist, so I had to use what I found ready-made.