4: Jolly Old St. Nicholas

Finrod opened his bedroom door the next morning to find a red felt stocking hanging from the doorknob with his name carefully stitched in gold thread in Beleriandic script. Inside the stocking was a large candy cane, if he remembered the name correctly. There was nothing else. Looking up and down the hall, he noticed other doors had similar stockings, though some were made from white felt and others green. All had a name stitched in metallic thread.

“Good morning!”

Finrod looked up to see Nimrodel coming up the stairs at the other end of the hall. She was only just beginning to show her pregnancy and Finrod smiled at the sight. “Good morning. What are these?” He lifted his stocking from the doorknob.

“A gift from us,” Nimrodel said. “Holly, Misty, and I have been making them on the sly for several weeks now. Now everyone has one.”

“But what do we do with them?”

Nimrodel shrugged. “Whatever you wish. Traditionally, stockings are hung on the mantle but they can also be hung on a bed or wherever. Parents will fill the stockings on Christmas Eve with small toys and candies and perhaps a new pair of socks or whatever.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “It’s usually considered a bribe.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow and Nimrodel smiled even more and nodded. “The children will spend time looking at everything in their stockings and won’t bother their parents about opening the larger presents under the tree until later.”

“I see… I think.” He shook his head at the strangeness of Mortal behavior, but was suddenly reminded of his own children on their begetting days eagerly waiting to see what gifts were to be had. “Well, I suppose I will keep mine on the doorknob for now. Has Glorfindel left already?”

“Yes, he and the Twins are acting as Elf Guides today, it being St. Nicholas’ Day.”

“St. Nicholas? Is that not one of the names attached to this Santa Claus?”

“The original name, yes. In many European countries, children receive a small gift, usually of chocolate, on this day in honor of the saint. Some of the resorts are holding holiday parties for their patrons and the Elf Guides are asked to help out if they are not already scheduled to give a tour.”

“It seems I will be on my own again today,” Finrod said with a faint smile.

Nimrodel gave him a considering look. “You don’t like being alone, do you?”

Finrod felt himself growing hot with embarrassment. “It is not that so much as I do not like being alone with my thoughts. Foolish, I know, but when I am alone I cannot help thinking about… about Finda being kidnapped and how it could all have gone wrong and….”

He was somewhat surprised to find himself being held and suddenly he was crying. It did not last long and when the last sobs faded, Nimrodel let him go, giving him an understanding look. “Every parent’s fear,” she said. “I know some were dismayed by the fact that Amroth and I decided to have a child in these dark times even as they rejoiced in our good fortune.”

“By some, I suppose you mean Glorfindel,” Finrod said with a slight quirk of his lips.

The elleth laughed. “Oh yes, and there is certainly some justification for his concern. The Eldar, of course, do not marry or bring forth children in times of war, and I suppose that, technically speaking, we are at war or at least in the first stages of one, yet, the Mortals who now have the means to prevent pregnancies if they so wish, still choose to bring forth children even in these troubling times. For them there is no real choice. They must reproduce, whatever state the world may be in, or the species will eventually die out. We who are immortal are not so burdened with this choice, yet Amroth and I spoke long and hard about it. In the end, we decided to let the Mortals be our guide. They bring forth children in hope that there will be a future even if all the signs say otherwise. Our children will be a sign to the Eldar that even we live in hope and that the Future, not the Past, is, as they say today, where the action is. Now, if you are truly afraid to be alone, why don’t you come with me and Amroth?”

“Where are you going?”

“Into town and you’re welcome to join us.”

Finrod hesitated for a moment, suddenly feeling stupid about being left to himself. “I do not wish to be a… um… what is that expression?”

“A fifth wheel? You will not be, I assure you. Misty will be coming with us and I think one or two others.”

“Then I will join you.”

“Good. We’ll be leaving in about a half hour, so you have time for breakfast. Oh, and bring your harp.” With that, she headed down the hall, leaving Finrod to fend for himself, wondering what purpose his harp would serve.

****

They ended up taking two cars. Besides Finrod, Amroth, Nimrodel and Mithrellas, Gilvegil, Barahir and Alphwen also came. Finrod noticed Barahir and Mithrellas were also carrying musical instruments. Finrod watched as Amroth competently maneuvered through the streets of Wiseman.

“I still think I should learn to drive,” he said. “It is ridiculous to be dependent on others in this manner. Why could the Mortals not have stuck to horses?”

The others in the car laughed. “We’ll teach you soon enough,” Amroth assured him, “but it’s better to learn when you’re not fighting a blizzard. Valar! I remember the first horseless carriage, as automobiles were called back then. Most people at the time were convinced they were just a passing fad, nothing more. How wrong they were.” He turned down a street and pulled into a long curving drive that fronted a large building.

“What is this place?” Finrod asked as he climbed out of the car.

“You’ll see,” Amroth said as they went inside.

Finrod found himself in a large sunny lobby, tastefully appointed with comfortable looking chairs and low tables scattered about. To his right was a chest-high partition behind which a woman sat working on a computer. Beyond her was an open space where an ornament-bedecked tree stood all lit up, though Finrod suspected that it was not a real one. He noticed several elderly people, some in wheeled chairs, sitting about. One group was sitting at a round table playing cards while others were relaxing in overstuffed chairs, reading newspapers or quietly conversing. There were other people who appeared to be wearing uniforms of some type and they were much younger in appearance. The woman at the computer looked up at their arrival and smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. McKinley and you, too, Mrs. McKinley. They’re waiting for you upstairs.”

“Thanks, Martha,” Amroth said with a smile. “As you can see, we’ve brought reinforcements.”

Martha laughed, giving them a sly look. “With that crowd, you’ll need it. Have fun.”

Finrod and the others then followed Amroth and Nimrodel as they went to the left and down a short hall to elevators. All around Finrod could see elderly people, some of them quite frail looking and being helped by younger people. “What is this place?” he asked quietly as they waited for one of the elevator doors to open.

“Brookwood,” Amroth answered. “It’s an eldercare facility where senior citizens, as they are called, live if they are unable to care for themselves or have no family to care for them.”

“And what are we doing here?”

“Bringing them some holiday cheer.” The elevator door opened and they crowded in. The doors closed and Finrod felt the car move. He was still not used to the sensation, but luckily the elevator stopped almost immediately and they stepped out onto the second floor. Amroth turned right and they walked down the corridor to a large gathering room.

“Happy St. Nicholas Day, everyone,” he called out to the large group of people gathered there. Finrod estimated there were close to forty or so, including attendants. A ragged chorus of voices repeated the sentiment.

“So, did you bring us any chocolate?” one old Man with dark skin and nearly bald called out. He was in a wheelchair.

“Sorry, Harold,” Amroth said with a smile. “No chocolate.”

“Drat!” Harold exclaimed. “It’s Christmas. We ought t’be allowed chocolate.”

“Perhaps if you’re extra good, Santa will bring you some,” Amroth suggested with a laugh.

“Hah! And pigs will fly,” Harold retorted and now others were laughing.

“Shut up, old man,” a Woman sitting next to him said somewhat testily. She was also dark-skinned and appeared to be a few years younger than Harold, her white hair carefully coifed. She held a cane before her. “I came to hear the Elves sing, not to hear you gripe.”

“Yes, dear,” Harold said, rolling his eyes, then he cast a sly look at Finrod, who was looking on in bemusement. “My wife, Mary,” he confided. “Been married to her for fifty years…”

“Fifty-two,” the Woman interjected.

“She gets prettier every day,” Harold continued as if he hadn’t heard, and perhaps he hadn’t, Finrod reflected.

“Flatterer,” Mary said with a snort of derision, but Finrod could see the love that she had for her husband in her eyes, the same love for her reflected in Harold’s eyes.

“Well, since you all are here to hear us sing, why don’t we start?” Amroth said amiably and before Finrod knew it, he was sitting next to Barahir with Mithrellas on his other side. Barahir had a lute while Mithrellas fiddled with a recorder.

“What will we be playing?” Finrod asked softly. “How should I tune my harp?”

“I think if you tune it to Starlight-on-Snow that should be fine,” Barahir suggested. “We’ll be singing and playing Christmas carols.”

“None of which I know,” Finrod said with a wry smile.

But Barahir shook his head. “Listen to the melody, which Mithrellas will play, and add harmony to it, as I will with my lute.”

Finrod nodded and tuned the harp accordingly and then waited. Apparently Amroth, Nimrodel, Gilvegil and Alphwen would provide the voices. When the instruments were properly tuned, Amroth spoke. “As today is St. Nicholas’ Day we’ll begin with a song about him.” Then Mithrellas began playing a sprightly tune.

“Jolly old St. Nicholas, lean your ear this way, don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say….”

By the second verse, Finrod was able to follow along, taking his cue from Barahir. Other carols followed. The audience was appreciative and clapped after each rendition. Amroth and Nimrodel tried to encourage them to sing along, but few did, most being content to just listen to the ethereal voices of the Elves. As they were finishing with the last carol, attendants were filling small bowls with ice cream and Finrod and the other Elves helped to distribute them to the residents. Harold got his chocolate, which pleased him very much.

Amroth and the others began circulating among the old people, easily speaking to them on a first-name basis, asking after their families (if they had any) or asking about the person’s health. Finrod realized that his fellow Elves had done this before, perhaps quite often. He felt somewhat left out, and was suddenly shy for some reason. So, he concentrated on helping to retrieve empty bowls and smiling a lot. He thought at that point they would be done, but no. There was another activity planned which apparently involved cutting out snowflakes and stars from sparkly paper.

“The residents like to make some of the Christmas decorations,” one of the attendants, a middle-aged woman named Cindy, explained to Finrod as he helped her pass out the paper and scissors.

So he watched as Harold and Mary and all the other elderly people folded and cut the paper, some of them with a little help from the Elves or the Mortal attendants. Finrod found it rather fascinating to see how the snowflakes were made, each one completely different, just as in reality. He helped Cindy pierce one limb of the snowflakes and stars with a sharp needle, creating a hole large enough to string filament. The paper glittered and shone in the sunlight streaming through the large windows that graced the room and Finrod felt himself being drawn into their beauty.

Then it happened.

One minute he was in the upper recreation room at the Brookwood Senior Living Assistance Center, the next he was standing on a frozen wasteland with the bodies of Elves, Men and Orcs scattered about him. He looked around and, even in the dark of night with the snow falling rapidly, nearly blinding him, he recognized the place: the Fen of Serech looking north toward Thangorodrim across the plains of Ard-galen. To the east lay the charred remains of what had been Dorthonion where his brothers had held the Leaguer in his name. Westward flowed the headwaters of the Sirion along the flank of the Ered Wethrin, the Mountains of Shadow, dark and menacing, and he could just make out in the far distance to the northwest Barad Eithel, that fortress of the Noldor from which his Uncle Fingolfin had ruled.

He took a step and faltered, pain overwhelming him, and looked down at himself, realizing that he was gravely wounded, blood seeping from a sword gash in his left shoulder, near to his heart. He felt suddenly weak and disoriented and fell to his knees as he clutched at the wound, hoping to slow the blood flow. What was he doing here? Where was everyone? He glanced at one of the dead lying before him and gasped.

Barahir!

But that was impossible. Barahir hadn’t died. Not then, at least. And he suddenly saw others, all Men, lying nearby, their dead eyes accusing him. These were the Men who had rescued him when the Leaguer had been broken, when he had been cut off from the main army and would have been killed or taken had it not been for Barahir. So why was he dead? Why were any of them dead?

He stumbled to his feet, trying not to panic, knowing that all that he was experiencing was wrong, that it could not be real. He tried to think past the pain, to remember where he had been before this vision or dream or whatever it was had assailed him, but his wound pained him and he had difficulty thinking. This is not how it had happened. So why was he here? Why was he alone?

Even as he thought that, he saw movement and sought frantically for a sword. And that was also wrong, for nowhere could he see any weapons. The figure came closer and he struggled to see who or what it was through the blinding snow and then…

“Ah, there you are, Findaráto.”

Finrod blinked, unsure he was seeing what he was seeing and half suspected that this was all part of a nightmare and that he was still back in Edhellond sleeping. Before him stood a Man with long white hair and a beard, dressed in an ankle-length hooded robe of red and gold brocade in a floral pattern with wide sleeves trimmed with ermine at the cuffs, hem and front, which was open, revealing a deep red velvet tunic underneath that fell to just below the knees. The hem and placket were trimmed with gold thread in a knotwork pattern. Pearls were sewn inside each knot. Black leather boots disappeared under the tunic’s hem and a black leather belt cinched his waist. In one hand he held a wooden staff slightly taller than himself on which hung a lantern and how it stayed lit in this blizzard Finrod had no idea.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” Finrod demanded harshly and then clutched at his shoulder, hot pokers of pain suddenly lancing through his body, forcing him back to his knees with a stifled gasp.

“Easy now, son,” the Man said, gently placing his hand on the Elf’s head as if in benediction. The pain ebbed away but did not cease completely.

Finrod looked up and saw the Man smiling at him. “Can you not guess? Well, no matter. Come. I will lead you away from here.” And he stooped down to take Finrod’s elbow, helping him to rise.

“How did I get here?” the Elf asked, now feeling dizzy and confused. “This is the Fen of Serech. This is where I should have died or been captured by Morgoth’s Orcs but was not. Why do Barahir and his men lie dead? And my wound. I was not wounded so gravely in the battle. Please, help me.”

It was a plea borne of despair as much as anything and he felt tears flowing down his cheeks. The Man wrapped his arm around Finrod’s waist. “We will, child. We will,” he said gently. “Now close your eyes and I will lead you hence.”

Finrod hesitated for a moment, then did as he was bid. He felt movement and there was a sense of vertigo that lasted only for a few seconds and now he felt warm and dry and there was a light and someone was calling his name. He opened his eyes to see several people looking down at him with concern. One of them was Glorfindel and he saw his gwador give him a relieved smile.

“Welcome back,” Glorfindel said.

“What happened? How did you get here?” Finrod asked, struggling to sit up, for he realized he was lying on a sofa. Glorfindel helped him up even as Amroth handed him a glass of water. Finrod took it gratefully, looking about as he drank, realizing he was still in the recreation room and everyone was staring at him. He blushed in embarrassment and concentrated on drinking the water.

“He gonna be okay there, Mr. Loren?” he heard one of the residents ask.

Glorfindel nodded, looking up at the questioner. “Yes, Sam. He’ll be just fine.”

“Perhaps we should finish up here as it’s almost time for lunch,” Amroth suggested then.

There was a chorus of assent from the residents and Amroth gave Glorfindel a nod as he and the other Elves moved away to help with the cleanup. Glorfindel sat on the edge of the sofa, his expression one of concern.

“Lunch?” Finrod asked. “How long have I been out? How did you get here? Were you not at Rainbow Lake?”

“Amroth called me when he realized he was getting no response from you and no Maia or Vala showed up to help.” Glorfindel gave him a mischievous grin. “Apparently you don’t rate.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow at that but eschewed answering back.

“Can you tell me where you were?” his gwador asked.

“The Fen of Serech at the time of the Dagor Bragollach when I was surrounded and would have died had it not been for Barahir and his men rescuing me,” Finrod answered promptly enough. “But I was alone and Barahir lay dead at my feet. Also my shoulder wound was open and I was bleeding rather copiously even though at the time I never suffered such a wound.” He looked down at his shoulder, half expecting to see blood soaking his shirt, but there was none. He looked back up at Glorfindel, continuing his narrative. “Then, someone came, a Man, or at least he seemed one to me. He was dressed in red robes and held a lantern on a wooden staff. He said he would lead me home.”

“Did you know him?” Glorfindel asked.

Finrod shook his head. “No, but he knew me, calling me Findaráto. The way he spoke, it was almost as if he’d been searching for me.” He paused and closed his eyes. “I haven’t had that kind of episode in so long, I’d forgotten what they were like. The only difference was, I somehow knew I was having a flashback, yet everything about it was wrong and I do not know why.”

“Why don’t you just sit here and relax until it’s time to go,” Glorfindel suggested. “I cannot stay as I need to get back to the resort. Are you going to be all right?”

Finrod nodded. “I cannot believe I’ve been out for nearly three hours. It seemed only a few minutes to me.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Glorfindel stood and bent down to give him a kiss of benediction on his forehead before going over to where Amroth was putting away paper supplies, speaking with him softly for a moment. Amroth nodded and then Glorfindel left, casting them all a brilliant smile, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.

Finrod sat on the sofa, watching everyone bustling about. One of the residents, a Woman with short white-blond hair and wearing glasses wheeled herself over to him, giving him a smile.

“We prayed for you,” she said.

“Prayed for me?”

The Woman nodded. “Mr. Loren said you were lost and could not find your way home and asked us to pray. I asked the Lord to send you St. Nicholas, it being his feast day and all. Did he come?”

Finrod looked at the Woman sitting there before him, her expression earnest and sincere. “He wore robes of red and carried a lantern on a pole.”

The Woman smiled. “Yes, that’s him, alright. I’m so glad.” She reached over and patted him on the arm.

One of the attendants came over just then. “Ready to go, Suzanne?” he asked.

Suzanne nodded. “Yes, thank you.” The attendant nodded at Finrod and started to wheel the Woman away but Finrod held out a hand to stay him. “Thank you,” he said simply and sincerely and wished to say more but words suddenly failed him. Suzanne smiled and there was a look of joy in her eyes. “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever,” she said and then she was being wheeled away.

Finrod sat there, pondering. Amroth came over. “We’re ready to go if you are.”

“Yes, I am.” Finrod stood up and started to follow the others out. They passed the table where the residents had been cutting out snowflakes and saw them neatly piled, no doubt to be hung up later. He hesitated, then picked one up, turning to Cindy, who was still there waiting to see the Elves out. “If I may, I would like to take this.”

Cindy gave him a searching look, then nodded. “Of course. And thank you, all of you, for coming.”

“It was our pleasure,” Amroth said with a smile and then they left.

No one said anything about what had happened as they made their way back to Edhellond, for which Finrod was grateful. When they were home, he went directly to his bedroom and hung the snowflake up where he could see it when lying in bed.

****

Notes:

1. The Beleriandic script of Sindarin utilizes a full alphabet rather than using diacritics to indicate vowels, as in Classical Sindarin and Quenya. An example of this script can be found on the doors of Moria illustrated in LoTR.

2. The Dagor Bragollach, or the Battle of Sudden Flame, began in the winter of 455 of the First Age.

3. Suzanne quotes from the beginning of Psalm 106 (NIV version).