Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

I'm totally out of inspiration, but I did not want to miss the chance, so I thought I could tidy up this for the occasion. Happy birthday, Nilmandra, and heartfelt thanks for your dedication.

Long has been the road -and painful- from the Land of Light to the City of the White Tree. Change, change is the curse, she silently acknowledges and then smiles bitterly, for change, she believes, must have reached even those who once felt safe and protected beyond the Pelori… Change, who is brother to time, as she has finally come to learn after all her long years in Middle Earth.

He smiles and nods obligingly. For all his youth, this one has always been sure of his fate, and has embraced it with a grace that made him an equal among those doomed, be them Eldar or Edain. Proud of his burden, he carries himself with the quiet self-assurance and the grave dignity of one who knows he is not second to anyone who walks the lands of Hither, she notes not for the first time.

He proffers his arm with the mix of respect and connivance that has always distinguished their relationship. Bold son of a man, she thinks with a brief wave of regret, who dared claim the gift of a Firstborn with such impertinent confidence…and such honourable steadfastness. As he leads her to the western side of the garden her thoughts stray to the one whose life was claimed by another daring Edain who followed his own fate.

But this is not Beren; she reminds herself, banishing the unexpectedly fresh pain of that memory from her mind. She searches his face for the traces of kinship, and forces herself to rejoice in the faint likeness he bears to those she has kept from her thoughts for long ages. The strength and wisdom of the Noldor, the pride and sorrow of those who fell lowest and rose highest shine dimly in this king of Men, and she allows herself to bask in that knowledge. This is all that shall remain of the line of Finwë in Middle-earth, and with this last admission she suddenly knows that her task is done, her time fulfilled, and her suffering close to an end.

“I would like you to keep this, my lady, in the hopes that one day you will be able to return it to its rightful owner.”

Lost in her thoughts, she has not noticed his uncomfortable silence and uncharacteristic hesitation as they came to a stop before the western wall of the secluded garden. Now she lifts her hand to receive a purse of soft leather emblazoned with the White Tree.

She handles it with care, wondering, while her slender fingers, on their own accord, untie the leather lacings and tear its folds open.

“Please, tell your lord brother that his oath has been more than fulfilled for three ages of this world, and that it is my house that rests forever in his debt,” he pronounces solemnly, bowing deeply before her.

For the first time since Celebrían sailed, a tear graces the face of the Lady Galadriel.

A/N: Of course there's no suggestion of this being the final fate of he Ring of Barahir.

She bent over the abandoned mirror one last time, curious to see what it would choose to show her as its parting gift.

One vision stood out clearer than the rest: a fair face, and a gentle smile and a grey, knowing gaze; those of the brother who had gone every length to help her master whatever skill she turned her wits to, and had smiled proudly whenever she surpassed him. He who had shown her that there was strength in compassion, hope within failure and beauty in all living things. He who had…

The pain pulsed so fiercely that she feared she would choke, so she extended a long hand and tenderly wiped away that beloved face. Her heart was warmed by the glitter of gold on her finger, the ring she held in keeping by the grace of the last descendant of Beren Erchamion. It had replaced Nenya’s cold presence, and she found unexpected comfort in its unfamiliar weight. With a last look at the rippling surface of the mirror, which now reflected the green canopy that had been her home, she walked to where her escort awaited and rode away from the Golden Wood.

He stands before her, tall and golden and bright as she remembered him, closing her fingers around his ring and piercing her weary heart with that kind, wise, generous smile that had always been enough to bring out the best in her.

And as she looks at him in wonder, mighty and beloved among the Eldar, humbling himself with grave respect before the Halfling who succeeded where he failed, she finally realizes that it was his grace she had been reflecting for all those ages, his patient strength and selfless courage that had slowly infused her steely determination, softening her pride and showing her the way to redemption.

He was the one I always looked up to for counsel and inspiration, she suddenly understands. So much that he became my mirror and I his living image.

“I wished I could have lifted that weight from your shoulders…” He will always be her elder brother, she thinks amusedly as his concerned voice interrupts her musings.

“No one could have walked my path for me, brother, not even you,” she answers slowly, as the truth dawns on her. “You were to show me the way and I was to follow your lead…”

She knows she will never match his humble, easy disposition, so she bows to him deeply, in willing homage. The meaning of her long struggle is finally clear before her eyes, and she wonders whether that deep joy she now feels may cross the waters and reach he who still lingers there.

She cannot tell for sure whether it is her brother's voice or her own thoughts, but it does not matter. For the first time since she sailed, a true smile graces the face of the Lady Galadriel.

A/N: Less inspired than the first one, but every tale needs a conclusion, I considered...

Warning: This has nothing to do with the previous two chapters, and it is notably longer. A shower, I’d say, rather than droplets.

It is a conversation between Fingon and Maedhros, after Finrod’s death. You are excused from reading it, since I am well aware these are not the most popular characters, but I’m intent on cleaning my hard disk in a dignified way.

“When the wine is a defence of the truth, and the truth a defence of the wine.” Kierkegaard.

It was a trip I dreaded to undertake. Yet several years had gone by since Fingolfin’s passing, and the High King deserved a visit from his most loyal subject, I reasoned with my brothers, who knew better than to object.

I had to laugh at my own jadedness. I longed to see my favourite cousin and best friend, though I feared what I might read on his face.

The trip was hard, so I chose a small escort of trusted warriors and the strongest horses. My brothers’ guard over the passes of Himlad had been mercilessly wiped off during the Dagor Bragollach. Nothing remained of Ard Galen’s glorious passage, or of Dorthonion’s strength. The lands were treacherous but yet we Noldorin people are made of stronger stuff than anyone ever credited us for, and as we advanced into that destroyed territory we found out that our stubborn, resilient and dour kin were deftly reclaiming back much of what was swept away by the Worm and his dreadful followers after the breaking of the Siege.

We travelled in silence, not just for safety reasons but for my own choice as well. I was in an introspective mood.

I vividly remember one night when we made camp on a small hill from which Finrod’s mighty tower could be distinguished. Little was left of Tol Sirion’s watch, except an awful place of unnamed horror, as our scouts reported, more terrifying than the lands where once Ar-feiniel strayed. The evil that had lurked there had been recently washed away by the power of a maid –the daughter of a Maia as the tales went, yet the shadow of the dreadful events that had taken place there still lingered on the dreary, broken land.

I looked at the devastated landscape and found it the mightiest of jokes. “A king is he that can hold his own, or eke his title is vain. Let Thingol rule the lands he holds and we’ll do what seems good to us elsewhere.”(1) Those proud words had left my mouth in which seemed ages ago. Thingol was still king of his guarded realm, and… What of you, my dear friend? Are you now High King of a stone tower, surrounded by ghosts, Morgoth’s orcs as your neighbours? What have I done to you, Cousin, how deeper shall I drag you in this mad pursuit of death without glory? I wondered with a grief that was beyond remorse.

A patrol of tall, golden haired and grim-looking Edain met us two days from Barad Eithel and escorted us in dull silence into the equally agreeable company of a group of the king’s guards, who could barely disguise their disgust as they guided us up the winding mountain paths to the tall stronghold. We endured distrustful, reproving glares cast our way as we made our way proudly through the massive doors and entered the stone paved yard where the king awaited us.

I understood the true meaning of passing Time when I set my eyes upon my cousin’s face. Time was this desperate fight against a foe that was beyond our power to defeat, the responsibility of bringing our people to the edge of destruction in pursuing an impossible victory, this slow dying while guilt ate at our innards with a vengeance… I had never before noticed until I saw his tired and sad face. I wondered when he had become thus, so bleak and grim.

Of course I know when I did. It was when my father swore that oath, and we supported him. Or even before, when he looked but not asked, when he forgot but not forgave that we were all alive while his most beloved father had died alone. I was ensnared then, caught in the nets of Time, but seeing its traces on my beloved cousin’s face… If ever had I grudged him not killing me in Thangorodrim, that day I forgave him. How could I’ve ever thought of dying and leaving him alone with this burden he had so loyally placed upon his shoulders to carry along with me?

His father’s surviving guards hovered around him. Fingolfin had evaded their protection and they did not intend to let that happen again. Fingon was heavily and possessively guarded, though he seemed not to notice. He greeted us with distant courtesy and ordered his steward to provide accommodations, and then took his leave from our company in a sad, quiet way. His guards trod warily around me, fearing I was come to send him away in a mad search, as my murderous brothers had done with the best of us not a sun-round ago.

It took me three days to corner the High King in front of the door of the study that was now his.

He silently gestured me into a room where everything still reminded him of the father he had so doggedly strived -and failed- to please, just as Fingolfin had fruitlessly sought to please his, and I had unsuccessfully tried with mine. Of all of us, only my father had been graced with his own father’s full approval and yet it had not been enough to him.

He poured two goblets of wine and handed me one in silence. He lifted his to his lips and then put it down without drinking. I looked around and sat upon a wide, carved chair before the fire.

I waited. He had deliberately avoided me since my arrival and I was not going to let pass that chance to shake him out of his despondency.

“We cannot win,” he said, his voice hoarse but not without humour, after we briefly commented the situation in Hithlum. “He’s perfectly evil, while we’re only partially good. We’re tainted, Maedhros, we can never win…. Only try.” He had finally taken seat at the other side of the hearth, his wine still untouched.

“When did you become so wise and learned in the matters of fate?” I asked, a bit bluntly. “Forgive me, but I hadn’t noticed…”

He grimaced my way and looked into his goblet, as if the answer had drowned in the bottom.

Every name was thrown my way with equanimity; no grudges, no resentment, no malice or vicious delight. Simple statements, as if he were actually searching for an honest answer, though I was sure he already knew what that answer was. He had trodden that path many times before, of that I was sure; I knew him better than anyone.

“It must have been the day you made me High Prince of the Noldor, Cousin, when I finally understood how doomed I was…”

I shivered at the calm acceptance in his voice. He no doubt wanted to banish me from his presence, to reject me in front of our people, to shun us forever and part us from our kin, ill-fated bearers of misfortune and treachery. Yet he could not, and I knew that, no matter how much he wished it, he would not for the very sake of the people we had betrayed.

That was why I called him the Valiant. Not because of his courage, which most of the times was stubbornness, or reckless love, or pride –selfless but yet pride. No. He was the Valiant there and then, when he was obstinate enough to fight his own feelings, to confront those he held dear and dissappoint those who trusted him, and to refuse to be moved from the path he considered his. Keeping his alliance with infamous traitors against his own wisdom was the only way to prevent worse deeds, as he no doubt understood then, and Eru knows how right he was.

“The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.”(2) Arrogant words, my father, uttered in the crest of your madness! And whose deeds shall be remembered in songs even when there is no one left to speak for the Eldar?

The Edain already sing about your half-brother, who confronted the Lord of Fetters on his own only to die by his hand as your beloved father did. And what can be said of his firstborn, who defied Morgoth’s darkness, and his own kin’s retaliation, to recover the hröa- if not the feä- of your eldest, who betrayed him in Losgar and betrayed you in North Mithrim…

Oath-takers, kinslayers, ship-burners, dispossessed; betrayers of their people, doomed murderers…no song shall praise the sons of Fëanor for as long as Arda lasts, and how else can we fail you, my lord and father, how deeper can we fall in the pursue of your will? Such is the end of our vanity, which I find only befitting.

I sighed inwardly, knowing that my self-mocking and bitter self-destructive strain will only serve to push he who loves my more than I deserve to the utmost depths along with me. And yet I know there’s nothing that can be done to prevent it. Doomed we are, and none of us is one to recoil from such truths.

I shifted in my chair, avoiding his searching glance as we both followed our own thoughts, answering unspoken words. I tried then a different subject, in another painful attempt at dragging him from his sullen contemplation.

“He is not here,” he answered in a quiet voice. “I sent him to the Havens after the Bragollach,” he added, turning his head to look at the window. He took a long draught then, and I noticed that his hand shook minutely.

“You are mad,” I said, and it sounded like plain evidence in my own ears. But he kept looking away; north, I noticed, and neither moved nor answered. He had been elusive, secretive since my arrival, and I was tiring of the game

“So, let’s see if I understand,” I continued in a provoking tone. “Your son, who is by right the High Prince of the Noldor and who cannot be older than...Ten, fifteen years of the sun, is sent away from his father and his people...”

At least he’s still here, I thought. “Twenty-eight? Time flies!” I said aloud. “But tell me, what on Arda possessed you to send such a young creature so far away?”

“What indeed! Don’t tell me you think this is a suitable place to raise a child…”

I gulped down my wine to buy myself some time to recover. That was a low blow, and the first time the issue of Nargothrond entered our, until then scarce and carefully controlled bouts of conversation. But I had forced him out of his shell; I would not surrender now.

“Oh! That was before that stupid bird took my father’s corpse to Turgon and I... disagreed.

“You did not—“I had to fight hard not to chuckle, just picturing what kind of disagreement he might have had with Thorondor, yet I refrained from asking. Surely that was still a painful subject for him. I knew only too well the depths of that hollow place that still gaped in my own heart after more than three yeni.

“Besides, it is said that Ulmo protects the Shipwright … what safer place in these days?” he added in a whisper. Among strangers, at safe distance of Morgoth’s orcs and murderous relatives, he did not add, he would never fall so low as to openly tell me such a thing. The pain in his eyes was enough though. The number of his allies became shorter every day, and it was not for any fault of his.

I drank in silence, evading his trap, refusing to disappoint him with a show of guilt and remorse. None of us deserved that. He was my king and those were times of war. We were both rulers with high responsibilities, and we did not have the time to mourn lost ones or times long past. I owed him strength, not pitiful groveling. With a deep intake, I broached the subject that had brought me so far form cold Himring.

“What?” He dragged his eyes from the window and turned to me an alert gaze that belied his deliberately lazy movements. He had heard me, but wanted time to rearrange his thoughts. I could not fault him.

“I said, “Let’s launch a final assault upon Morgoth’s fortress. He will not expect it, and he’s weakened by that last blow…”

He gulped down what was left of his wine and stretched to pour himself another dose without offering. His remorseful wince when he watched me stand and leave my goblet on the side table to lift the carafe with my only hand and refill my cup in turn hurt me more than when he severed that by then lifeless piece of flesh from my body. It pained me to see guilt on his eyes after such a long time.

“He’s definitely weakened, I agree,” he said brusquely as I took seat again, sloshing the wine to hide my discomfort. “His most powerful servant was defeated by a maid…but not before he butchered the wisest of us all...” I lifted my eyes and kept his gaze steadily. I wouldn’t deny him the right to vent out his anger and rage at my brothers, as long as he listened to my plan.

“We? Meaning you and me and…who else? Those good-at-making-friends brothers of yours?” he said provokingly.

“Edain. They are strong and fearless. Many more of them have crossed the Mountains in the last years, and they hate Morgoth enough…” He looked at me with some interest then.

“Edain? Well, of course I do not believe we can expect much help from Nargothrond or Doriath…unless Thingol’s daughter agrees to march to war with us…” An unexpected, black anger surged inside me.

“Thingol should be glad that our attention is still focused on Morgoth…” I spat threateningly.

Fingon’s eyes flickered storm grey in rage at the implications of my outburst. He hit the table with his goblet and stood up heatedly, walking to the window and carefully avoiding my face. He stood there in silence, his back turned on me, leaning on the window, breathing raggedly and fighting to control his anger. That was the deepest blow I could ever deal to him, I was well aware of that, and he had to find a way to swallow his pride and endure it for the common good. He hated to feel cornered and being forced into doing anything, so I gave him time to ponder his options, although there weren’t many left. We were driven by our Oath and it led us to the Silmarils, wherever they dwelled. The implications he could see for himself. That made him a hostage of our Oath and our Doom, and in some measure responsible for the course of our actions. He should have thought it twice before rushing head first into the fight in Alqualondë, I told myself ruthlessly, as fear ensnared me that I was deftly leading him to his own end.

“To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.”(3) Mandos’ Doom rang again in my ears as I first heard it on the shores of Araman, and those words frozen me as my cousin hit the window frame forcefully with a clenched fist before finally turning a carefully composed face to me. “No treason,” I vowed to myself. “Not between us.”

“Tell me about those new arrivals, Cousin, the Edain. How many of them are there?” he asked in a controlled voice that did not reveal his inner turmoil. He had reached a decision but would not boast about it.

My fears quieted, I explained to him in all detail the plans we had been devising since news of the deed of Thingol’s daughter and that mortal-born lover of hers had reached our ears. We worked together for the whole evening, drawing battle plans and allocating resources in something that resembled the friendly mood that had always marked our exchanges. If Mandos’ Doom ever crossed his mind, he would never admit it before me, and I respected him most because of his discretion. Under his practiced, tactical eye, the strategies that had seemed folly when proposed by my hot-headed brothers suddenly gained in clarity and focus, and before our task was done I allowed myself to hope that it would all come out for the best.

“I suppose we can count on Círdan’s support,” he said evenly, relaxing against the chair and stretching his long legs.

I shivered, remembering the news brought by my brothers about how the High King had been outnumbered upon the plains of Hithlum and had been saved from death or worse fate only by the Shipwright’s timely and decisive help not many sun-rounds ago. My heart was warmed by the thought that the friendly Mariner had extended his benevolence from my uncle to my cousin, not only fostering his beloved son but loyally supporting and defending him. Not everyone had turned his back on Fingon the Valiant, it’d seem.

“…and I suppose I could send a messenger to Orodreth, although I would not count on his goodwill…”

It was meant as an innocent joke, but the pained expression that flickered briefly on his unguarded face hurt me deeply. I had never stopped to consider how utterly alone he had become in the last years; father and wife claimed by Mandos, sister, niece and brother out of reach and only son exiled in the distant south. So he, the one we Noldor, as well as many Sindar and Edain, looked up to for strength and hope was a lonesome, besieged Elf who now stood his ground as stubbornly as he had tracked his chosen prey in the carefree hunting parties in Valinor, or trudged hopelessly across the Helcaraxe.

“We have not heard from him for some yéni now,” he answered slowly. “It is to hope that his guarded city still stands tall and free.”

I sighed inwardly, mentally cursing his self-righteous younger brother who had abandoned him, all of us, to lay in hiding while his people bled themselves away in that relentless fight. It wasn’t Turgon’s fault, though, I reluctantly admitted, watching as my favourite cousin allowed himself to drown again on his despair. That was my own doing, and for the first time I truly wondered what kind of elf Fingon was, to be able to endure my presence as if I were not to blame for all the misery that had befallen him and his family, not to speak of his people.

And yet he sat there, standing up to his own faults, and still trying to do what was right, no matter how deeply doomed we were.

He’s bounded to follow my lead, as I am to lead him and thus I fully condemn myself; and that’s the deepest meaning of my fall, I suddenly understood, and a rush of bitter bile surged up my throat as we sat there in gloomy silence, each nursing more depressing thoughts. He once had the strength, yet not the will, to save us both. I have the will, yet not the strength, to deliver him, and so we dance one around the other, me playing the fool, he courting death with his calm certainty and his quiet acceptance…

“You know what?” he said softly, hardly meeting my eyes, a distant, sad look upon a wan face. “At times I feel like challenging Morgoth on my own and getting over and done with it. I think I can almost understand my Atar!”

His words hurt me to the point of making me want to strike him and shake him, and it took me some time to control my anger. When I finally spoke, it was on a careless whim.

I felt disgraced the moment those words left my mouth. He turned his full attention upon me, a single brow arched in affronted disbelief, his deep, piercing grey eyes glaring at me with almost forgotten intensity now.

I smiled briefly. Here we go again, I told myself. Fingon standing up to his cousin’s baits. It had always been thus. I would challenge him and he would follow, unto the bitter end. Some things never change, I thought gratefully, then bowed as low as my sitting position allowed. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend you, my King...”

I was surely pushing my luck, for he was getting angry, that I knew from the way he narrowed his eyes and licked his lips, reining in his temper, holding his tongue before making an abrupt remark he might later regret.

“I can guess you didn’t.” Was there amusement lurking beneath that stern voice, that grim countenance, that tired face? “Considering it is your own father you are comparing me to...”

Valar! One moment he was a mournful rag and the next one he was returning the blow! Suddenly I was aware that this little exercise needed a little more concentration on my part.

“If we are speaking of madness, I suggest you'd rather look back home first,” I retorted angrily.

“Who said we were talking about madness? I was speaking of being foolish, and I say that your father was the only Elf fool enough to have hoped that we might somehow overcome Morgoth. And I’m honoured, though not pleased, mark my words, that you would compare me with him,” he added, his tone softening, his fair features still contorted by the passion he throws in everything he says or does.

“I need more wine,” I answered calmly, deliberately pouring myself a generous dose, and then, as second thoughts, refilling his goblet. I know exactly where his limits are, and that day I was not above pushing him beyond what kingship would allow.

“So,” I finally said with studied calm, “you are telling me that you never had hope?”

“Ever.” His voice seemed stronger now, amusement winning the game, it’d seem; and for that I felt strangely grateful: a gloomy Fingon was more than I could bear, for it made our plight look every inch as bad as it was.

It was my turn for brow rising, and I dutifully proceeded, hoping to live up to his standards.

“You should have asked Finrod about it,” he retorted with wicked scowl, and I winced in pain, as a sudden vision of our golden, wise and compassionate cousin appeared before my eyes. “But since it is clear that you did not…” he added mercilessly, twisting an only too deserved knife in the open, torn, bleeding wound.

“Pray, enlighten me,” I sighed in a bored tone he knew well. I was always eager to indulge him in whatever it was that made him happy, and he was well aware of it.

“In short,” he said in faint amusement, “our wise cousin maintained that the Doom of Mandos is our very own estel.”

“Take this,” he said evenly, handing me a cloth, his grey eyes alight with mischief and something alike to... gratefulness?

“You may need more wine to wholly grasp the concept” he interrupted my musings, shamelessly refilling my goblet and his, and I suddenly realized that he was back, the same brave and light-hearted cousin of old, all in a moment he was there, in the flash of a smile and a wicked grin, so I raised my goblet and silently drank to him.

“You may be right. After all, you’ve always been the one with the brains,” I admited willingly, and we both drank to that.

“…and we ended up on the highest rampart with two decanters of Fingolfin’s most prized wine, after putting Ereinion to bed. We talked until dawn, you know how Finrod is…” he drank fiercely to hide his grimace, unwilling to redress that slight mistake. “Anyway, what Finrod claimed is this: When we defied the Powers, we had our fates sealed by our ow choice… and so the Doom is just the expression of it. We were not expelled from the Blessed Realm, nor rejected by the Powers or deprived of our rights, nor restrained and kept there in force… we simply chose to leave, we just exerted...how did he call it?” he frowned briefly, and despite his utterly clear and distinct speech, I suddenly realized that he was beautifully drunk.

“Our...Our free will, that’s it… We choose to fight without the Valar, and depart from their care? So be it! And let songs be sung about our madness!” he continued, raising his goblet in mock salute. “But not even they can deprive us of our heritage, Maedhros, we’re Iluvatar’s sons, his firstborns, and we’re bound to Arda until the end, and so... we shall return some day, we’re not banished forever from his mind, he will not allow his children to be despoiled of their gift so.…not even by Oath or Doom, and that’s the promise within the Doom and that’s estel!” (4) he triumphantly ended his explanation, casting an expectant, smug glance my way.

I drank down the whole content of my goblet and presented it to him. I let myself drown in his infectious laughter while he happily served another round.

“Know what?” I said, as he reclined on his chair, looking more at ease than I had seen him in a long time –though it had actually been a long time since I had seen him at all, I reminded myself. “I bet Finrod will give Lord Námo a hard time indeed… in fact I am sure that he will be expelled second time he attempts one of his conversations with the Lord of Mandos…” He was roaring with laughter before I finished speaking, tears streaming down his face, and that was more than enough for me.

We might be faced with a desperate fight against an enemy that was beyond our power to defeat, headed to utter destruction in what might turn out to be further prove of our folly, but all of a sudden, Finrod’s wise words offered an unexpected light in those darkened times, reminding us of an heritage that was beyond Morgoth’s grasp, a gift not even he could take away from us, and that was a comforting hope, estel, even for one so undeserving of grace as myself.

“I’ll drink to that, cousin, I bet you’re right,” Fingon said, still laughing helplessly, and I felt that my trip had not been in vain.

(4) Fingon is giving here his own interpretation of Finrod’s theories, as he exposed them to Andreth in the “Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth” The Ring of Morgoth. HoME 10

This is a belated birthday present for Daw the minstrel…with no spiders, no pets, but best wishes for a long, productive and successful year. Happy birthday, Daw!

“Ada, the trees are speaking!” the young elf stumbled hurriedly in camp, breathing raggedly and looking quite dishevelled.

His adar made a sharp gesture with his head and continued scraping off the flesh and fat from the hide of the adult deer he had downed early that morning.

“You can start the fire while I finish this,” his naneth’s gentle voice cut in before the young elf’s disappointment became all too clear. “There will be time for tales later.”

He knelt obediently by the half completed circle of flat rocks and quickly set himself to the task of building a stone wall that would keep their fire from fleeing into the forest. He awoke it with his strike-fire and fed it with a handful of beech-bark tinder and dry, dead wood, encouraging the new born flames with a gentle blowing.

“Come, help me bring the water…” His naneth was done with salmon gutting, it seemed, so he eagerly stood up and caught the waterskins while she placed the last salmon on the basket and wrapped the bloody mass of innards in big chestnut leaves. The young elf frowned briefly, knowing that it would be his task to dispose of them at some distant point from their camp and by the river. He escorted his naneth to the nearest river bend and stood watch over her as she got rid of the grime on her hands and makeshift apron.

The flames jumped happily in their stone prison when the young elf returned to camp with the waterskins, his grim task fulfilled. He stopped for a while outside the comforting circle of light, watching his parents as they made ready for dinner.

His naneth busied herself around while his adar, his task finished in his sure, efficient way, was now sitting by the fire, looking clean and almost relaxed, yet vigilant and silent. The youngster knew that the bigger pieces of deer meat now dangled from a tall branch, out of night predators’ reach. The entrails -as well as the smashed brains that would be used to cure the skin- had been carefully set apart, as had been the bones and sinews. He would be very busy for some time, splitting bones for fishing hooks, arrowheads and needles, and turning tendons into fishing lines or sewing threads, he thought in dismay. On the following days their neighbours would come to help and would be granted their share in the big creature. Nothing was wasted; that was the way of the forest, and there would be a merry feast to celebrate the abundance of the season and the deftness of the hunter they all looked up to as their natural leader. The boy grinned proudly, anticipating the looks on his friends’ faces at the sight of that magnificent prey hunted by his adar.

Startled, the boy could not help wondering whether his adar could hear him smile, and he walked grudgingly into the fire lit area, dropping the waterskins inside a hollow chestnut trunk and taking seat by his adar.

“Take this, my son, you must be hungry, you walked far today, I’d say!” With a quick smile to his naneth he reached out eagerly to receive the roasted salmon on the chestnut leaf and almost immediately blew his burnt fingers, frowning in feigned outrage. “Easy child! It is still too hot!” she scolded him with a warm smile.

“That is no reason for losing your manners.” His adar’s harsh voice cut their playful exchange.

He ate in silence for a while, barely paying attention to his parents as they exchanged news on food supplies and the safety of the area. His adar’s severe face look even sterner in the flickering light of the flames, his golden hair blazing bronze, like that fire devil’s who had appeared one night out of nothing leading a host of demons with blazing eyes… with effort, Thranduil forced his mind from those terrifying memories. It was five years since that treacherous force of murderous elves led by a red-haired had slaughtered most of their people and forced the survivors from their home, turning them into wandering refugees. He had not seen much of the events, but he had heard detailed accounts from the other exiles. But, above all, he knew that the deeply seated sadness that had overcome his adar and had chased away the merry, warm, affectionate and playful Elf he had known for all of his childhood had its roots in those dreadful, doomed days of the fall of Doriath.

As every time that he felt hurt by this short-tempered, irate, grieving adar of his, Thranduil closed his eyes and allowed his memories of better times to smother down the anger and resentment. He knew that the other elves looked up to Oropher for counsel and guidance, and he suspected that his adar felt responsible, and somehow guilty, for whatever had happened to the young princes. That was the reason why a group of refugees led by him still roamed as far as the dense forests of Ossiriand, in the vain hopes that the missing sons of Dior could be still found alive, perhaps fostered by the secluded green elves.

His adar’s voice dragged him from his musings. It always ended up like this, his naneth pleading uselessly and his adar stubbornly refusing to abandon a search that weighed more heavily upon him as the sun-rounds passed and the futility of his efforts became clearer. Moved by the quiet desperation that rang in his adar’s voice, Thranduil gathered all his courage and took advantage of the heavy silence that had fallen between his parents.

That was the ritual refrain that preceded every tale-telling in their family. It was usually the other way; Oropher would begin and the child would answer in eagerness. There was such sad tenderness in the way his adar now accepted his clumsy attempt at comforting him that Thranduil almost felt that his heart would break, and had to breath in deeply for a couple of times to steady his voice before continuing with his tale.

“We started very early, shortly after you departed. I went with Geldoron and Maerlag. We were supposed to be gathering wood for the arrowshafts, and we wandered truly afar, eastwards and northwards, beyond the river crossings. The woods get even thicker there, and we followed a clear stream to its fountain, up on a small hill. And we heard it, then.”

“And what did you hear?” Oropher’s voice sounded soft, affectionate as he remembered it form his childhood, and he felt comforted by his naneth’s encouraging smile.

“At first it was like a Harrumm, Barraroum…and it startled us. We took to the trees and Maerlag and Geldoron fled away…and I... followed them a bit more slowly…for it suddenly began to sing in our language, Adar!” he added eagerly, fearing that Oropher would scold him for his imprudence. His parents now looked at him in curiosity.

“There are those who stand tall and proud, like oaks unyielding, and are never bent, but broken,” he began in a voice that gained firmness and force as the words appeared on his mind as clearly as if he were hearing them all over again.

“There are others, like bay or reed, who curve before strong winds but stand their ground and hold fast to their roots.

Who shall be there to share shade and shelter, fruit and wood, when the storms are gone and misfortune is overcome?” His father shot him a fiery glance at hearing this, and Thranduil almost gaped at his intensity, but his naneth motioned him to continue and put a restraining hand on Oropher’s arm.

“Let your boughs sway in the winds while you sink your roots deeply into the Earth, but allow your fruits to wander free.

Reach with your limbs to the sky, reflect the light of a greater source, feed it to those who thrive under your shade and protection.

Stretch your arms to embrace the changing seasons, for there is plenty to savour in each of them, according to the will of Yavanna:

Join in the song of living things, as they grow and are content to be while the Summer days are long.

May you never lack the wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall; grieve not over unavoidable losses and eternal change.

Hide not from the quiet mourning and painful renewal of every winter, for there has always been a Spring following a Winter, and an Autumn after the plenty of Summer; and such is the way of things.

Forget not that, tall as you may grow, falling leaves shall always return to your roots.

Be like the trees you love, you Wood-elf, who offer shelter and protection to those who trust them. But try not to ride the storm winds.

Let the river flow away, never to return, for the trees know not of the water’s doom. Let those who are gone be gone: The sea is full, yet not a drop is lost to the One."

Oropher’s hoarse breathing mingled with the crackling of the flames as a warm spring breeze began to play among the leaves in the fire lit glade. Then, Thranduil stifled a yawn and the spell was broken.

“A wise tree indeed,” Oropher commented in a croaky voice, stretching his long limbs and trying in vain to look unconcerned. “Did you see whence the song came?”

“Yes, Adar, and that is the strangest thing, for as I was standing there, listening to its song, suddenly a couple of eyes appeared before me…and I almost fell from the branch! It was the strangest face I’ve ever seen… rugged but young, and eyes as deep as were those of the Queen..” his voice faltered here at the pained wince on his adar’s face. “He was tall as Hírilorn, with branches and boughs all around.. and when he finished singing he bowed to me. “Tell your Adar, sapling,” he said. “He will know better than to ignore advice from a tree…” He stretched then to his fullest size, towering above the other trees and walked away in three huge strides…what was that, Adar? Geldoron said I dreamed of it…”

“I do not think, son, but now it is too late for more tales,” his naneth said wisely.

Oropher looked as if a heavy branch had hit him on his head and had stunned him for a while, gaze lost in what distant places his son could not know. He put a soft kiss on his adar’s golden head and walked away to his small alcove. His adar had made a snug shelter of living trees for him when they reached that clearing a couple of days ago. He had found three saplings protected by a tall, straight ash-tree, and had bent them inwards, lashing them together and threading fallen branches into the resulting alcove. Then they had covered it with moss and pieces of bark and weighed it down with more branches. Together they had piled a bed of last autumn leaves inside until it looked as comfortable as Thranduil's chamber in Menegroth, the child had produly announced. With a last look at the fireside, where his adar and naneth sat in close embrace, Thranduil entered his living refuge, knowing that his adar would spend the night on the tall tree above him, watching his sleep and protecting him from evil and dangers.

Let those who are gone be gone: The sea is full, yet not a drop is lost to the One. Oropher sighed heavily, turning the tree’s words on his mind for a long time. Finally, he lifted pained eyes to his wife’s serene face. “Do you think he met one of the Onodrim?”

“And one who knows you well enough, don’t you think?” she said softly, pressing his hand and placing a soft kiss on it. “What do you intend to do now?”

“They are lost, then,” he whispered, and his pain bled fresh again in his soft voice.

“At least they are out of our reach, Oropher. And yet look around you, there are many more who need you, your strength and your courage and your guidance. Will you ignore advice from a tree?”

“Do you actually believe me to be so stubborn?” And then, “no, do not answer me…” and they chuckled softly, holding each other tightly.

“I do not want to go to Sirion, though…” he said after a time. “Can we remain here, in the forest?”

“I’m a wood elf, my love, and I think our son too loves the freedom of the woods. So unless you tire of this rustic way of life…” His deep kiss cut her words most successfully.

“Never. From now on I shall bend with the winds and give shelter and protection to those around me..”

“I am a warrior, Sîriel, I cannot promise to stand aside while my people are threatened.”

“Stronger than the foundations of Arda, Sîriel, never doubt me, no wind or fire shall uproot me.”

Dawn found them still embraced, standing guard over their sapling from the branches of the mighty ash who lulled them with its steady song. As the first rays of morning crowned the heads of the trees, it felt to Oropher that he had finally found his peace and his place, among the trees, away from courts and machinations and reassured by the presence of his loved ones.

“How could you ever thought that I would disregard advice from a tree?” he murmured against his half-asleep wife’s dark hair, wet with fresh droplets of morning dew. And he knew that he would treasure those wise words for all his life.

A/N The fall of Doriath happened around F.A 505. Nothing is known of Thranduil’s birth date. So I chose to have him born in Doriath for the purposes of this tale.

This is a belated birthday present for Bodkin. May the elven muses never leave your side, for your pleasure and ours.

“Why are you so surprised, Celeborn? One would think that you of all elves should know by now what happens when more than one Noldor thinks to be in charge…”

The elves flocked their way across the branches with the order and stealth of a charm of goldfinches approaching the remains of a picnic. Above them the pewter clouds were busy folding back the beaded curtain of a refreshing summer shower, so now the rays of sun pierced freely through them, glistening upon golden, silver and jet-black dripping heads.

“And what happens in such occasions, pray tell us, Thranduil? A long trek across the ice? Too much stone-building? High quality wine-growing? The War of Wrath? The…”

“…Second death of a reborn, if you do not stop talking, Glorfindel?” A silvery feathered elf clacked menacingly as he came to a halt on a strong, slippery branch, raising a hand in a commanding gesture while the golden haired one who had spoken first strained to pick up a sound that evaded them. The other four waited scattered on different branches, not really noticing the unexpected quietness around them. All the birds in the vicinity were silent, as the bickering elves took it upon themselves to provide the array of sounds that were expected in the forest on a summer afternoon.

“As you well know, Thranduil, I am of Nandorin descent,” Erestor stated sternly from his vantage point on a comfortable-looking knot of branches. Almost immediately he winced, catching Elrond’s warning glance a moment too late.

“Not to mention that, technically, I am not a Noldor…not only, I mean,” Finrod’s usually gentle and rich voice sounded so slightly, elegantly exasperated.

“That is a very telling piece of information coming from the High Prince, though,” Celeborn remarked with vicious glee, folding up in his mind for further use the contest of glares between Elrond and his former chief counselor.

“I was wrong, then,“ Thranduil acknowledged placidly. “The problem being that there were not enough Noldor involved in a simple task that would have been easily achieved by a Sindarin elfling…Did we know that you were involved in this game, Erestor?”

“It is good to know that life in the Blessed Realm has softened you to the point of acknowledging mistakes, Thranduil,” Elrond interrupted dryly after successfully reducing Erestor to a prudent silence with his famed frown of doom. “I so hope it has not blunted your senses too, so we can soon find what we are looking for,” he added with the pleasantness he would have extended to a stranded orc asking for the way home.

“Now, now, Elrond, poor Thranduil is sniffing the track, or whatever it is that Grey Elves do to follow a trail from tree branches, so we better sit comfortably and wait until this talented Elf with the sharp senses of a whole forest can tell us where our hiding prey are sitting…” Glorfindel let fall with the insufferable poise that was proof of his long-time acquaintance with Erestor. “Other than their favored beech glade, of course,” he ended his speech leaning casually over a long branch to steady himself after a sudden misstep on the slippery tree.

An outraged shrill and a stir of soft feathers followed the sudden sweep of Thranduil’s golden braid over a branch full of young sparrows that were following the exchange with the cheeky recklessness of their kin and too close for their safety. The former king of Lasgalen almost lost his footing as he turned his head brusquely to face the smug balrog-slayer.

A patrol of lesser elves would be cowering at the base of the tree if confronted with the bulging vein in Thranduil’s temple. These ones simply continued with their conversation while their friend was done with his gaping.

“You mean that our ladies are involved, then?” Celeborn’s brows towered over his cobalt-green eyes like the snow-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains over the Kheled-zaram, Elrond thought in an unexpected fit of remembrance before casting a quick, assessing glance to Thranduil, out of healer’s habit. Satisfied that their friend was not choking, he remained seated, trying to look as inconspicuous as the green maggot that munched peacefully at the back side of a big leaf hanging over his head.

“How do you know? I thought we had agreed that the young ones had snatched it…” Thranduil demanded then, his breathing sufficiently recovered. Elrond had not found himself so short of intimidating glares since the twins were not too young but still too much impudent, so he avoided Glorfindel’s smug glance.

“My hunting trip took me to the surroundings of one of the many entrances to Lord Namo’s dwellings,” Glorfindel began his tale hastily, no doubt inspired by the dark looks he was receiving. Elrond rebuked himself silently for picturing his friend falling face first off the treacherous branch. “I happened to be enjoying a well-deserved rest under cover of a welcoming copse of obliging alders that stand guard over a certain open-air workshop…” he continued, no doubt enjoying the attention. “There was no way that I could avoid watching the courteous exchange between Master Erestor and the Lady Vairë the Weaver…not to mention the unceremoniously way in which our most fairest highest princeness here was banished from the same garden some time later by a third-level seamstress… It pained me, my lord, I must confess,” he added with a contrite scowl, leaning forward for a second time and steadying himself on the same branch.

“We former residents are encouraged not to revisit there, Glorfindel, as you well know,” Finrod answered calmly, as he put away a soaked strand of golden hair from his face. “And there are far worse ways for a reborn to be received at Mandos’ doors, as you no doubt will soon experience yourself if you but dare shake that branch a third time,” the high prince added amiably, but with a look on his eyes that made Glorfindel stop on his tracks and remember how this elf had lost his previous life. He let his fingers flutter playfully over the branch before finally placing his hand on his belt with an innocent smile. Only then did Elrond notice that Finrod’s head and tunic were adorned with a string of sparkling droplets, thanks to a leafy rain-cloud that trickled joyfully over him every time Glorfindel pretended to brace himself against the young branch that ran above the high prince’s head.

“I seem to recall we agreed that you and Elrond were in charge of this mission, brother...” Celeborn’s mellifluous voice was the prelude to the spider’s weapon, Elrond knew by bitter experience.

“I did what we agreed to do, and went there and tried to find the thing…” The high prince seemed now unusually bothered by general circumstances.

“…Only to fail miserably, we already heard that tale,” Celeborn stung condescendingly.

“Only to be informed by Queen Míriel Serindë herself, and not by a third-level seamstress, that Lady Vairë had already consigned the parcel to an extremely pompous dark-haired elf,” Finrod corrected in what amounted to a heated tone coming from the even-tempered prince. “And yes, you certainly heard that tale before, Lord Celeborn,” he jabbed back, scowling at his brother-in-law.

“Will you two stop fencing for a while? If Elrond actually sent his chief swindler to cheat his High Prince, and supposing that Erestor did manage to get hold of the thing, can you oh wise lords! tell me why are we jumping like wild cats across the forest and what do our ladies have to do with the whole affair?” As it was his wont, Thranduil charged in the midst of things with the gentleness of an oliphaunt. Just when I was about to get out with it, Elrond sighed, meeting Finrod’s demanding gaze with a weak smile, falser than Glorfindel’s worried expression.

“I…I just sent Erestor as a precaution, Finrod, to cover your back just in case…“

“Err…He…He got a bit carried away, one could say. He takes his duties so seriously… too responsible, you must understand…”

“You only had to go and ask nicely, why is everything so difficult?” Thranduil sounded almost whiny at this point.

“Not enough Noldor in charge, one would think,” Glorfindel reminded him merrily, boldly ignoring Thranduil’s feral growl.

“As it would seem, and following his own motives, Elrond sent Erestor to retrieve the parcel before Finrod did…” Celeborn began cautiously, casting a measuring glance at Elrond and Erestor’s painful attempts at looking innocent.

“And then they came after us, jumping across the forest under the rain for the sheer pleasure of it ?” Thranduil’s voice wavered between incredulity and outrage.

“We can only guess what Elrond intended to do once he laid hands upon it, because soon he lost it to a rival of greater strength, one who was beyond his power to defeat….” Glorfindel offered then, casting another of his smug glances at a seething Elrond, who knew better than to complain. This explanation apparently convinced Thranduil.

“Ah, your lady wife got it!” the former king of Lasgalen concluded in the tone of one who had known unavoidable defeat before, casting a compassionate glance at the half-elf, who looked properly downcast.

“I wouldn’t put this plot past my sister’s talents, though.” The brotherly carnage was reaching new levels, as Finrod shook his head to get rid of the remains of the last shower and extended his lean frame to recline on the tree trunk, flashing his most deadly smile at his brother-in-law. “After all, it was Celeborn who first suggested that the ladies were involved in this scheme…”

“Certainly the fact that Amarië has been for long one of Lady Vairë’s assistants places her well beyond suspicion,” Celeborn shot back, casting a lazy look around.

“Not forgetting that Laerwen too is an interested party in the whole affair,” Glorfindel put the last touch to the boiling stew.

“Of course, of course...” Thranduil would not see his wife left behind in anything, even in a contest of Noldorin and Vanyarin female cunning. “The question is, why would you let us come all this way then, Glorfindel, if you knew that the ladies, and not the young ones had stolen the thing?” he asked in a deceptively soft voice, studying the golden elf through narrowed eyes that half-hid a hunter’s assessing gaze. The effort was wasted upon the reckless balrog-slayer, though. At that moment, a clear sound suddenly rang across the forest, making the soft summer breeze peal with the notes of elven laughter. Elves and birds flicked their heads towards the source of the delightful sound, their argument quickly forgotten.

"Does that answer your question, Thranduil?" Glorfindel sketched a comic bow, an amused smile twitching his lips at his companions' looks of dismay.

"To the beech glade it is,” Celeborn said resignedly, getting hold of a young branch and tugging at it to pull himself up. Finrod’s outraged yelp was lost amidst his friends’ chuckles, as they started off as one towards the clearing, following the birds. After a short flight, the swarm alighted in a soft ruffle of feathers, linen and braids around the laughing ladies, whose golden, silver and jet-black glistening heads were bent over a richly weaved tapestry of warm hues and skillfully crafted needlework.

“These trees look actually alive, as if the sun rippled through them in different shades,” Laerwen was saying in awe, turning the piece of cloth in her slender hands so it received different amounts of sunlight.

“The wool in this area and the threads used for the trees were treated with powdered minerals and jewels, so they would actually reflect light differently,” Amarië explained willingly. “It was Finrod’s suggestion,“ she added with a proud smile.

“And Amarië’s talented fingers,“ the prince pointed out, tracing the exquisite handiwork with his long hand and capturing hers over the rich cloth, while squinting to better appreciate the visual effect of his trick.

“Do you like them?” she asked softly, bending to kiss dry a fresh crown of raindrops on his fair hair. Faster than the rest, who stood awkwardly around the ladies, Finrod had found a place by his beloved and now his head rested comfortably on her shoulder.

“You well know I do,” he answered before dutifully returning the kiss, shamelessly indifferent to the exasperated growls that followed their warm exchange. Love flowed passionately between these two, despite their long ages together, and no one truly begrudged them their tender displays of affection as the bittersweet tale of their labours, of his selfless sacrifice and her steadfast endurance inevitably came to mind. Or rather of his youthful folly and her romantic infatuation, the Lady Galadriel had been heard to remark on the rare occasions when her eldest brother still managed to exasperate her. At this moment, though, the great lady was absorbed in savouring accomplishment and nothing, not even inappropriate behaviour other than hers and her lord’s, could dampen her satisfaction as she listened with elegant aloofness to the enthusiastic comments about the finely crafted hanging.

“This tapestry in deliciously detailed, did you see the expression in your sons’ faces as they chase after the elflings, Elrond?”

“And the texture of the pool.. one can almost feel the water splashing on Legolas’ face…it is perfect!”

“Whose idea it was to let them take a pack of elflings to the forest for a week, anyway?”

“I’d rather know how this much sought after piece of weaving, which Lady Vairë had offered to us, reached your hands first, my lady,”

Galadriel checked her talons for the challenge as the onlookers relaxed against the tree trunks, the tapestry forgotten at the prospect of the heated argument Celeborn’s playfully provoking demand would no doubt arise. Then, Celebrían’s cheerful voice rang in delight.

“Oh, I have found that small fowl you pointed to me, Erestor, perched on Elrohir’s head…I had not noticed it when you first brought us the tapestry…”

Elves and birds craned their necks at the same speed, from the delighted lady to the not-much-embarrassed looking counselor.

“Eretor! You claimed it had disappeared, that someone had stolen it from you!”

“I told you once, Elrond. In matters concerning not the safety of any of you two, I would obey the one who commanded me first…and this time she did,” the unflappable Elf pointed out as he approached Celebrían to better appreciate the detail. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It was our idea to ask Lady Vairë for a manageably sized version of her tapestries portraying our children’s adventures in the Blessed Realm,” Laerwen sentenced in her businesslike manner, defying Celeborn’s glare with the easiness of one who had faced Oropher –and stood her ground- for many an ennin. “And it took all of Amarië’s skill to persuade her and her ladies,” she added while Celebrían nodded vigorously and Galadriel snorted so softly. “I see no reason why you should enjoy the results of our efforts before us! We were faster and wiser, my lords!”

“Hear, hear!” Celebrían claimed, merrily adding to the mayhem as she playfully scowled at her defeated lord, who knew not whom to frown at on the first place.

“And you wanted me to believe that you had cheated and beaten me at it, Elrond,” Finrod said in mild outrage, contentedly wrapped in his wife’s embrace.

“Well, my lords,” Galadriel would not let pass an occasion to take matters into her hands. “It was our idea to suggest this portably sized replica of Vairë’s hanging, as you well remember, and it was our political skill that convinced the valier,” nor would she permit that blame tarnish an innocent's head…or merit, if it came to that. “And it was our undisputable talent which tricked you all to believe that this first sample would come to your hands on the first place,” she added with a victorious grin that came so naturally to her that no one could blame her for it.

“Do not forget your unmatchable cunning, which led you to hiring the most daring mercenary in the surroundings,” Glorfindel added from his watching point in another tree, at safe distance from the conflict.

“That too,” Galadriel agreed, unruffled by the interruption. “And now I am most pleased to announce that, thanks to our bright wits and undoubted abilities, the Lady Vairë has agreed to replicate for us, in this same size, some other outstanding moments of life in the Blessed Realm… with the discretion that the whole matter requires and just one copy of each, of course,” she added with a sweet smile.

“What… what kind of moments?” Thranduil dared ask after a moment of tense silence, in which the instinct of self-preservation rang all known alarms in the lords’ suddenly alert minds.

“Your son and our grandchildren’s moments, Thranduil, fear not for your dignity.” She could almost hear their jaws unclenching. “Of course, I have already requested a big-sized one of Elladan and Elrohir uttering their dwarven curse,“ Galadriel added with a mischievous grin. “With dwarven runes embroidered in mithril…”

“And I’ve seen a wonderful night landscape with the three of them, Elrond, when they went fishing and ended up drifting down…er, saving that poor elfling…” Celebrían informed cheerfully. “There is also a wonderful array of amusing situations of each and all of them with their children, it is so difficult to choose…”

“Or with others’ children,” Laerwen added, casting a loving look at the hanging in her hand which showed Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas in their present engagement, shepherding a group of elflings for a week in the forest.

“What…I almost fear asking,” Celeborn was slowly coming out of his dumbfounded state. “What do you mean when you say “I have seen,” my daughter?” he finally asked, casting worried glances around.

“Oh, the Lady Vairë was so kind! She showed us her looms and their latest works, but there is much more to see! And not only about our children,” Celebrían added with an innocent grin that made her words sound threatening, even without Galadriel’s reassuring expression.

“Amarië doubts that the valier could be persuaded to allow us the use of those, though,” Laerwen informed sadly.

“But I am no more than a humble assistant there, Laerwen,“ Amarië retorted quickly. “I do not doubt that the Lady Galadriel would manage to convince the Lady Vairë if she set her mind to it…”

“They are coming!" Glorfindel’s warning hardly stirred the now deeply troubled lords, who climbed higher for better hiding from the newcomers with a distracted look upon their eyes. The prospects were terrifying, even for those who had fought evil for long ennin in Middle-earth.

“The pool is at the other side of this copse! First one to arrive will skip cooking duty tonight!”

The elflings spilled out through the trees like overheated water, piping in excitement as they raced each other. An outraged shrill followed a loud splash a moment after.

“It took them longer to realize than I expected,” Elladan joked, letting his pack fall and dropping by a mighty trunk.

“They are tired, my brother,” Elrohir observed sagely, “and that tends to fog one’s clear reasoning, as no doubt Glorfindel would remind you…”

“And it is good that they are tired, for they would have been the end of us, if they weren’t,” Elladan complained, freeing his feet from the soft buckskin shoes and releasing a pleased sigh.

“Stop brooding, Legolas,” Elrohir prodded, offering water to their silent companion. “We will not hold this outing against you…it was a worthy effort...”

“I know,” the woodland prince drank briefly and returned the waterskin to his friend. “I cannot get used to that whole idea…”

“Well…you cannot blame your naneth for wanting a full-sized tapestry of yourself…She spent too long without you, after all.”

“I know. Yet I would not be comfortable, wondering whether your Daernaneth might choose a weaving showing the three of us in some silly exploit to hang on her summer flet, for instance…”

“That is most improbable, my friend, “ Elladan laughed out loudly at the very thought.

“Since she does not keep a summer a flet,” Elrohir ended for him with an accomplice smirk.

“…or that a replica of any of our many disreputable deeds would be made known to our wives…”

“…Or to your father-in-law,” Elrohir added with a knowing grin. “You have a problem there my friend,” he conceded in mocked compunction.

“How do we know? We only know that Erestor and Glorfindel plan to start a very discreet trade with a limited edition of these replica… it will surely grow out of control until every elf in Eressëa owns one of those!” Legolas complained in an unnecesarily high pitched voice.

It took some time for the trees to calm down their shaking after the sudden departure of preys and hunters, amidst smothered growls and howls of indignation.

“They are having a great time, aren’t they?” Elrohir smiled, fishing in his pack and throwing a last piece of lembas to each of his companions. The excited voices of the elflings reached them across the beech copse. The three of them knew that they were not talking about the elflings, though.

“Honestly, don’t you find it a bit strange, after all we have been through, that the ultimate aim of our lives turns out to be *this*? Legolas asked. The twins looked at each other, as if sharing thoughts, it would seem.

“We spent an age of the sun chasing evil in Middle-earth, running the risk of being turned into pincushions for orcish arrows,” Elladan began seriously.

“I see, I see, I get your point!” Legolas had to laugh as they began competing for the most appealing image. “And I am happy beyond words, and most grateful for this life I have, yet…. I cannot get over that tapestry thing, it sounds…too strange…”

“Strange are the paths of the One indeed, as Mithrandir would no doubt say, my friend,” Elrohir smiled, stretching comfortably on the soft grass. “But, look at it this way. The Firstborn have forsaken Middle-earth, or took to hiding and retreating from worldly deeds. What should Lady Vairë do with all the hired hands in her workshops?“

“Weaving Finarfin’s endless councils, or your grandfather’s well aimed barbs against the Noldor can be interesting for an ennin or two…” Elladan added wisely. “You cannot blame her for finding us far more entertaining and worthier of their talents...” Legolas cast a skeptic looks at both his friends.

“You heard what Vairë said when we talked about it, Legolas,” Elrohir insisted in a more serious voice. “Our lives reflect the joy of living that Eru conceived for the Firstborn in Arda, and her tapestries just refract that light so the Eldar and the Valar and the Maiar can see it and rejoice…it is no lesser thing, to become the inspiration for a Vala…”

"And the laughing matter for all elvendom," Elladan muttered under his breath. “Taryatur cannot blame you for that,” he added in a louder, hopeful voice.

“Perhaps you are right. I shouldn’t worry so much.“ Legolas agreed reluctantly. “I’ll go and pack the elflings. I think now I’m more eager to get home,” he added, sounding more convinced and casting a grateful smile to his friends.

"Refraction? Inspiration?” Elladan shot an incredulous look at his twin as soon as Legolas was out of earshot.

“That’s what Vairë said, you were there, too..” Elrohir claimed defensively.

“I was indeed! And tell me, brother, was I the only one who noticed the twitching at the corners of her lips?“

“There is nothing we can do about that, and in return we were granted permission to visit her whole collection of tapestries with our children. You know their interest in history will be boosted with that…”

“At least Legolas sounded convinced for now. Thankfully he is not too prone to dwell too deeply in the meaning of words…” Elladan concluded, putting on his shoes. He grabbed Elrohir’s extended hand and hauled himself up. “But I think we better not tell him right now about Finrod’s latest plans.”

“The museum in Finwë’s Halls? I’d wait for a more favorable occasion…”

Laerwen as Legolas' mother and Taryatur as his father-in-law, as as well as the title and most of the episodes referred to in this tale, are taken –without permission- from Bodkin’s delightful “Reflections from the Paradise of Elves." Hope you don’t mind!

A belated birthday fic for French Pony. I apologize that it is not the happiest of subjects, so let us say this is one of those “the intention is what counts” presents?

“Your granddaughter has managed to tame her uncle, my lord. She is presently guiding him at a slow canter around the garden wall,” she announced as she pushed open the heavy door to the spacious kitchen.

He barely turned his head to greet her, focused on achieving the perfect point of crispness on the skins of the last two capons. His face was slightly flushed by the heat from the flames and the mild exertion of preparing an informal meal for a ravenous family of nine.

“Your younger son and his wife are wooing each other under the cherry tree,” she added, unconsciously rearranging the assortment of vegetables on one of the leaf-shaped glass bowls.

He frowned briefly at her impudence; his kitchen was his realm, he was in command there and he did not take anyone’s meddling lightly. She proffered the long salver with the filigree holds looking properly chastised and he placed the roasted fowls on it with a proud smile. (Isn’t this the salver I gave to my aunt? It was Turgon’s gift and I could not stand seeing it day after day, she thinks in passing puzzlement)

“And your daughter is throwing cherry stones at them, while she pretends to be picking up our desert…” she finished, laying the salver on the long kitchen table, between the greens and the meat pastries with their delicately laced, crusty covers, with deliberate movements.

“Does that mean by chance that we are free to seize some time for ourselves, my lady?” His rumbling voice echoed within her, rippling in warmth from her chest and causing her knees to falter. “I would really like that,” he added. With a swift movement he enveloped her in his strong embrace, pushing her against him. “And you?” His husky voice tickled her ear, and he teased her softly, slowly, with brief kisses along her neck and up again. She shivered, running nimble fingers along powerful arms and across wide shoulders and up to tangle in silky tresses as his lips finally descended upon hers.

“You want us to go down to the cellars?” His clear, amused laughter filled her with unexpected joy. (Where is the haunted look, the bitter smile, the worried, weary brow?)

With a sudden pull he lifted her off the ground. “To the cellars it is then, my lady!” he threatened mischievously, taking a couple of steps to the door while she cried in mock outrage, entwining her legs at his back for support. He looked at her then with undisguised desire and tender love. (He looks so young and free of cares, she sighs as she traces her lord’s beautiful face and his open, untroubled grin with cautious, uncertain touches. Discarding all confusing thoughts, she plunders the tempting smile, needy and demanding as one who has walked for long days through a dry country and unexpectedly runs into a stream of singing waters.)

“We better finish the preparations, my lord,” she finally said, as they pulled apart reluctantly. He had a melancholy, considering expression on his face now. She was surprised to feel hot tears tingling in her eyes.

“Duty must stand before all other considerations,” he agreed, quite cryptically. She felt a dark wave of fear rushing within her. All of a sudden she was back on her feet, her face resting on his wide chest, comforted by the steady pounding of his heart and his big, warm, tender hand toying with her dark hair. “But never doubt that I love you more than anything,” he added, kissing her head lovingly. The pain and longing in his voice pierced her heart cruelly.

“Let us go out and join our children in the garden, my lord. Your adar must be about to arrive…” (Wait…your adar? Was he not…)

“I fear I cannot join you for now, my lady…” he said in quiet despair, and his voice was suddenly a faint echo, though he still stood firm and real against her.

“But he said they would be coming at the mingling of the lights…” (The Trees? The trees are no more! I saw them dead, I saw the impenetrable darkness…)

Anairë groaned and blinked, trying vainly to hold on to the last threads of the fading dream as her eyes focused on the new day.

“Five hundred years of the new lights have passed and you still expect to awake to the mingled light of the Trees,” she chided herself aloud, watching as Anar’s golden rays pierced the delicate curtain that flew in the morning breeze. She stretched lazily and lifted uncertain fingers to her lips, half-hoping that she could still taste him there.

“Five hundred years of Anar,” she sighed, disappointed and angered at her childish gesture at the same time. She cast an arm over her face to hide from the bright, glorious light that only made the lingering echoes of her dream more painful.

“What are five hundred sun-rounds but a whisper in the song of the Elder Years?” she wondered idly. Cold logic and knowledge always offered comfort to her. “Almost ten of your years are needed to make one of the Trees’ !” she accused then the unmovable shaft that speared her bedroom floor –and the eagle-shaped door knob that he wrought so long ago. She shook her head at her absurd outburst. She would need more than cold logic today, she thought, if she was to appease the fire that roared again within her.

“…knead the dough after breakfast and leave it to rise before meeting my students...” She decided to go over the list of tasks she intended to accomplish for the day to distract her troubled fëa. For five hundred years Anairë had filled her days with duties, both public and private, and had found comfort in making herself useful to others. She taught music and language, which were one and the same subject, to the few children that were born in Tirion. She was in charge of a huge section of Tirion’s library and stood as advisor –as well as chronicler- to Finarfin’s peaceful reign. She also ran her house and visited with friends and relatives, many of them as bereft as herself, exchanging small presents as well as conversation and support.

“Preparing the soil for the annuals is a priority, and then there is that length of linen I could turn into a new gown for Finarfin’s youngest niece’s begetting day…I am going to need some kelp to bleach it first, though,” she pondered. “Or I could use that piece of soft wool… Either way, I shall have to go down to the dyer’s workshop, I am out of woad and I also need orchil dye…” She was always welcome in the city. The Noldor in Tirion were glad that she still lived in their tall house and was always available for sound advice, a friendly ear or a scholarly discussion. They held her in great esteem and greeted her with grave respect; once their queen and now mother of a kinslayer, one who carried her burden with simple dignity and still served her people as best as she could.

“Since I am going to the marketplace I could as well pay a visit to the Parmatur.” The thought cheered her up a bit. “The last quires that I requested must be finished already, and I need a new quill pen and more gallnut ink...Oh, and some fish-glue! I think I’ll finish hammering the leaf gold today…!” The long, lonely nights Anairë spent in a solitary pastime, recording tales of happier times and lost ones in craftily illuminated and decorated manuscripts, in a brave attempt to keep her bond with her lost family alive. She planned each book carefully, and her wax-tablets filled with story lines and new designs for ornaments. Her tengwar flew elegantly over the carefully gilded parchments which, afterwards, she would decorate with exquisite skill with miniature portraits and landscapes. Alone in her study, as the lamps burnt steadily through the night and the stones mourned the echoes of other voices, Anairë had learnt that joyous memories hurt deeper in times of misery.

“So I could do with an early start,” she concluded, almost convinced that her longing was tamed into a manageable, well-known dull drumming in the back of her fea. She made as if to get up but instead she turned brusquely and buried her fair face in the soft pillows, finally surrendering to a grief that was still too deep to be so easily restrained. Five hundred years had passed and her hands still roamed the huge bed, unconsciously searching for the warmth of a strong, beloved body that should be sleeping beside her.

When the last tear was shed and the last sigh had escaped her chest, Anairë knew that she could no longer hide from the new day. She put aside the sheets and sat on the bed, feeling tender and vulnerable yet in some way renewed. She walked barefoot upon sun-warmed flagstones to the washstand, and frowned at the tired-looking, red-eyed and dishevelled face that that greeted her from the other side of the mirror of polished silver.

“And I will have a serious conversation with the Lord of Lórien about *certain* type of dreams!” she said warningly, as she got ready for the day's routine with renewed decision.

"Five hundred years" has no special meaning as a date. I chose it just because this was originally a drabble and, honestly, I could not see how four hundred and fifty five, for instance, would fit.

A birthday present for The Karenator -I had a ghost story "almost" done, but RL intruded- and a belated one for Elliska. I hope you don't mind sharing!

“Is there anything else that I can do for you, my lady?” the maid asked kindly as she helped the wounded young woman take seat on the bench beside the window. She was still pale, the maid thought, but she looked calmer and comforted after her brief talk with the Lord Faramir. Tamer indeed, she observed with a brief smile. “He can control men and beasts,” her husband used to say about the Captain. And shield maidens as well, she thought amusedly.

“The Warden said…” The voice came out softly, almost quivering. The proud, demanding lady that had confronted the Warden seemed now uncertain, thoughtful.

“Did he shout at you? Do not take his words to heart, child,” the maid said eagerly, fearful for a moment that the serious Warden had offended the wounded lady. “He barks but seldom bites. He is a short-tempered old surgeon, but whatever he threatened to do to you, he wasn’t speaking seriously…”

“On the contrary, he was kind to my curtness,” she answered softly, with the ghost of a bashful smile. “He said there is a Marshall in command of the Riders of the Mark that remained in the city and…” she began haltingly, “Is… Is there a way that I could send a message to him?” she asked hopefully.

“I’ll try to find an errand runner that can be spared,” the maid answered, and then, at the dejected look on the pale face, “I’ll find one, my lady, there are few boys left for the job, and they are kept busy by the healers, but they are always eager to approach the warriors. I’ll go and see what can be done!”

With an encouraging smile the maid poked at the logs on the hearth, lighted one of the lamps and took her leave, closing the door quietly behind her.

A firm rap on the door brought Eowyn back to awareness. She was still sitting on the bench by the window, where she had sat after her stroll in the gardens. The day had faded away as she drifted in a fretful slumber, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she straightened up, feeling the cold air that seeped through the thick stone walls despite the hearty fire that blazed happily…or was it the cold within her?

Someone was still waiting outside, a double knock reminded her. A healer, most assuredly, or perhaps the night meal.

“Elfhelm!” she greeted in joy. It was a voice she knew well, a voice that had comforted, encouraged, reprimanded, coaxed, taught, advised, teased and warned her for most of her life and since she was a terrified, orphan child in her uncle’s court. “I asked for a messenger…did not want to make you come up here!” She stood up hurriedly, moved and comforted by the unexpected visit. “Just to let you know that I am back on my feet and that my arm is feeling much better!”

The voice she knew well, but never before had she heard frost on it, not towards her. She halted in mid-step and tilted her head, watching him searchingly, as a bird suddenly wary of unexpected danger.

“Do come in, Elfhelm,” she invited cautiously. “There is no need for you to stand at the door as an unwelcome visitor…”

In three strides the tall Rider closed the door and came to stand in attention before her. At the dim light of the fire she had a glimpse of the usually friendly, open face now partially clouded by a deep sadness that could not be passed for exhaustion.

“Will you not take a seat?” she offered uncertainly, unnerved by his silence and his formal demeanour. “I…I wanted to tell you…” she began, seeing that he would not move. “I wanted to express my gratitude to you for…allowing me to ride with the king,” she ended in a pleading whisper. The Marshall shuffled uncomfortably on his feet, his gloved left hand fidgeting on the buckle of the leather belt.

“Place your gratitude elsewhere, where it may be deserved and appreciated, my lady,” he mumbled in a hoarse voice. She shook her head uncomprehending, hurt by the unanticipated rebuke.

“By the time I found out that you rode in my eored it was too late to give you away without causing worse trouble, so I chose the lesser evil.” He fixed her in his clear gaze, blue eyes hooded by lack of sleep, worry, anger. He shook his head briefly. “That you betrayed my trust I can accept. Friendships are stretched beyond their limits in harsh times, and you chose to disregard ours for your own motives, Eowyn, but to betray your king and your people, who looked up to the House of Eorl to protect and guide them!”

His disappointment stung. She threw her head back regally and looked up at Elfhelm.

“I owe you no explanations, Marshall,” she said tensely. “The King will judge my deeds, if it ever comes a time for judgment. I shall offer my apologies to you instead, that you were punished by my decision, being left behind in such a dishonourable position.” A gloved hand tightened on a buckle made her smile briefly, satisfied. She had drawn blood, it seemed. She rearranged her wards and waited.

“If it is punishment indeed, then I will welcome it gladly, for it is just reward for my actions,” the tall Rider finally said in a harsh voice. He took a deep breath and shook his head heavily, his fists opening and closing as he fought to keep his anger under control. “But this is no time for punishment or reward, but for duty and selfless deeds, Eowyn. My King appoints me as guardian of the last treasure of his House, and keeper of what may yet survive of his people, were he to die even if the day is won, and you pretended to pity me? What greater honour can a Rider of the Mark be appointed, daughter of Eomund?” He advanced to stand before her, and bent to look her straight in the eye as he delivered the last blow. She had not expected a mounted charge. “There is no menial task when the World is at stake, my lady, and I for one will not rue my fate nor abandon my position in search of a vain glory that may yet reach me here…”

She gaped, aghast. The Steward had made her feel like a fickle young soldier unable to complete a tedious task, and she had felt utterly inadequate under his stern gaze earlier in the garden. Now, with a single, well-aimed thrust, Elfhelm had hit her in her shield and cast her from her saddle, and she gasped for breath, stunned by the truth in his words.

Daughter of a noble house, she bit her lip and groped for the shreds of her tattered dignity. She bent her proud head and conceded defeat.

“It would have been fit that I had been killed in battle, as was my intent,” she whispered, “rather than dishonouring House and duty and friendship.”

“Let Béma be the judge of that, Eowyn,” and now the voice sounded concerned, though still hard with mixed emotions. “Your deeds shall be the subject of songs no matter how this war ends, but I would not have borne it, were I to blame myself for your death…too much has been lost already, child!” he sighed, his voice now harsh with tears.

“You have always been a pillar of hope and strength to our people, Eowyn, and you remained tall and strong by your king when even Théodred and I would despair,” the stern Marshall pulled her into a strong embrace, mindful of her wounded arm, and she rested her face on his wide chest, surrendering to the familiar comfort. “You must now rest and heal yourself, in body and soul, so you can serve your people in the times to come…”

“But I sought death, I wanted to die, I do not think that I want to live…” she finally let escape in a forlorn call. He held her by her shoulders and looked her intently, sternly.

“Do not say that, Eowyn,” he chided her. “You sought death and failed, now do not besmirch with scorn the gift that you have been granted! Not when so many valiant Riders who did not seek it met death without flinching, not when so many Riders lie in the fields of Mundburg, far from their green rolling lands…You are still young, my lady, and though we may be standing at the brink of destruction, they say there is still hope, and you may yet live to see a new sun shinning over a new life. Do not despair!”

“I am lucky that you are here with me, Elfhelm,” she finally sighed, reassured by his stern but tender care, to which she was well used. “Although you would be better out there, protecting Éomer, but he already has Erkenbrand and Grimbold…” A strangled gasp caught her attention and she looked up searchingly. “Grimbold?” she hesitated.

“And Hirluin, Guthalf, Dunhere, Deorwine, Herefara, Herubrand, Horn, Fastred….”

She heard no more. Elfhelm sang the names in his strong, beautiful voice and the heart that had stood sternly before shame, rejection and guilt broke down at the mournful recitation that brought to mind beloved faces of friends and mentors and noblemen that had ridden to honour ancient oaths and would never ride back to their houses and families and the soft green lands of the Mark. She held tight to the Marshall as harsh sobs escaped her throat, burning tears finally making their way through her frozen heart. Her steady support swayed then, and she lifted reddened, worried eyes to him.

“You are tired, come sit down!” she eased him to the bench hurriedly, and as he sat down a bundle that hung from his belt fell to the floor.

“It is nothing, a scrap,” he said quickly, as she fixed her eyes on his bandaged right arm, which until now he had kept successfully hidden under his cloak.

“You should have told me that you were wounded… I thought you had come to visit...” she chided him.

“That too,” the Marshall grinned, bending down to pick up a couple of apples and a big chunk of bread that had fallen form the bundle.

“What is that?” Eowyn asked, seeing that the parcel also contained dried fruits and a piece of cheese. Elfhelm grabbed it quickly with his wounded arm.

“The men complain that the fare here seems somewhat…scarce,” he began doubtfully, “so I thought I could…”

“Oh, Elfhelm!” She smiled amidst her tears, again moved that he would go to such lengths to care for her. “You needed not bother, they give me plenty of food…what?” she demanded, at the shy look on his face.

“Well…it was...it is not for you Eowyn, but for the Holbytla,” he admitted reluctantly. “I was not too kind to him, and he was very brave in the end, standing by your side –and the King’s, and stabbing that fell creature…He also lies wounded in the Houses, and I thought I would pay him a visit… and show him the gratitude of the Riders. He was the King’s esquire, after all,” he added then in a lower voice, and then sighed. Eowyn knew well how hard it had been for him, and for Théodred and Háma to see their lord dwindling and behaving as a dotard under the treacherous machinations of Saruman, and how many bitter nights the three of them had spent outside under the stars, remembering tales of Théoden’s golden days and fighting not to lose their faith and their honour.

She stood up with decision, dragging the tall Marshall on his feet after her. “If I am to redeem myself before my people, I can as well begin paying a visit to those who are wounded and sharing their grief, do you agree, Marshall?” she asked eagerly.

“You have already begun, my lady,” Elfhelm nodded, bowing deeply before her, and there was a look of deep gratefulness in his tired face as he escorted the Lady of Rohan along the torch lit corridors of the Houses of Healing, where many Riders and an esquire of the King of Rohan still recovered from grievous wounds in the service of Gondor.

They would have to wait to an uncertain outcome of that last battle, but they would be ready to meet whatever end with their heads high and their pride intact.

Finrod nodded and stood up silently, forcing himself to ignore the grave, curious glances of his siblings as he walked away from the protective ring of their blazing, heart-warming fire.

He noticed the dejected slump of Finarfin’s shoulders, the matted mess of his golden mane, the tired wave of his long hand as he returned every greeting across the crowded camp. Their people huddled together around bonfires, sharing the day’s meal and half-hearted conversations, or humming softly as they worked on deer skins to turn them into coats, bedrolls and boots, while the children played despite the cold bites of the merciless winds.

The day’s meal? Finrod thought sadly. Nobody knew whether it was day or night, or how many waxings and wanings might have passed since they wandered away from fair Tirion and into those deserted and unforgiving lands. What had begun as a righteous, vibrant march in search of freedom and new horizons was now tainted in blood, ashes and slaughter, and cloaked in an evil that not only shadowed the starry vault but also the fëar of the Eldar, an ominous Doom that now cast a dark shadow over the subdued host.

Where is he going? Finrod wondered, as he followed his father’s hurried, determined steps up on a rocky hill and then down behind some moss-covered boulders into a small ravine, protected from the piercing cold winds from the coast. He finally stopped at a dismal patch of grass beside a singing creek and turned to face his eldest son. Unsettled by the strange expression on his father’s worried features, Finrod spoke first.

“How is Fingon recovering?” Finarfin had left them pitching camp that evening, saying that he was going to have a talk with his troubled eldest nephew. He now shrugged tiredly and shook is head.

“As can be expected. He would not speak much, but he is finally accepting some food. I granted him my forgiveness, little as that may mean to him, so that at least he will not carry that burden,” he added in a broken whisper.

Finrod closed his eyes in despair. The horror at Alqualondë would haunt the host forever, he feared. He had seen many depart in sickened horror of their own kin –his mother among them- and others remain, like his eldest cousin, hands dripping blood and minds numbed by shock and guilt.

Thankfully the fuming ashes of what had once been the beautiful haven of the Swan People were no longer visible from where the host camped now. But the dim light of Varda’s stars still glimmered on the remaining wisps of dark mists that had not been swept away by the King’s mighty winds, in a sad reflection of Telperion’s now forever lost silvery glory.

The host was aghast at what had happened, and the Prophecy of the North was discussed in low voices, in the secrecy of tents when they stopped to get some rest and the memories of the dreadful kinslaying assaulted that doomed people. Few days had passed since the Lord of Mandos had spoken his Doom, and the trickle of groups, small or great, seeking leave from Fingolfin to return to Tirion in shame and sorrow was constant.

Much had been lost, Finrod knew, and his compassionate heart bled in sympathy for his Atar’s grief.

“I am returning, Finrod. I will not be part of this foolishness any longer, nor bow to Feanor’s madness, nor lead our people into this thoughtless attempt to defy the Powers…”

Finrod gaped. “You are deserting your people, you mean?” Surprise and horror made his words harsher than he had intended, and he blushed at the irate glance his father cast him.

“My people are also those who refused to leave on the first place, and those who refused to take part in this terrible kinslaying. And those who would march away against their own hearts for kinship and friendship's sake, but who are wise enough to admit their mistake now and repent… I raised my children to be counted among the wise,” Finarfin reminded him sternly, watching him through narrowed eyes.

“But what… what of your brothers, your family, your own kin, your duty!” For a moment Finrod feared he was whining but he did not care. Did his father actually mean what he was saying? Surely he was tired and burdened beyond measure, but he could not be seriously thinking of abandoning his people like a coward! But then, could this stern elf with the steely eyes, the demanding and unyielding expression be still his gentle Atar? Suddenly Finrod felt his knees falter in a way they had not when Námo spoke his Doom.

“My brothers are tied by their own oaths and the enemy’s lies, and I will not follow them any further into ruin and misfortune,” Finarfin declared firmly. “They would not hear my counsel, and it is my duty to save as much as I can of Finwë’s people. I will not condemn those who would go back, nor myself alongside, because of misplaced pride...Not if I can prevent it.” He stopped for a moment and fixed his son in a demanding gaze. “Regarding my family, I had hoped that we would be again reunited in Tirion.”

Finrod shook his head in disbelief, fighting wildly to make sense of what was happening, grasping blindly for reasons or explanations.

“All this is… because of Ammë?” he finally inquired, and then raged at what seemed to him unacceptable selfishness. “You are not the only one who has left his beloved one behind, placing duty before other considerations!” he accused in childish self-righteousness.

“Do not ever think that you are entitled to speak thusly to me, child!” The voice grew colder and the steely eyes pierced him with a displeasure that Finrod had never seen before glowing in his gentle father’s gaze. “You know not what you are talking about. If that,” he spat contemptuously, pointing at the plain, silver ring that Finrod had planned to place in Amárië’s slender finger and that now adorned his as a desperate reminder. “If that actually held any significance, you would not be so eager to depart in search of adventure, forsaking all that you have loved and learned. That ring does not entitle you to even think that you can surmise my feelings,” he added brutally. Finrod felt tears welling up uninvited in his eyes.

“How is it that he can reduce me to tears as if I still were an elfling eager for his approval!” he thought angrily, dazzled and disoriented by the haughty, determined, irate lord before him, barely comprehending that his world was crumbling down and that his own father was not against bitter retaliation

They studied each other in silence, and finally Finrod lowered his gaze, ashamed of his own defiance yet hurt by his father’s ruthlessness.

“I would not abandon our people to the dangers of the lands of yonder just because they are fooled or misguided…” he finally dared in a broken whisper. “We should not desert them…we owe them…”

Finarfin shook his head slowly; and Finrod could see an immense grief slowly swelling within his father’s eyes.

“You are wise my son,” he sighed sadly, in a voice that sounded closer to the firm yet reasonable, supportive Atar Finrod had known for all his life. “And you will become even wiser, my heart tells me, but can you not see now that against one of the Powers we Firstborns are helpless? That there is nothing we can do to overthrow his evil?”

“But surely we can oppose him?” Finrod argued, his hope raised by his father’s softened tone. “Perhaps we were not meant to be caged in Valinor; perhaps our place is back there, fighting the Enemy in the lands of our birth and bringing light and wisdom there?” He bit his tongue a moment too late, as he perceived that he was repeating Fëanor’s words. The sad look in Finarfin’s eyes told him that his father, of course, had noticed as well -and was hurt.

“And do you think this is the appointed time to test that assumption, my son?” Finarfin inquired sadly after a long, heavy silence.

Finrod closed his eyes in anguish, willing his fëa to follow where his Atar was leading, but instead Fëanor’s words echoed even stronger in his ears, fuelling the longing they had stirred. “I… I do not understand, Atarninya, please help me,” he pleaded.

“I cannot help you, Yonya,” the answer came in a whisper, and Finarfin’s words pierced him with a sadness he had not felt possible to feel. “It is time for you –for all of us- to decide whether we shall tread in twilight, turning our backs on the Powers who cared for us and fed our fëar with their light and knowledge, or honour their teachings surrendering to the advice of the King of Arda and trusting the will of the One.” They locked eyes for a moment, then Finarfin sighed in a broken voice. “Whatever path you shall tread, it is for you to choose.”

Finrod felt at a loss, struggling against a choice he had never thought would be forced upon him. He felt as if he were walking a narrow path over a bottomless chasm, and with a sudden surge of foresight he knew that whether he would find a safe course now, or he would have to follow the hardest way to wisdom and understanding was about to be decided, while his beloved father watched helplessly from the other side.

“I cannot… I cannot leave them, Atar..” He could not hold back a harsh sob as Finarfin braced himself for what he had to do. His eys fixed on his son's, he pulled off a ring from one of his long, slender fingers, a golden circle made of twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers that the one upheld and the other devoured; the badge of his House.

“Lord of my House in Exile I name you, Lord Findarato, and it will be your duty to serve and protect our people. Do not fail me in this,” he commanded in a cold firm voice, as he placed the ring in one of his son’s fingers.

Eyes wide in shock, Finrod opened his mouth to protest, but his father’s stern gaze kept him in place. “Not before falling shall the child learn to rise and stand. Your path is yours to choose, yet may you never repent of this day, and may Námo be gentle to you when you reach the bitter end, my son,” he added harshly.

Finrod gaped, stripped to the bone before his father’s impassive gaze. It felt to him as if he had been brutally dispossessed of his innocence and thrust in a world of fear and change and responsibility. The calm figure that had soothed and guided him throughout his life was now a demanding, unforgiving judge before him, ready to step out of his life, to turn his back on him and walk away mercilessly, leaving him to his chosen fate. The feeling of bereavement almost choked him, and he feared his voice would break.

“I have already given you all that was mine to give.” Finarfin’s voice was thick with tears. “May you always walk in light, my son.” Thus Finarfin left, and not a glance he spared for his fairest son, who was a child anymore.

It had been born as a vignette, pity I did not find it earlier, (and had the time and inspiration to polish it up to a readable state) so apologies that the prequel comes after the sequels...

The rest of the names are in their Middle-earth versions, for the readers' comfort.

There is an undetermined amount of time between Alqualondë and the Doom of Mandos, iduring which the host kept going. So I supossed that Earwen remained right after the kinslaying and that Finarfin retraced his steps only after the Doom was spoken.

Would have Finrod surrendered his father's ring to Barahir? I think it could have happened. Yet as it happened in "The Ring goes West" we are simply playing in unchartered territory, so it is up to the reader's benevolence to accept the posibility and follow the speculations.

“Nor shall anything of my realm endure…”

The trees sighed tirelessly in deep joy after moons of silent mourning. The younger beeches sang in every passing breeze and the alders shook their dark cones, while the willows whispered more discreetly among them and even the oldest oaks arose from their deep slumber to greet the good news. Lúthien was returned to the moon-lit glades, and she had brought back hope and happiness to the forest.

Not to everyone, a passing nightingale thought as he watched the glistening silhouette of an elven woman who hurried across the forest, fleeing the fires and the music that lighted up the great sward before the doors of Menegroth, where the people rejoiced after Beren took the hand of Lúthien before the throne of her father.

It was that time of the day when purple shadows turn to black as they unfold and stretch out of their shelters, when the forest stands stone still as the nightingales sing the sun goodbye in their heart-wrenching, beautiful voices. But not even Melian’s nightingales could match the otherworldly voice that rose in mourning that evening, piercing the forest with the despair of an orphaned cub, of a wounded bear, of a stranded wolf calling to its pack.

So they just sat and listened, and mourned in sympathy.

And then, silence.

Slowly the night breeze arrived from the highlands of the north, heedless of the joy and pain that mingled in the hidden land of Doriath, bringing in its trail the echoes of fear and doom…and the frightening howls of a mighty, possessed wolf that approached them like a ravenous fire. The forest creatures ran into shelter, leaving the grieving lady to the sole company of the still yawning owls and the pale stars.

~*~*~*~

“My lady…”

She glided around, composed, to face the pale, worn out, aged man.

Silence stretched between them.

“I am so sorry…”

“You seem not so to my eyes. Besides, why would you?” The voice was colder than the freezing winters in Dorthonion, yet the man knew enough of ice to hear the faintest cracking of thaw making its way to the surface.

He lowered his eyes and waited.

“You won what you sought and kept what you risked, while losing nothing in the game, except for a life and a jewel that did not belong to you. Not a high price for such a high reward,” she observed scathingly.

The man winced, wounded deeper than in his pride.

“I did not mean that to happen,” he argued, pain flooding his hoarse voice.

“You would have forsaken your quest, had you known that your happiness would cost him his realm and his life?” She taunted him mercilessly, fixing him in a stern, demanding glance.

An owl hooted in triumph. The leaves in a nearby tree shook. The man sighed deeply.

“I knew not what Thingol asked of me, or the doom that weighed upon his conditions,” the man admitted humbly, in a sad voice “I am sorry that I was the cause of his death.”

“Do not presume to have been cause or motive, fated son of Barahir,” she raged, suddenly not a grieving maid but the proud, fearless daughter of Arafinwë, Nerwen of her people. “You are but a tool of the Valar, caught in a greater net and perhaps marked for a high fate, such as marrying a daughter of the elder kin…But you will also be remembered as the one who demanded the highest toll in repayment for a service not performed by himself,” she accused in a voice that trembled so slightly, laden with unshed tears.

“The oath was freely made…and honestly redeemed.” The man straightened up, suddenly shrouded in that strange dignity that made him an equal even among the greatest of the elven lords. He looked the aggrieved, enraged elven lady in the eye. “It matters not who performed the service, since the oath-maker was generous enough to extend his grace from Barahir to all his kin…and for that he will be praised and his house held in the greatest esteem as long as my line lasts,” he vowed seriously but not without compassion.

“A meagre comfort for those who would choose having him back and alive over the never-ending esteem from your line, long-lived though it may be.” The lady wavered as a young reed caught in a raging storm, shaking with contained grief.

Following a sudden impulse, the man put forth his left hand –his only- and extended his fingers.

“Take it back,” he urged her softly. “The oath was fulfilled and the oath- maker redeemed well beyond his debt. Let it not be said that an unworthy son of a man abuses his privileges.”

The green jewels devised in Valinor that had once glittered on Finarfin’s finger shone now between them in the starlit glade. Galadriel closed her eyes briefly to flee unwanted memories.

“Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.”

Finrod’s words rang again in her ears. Nargothrond still stood, though for how long no one could tell. But there was no heir indeed –and would never be- and the bitterness of that truth wounded her deeply.

“Never again say that he whom he died for was unworthy of the gift,” she barely managed in a teary whisper, placing her cold fingers over the man’s and closing them over her family heirloom. “Keep it,” she whispered, “and make sure that it is passed down your line along with its meaning, so that his sacrifice will not be in vain. I may need a token to recognize your kin in the ages to come,” she added with kind but piercing irony.

“I will keep it by your grace and in memory of his deed,” he answered, bowing in gratitude. “And this I tell you, for I am no stranger to foresight either, that your line and mine will become entwined as these serpents are, and that by his sacrifice a great good will come to Middle-earth.”

“And thus you bind me into your doom, son of Barahir. So be it,” she laughed bitterly, “although my heart tells me that it will only bring me more grief…”

“And also a deep joy, my lady, for they are seldom found apart from each other, it is said.”

“It may be so,” she admitted gently, “for here you are, rejoicing in your happiness while I mourn the price… Go to your wife and enjoy what time you are left, Beren,” she said then seriously, but with tender compassion. “For both happiness and grief are short-lived for your kin.” She straightened then, and tilted her head, as if listening to a faint rumour that came from the trees. “Your fate is not yet fulfilled,” she warned him, her voice again laden with grief.

“I will meet it when it reaches me,” he affirmed with a self-assurance that made her smile sadly. “And meanwhile I will not forget to whom I owe this life that I have,” he promised, bowing deeply before her and disappearing silently into the night.

~*~*~*~

The owls were returned to their comfortable trunks and the nightingales got ready to greet Arien back in their sweet melodious voices when a soft, poignant song echoed in the forest and rippled with a sadness that was beyond despair.

Muted again by the overwhelming feeling that flooded the air, the nightingales hurried to the secluded glade whence the voice came.

The elven lady sat there against the mighty, forked trunk of an old beech, held in the comforting embrace of her silver tree and crying as she sang, the birds noticed with deep compassion, moved by the depth of emotion that seeped from her hopeless song.

“I hope that he has found redemption through that bitter defeat… I would have not had the strength to surrender my life in exchange for that of a Secondborn,” she sobbed quietly.

“And I am only too glad that you did not even try,” her lord whispered in a deep, comforting voice that echoed of tears as well.

“I do not blame him wholly,” she sighed sadly. “Surely he has a high fate before him, but I cannot rejoice in their happiness, that was so dearly bought…” She surrender to his tight embrace and hid her face on his chest to let go of her burning tears.

“I cannot remain here,” she whispered after a while, lifting a tear streaked face and meeting grey eyes that mourned silently not just Finrod’s sad fate.

“I always wanted to cross the Mountains,” her lord nodded softly, kissing the garland of radiance that crowned her head and raising them both to their feet. “Perhaps it is time that we started east, my lady.”

A/N Blame the muses for their timing.This takes place in Menegroth right after BEren and Luthien returned from MOrgoth's den and before Carcharoth reached Doriath. The title is taken from Finrod's premonition.

The correct sequence for this ongoing series would be now: Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 1 and Chapter 2. Apologies for the chaos.

Two swordsmen fight in a silent glade. A very short piece for Meckinock’s birthday.

Elladan moved forward and pressed on wildly. The other let him lead the attack, giving ground foot by foot, parrying and stopping, and managing a thrust back only from time to time.

But Elladan would not be tricked. He knew that he was being drawn out, and that his opponent would wait until his attack reached its peak, only to fall upon him when his guard was lowered. Elladan knew that style –it was the same Elrohir used and he had been fencing with his other half for over twenty ennin now, so he was quite familiar with all its possible variations…and not always capable of countering them.

His opponent was more skilled that what he had anticipated, he panted and groaned inwardly, barely deflecting a vicious head cut that had come unexpectedly out of thin air. He kept his adversary at a distance with wider parries, taking advantage of his own longer blade while recovering his breathing.

I shouldn’t have accepted his challenge, I am too tired, he grunted inwardly. Now it was too late, and no one could help him. The other’s blade had almost twice got through Elladan’s lowered guard, and he returned the favour with a vicious thrust that caught his attacker by surprise and made him jump back. But he would not yield. Keeping one foot slightly advanced, the man kept room for his blade while he withdrew steadily under Elladan’s renewed attack. Even when lowered, his blade seemed ready to attack. There was a harmony and a cadence to his sword-dance that would have been beautiful to behold under different circumstances, Elladan thought grimly as they stamped back and forth and their swords bound and disengaged, feinted, thrust and parried restlessly, clicking nosily as they chased each other in the silent glade.

The man suddenly surged on very fast, with a thrust and a feint and then another thrust. Elladan riposted with equal speed, pressing on him again, eager to finish him off, aware that he was wearing out rapidly now. Again he pushed on his advantage mercilessly, his sword singing wildly, clicking, leaping; almost blazing. The man fell before this onslaught, barely parrying as he stepped back, until he came to a stop and stood his ground and would not be moved. His parries widened slightly, and his ripostes became more sudden now, interspersed with sudden attacks. Suddenly, he wove his blade in an elaborate double feint that nicked Elladan’s neck. This was an opponent who would not be satisfied with first blood, the half-elf knew, so he sprang forward and unleashed the full wrath of his blade, which carried the strength and mastery of several ennin. He threatened a cut and in the last moment he moved around the other’s parry and cut him above the wrist guard.

“Do you yield?” Elladan panted, studying his opponent through narrowed eyes. The other smiled briefly and sprang forward again, his blade leaping and dancing everywhere. Awaiting his chance under a shower of combined blows, Elladan stood his ground until he saw the opening. He jumped forward, beating the other’s guard, and delivered a blow that might have beheaded him had his opponent not managed to raise his blade in the last moment. Unbalanced, the man fell and rolled away, but he kicked and swept Elladan’s legs out from under him, carrying him heavily to the ground.

How am I going to explain this to Adar? Elladan thought incongruously, winded by the unexpected fall. Before he could regain his footing, the man’s blade was on his neck.

“Do you yield?” The voice came out quite steadily for one who had barely left his childhood behind.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he had to admit. “You will ride with us next time, Estel.”

And then he had to smile, as the young one raised both arms in triumph and the onlookers, half the population of Imladris in Elladan’s opinion, cheered and applauded and swarmed over from their watching places to pat the happy young man on the back and praise him for his feat.

“How many times have I told you not to engage in battle when being too tired, Elladan?”

“Not enough, it would seem,” the eldest of Elrond’s twin sons acknowledged with a wry grin, accepting the helping hand that pulled him up to his feet. “When did he learn all those tricks?” he grunted, stretching his sore muscles and looking at the fresh blood that dripped onto his tunic from the scratch on his neck. Glorfindel let escape an amused laugh.

“You and your brother, as well as myself –and every other willing warrior in Imladris have been fencing with him for the last years, Elladan, and he is a devoted apprentice…”

“He is seventeen sun-rounds old, Elladan, an adult for his people,” Glorfindel reminded him, placing a handful of staunch weed on the cut to stop the bleeding. “But he has been practicing like a madman since you departed eight moons ago…”

“…After setting that silly challenge upon him, brother-mine,” Elrohir reminded him, stepping beside his brother and shaking his head reprovingly. “You will ride with us the day you beat me with your sword, Estel,” he quoted. “How clever of you, Elladan,” he added with an amused smile, “knowing how stubborn he is…”

“Well, he wouldn’t have stood the slightest chance had I accepted his challenge after a good night’s sleep,” Elladan objected testily, groping for the threads of his battered pride. He turned then and looked at Glorfindel through narrowed eyes as realization hit him. “It was your idea,” he accused. “You suggested that he challenged me upon arrival! That was a dirty trick!” Glorfindel’s silvery laughter interrupted him.

“I told him to play to his advantages,” the golden elf admitted, “and to his opponent’s weaknesses. The rest was his guessing.” Elladan growled lowly and shook his head. “Look at him,” Glorfindel added, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “He is ready to fight by your side.”

Elladan followed Glorfindel’s gaze and smiled proudly. The youngster had sheathed his sword and now received the compliments of Imladris’ guards with a dignity and a poise that suddenly reminded Elladan of the many King’s of Men that he had known in his long life. He was a grown-up he had to admit with a fresh sting of melancholy, and one who was more than ready to undertake the weight of his heritage and his duty.

“That is your doing as well, Elladan,” Glorfindel added. “You and your brother have taught him, advised him, scolded him, trained him patiently for years, thus helping him grow into what he will be. His people will need the strength and skill of his blade, but also his steadfastness and wisdom in wielding it to defend what is worth defending…”

“And he will become the greatest swordsman of his age,” Elrohir pointed out, picking up Elladan’s sword and handing it to his brother.

“That too,” Glorfindel nodded quite enigmatically, not meeting the twins’ surprised glances.

“But in the meantime, he is our baby brother,” Elladan chuckled, sheathing his blade in turn. “Let us greet the winner and tell him that we do not intend to ride away for the next sun-round or two,” he suggested with a wicked smile, starting towards the noisy group that parted before him, followed by Elrohir and Glorfindel.

“Well-done, Estel!” he acknowledged, bowing theatrically before the beaming youth, “although I regret to inform you that...”

Happy birthday, Meckinock, and may you find time to tell us more about certain lost ring!

“That is plain nonsense anyway, but if you insist on playing that game then you could as well put the blame on me.”

The waves crashed playfully at their feet and muffled the ring of Finrod’s amused laughter. Elrond shook his head. One of the things that he had found difficult to adjust to in Aman was that nobody here automatically accepted what he said as a surge from the fountain of universal wisdom. It was refreshing, but at times also annoying for one who had been considered the greatest lore master in Middle-earth and was now regarded benignly as a young distant cousin who still had to learn the most basic truths of life.

“Perhaps my wit is too dimmed by the light to Aman to grab such simple concepts, kinsman," he retorted a bit stiffly. "Would you care to ease my ignorance?"

"With pleasure," Finrod answered good-naturedly, unimpressed by Elrond's caustic remark. "I meant..Oh, but look at that!"

Take this Finrod, for instance, Elrond sighed inwardly as his wife’s uncle raised a long hand to stem his questions and stood in awed contemplation of a string of gannets as they glided over the crest of a long wave in perfect formation and, all of a sudden, soared up high as one. A grandson of Finwë, born in the light of the Trees and raised among the Powers, exiled, killed by Sauron, reborn…and he could lose interest in an important conversation with Elrond Peredhel and stand there with water to his ankles, simply watching as a flock of seagulls performed their unchanging routine before his ancient eyes.

“Wonderful, aren’t they?” Elrond could not deny that they were. He was glad to spend time by the shores, actually, for it reminded him of the happy days of his youth as he grew up in Lindon. But he had more pressing questions in his mind.

“They winter high at sea, where the winds and waves are stronger, and only return on the wings of spring, did you know that?”

“I did. I grew up by the sea-side, after all…” Elrond did not bother to disguise the impatient edge on his voice.

“They make me think of our kin as they leave behind the troubled lands of Middle-earth and sail into the welcoming, peaceful harbour of Eressëa…what a change that must be for them! But forgive me, Elrond, I am rambling and you were busy blaming yourself for your wife’s misfortunes…”

Put that way, it sounded almost ridiculous, Elrond frowned. And still a few moments ago, watching his wife from a distance as she played happily with Finrod’s grandchildren, a sharp pain had threatened to choke him as memories of her broken body and her wounded fëa flooded him unbidden. He had then felt forced to blurt out his guilt as he had not yet done before. What if… he had wondered aloud in pure misery, pondering how he could have spared her all that suffering.

Wisely, Finrod had raised his brows in courteous interest and had then spat that puzzling statement before turning his attention to the sea birds, thus giving Elrond time to regain mastery of his feelings. And now that Elrond felt embarrassed by his untimely outburst of sentiment, of course his kinsman would not let the subject lie. Prying was a family pastime, it seemed.

“Now I am busy wondering why I should blame you, of all people, for Celebrían's misfortunes,” Elrond retorted in annoyance. But Finrod was not deterred by his imposing glare, which seemed to have lost its edge in the crossing, Elrond noticed ruefully.

“Oh, that!” the prince chuckled, resuming their leisurely walk towards Olwë’s seashore terraces, where they were to have lunch with the rest of the family. “Well, you started the What if game...Let's assume for a moment that I had chosen to remain in Aman…what would have happened?” Elrond shook his head again and shrugged in exasperation, then obliged by making a guess.

“Oh, or you would, but who knows whose son you would be? Lúthien might have married poor Daeron in the end…”

“What of Beren?” Elrond shivered at the thought, following Finrod as he climbed a sand dune.

“Without my ring, Thingol might have had him killed…or imprisoned…or just sent away empty handed. Perhaps without my meddling my brother Aegnor would have dared to marry Andreth...who knows?” Finrod wondered aloud, in a voice that had suddenly lost its playful lilt. He still grieved for his youngest brother’s fate, Elrond thought in sympathy. “Maybe a child of theirs would have wrestled the Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown…and Doriath would have been spared…”

“And so Elwing would have not travelled to Sirion and would have never met Eärendil,” Elrond provided the obvious continuation to the story.

“The Silmaril would have gone to Nargothrond…or wherever the stronghold of Finarfin's children would have stood…and Maedhros would have had to race Glaurung for the loot.” Despite himself, Elrond was now fully immersed in the game. Finrod cast him a wry smile.

“And perhaps Celebrimbor would have been killed there, by one faction or the other, so he would have never been fooled later by Sauron, nor had forged his infamous rings…”

“So you see the many ways in which I could have spared you the anguish of witnessing Celebrían’s suffering, if only I had chosen wisely, Elrond?” Finrod called back over his shoulder as they trudged up the slippery dune. Something in his voice gave Elrond pause.

“Those are just speculations, Finrod,” he argued comfortingly. “You cannot possibly know…” The High Prince stopped to cast him a pondering look.

“Let us make it simpler then,” he continued in a lowered voice. “I could have gone to Middle-earth after all, but then I could have forbidden my sister to marry Celeborn –not that I ever had any chance,” he rushed to admit with a sheepish smile. “So Celebrían would have never been their daughter.…”

“And had I sailed away when Eonwë suggested –or after the fall of Sauron- I would not have married her…I get your point,” Elrond admitted, raising his hands to stem the flow. It had just dawned on him, the meaning of that strange game they were playing.

“Exactly. Yet you are tiptoeing around the main issue,” Finrod reminded him as they reached the top of the sand dune. A nesting seagull cast them a brief glance and discarded them as either food or danger with annoying flippancy. “You could have cast Vilya to the fires of Orodruin and sailed away with your family while Sauron was dormant…This way you would have saved your wife and your daughter, one would think…”

“You…how do you…?” Elrond almost choked in his rage. “Who told you?” he demanded irately, turning his back on his kinsman and fixing his eyes on the moss-coloured sea that swelled in growing agitation as the clouds gathered above it. Ossë was angry. And he could only sympathize with the feeling.

“Why would anyone tell me?” Finrod sounded honestly puzzled then. “It just makes sense, after all those what if…that this would be your main regret…” Elrond had to concede that, as he trailed reluctantly after Finrod along the crest of the sand dune. His train of thought, even his deepest feelings had become painfully obvious to those around him lately, it seemed.

“It is sheer folly, useless conjectures, I know,” he said tightly, trying –and failing- to disguise his annoyance. “But I suppose that we new arrivals are allowed a certain amount of silliness, on account of our being unaccustomed to the standard, established, general bliss pervading the place…”

“Of course you are, and to more than a fair share of sarcasm, bitterness and remorse. And not only you newcomers, but we long-time residents as well, so do not be shy,” Finrod chuckled softly, shaking his golden head and opening his arms as if to better embrace the fresh, salty air that came from the sea before he carefully began the descent. Again, the tone of his voice stirred Elrond’s curiosity beyond the self-compassion that had flooded him for the last hours.

“Remorse? Here? What possibly can you…” And again he felt like a petulant elfling contesting Glorfindel’s battle tactics in the training grounds. Fortunately, his kinsman had Glorfindel’s patience towards upstarts, and chose not to take offence from the overt contempt in Elrond’s voice. It had to be a Reborn ones thing, Elrond decided.

“Everyone has regrets, Elrond,” Finrod informed him softly, stopping to pull open an iron-wrought gate crowned by opposing swans. They had reached now the back of Olwë’s palace. “Look there.”

Expecting to be shown another string of sea-birds doing sea-bird things, Elrond turned reluctantly to follow Finrod’s pointing finger.

“Eru!” he gasped in awe at the sight. Out of the waves to their left, towards Olwë’s terraces, which reached deep into the sea, emerged a mighty silhouette of foam and stone and seaweed and silvery scales. The Telerin king leaned on the railing of glistening mother-of-pearl and seemed deep in conversation with the imposing creature.

“It’s only Ossë,” Finrod corrected him distractedly. “They have this ages-long dispute concerning the limits of the tides…From time to time Ossë gets carried away and my grandfather complains that he floods his terraces unnecessarily.”

The majesty of the Maia was so impressive that for a brief while Elrond forgot his questions and his bitterness, enthralled by the sheer eeriness of the sight.

“My grandfather still wonders what if he had surrendered his ships to Fëanor on the first place…” Finrod continued with his generous and patient enlightenment of his kinsman. “After all, they were just things, though as valuable as the Silmarils…”

“In hindsight everything looks differently,” Elrond agreed almost unconsciously and then chuckled softly. “You got me there, Finrod. But surely a reborn in the Blessed Realm has no qualms?”

“Well…” For a brief moment the bright prince looked quite embarrassed. “I used to travel often to Númenor, and I had a great influence over many of your brother’s descendants –and the party of the Faithful as well. Had I succeeded in convincing the Númenoreans to abandon their folly, they would have opposed Ar-Pharazon’s designs more firmly and Sauron would have never returned to Middle-earth…Numenor would have stood, Amandil would not have been lost, and Elendil would not have landed there…so your daughter would have never given up her gift to marry a descendant of the Kings of Númenor…” he stopped then and pierced Elrond with eyes that were clear as shallow waters.

“Every life is made out of the deeds and decisions and mistakes committed by many others, Elrond,” he reminded him gently, “so if you are going to blame yourself for not taking ship when you now think that you should, you could as well have a look at how other people’s lives would have been affected in case you had…”

“Well, look at it this way: Had Olwë chosen to remain in Middle-earth, or had Finwë refused to lead the Great March, or to marry Indis after Míriel died…neither you nor I would be standing here right now wallowing in self-compassion about our own mistakes...”

The breeze blew in from high sea and brought the scent and song of deeper waters. Elrond breathed in eagerly and then exhaled, allowing his bitterness to dissolve and fly away in Manwë’s winds. “And still it is hard to admit…” he sighed sadly.

“It is,” Finrod acknowledged easily. “We do not choose who we are, but we choose how to act. You were born with a great fate and a sad, difficult lot before you, Elrond, but you might have made different choices. And it would not have mattered in the end, for there would have been other means to achieve the same ends… only your life would have been different, and that of those around you…”

“Our sacrifices were our choices, Elrond,” Finrod retorted gently, without losing his composure. Elrond blushed deeply, remembering whom he was accusing of lessening the importance of the deeds of the Eldar in the shores of Middle-earth. “What matters in the end is not what we did," the prince continued, "but why we did it, if we accepted or not our lot and lived it through honestly...even when we were mistaken…”

“Not any of our single lives is perfect, Elrond, but the whole tale is, for it is Eru’s tale, and it is woven so that even our most painful mistakes are threaded together into full meaning…and turned into another chord in his Music. It just...takes us some time to perceive it,” he added with a playful wink.

Elrond walked in silence for a while, following Finrod as he climbed the marble stairs towards the terraces, pondering his arguments and stubbornly fighting the wave of bliss that the prince’s words had brought to his troubled fëa.

“It seems that you have had plenty of time to ponder such deep matters,” he finally let go dryly. Finrod cast him an amused glance and shot back without stopping.

“This is the Blessed Realm, Elrond, the timeless land of changelessness… Elvenhome, when you are free to dwell on your own musings till the end of Arda... Isn’t this what you tried to recreate in that hidden valley of yours?”

“Well, we never reached this level of perfection there,” he admitted ruefully, acknowledging the point with an incredulous shake of his head. “Do you mean that we do not do anything else around here but musing?” he asked with undisguised trepidation at the prospect of endless years devoted to such debates.

“I mean that time has no meaning for us here, no matter what we want to do… We could even start another rebellion, there are no limits for us while Arda lasts... How did it go, Grandfather?” he greeted then, climbing the last steps with a graceful leap. Olwë walked towards them with a mighty, intimidating frown. There were no traces of Ossë, except a large pool on the polished floor.

“As always. There is no reasoning with a Maia, as I should have learned by now…Are you fleeing the gathering as well?” he asked then with a conspiratorial wink, waving towards the palace. The mingled voices of adults and children engaged in noisy games and conversation reached them, even if muffled by the endless rolling of the waves.

“Not exactly. We were busy discussing the twisted paths of doom and fate that guided us here,” Elrond sighed tiredly, still processing Finrod’s last tirade.

“That is a heavy occupation, young ones. I have a flask of cold white wine there…”

“What if we skip the meal, Finrod?” Elrond asked then with a mischievous smile on his face, suddenly animated by the prospect. The High Prince grinned and shrugged.

“Let us go then, I will take the brunt of your Grandmother’s wrath,” Olwë offered magnanimously, leading them towards his private shelter.

“See Elrond, even here in the Blessed Realm there are still great challenges to be faced…and bitter mistakes of incalculable consequences to be made…”

“It will take time to get used to this,” Elrond agreed most seriously as he sprawled on a comfortable chair and accepted a goblet from Olwë. “But I will do my best!”

Then Ilúvatar spoke, and he said: (...) ' nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.' (from the Ainulindalë.)

Happy belated birthday, Bodkin, and thanks to Redheredh for her kind prodding. The remaining lameness is all my fault. No twisting or tweaking can replace inspiration, it seems...

For French Pony’s birthday. Because she knows about music and she wrote the most believable explanation that I ever read for what was Fingon doing up that mountain with a harp. Happy birthday, FP, and good luck with exams.

“When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest time, and to the latest.” Thoreau.

“I ran through dark, suffocating, endless tunnels. I stiffled harsh sobs, telling myself that I was safe in a land sung into being by the Valar, where neither foe nor danger could reach me. And yet somehow I knew it not to be true. The tunnels narrowed and I choked in fear, but also for lack of air. Darkness became impenetrable and fear hastened my heartbeats and froze my thoughts. I stumbled on uneven ground and fell down face first, scraping my knees and hitting my head. I remained there for a while, stretched on the tunnel floor, feeling my last drops of courage bleed away. Defeated, I gave in and began to cry. When I had no more tears to shed and my throat hurt and my eyes stung and my lungs burnt, I simply lay there, exhausted, fearing that I was beyond even Lord Námo’s reach, and that I was doomed to rest in the bowels of the Blessed Realm until Arda was remade. And just when I had lost all hope, and with it fear, I thought I heard a soft murmur, a trembling echo that weaved a melody of untold beauty in those dark and silent places. Hopeful, I lifted my head and then pulled myself to my knees and listened intently, with my whole being, certain that my grandfather had finally found me.”

Fingon smiled softly down at his child, who was pulling his blanket tightly up to his chin. The small face showed now a look of deep concentration. That was far better than the panicked expression he had worn since his rescue earlier that evening, in his father's more than informed opinion.

“Not yours, Ereinion, mine,” he said, and then raised his brows expectantly. The child bit his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, thinking.

“Finwë?” he asked then tentatively, and then smiled broadly at his father’s approving nod.

“Exactly. I was lost in his cellars, as I have told you, and I hoped that he would come to find me...”

“Indeed. I was so frightened that I could not think of any other thing,” Fingon admitted easily, remembering his son’s brave attempts at holding back his tears of relief when his father had finally found him nestled in the hollow of a dead beech.

“I cried too,” the child confessed, not meeting his father’s eyes. “But then I got up and tried to find the way back to the stronghold...”

“And then you looked for shelter as the night drew in. You behaved in a sensible manner, Ereinion, I am very proud of you,” Fingon smiled reassuringly, trying to forget the choking despair he had felt when he learnt that his young son had not returned with the other elflings from a day walk beyond the walls. The elflings had parted in two groups and each caretaker had believed that the young prince was with the other group. Intrigued by a shy rabbit, Ereinion had wandered off on his own and had missed the return call from both groups. By the time his absence had been marked back at the stronghold a few hours had already passed. With a shiver, Fingon refused to revive the terrifying thoughts that had crossed his mind as he searched the forest and until he found his son. Wisely, he had decided to wait until next morning before talking to the caretakers. For now he only wanted to reassure himself that his child was safe at home and warmy tucked in his bed.

‘Suddenly that music was all around me, and even if I could not understand the words, or recognize the voices, it comforted me and gave me courage. It seemed as if a dim glow pulsed on the stone wall as the music coursed through it. Encouraged but this dimmest light, I stood up and resumed walking with decision, and it seemed as if the light grew stronger, and the music deeper. It echoed in the wall, and it resounded and gleamed at my passing, and my own light was strengthened by it. Comforted, I tried to join the song, and soon I was singing to myself in harmony whit that unknown melody as I continued walking. The glimmer of that music now surrounded me and guided me at the right turns, and in no time I was back in the wider tunnels of my grandfather’s cellars, and I heard his strong voice calling. I cried to him and he cried back, and then began to sing. “Follow my voice, Findekáno” he told me, and he continued singing until I reached a wide cellar and saw the trap door on the ceiling and his long arms dangling, waiting to pull me up back into the light and his comforting embrace. I rested there safely, and for a while I just wished I was allowed to remain there forever.

“Did he scold you?” the child asked quietly. Fingon could not smother a smirk. He was sure that he still had the marks of his sons’s fingers around his neck, so tightly he had held onto him as soon as Fingon had picked him up from his shelter. He remembered the wild beating of the child’s heart against his chest, and the trickle of warm tears as Ereinion buried his face against his father's neck and refused to utter a single word on the ride home. He had been terrified, Fingon knew, and he had not allowed Milluin to undress and bath him. He had clung to his Ata through dinner and had only reluctantly let go of one of his thick braids and allowed himslef to be lay down into his warm bed after Fingon promised to tell him a story. Distracted by the tale of his father's own misadventures as an elfling, he had finally started making questions and telling scattered bits about his adventure. He is surely recovering, Fingon told himself wrily, since he is beginning to worry about consequences.

“I suppose he did scold me soundly,” he admitted seriously, holding back an amused grin at the child’s dismayed face. “But I do not remember. Yet I do remember something that he told me back then, somethig that has comforted me since then, whenever I was alone or afraid...”

“Something to take the fear away?” Fingon smiled softly at the barely concealed egaerness in the child’s voice. He nodded solemnly and leaned forth, as if to share a secret.

“Music echoes deep in the soul of all creatures, Findekano”, my grandfather told me. “And all creatures recognize the echoes of Iluvatar’s voice in each other. So when you feel alone, or sad or afraid, you just have to raise your voice in song, and you will see that all creatures, of wood and stone, of water and earth will join gladly in your song and rekindle your courage, strengthening your fea with the bits of the Music that each creature carries within.”

“But...did it...does it work?” Seeing the sceptic look in his son’s eyes, Fingon stretched out a hand and smoothed down a rebel tendril of raven dark hair.

“Of course it does, Ereinion! Deep in those tunnels the rocks awoke to the song of my fëa and the dormant echoes of Iluvatar’s song arose to comfort me and guide me...The stones answer better to us Noldor, while trees and waters react gladly to the presence of the Lindir, and miss their voices when they desert the rivers and glades...All creatures were born out of song once in the very beginning of Time, and we all carry the echoes of that Music within, ready to arise in song and lend strength to those who need it...That is why music fills us Quendi with joy.”

“So if I sing when I am afraid, will my fear be carried away? I want to be as valiant as you are, Ata...”

Fingon felt a sharp stab of pain at that admission. Not for the first time he wondered what on Arda had possessed him to give into his wife’s pleas that they should beget a child. “A child to be thrust into this dark world of despair, tainted for ever by my fell deeds and the curse that weighes upon me?” he had asked bitterly. With the steady manner with which she had once taken command of his heart, she had placed a comforting hand on his and had smiled convincingly. “A child to brighten up your days, my lord, and to remind you that there is hope glittering even in the darkest hour,” she had declared, and that had been the end of the discussion. “An elfling should not think of being brave, an elfling should not be afraid of orcs and dragons!” he thought now with mounting despair, blaming hismelf again for the burdens of duty and responsibility, and the dangers that awaited his little son.

“Music might not carry away your fear,” he admitted honestly, “but it will help you remember who you are, and how you are connected to the strength that runs along the very veins of Arda, so you can draw on it and be stronger...”

“Did you sing when you fought the dragon?” Fingon shook his head in exasperated amusement. Obviously his son preferred reassuring facts to vague though comforting words. But then, he remembered himslef wondering bleakly whether his grandfather had been singing as he faced Melko before the gates of Formenos.

“Of course! And it disturbed the creature almost as much as our arrows did!”

Ereinion’s face was creased now, as if he were pondering an extremely obscure issue.

“So is that why you carried a harp to the mountain, because you knew that you would be frightened? Were you frightened when you were up there on your own?” he finally asked, lifting worried eyes to meet his father’s. Sensing that something was troubling his child, Fingon let pass the fact that he was being tricked into a second story. With a deep sigh he lay hismelf down on the bed next to his son, and could not supress a grin when the elfling snuggled eagerly into his embrace.

“I was very frightened when I was up there, indeed,” he began, smiling at the child’s startled expression at his admission. “At one point I had completely lost my way, and the poisoned fumes blinded me and made my breathing painful...I was close to despair, and I feared that I would neither find my cousin nor have the strength left to go back to my father and my people. I was terrified, and when I was about to give up hope suddenly my grandfather’s words, spoken long ago in Valinor to comfort a terrified elfling returned to me..”

“That I did, and it not only comforted me, but my song awoke the echoes of Iluvatar’s music in the heart of those mournful stone walls, and the mountain answered to my song, and it arose my cousin from his torment and lent him strength to sing back to me and lead me to him...And you know the rest,” he added with forced calmness.

His son nodded quietly, playing distractedly with the tip of one of Fingon’s braids. “Thorondor carried you to where Maedhors hung, and you cut his hand and the Lord of Eagles took you back to Mithrim,” he recalled in an almost casual voice. It stunned Fingon that an ordeal that still gave him nightmares on occasion could be summed up in such a matter-of-factly manner. “I...I thought that you were never afraid, Ata,” the child added then, looking perplexed and more than a little curious. Fingon shook his head and let escape a quivering sigh.

“I was scared to death only this afternoon, son, when I could not find you...” Seeing the look in the big grey eyes he hugged the child briefly. “There is nothing wrong in being scared, or afraid, Ereinion. I have been frigthened more times than I care to remember...and I most certainly was, up there in that mountain. Courage is not about not being afraid, but about finding the strength to do what you are supposed to do, despite your fears...”

“I was afraid,” the child confessed miserably, “and I did not know how to be valiant...”

“You behaved very bravely, Ereinion, and now you know that singing will make you feel stronger, as you gather strength from other creatures. Will you remember it?”

“I will. And if I sing strong enough maybe I will become as valiant as you are...But you did not tell me why you carried the harp on the first place...” Fingon chuckled at his child’s insistence.

“That is a good story. Once I made up my mind to go after Maedhros I told no one about it. Your cousin Idril caugth me as I was sneaking out the camp in the middle of the night. She feared that I was worried and sad, and so she gave me her harp so I could play music and feel not alone while I was away...”

“Did Grandfather scold you when you were returned?” Fingon rolled his eyes at the only too natural worry that echoed in the child’s soft voice.

“First he hugged me tightly and then he put me to bed and sat by my side and sang to me until my nightmares disappeared,” he explained, softly caressing his son’s dark head. “The day after he scolded me for being rash and reckless...and confined me to our cabin for a whole turn of the moon.”

For a while they remained thus, side by side, comforted by each other’s presence. Ereinion was the first to stir.

“I am glad to hear that, Ereinion. You frightened us all very badly today...”

“I am sorry. I will take what punishment you see fit to deliver without complaining...”

“Good. But that will be tomorrow. For now, you should get some rest. Do you want me to sing to you until you fall asleep?”

“I think I am ready to sleep on my own, Ata,” the child offered. “I can sing to myself if I am afraid.”

“I will be in my study if you need me,” Fingon offered, bending to place a soft kiss on the child’s head. “I am proud of you, Ereinion.”

“Thank you, Ata. And thank you for sharing with me the secret of your courage.” Shrugging with barely repressed mirth, Fingon made for the door.

“You are most welcome, child. May Estë send peaceful dreams to you,” he added softly. As he turned to close the door behind him, he heard the child’s voice arise in a soft tune and smiled fondly to himself.

“How is he?” Fingolfin’s powerful presence startled him out of his musings. His father stood before him still in his travel clothes, studying him intently. He relaxed and shook his head.

“He is fine. You know the resilience of youth. I told him a couple of stories and now he is ready to go to sleep...”

Fingon let escape a nervous chuckle. “Shaken, indeed…” he cast a curious glance at his father and then changed course. “When did you arrive, I was not aware that your patrol had been sighted…?” Fingolfin had been away inspecting the settlements around Mithrim for several days and was just returned, it seemed.

“No wonder,” the king answered dryly. “You were otherwise busy, the guards told me,” he added with a knowing smile. “You look as if you were about to collapse…would you like me to tuck you away in your bed?” he teased affectionately, passing an arm over his son’s shoulders. Fingon cast him a wary glance before accepting the silent support.

“I still have some reports to complete, since I spent the afternoon tracking my errant elfling….but perhaps you could come down and keep me company?” he suggested with a hopeful grin.

“Excellent!” Fingolfin agreed, steering them both to the stairs. “And while you are at it I can tell you the tale of a grown up elfling who sneaked off his father’s camp and was away for weeks…” Fingon groaned.

“I already know that one…I’d rather have you tell me how you managed to cope with our adventurous stints,” he sighed, wondering if he would ever learn no to be frightened every time his child was not under his direct supervision. His father’s laughter was answer enough.

“I do not think I have learnt to cope with your adventurousness yet,” the king confessed, patting his son’s arm as he opened the door to the study that they shared. “But I will tell you what I do everytime I feel frightned on your account, “ he added, walking to a side table, pouring two goblets of wine and handing one to his expectant-looking son. "I sing."

Faramir looked up from his book and raised a questioning brow at Mablung. He knew his lieutenant well enough to pick the subtle amusement shining in the others’ eyes.

“Damrod is just returned, and he thought you might like to see what he found…”

With a suffering sigh, Faramir put the book aside and got up in a creaking of boiled leather. “It is better worth the trouble…” he warned, as he followed Mablung to the clearing where their small patrol had pitched camp. All those who were not on guard duty were gathered around the new arrival.

“Anything to report, Damrod?” he asked the tall, dark-haired ranger, dismissing his men’s salutes and studiously ignoring their cheerful expressions as they cleared way for him.

“All is calm in Osgiliath, Captain. No new patrols have set forth and none has entered the city. I left two men there and one more at the other side of the river, to bring back word from Anborn as soon as he returns…”

“Well-done. We must get ready to cross the river in all haste as soon as reports come. Anything else?”

“Well, yes, Captain…” For a man who had been fighting the shadow since before Faramir could wield a long sword, Damrod suddenly seemed strangely shy. “Actually, there is… I found these roaming the lands without the leave of the Lord of the City, so I had to slay them,” he finally managed with ill-concealed merriment, amidst the cheers and laughs from his companions, uncovering three well-proportioned rabbits that hung from his belt. “Do you think that we could cook them?”

“And there is that small cave where we could cook them without much risk…”

Faramir shook his head and smiled, despite himself and the worry that had been gnawing at him for three days now. Listening to the hopeful tones in his men’s usually grim voices, he had to give in. “I am glad that you are so keen in carrying out the Steward’s orders, Damrod,” he began in a cold, stern voice, “even if you forget your own Captain’s in your dutifulness. I clearly recall that, when I informed you of the Steward’s new decree, I insisted that offenders were to be brought to my presence, alive, for judgement. This failure to comply with my orders cannot be overlooked, lest it becomes a habit among my men to slay strangers lightly, disregarding my instructions,” he said seriously, pointing at the dead rabbits. He cast a sweeping gaze at the faces around him to make sure that his point was clear enough. Satisfied by the suddenly sobered up expressions, he relented and smiled softly. “So I condemn you to cleaning duty until the moon is full. Now deliver your hunt into Hirluin’s more capable hands, we would not want you to spoil our dinner, would we?” he asked around, and laughed at the sudden burst of chatter and activity that took over the, until then, calm camp, while Damrod bowed in submission and surrendered his prize to his fellow rangers.

“At least they can now laugh about it,” Mablung offered cautiously as they watched the bustle around them.

Faramir sighed and bit back harsh words. “Remind me to reward Damrod for it,” he answered instead. Those were good men, he told himself, who relished killing no more than he did. Damrod had just tried to lift their spirits with a joke and had succeeded, and he should be grateful to the older ranger for that. Since the new decree had arrived -to kill all strangers found within their borders without leave from the Lord of Gondor- a dull, subdued, grim atmosphere had dampened the Ithilien rangers’ usually companionable mood. “He is turning us into the enemy!” he had heard his men complain in whispers for more than a week after the order had been issued. He had tried to lessen the impact, placing the burden upon himself by ordering that all trespassers who were neither orcs nor southron warriors should be carried before him for judgement, but the weight was still there, and was even more evident because the captain carried it all by himself. His men resented the Steward for that ruthless decree, he knew, and, from time to time, even he found it hard to dismiss the feeling.

“I wonder where that orc hoth was headed,” Mablung grunted worriedly. “I am half thinking of sending a scout to meet Anborn on his way back, what do you think?”

Faramir met the ranger’s grey eyes thoughtfully. They shared the feeling that a great assault was brewing, but there was something else, unnerving, in the strange quietness that seemed to cover the land.

“I have an ill feeling about this whole affair,” he admitted. “I believe that we should all cross the river earlier than planned if we are to keep close track of their troop movement…” He looked up to the setting sun and came to a decision. “Tomorrow I shall send a messenger to the city to inform the Steward. If the southrons are indeed joining the Enemy, then it is from the east bank that we shall hinder their approach.” Mablung’s eyes were still fixed on his. “Send out a scout to Anborn, too, if you feel it necessary,” he granted. “But only after dinner!”

“Of course!” Mablung chuckled in gratitude. “I would not make myself an enemy over the first hot meal in more than a week! I will send word when dinner is ready! By your leave…”

Faramir nodded his permission and watched his lieutenant disappear, surely to check that the fire was as smokeless as possible and that the meat was not overcooked. Shaking his head he returned to his secluded spot to gather his belongings. He picked up the leather volume that he had been reading and blew the dust that had piled on its first page. As he did, his attention was caught by the words written there as a dedication, in a firm, elegant handwriting that he knew well. The ghost of a smile dancing on his tired face, Faramir closed the book, carefully rolled his blanket around it and pushed the bundle into his pack. He buckled his sword belt and donned his cloak and went to join his men in their well-deserved merriment.

The world slept at that midnight hour, and not even the sad rustling of reeds disturbed the soft gurgling of Anduin as it flowed past Faramir. Urged by a restlessness that he could not explain, he had claimed the first watch, hoping to find comfort in silence and solitude. For three days now he had been straining to hear again the blowing of a horn, stronger and closer, and the lack of news only served to increase his anxiety.

Forcing dark thoughts from his mind, he concentrated on his watch for a while. The night was oddly still, he noticed, and the pale young moon cast an eerie gleam over a land that looked strangely at peace. At that time, his men insisted, the souls of those who had died fighting the Shadow wandered the land and enjoyed its beauty. I cannot fault them, he thought, glancing beyond the waters towards the forested lands of Ithilien, where the dark silhouettes of tall trees towered over secluded glades that soon would be bursting with new blossoms, despite the looming war.

That was a beautiful land, despite the Enemy, a land that was worth loving and fighting for, Faramir told himself. His dour rangers, the grandchildren of the last settlers to flee that fairest of Gondor’s gardens, were farmers and hunters at heart, good men who loved the land and grieved to see it soiled by orc feet, and who were ready to sacrifice their lives in a fight that might have no end, out of love and out of duty, rather than honour or glory gained by arms.

He sighed and changed position, stretching his long legs. Only three nights ago, ere he heard the dim echo of his brother’s horn, he had dreamed of Minas Tirith renewed; a black standard flapping on Ecthelion’s tower on a sunny, clear spring morning, and a white tree on blossom in the king’s court. That such a day could ever come seemed a more distant dream as days passed and doom loomed. And yet Faramir only needed to take one look around to feel his hope strengthened by the beauty of the land of the Kings of the West. His glance fell south as he did, towards the towering dark mass of Mindolluin and the White City nestled against its mighty shoulder.

It seemed to him as if a bolt of lightning sparkled high on the slopes as he looked. Once; then twice. “A storm over the city” he told himself, and yet the sound of thunder did not reach him. Unexpectedly, another thought hit him. “The Steward locks himself up on Ecthelion’s tower at night and wrestles with the mind of the Enemy, and bends it to his will…” Shrewd and bound to earth as his men were, they listened to, and repeated with relish, legends and old crone’s tales as if they were truths, and also enriched them with their own experiences, which always went to prove the truth of everything. So soon a satisfying explanation had been found for the strange lights that shone on top of the tower at night –and for the Steward’s untimely ageing.

The tale of Denethor’s nightly struggles with Sauron was one that Faramir had always dismissed as part of the legend that was being woven around his father…Until three days ago, when he had sought the Steward out to tell him about the dim echo of Boromir’s horn that he thought he had heard that morning.

Denethor had looked like an old spider wrinkled high on its net, waiting but not seeing, ready to unwound and leap at the slightest tug on its net. The memory of his father’s eyes then -cold, piercing and full of grief and knowledge- made him shiver.

“What do you see, Father, when you look around from your stone chair in the great hall of kings?” he wondered aloud, remembering the sharp, harsh words with which his father had dismissed him that morning after sending him to watch the western shore, refusing to share anything but a boding of ill with his troubled son. “Do you see hope, and a city renewed in a land of peace? Or rather war and destruction, the blare of trumpets and the clash of swords and the red fires devouring all, while bold warriors die bravely in a last stand under Boromir’s command?” As he spoke he felt a wave of resentment washing over him, a deep bitterness against that ruthless man who moved them around like pieces on a chess board; who cared not for the lives and souls of those under his command but only for deeds of war and his own power and glory.

As he sat back in despair, aghast at his own feelings, he felt something hard digging into his side. What he thought was a tree root turned out to be a corner of the book in his pack. Carefully, he eased it from his back and placed it safely beside him, by his waterskin. The book had been a gift from his father on his fifteen birth day, he recalled, after he got to learn that his scholarly second son had been for months nudging a book merchant in the fourth circle to find him a copy of Cirion’s “Lives of Kings.” Denethor had one in his private library and had gladly passed it on to Faramir, with an affectionate dedication. And that book had also been the excuse for long conversations between father and son, he suddenly remembered warmly.

“What possessed me?” he sighed, passing a hand over his brow and blinking as if suddenly jostled from a bad dream. Denethor was a good father, and a good man, bent but not beaten by grief and loss and duty; a man of honour and valour and the Steward of the City, to whom he had sworn fealty in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, until my lord release me or death take me, or the world end. The words of his oath filled him with renewed resolution. Whatever merciless decisions the Steward was forced to make in times of war, for the safety of the City and its people, it was his duty as son and captain to see them carried through to the bitter end.

“I swore that I would do what I could in your stead, Boromir,” he sighed then, as he made mental peace with his father. “And I will keep my vow. But I will not renounce to hope, brother; not even if Father does –or even you…”

So saying, he turned his eyes to the river and beyond, as if defying the Enemy with his words. He saw it then, or thought he saw it, a boat floating on the water, glimmering grey, a small boat of a strange fashion with a high prow, and there was none to row or steer it. Awed by that strange vision, he rose and walked to the bank, and began to walk out into the stream, until he glimpsed the dead warrior resting inside the craft…and recognized him.

A/N The last paragraph is partly quoted from Faramir’s words to Frodo in “The Window of the West.”

For some years after Celebrían sailed, it seemed to Elrond that the world had turned a dull grey, even in his sheltered valley. He would find no joy in his daily chores, and Vilya’s weight on his finger was an ominous reminder of darkness pooling outside. His sons were away more often than not, busy butchering orcs with a blood thirst that frightened him, and he worried that they might lose themselves to hatred and revenge, despite Gildor and Mithrandir’s careful watch over them.

Overwhelmed by a grief like none he had experienced in his troubled life, he avoided his friends’ company and hid from the comforts of his own house and station, allowing himself to drown in a despair that was even more numbing than what he had felt after Gil-galad’s death. Unable to shake off despondency, he toiled with dark thoughts, and wondered whether that was how mortals felt as old age crept upon them and sickness bent them; the marring of Arda corrupting their mortal hroa and consuming them. And then he would sulk for days, until some incident or another would fish him out of the deep pools of suffering for a while.

It came to pass on those days that Arahad finally consented to be taken to Imladris to seek Elrond’s help, or rather to end his days in peace. Arahad was –had been- the seventh chieftain of the Dunedain, and a man of great strength of will. Weakened by a strange, painful illness, he had been unable to ride against the enemy for twenty years, but still had retained control of his people and ordered their comings and goings from his carved wooden chair in the Angle, until he considered the time ripe for him to surrender office and authority to his eldest son, Aragost, who had ridden far and wide in the company of the sons of Elrond, hunting orcs and exploring the long leagues of Middle-earth even beyond the Misty Mountains.

Mostly out of respect, Elrond had greeted the old chieftain, bent and hampered by swollen joints and aching limbs, and had carried out a perfunctory examination that only confirmed what he already suspected. He prescribed herbs for the pain and wine for the spirits, and then withdrew to his customary retirement, avoiding his ailing kinsman, who he had once known as a lively child. The sight of the decaying man only fed his melancholy mood. He saw the inexorable hand of the Enemy everywhere, in the marring of Arda and the old age of Men, in the orcs that multiplied out of his valley and in men who bent ever more easily towards darkness and hatred. He would curse himself then for a fool, for having thought that they might, somehow, escape that evil fate and would twist the useless ring on his finger until it bled.

Though soft and weak, the voice still retained the calm authority of one who had carried the weight of power for a long time. Since there was no way that the old, impeded man could have intruded on his peaceful stroll, Elrond acknowledged the faint rebuke with a rueful nod.

“The disturbance is welcome, Arahad,” he said with a friendly smile, coming to sit with the chieftain under a very old apple tree. “I apologize that I have been scarce lately, but I am told that you are a delight to the cooks, a nuisance to our healers and an endless source of entertainment for our children. I am very grateful for all that, my friend,” he added warmly.

“It is no gift,” Elrond interrupted in a low voice. “You are my kinsman…”

“I appreciate your kindness anyway,” the chieftain grumbled in a deep voice. “And I am sorry for your loss,” he added after a brief pause. “I did not have the chance to say so on arrival…and you have been quite elusive since then, but I can see how it still weighs on you…and my heart bleeds for you, my friend…”

“I welcome your sympathy, Arahad. And please accept my excuses for neglecting my duties as host and kinsman…”

“Sorrow is a jealous mistress, I know it myself,” Arahad acknowledged. “When Beldis died, I shunned all company except that of my bow and my sword… much as your sons have done. You are entitled to your own grief, Elrond, and I am glad that I am allowed to your cellar –well, to its contents- even if not to your company…”

“You shame me,” Elrond admitted, the chieftain’s irony bringing a tiny smile to his face. “That one in your condition can still have such strength of spirit and good mood…”

“My condition?” the chieftain rumbled amusedly. “You mean this?” he asked, pointing at his useless, swollen legs. “Or the fact that I am dying? Do not apologize again, Elrond,” he continued with a warm smile. “Had I not learnt long ago to assume both conditions as part of myself, I would not have managed to continue living…”

“It must have been hard,” Elrond acknowledged softly, studying the knotty fingers and swollen joints in the wrinkled hand that had come to rest upon his. The man must be in great pain, he surely had been for years, and yet he was unfailingly kind and cheerful towards those who looked after him, and even had sympathy and concern to share over the grief of a Firstborn. Not for the first time he wondered at the strange stuff the Edain were made of, their unshakable resilience and their strength before misfortune.

“It was. There were some who would see it as a sign of evil, the marring of Arda and the corruption of our line, the mighty house of Elendil finally succumbing to the darkness that seeps even into our limbs,” he said thoughtfully. “And many wondered what point there was in leading a life like this…”

“And still you held on, despite the pain… I wish there had been more that I could do for you, Arahad…”

The man shrugged noncommittally. “You did enough; and so did your sons, sending herbs and healing potions, and showing care and respect for the old chieftain…And there was something good in all this, after all,” he added, shaking his head thoughtfully and casting a sidelong glance at his host. Curious, in spite of himself, Elrond indulged the old man.

The Dunadan winked merrily and nodded, obviously pleased. “As you wish, my friend. See, when this sickness struck, I felt dispossessed of all that I was: strength, prowess with weapons, ability to defend my people…Unable to go to war, forced to sit and think while my only son battled away from home, I listened to my people and attended to their needs…and learnt to love what they love: the tilled land and the spring that brings new fruit and new foals; the laughter of children and the wisdom of old warriors, passing the same old tales down to a new generation…the peace of a home when the rangers are back, and the anguish of the parting; the joy of a safe return….or the quiet strength before misfortune… Those are the things that matter, Elrond, the soul of my people and what makes them strong, and I had forgotten while I was away, engrossed in battling evil day after day and losing sight of what it was that we defended…”

“It can be wearisome and hopeless too…Too much loss and despair and nothing in return but an early grave under the stars… And yet, as I sat there, feeling useless and tainted by marring of Arda, I understood that my people are made of hope, hope that one day, no matter how long after our days, a new king shall arise from the ancient line and will set things to right, if only for a time. Towards that hope we Dunedain strive and toil all along our brief lives, hoping that each noble deed, each honest life will somehow add up to that greater good towards which we are always struggling…We are like trees, Elrond, always struggling upwards and beyond what is within our reach…and it is in our very nature not to despair, even if our efforts seem in vain… I would have not learned this had I not been tied to a chair for twenty sun-rounds….”

Elrond was well aware that in the short span of their mortal lives men reached a deep level of wisdom and understanding that grew sharper in their old age, perhaps because of the proximity of death, but Arahad’s words hit him deeper than he was used to expect from an old man, and left him speechless for a while.

“Like trees? King Thranduil would love to hear that,” he only managed to joke faintly.

“I know that he is not very fond of the Secondborn,” the old man shrugged. “Look at this tree, Elrond,” he said suddenly, pointing at the apple tree that sheltered them. “What do you see?”

Elrond followed the old man’s curled finger. The tree was still in blossom, and the white flowers stood out like snow drops against the bright blue sky. He smiled and nodded, remembering.

“The guiding branch was broken,” Arahad continued softly. “I know, for I broke it, while playing a foolish game. I barely recall Erestor’s scolding, but the Lady Celebrían taught me a lesson that sustained me along my life. She told me that everything happened for a reason, and that perhaps the tree would die because of my carelessness, or perhaps other, unexpected thing might happen…as it did. I remember that I watched this tree for long months, until I was sure that a new side branch was taking up and leading the tree along a new, unforeseen path, but always upwards, as trees are supposed to do…She taught me not to despair, Elrond; to stand up to my decisions and assume my responsibilities, and always hope that something good might in the end turn out of evil…”

“She had a way to find hope everywhere,” Elrond admitted sadly, “but it failed her when she most needed it …”

“That I know not,” Arahad said. “I was not here, so I cannot judge. But I’ll tell you something. While I sat there in my hut in the Angle, and despair threatened to overcome me, I would close my eyes and remember this apple tree, and your lady wife’s words, and I would wonder how tall the side branch had reached, and what the stunted former leading branch had been doing meanwhile… It is amazing, Elrond, how body and soul struggled to accommodate this new state of things…and how, slowly but steadily, I managed to find a new way to be useful to my people, and to support the new guiding branch even in my “condition”… What are trees but a mix of light and soil turned into an unstoppable force always driving upwards towards the sky? I know not what you Elves are, but we men are such forces as well, and marring and evil and misfortune only teach us to keep struggling with more strength and more hope…” He cast a brief look at his host’s dumbfounded expression and smiled bashfully. “You will surely forgive an old man who gets carried away and pretends to lecture an elven loremaster…”

“On the contrary, I will bow to your wisdom, Arahad, and thank you for your words. Again you shame me; that an Edain must teach a Firstborn about hope…”

“We necessarily grow more familiar with hope as our brief lives approach the end…although there are many who turn their backs on it. I know not how it is for elves…”

“We call it estel,” Elrond spoke softly, slowly, as if surprised of finding inside himself a truth he did not expect to be there. “It lies within the very substance of Arda, of which we Elves are made of…It is embedded in stone and light and water, in all the things that we love…a promise and a certainty, it is everywhere and yet at times it is hidden…”

“It is easy to lose sight of things that are so plain before your eyes; I know that myself…It took me long sun-rounds of sitting and thinking to get my answer. And you Elves are too used to sitting and thinking, so perhaps the effect is somehow spoiled…”

For the first time in fifteen years, Elrond chuckled openly. “Fortunately, we have our wise kin always ready to teach us Elves a quick lesson in hope,” he said, looking up at the stunted guiding branch and picturing his wife’s serene face and caring smile as she taught the young edain a lesson that, years later, would heal her own husband. “I was a fool to deprive myself of your company all this time…”

“Well, each wound takes its own time to heal,” the old man observed. “But you are welcome to make up for it. See, it is time for storytelling!” he observed, pointing at the children that were approaching them from different sides of the garden.

Elrond sat there as the late spring sun went down lazily; barely listening at the old chieftain’s droning and the children’s laughter, concentrated in feeling his wounds begin to heal. It was true, even in the marring of Arda there was a place for hope and healing, and he was ashamed that he had forgotten that, or that he had failed to see hope in Celebrían’s stubborn resistance and brave departure. She was alive, after all, waiting for them beyond the Sea, and it was his choice to remain there, holding decay and darkness at bay, hoping, together with the Dunedain, that one day a new king would arise from that line and would bring back light and hope to Middle-earth for a while. By the time Eärendil set on his nightly cruise, his son had already regained his strength of will and had remembered what force drove the elves in their hopeless struggle for a land they were bound to lose.

Arahad died while the autumn was still young, and was buried under his apple-tree. That secluded corner soon became a place for those who felt sad and burdened by grief to come and sit, and such was the grace of the place that no sorrow would last long there.

“…you will be safe here, my lady, and I will raise him as my own…Come take a seat...” Carefully, Elrond led the grief-stricken woman towards a bench in the apple orchard. She sniffed weakly and patted the child’s grubby hand with an encouraging smile, unclenching it from her skirts.

“Go my heart, go and play… see those apples on the ground? Pile them together…He is so young,” she sighed, watching the toddler stumbling over the fallen apples and picking them up carefully. “What will he remember of his Adar, of his people?”

“All memories are preserved in Imladris, Lady Gilraen, and he will be taught about them in time,” he reassured the distraught woman. “But it would be better if he grew up free of that burden…”

“Watch out, Aragorn!” She had half got up in alarm as the child stumbled and fell down, but soon he was up on his feet, waving merrily to his naneth.

A strangled sob was all the answer he got. The woman was strong and brave and she knew what was necessary, but it still tore at his heart to watch her grief still so raw. The child had sat –rather fallen back- by the dead apple-tree with the broken guiding branch, the one that had been left standing in memory of the brave chieftain, and was now busy pushing the wrinkled apples into his pockets and gurgling in merriment as they rolled out. Elrond looked around, raking his brains for a name that would give comfort to the distraught mother while effectively hiding the child’s true heritage, and all of a sudden he smiled. “Estel,” he said, filled with a sense of joy that almost overwhelmed him. “He will be Estel.”

For many turns of the new lights Finarfin had endured stoically the numbing grief of his own losses and those of his people, the heavy burden of a kingship marred by kin strife and the shameful legacy of rebellion and kinslaying.

And now, all of a sudden, happiness unforeseen was tearing his soul apart. Or, more accurately, the fear of losing that unexpectedly gained happiness gnawed at him like Ulmo’s tides against the foundations of Olwë’s palace. He had become a hostage of his own joy, an anxious bundle of conflicting emotions in the hide of a serene, composed king –and he did not like it.

There was no actual cause for fear or concern, and that irked the baffled king as he wandered his own halls at night, chased by unwanted visions that came to haunt him when the duties of the day gave way to rest and silence.

“There is no reason to worry,” he chided himself, sitting at his desk shuffling parchments idly, trying to shake off his restlessness and bury it among the mundane concerns of tomorrow’s tasks.

There was no reason indeed, he reminded himself quietly as his trained eye examined the closest document. Findaráto –Finrod, now- was back, whole and full of joy as he had always been, and his fear that his son might suddenly decide to return to Mandos was irrational –and yet present.

His show of unconcerned brow raising did not fool his wise wife, and he did not regret it. She glided across the room, flooding it with her presence, and settled lightly, like a tired wave, on his welcoming lap.

“Why do you worry?” she whispered, tracing his face with tender fingers. “Why do you hurt so badly?”

As the tale went, the eyes of the King of Alqualondë’s daughter changed colour with the depth of her feelings. But ever since he had first met her by the shores -and except for just one time in their long years together- Finarfin had always found that they rather coloured his own feelings and offered him what he needed at every moment: peace, love, joy, forgiveness, compassion, understanding, connivance, trust, strength…Right now, they shone emerald green dappled with gold, like the deep pools in Lórien’s gardens, where the Firstborn and the Valar alike found peace and contentment when the grief of the world wearied them. Lórien…he thought, and again fear gripped his soul in its cold claws.

“He is safe, and hale and hearty,” she crooned. “Returned to us by the grace of the Valar…What do you fear?”

She was right, Finarfin sighed, resting his head under her chin and closing his eyes for a while, finding comfort in her steady heartbeat. Since his return, his son seemed the same joyful elf they had known, touched by the wisdom of his experiences and yet renewed and full of curiosity and enthusiasm. With grave solemnity he had met friends and relatives, and exchanged memories with them. He had travelled then to Alqualondë and had knelt before his grandfather with stern determination…

Of course, Olwë’s generous welcome and quickly granted forgiveness had been made possible by Elwing, who plied and charmed the Swan People with her tales of Lúthien and Finrod’s role in her final success while Eärendil coaxed the powers into sending help to the beleaguered peoples of Middle-earth… And before that by Finarfin, who had once humbled himself before his father-in-law and his Telerin subjects, and had begged forgiveness for the Noldor. And later, when he stood firmly as Olwë raged, braving the waves of sorrow and what ifs washing over the Telerin king’s sad eyes after Finarfin dared ask for ships to sail his people –and Ingwë’s- to Middle-earth to fight the War of Wrath…

The Teleri had received what reparation was possible along the years, Finarfin reflected, and the feud had been laid to rest. But still that must surely be a sour trial for an Exile, and yet Finrod had come out of it unscathed, still wearing his understanding, compassionate smile.

Finrod had sailed to Eressëa with Ingil after that, and had reportedly met there with old friends from Beleriand, some of who still regretted their role in his dreadful death, and still he showed no sign of being afflicted by such encounters… His son was a strong elf and a generous one, Finarfin reminded himself to appease his fears.

And yet the bliss of Valinor had been marred once, and his own father had refused re embodiment… and there were also other minor signs that troubled Finarfin deeply.

“…He will sit for long hours studying his hands, Eärwen…Doing nothing but stare,” he sighed in a tormented voice. That his lively, inventive son had not created a single work of craftsmanship since his return disturbed Finarfin greatly, even if he had spent some time in Mahtan’s forge. He would not mention the other fact, the visit he knew Finrod had not yet made. “What if he… he has not...if he is not cured completely? If he suffers, and decides…”

“Then perhaps he was sent to us so he could heal wholly, my love. Would you not help him, if you could?”

If he could… That was the core of it all, Finarfin thought fleetingly. He barely felt Eärwen squirming and shifting on his lap, and suddenly found himself facing her deep eyes again.

“Would you, my lord?” she demanded in a voice that sang like the wind on calm waters. He nodded unhappily.

“Talk to him.” She could be as merciless as the sea. And as relentless, too.

His futile resistance was swept away by an all-pervading tide of certainty. “He needs words,” she sentenced. “Before any other thing, our child is a Noldo, Arafinwë… he needs words to shape reality and bend it to his will. He needs words to toy with, to turn the tides of doom… and build and rebuild the world, and turn it into something bearable… and then start again. He needs words, my husband, and you are giving him only silence…”

Finarfin gasped like one drowning, sought for an escape, relented and sunk in her knowing glance. Defeated, he lowered his head, ashamed of what she could read in him.

Sweet lips sought his and he surrendered willingly, drinking strength from her. Too soon, she pushed back and traced cool fingers across his mouth.

A spark of golden amusement glinted in her deep eyes. “He is back. He arrived after dinner, straight from Lórien…”

“From Lórien? But...” She slid from his embrace and began putting out the candles. From her sweet, amused smile, he knew that he was making a fool of himself, a far cry from the composed, always-eloquent High King of the Noldor -but he did not care.

“He is in the forge. Go, my lord, and talk to your son. I will be waiting…”

Obedient to the will that mattered, he crossed torch-lit corridors, moonlit gardens, slumbering yards. He pushed open a creaking wooden door and climbed down an old stone stair whose flagstones were smoothed by time. He passed by almost forgotten storerooms and tack rooms and workshops, and finally found the door to his father’s forge.

The place was unusually tidy, but it was long since it had been used, he reminded himself. The fires were out, and the furnace clean, except for the old bellows abandoned there. Fullers, swages, tongs, chisels and a wide range of custom-made tools for different delicate tasks hung neatly on the walls. A big hammer rested on the anvil, as if someone had just left it there while busy reshaping a stubborn piece of iron. Finrod sat at a long desk at the end of the room, close to the door that led to the backyard. He seemed to be studying a piece of parchment under the unsteady light of tall candles –a quill in hand, suspended, as if waiting for inspiration. A brief frown marred his face, but it disappeared quickly as soon as he felt his father’s presence.

“Atar!” A sincere smile brightened his features as he tried to get up and bow at the same time. Finarfin motioned for him to remain seated and sat himself on a workbench, still studying his son’s face.

“You naneth said that you had arrived… It was a short trip. Did the horse behave?”

“Oh, yes, of course. She is swift and well-mannered…But Lord Irmo seemed not thrilled to find me there.”

“Oh?” Somehow that comforted Finarfin greatly, though his son seemed honestly puzzled.

“He muttered something about intrusions, and was very insistent that I should not touch anything, and when I told him that Ingil might probably join me there…he just…dismissed me from his gardens saying that anyway I would not find there what I had been looking for on the first place… Why are you chuckling, Ata, what is this all about?”

“You should ask Ingil, son…it is not my tale to tell!” Finarfin was laughing so helplessly that for a while he did not take notice of anything else. Then reacted.

“And…” he tried to sound cool and unconcerned, “what were you looking for in Lórien, son, if I may ask?”

Finrod grimaced slightly and shrugged, his glance suddenly unfocused, lost first on the wall behind his father, then on the parchments scattered on the desk, finally settling on his long, slender hands spread before him. A shadow crossed his fair features and clouded his bright smile.

Silence spread a cloak of dread over the king. “Son?” he managed in a tight voice.

Slowly, Finrod lifted pained eyes to him. “I…Mahtan banished me from his forge.”

“Ah?” For the second time that night Finarfin had the distinct feeling that he was not exactly honouring his long apprenticeship with Elemmïre, the Vanyarin master of the spoken word, what with all that unexpected information thrown at him while unawares. Finrod seemed not to notice, his attention still fixed on his hands.

“He told me to go away and return not until I had something worth of his fires..."

The quiet despair in his son’s voice shook Finarfin from the contemplation of his failing abilities for articulate speech. He was right, then, and Mahtan had noticed, too. Finrod had lost his talents. “Actually Mahtan told me: ‘Bricks without straw are more easily made than creations of the mind without memories, young one, so go and return not to my forge until you have made peace with your past,’ so I thought that perhaps in Lórien I might find…”

Pity overcome Finarfin’s panic. “He's been bitter since Fëanor and Nerdanel parted, Finrod,” he explained, distraught by the unhappy expression on his child’s face. “And the loss of his grandchildren still weighs heavily on him… But he should have been kinder to you…he should understand that your memories are… cannot…But you will find them in time, son,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. The sad look that his son turned to him almost froze his heart.

“It is not…” Finrod looked away, uncomfortably, shifted on his chair, shuffled the parchments on the desk avoiding Finarfin’s glance. “My memories are there, Atar, most of them, and they do not hurt,” he finally explained in a soft, almost inaudible voice. “Except for a few that…” As if coming to a painful decision he breathed in, frowned, gathered the parchments together, shuffled them again and finally handed one over to Finarfin with a strange look, half hopeful, half ashamed in his grey eyes. “Perhaps you will understand better this way,” he sighed.

Finarfin studied the drawings. The same design cluttered the entire available surface, in different states of completion, drawn by an obviously talented hand that was uncertain of its final purpose. He lifted questioning eyes to his son and waited. Finrod was again studying his hands unhappily, but when he finally met his father’s eyes, his face shone with decision.

“I found that Mahtan was right, Atarinya,” he began in a soft, sad voice. “I would look at my hands and try to recall how it looked like…to no avail. I wanted to return to you the ring that you once gave me… and the commission that went with it…but, for the life that I have been granted, I cannot remember how it was, less make a replica…”

Finarfin nodded slowly, eyeing the sketches again. He recalled it only too clearly, the ring of his house and the dark and windy night on their road to Araman, when he had bestowed it on Finrod’s hands. If he closed his eyes, he could repeat the whole conversation in his mind eye: How he thought his heart would break when Finrod, full of youthful enthusiasm, had chosen the road of exile, and the hurt, stunned expression in his son’s face when Finarfin had refused him his blessing… and the many nights that he had spent awake, blaming himself for that harsh rebuke.

“…I said terrible things to you that night, and you were right that there was nothing that we could do against the Morgoth…I made poor decisions, and failed you thoroughly in protecting and defending your people and your children… I even gave away the emblem of your House…I fear it is all still festering within,” he added with his accustomed honesty, placing a hand on his heart.

Finarfin shook his head, busy sorting out his emotions. The pain was still there, and would always be, pain and impotence –and shame- that he had not been able to prevent all that suffering…but also the pride with which he had heard about the deeds of his children in Middle-earth…What if Finrod had remained, after all? How would have things turned out, then? Was there not some sort of deeper design that not even the Valar had controlled?

Misinterpreting his father's silence, Finrod launched into another string of soulful considerations. “I know I have hurt you greatly, Atar,” he continued in a low, pained voice. “I know that my words were prideful, my actions thoughtless and the consequences too grave to be forgiven or forgotten lightly but… I hoped… if you could just forgive me, if not my deeds, Atarinya?”

Even Finrod had to stop to regain his breathing, and Finarfin took advantage of that. He would have sworn that forgiveness was taken for granted between them, but apparently -and not surprisingly, after all- Eärwen was right. “Words,” her voice echoed in his mind, “your son needs words and you are giving him only silence.” He had been pouring them out, like a waterfall, but he would also get some in return, he vowed to himself, drawing his son to his feet as he got up and crossed the distance that separated them.

“I forgive you, my son,” he said simply but solemnly, placing both hands on his son’s shoulders and searching his eyes carefully. That was his brave child, but also a powerful king whose name was revered in Middle-earth…and also the wise, curious, inquisitive youth he had raised and helped grow into Felagund the Faithful…He smiled openly then, basking in the feeling of accomplishment, and pushed Finrod into a tight embrace. “I forgive you, and give you my blessing, son, that I grudged you then…do you think that will be enough?”

Judging by the way his son tightened the embrace, Finarfin considered that, after all, he had given Finrod words enough to start rebuilding his world, placing each deed and blame in place and, hopefully, to retake his artistic pursuits, which completed his full joy in life. And perhaps…

“Thank you, Atar,” his son said in a low voice full with gratitude. He pulled back and grinned. “I think I now know what had been missing…”

With swift grace, he sat back at the desk and traced fluid scratches on a new piece of parchment. He eyed it critically then showed it to Finarfin.

“There it is. The crown of flowers, how could I forget? What do you think? It looked like this, did it not? Tomorrow I will check the furnace and bellows and start making charcoal…I would like to forge it here, Atar, if you do not mind. Mahtan will have a fit when he…”

Finarfin nodded distractedly, delighted by the enthusiasm that rang at last in his son’s voice now that he was again embarked on a creative project. Then his eyes caught sight of another parchment full of outlines, and he frowned briefly.

“That ring is now a valued heirloom and a relic in Middle-earth, Finrod,” he interrupted, placing a hand on his son’s arm as if to stop the flow of words that were now taking him away from the direction Finarfin considered safest. “I do not want it replaced. I have rings aplenty, anyway, and I can give you another as a reminder, or in sign of your station…but if your memories are fully unlocked now and you have made peace with them, perhaps you would like to devote some time to this?” he suggested softly, pointing at the parchment. His son blushed and stumbled on words most awkwardly.

“It is a betrothal ring, Finrod; it is round, it is silver, it is plain. What design is there to be in it?”

“And I still have to clean the forge, and start the fire, and surely mend the bellows…”

“She is waiting for you, my son, since word of your return reached her…Actually since you left.”

Finrod sighed and opened his arms helplessly. “I felt I needed to settle things, before even start thinking…”

“I would say this is the most important thing to settle…the one that will remain with you for the rest of your immortal life, son…” He pulled Finrod to his feet gently. “There is a roan mare in the stables craving a long ride. If you start now you could be in Valmar by sunrise…”

Finarfin laughed quietly and pushed him towards the door. “Go and make your peace with all your memories and start living your new life, child, you deserve it! And forge her a ring of words while you ride, that is what you are best at!”

Chuckling as he heard his son’s hurried steps fading up the stairs, Finarfin picked up the parchments, cast a last look at the silent forge, put out the candles and closed the door.

“Perhaps I should have told him how skilled a blacksmith Amárië has become in these yéni,” he pondered thoughtfully as he ran to Eärwen’s loving arms, his soul at last at peace and his worries laid to rest.

A/N Inspiration is elusive, but intent counts, I hope. Happy birthday to both of you, and a very good year full of muses.

…Know all ends, and even the final fate of the Ring-bearer can be a tool in the hands of the Valar. This piece takes place between “The Ring Goes West” and “The Mirror of Galadriel.”

Amidst the joyful celebrations in that summer of newborn hope in Gondor the Queen’s brooding was not lost to those who knew her well.

Of course she had motives, they thought. Even if she had reached the end of her long wait -and that was cause for great rejoicing- it also meant a bitter parting from her loved ones –a parting that would stretch beyond the circles of the world. And she loved her father dearly.

But those feelings did not dampen her joy permanently, and if from time to time a brief cloud of thoughtfulness crossed her fair face, it was soon put down by her subjects to the Elven well-known contemplative nature –or to the impending separation that would no doubt weigh upon her.

Until one night in the Merethrond, when her wise grandmother thought she had found a clue to unveiling the nature of the ponderings that occupied the new Queen of Gondor, as the minstrel sang an old lay and the guests enjoyed.

It was fast as a bolt of lightning escaped from a summer storm, yet for a brief moment Galadriel met Arwen’s bright, knowing eyes across the hall, and felt the sudden jolt of determination that shook her granddaughter, mixed with a soft tinge of amusement that was the mark of her Sindarin ancestry, she thought with passing aggravation as the Queen gave her a brief nod and turned her attention back to her company.

“That I should live to see one of the House of Oropher displaying such tact and diplomacy!” a deep voice tickled her ear. She smiled. Apparently the son of Thranduil was having some convincing words with the over enthusiastic minstrel, judging by the swiftness with which said minstrel switched to completely different matters for song and entertainment.

“And your granddaughter is brewing some secret joke,” she whispered in return, studying the annoying little smile that now twitched irrepressibly at the Queen’s lips.

“She looks indeed like one of the Thoronniath sitting on a nestful about to hatch…”

“And here I thought that she looked as smug as her grandfather when he finally manages to order the world to follow his whims!”

“That too, my lady,” he rumbled with an amused chuckle that made her shiver and then wince as she remembered their approaching parting.

And yet she could feel how it cost him, too, day after day, to keep his light front before the rest, steadily supporting Elrond while at the same time shunning all thoughts regarding their impending separation. Surrendering to his searching hand she followed her lord meekly out of the stifling walls of the great hall and under the soothing vault of Varda’s stars.

Dawn found Galadriel alone, strolling dreamily amidst the rose beds in the King’s gardens. The stars had provided what comfort they could offer, but come morning Celeborn had left her side to seek Elrond. All his friends were doing their best to distract the peredhel from sad thoughts, and it was only fitting that his father-in-law joined in the effort, he had claimed seriously. Somehow, Galadriel suspected this not to be the whole truth, but she approved earnestly nonetheless.

She turned slowly to greet the Queen of Gondor, fairer than that glorious summer morning. Joy suited the Evenstar, Galadriel thought with a mix of pride and resignation as she nodded and bowed with a warm smile.

“These are your husband’s gardens, I am told,” she said, recalling a similar encounter with the King a few days ago. Unconsciously, she cast a fleeting glance at the second ring that now graced her fingers and sighed so minutely. “I would welcome your company, Arwen,” she added, noticing the small frown that marred her brow briefly.

“Let’s walk, then,” the Queen said, dragging her grandmother playfully along the stone-lined paths.

“I would also listen to your concerns, if you cared to share them,” Galadriel ventured after a pleasant enough stretch of silent, leisurely walk. She could feel the turmoil inside the Queen, but also her firm decision deep below the layers of doubt and hesitation. She would have thought, after last night’s spark, that Arwen had finally found the answer to a riddle that had troubled her; but what that riddle might be about was a complete mystery to Galadriel.

Arwen stopped on her tracks to check a budding bush. “I would ask another boon of you, Grandmother,” she finally said, her face half hidden in the depths of a blooming white rose.

Daughter of Elrond is she, Galadriel reminded herself warily. Not a word is dropped idly –or misplaced- in her speech. “Another?” she asked, raising a quizzical brow.

A laden silence sat between them. Finally, Arwen released a deep sigh and lifted her face from the rose.

“When Thingol set that price on Luthien’s hand he was giving Beren a hope, even if wholly unintended,” she began in her deep, slow voice. “He gave Beren something to look up to for strength and determination…”

Fearing what was coming, Galadriel closed her eyes so her pain and guilt would not show.

“You did the same to Estel…and to me, when you garbed my lord in elven silver and mithril and sent him to me in Cerin Amroth, so I would see him not as a mere mortal but as the great one he could become. I knew the joy of Lúthien -and also her anguish- since then, and he found his star of hope to hold on to through those long years of hardship and war.”

“I never denied that, Grandmother! And I never thanked you enough.” In two elegant strides Arwen was beside her, holding Galadriel’s hands in hers and pressing them comfortingly. “Do not think that I am not aware of your sacrifice, or deeply grateful for it,” she said reassuringly, “and yet I still need your help one more time!”

“Speak then, child! What is it that you would have of me that can be so difficult to ask for?”

“I know I owe you much of what I have now…and yet there is one who was dragged into our fate, entangled with doom…and is now bereft of everything while the rest of us rejoice… I worry for Frodo, Grandmother, for while Estel and I have reached the end of our toils and found happiness, Frodo suffers still, and I fear that he will not heal…He was dragged into a war that was not his, and pitted against a foe that was beyond his powers to defeat, and yet he marched into darkness out of love and duty….He hopes that he will recover but I can see that he will not… I wished that his sacrifice would not be left unrewarded!”

"Such is often the fate of many noble deeds, to pass out of memory unacknowledged and unrewarded,” Galadriel retorted bitterly, freeing her hands and wrapping them around her waist, as if warding off a sudden cold of dread. Arwen’s words had -for the second time in a few days- reopened her deepest wound. She turned her back on her granddaughter and took a couple of steps away while fighting to stop burning tears from coursing freely down her cheeks, as memories hit her again with the force of almost three ages of the sun.

“But it is unfair!” Arwen insisted, following her grandmother eagerly. “I think there must be something that I could do, at least! The children of Elrond were granted the privilege of withholding our choice until our father passes west. I surrendered mine that night in Cerin Amroth when I pledged myself to a Secondborn…I know I am not Lúthien, but I wish there would be some way that I could pass my rights to that ship down to Frodo…”

Stunned, Galadriel stopped to cast a grave look at her granddaughter. “That is nonsense you are speaking, Arwen! The gift of mortals is not one to be withdrawn from them! Not even the Valar meddle with that!”

“But Frodo would surely find healing in the West, were he allowed to dwell there even for a brief while!” Arwen went on beseechingly as they reached the small stair that led up to the ramparts. “Have I not heard you talk about the gardens of Lórien, where pain turns into wisdom and world weariness into deep, quiet joy and acceptance?”

“But she had lost her will to live, if the tales that I have been taught are true. Frodo has not, Grandmother. He still hopes to live on happily, and even if I cannot grant him that, I would that all the good that he has done for the sake of Middle-earth would not in the end result in a lifetime of guilt and failure to him… Is there nothing that you can do?”

“Your good heart moves me, Arwen, but Frodo’s fate is not your fault...or your responsibility,” she finally said in a tense voice, hurrying up the narrow stairs and leaning on the walls, seeking comfort in the sight of the wide plains of the Pelennor and the silvery ribbon of Anduin that rolled south to the sea. “And that what you ask for is beyond my powers to grant…”

I should have known that she would not give up so easily, and that is surely Celebrían’s stubbornness in her, Galadriel thought, not meeting Arwen’s pleading eyes.

“You could take him with you and vouchsafe his passage!! You are Galadriel daughter of Finarfin, greatest among the Exiles, returning to the lands of her youth!”

“After a long banishment,” she reminded her granddaughter sternly. “No mortal is allowed into the lands of the West, and you would that I returned to the Blessed Realm under the banners of rebellion yet again?” But she was smiling softly now, suddenly amused by the very thought.

“Please, Grandmother,” Arwen insisted. “I could not live with the knowledge that my happiness was bought at the price of someone else’s…”

That gave Galadriel pause. For a while she twisted the ring that now adorned her finger beside Nenya; the ring of Barahir… The ring of Finrod, which had once belonged to Finarfin.

“Many lives are needed to make a life, Arwen. You said you are not Lúthien… yet you are descended from her…and from Beren, too. And they lived their lives with the knowledge that their happiness had been bought with the life of an innocent,” she sentenced severely. “This ring stands testimony to that sacrifice…”

“And also to a promise of friendship and service between our kin, and everlasting alliance. Do not forget that I carried it for years, Grandmother,” Arwen retorted in a grave voice. “The tie between the two kindred has been renewed, the ring returned, the oath fulfilled, the debt cancelled. Would you not pay this last service to a descendant of Beren, on behalf of the Faithful?”

“Where did she get that stately demeanour from? Her adar, no doubt,” she wondered dryly. Watching Arwen before her, stern and demanding as the queen she already was, a queen of men, Galadriel was suddenly reminded of Beren’s grave dignity at their last meeting in Doriath, when she had refused the ring that the man had offered to return to her, committing herself in turn to keep her brother’s oath of help and friendship to the line of Barahir down the ages. “And this I tell you, my lady, for I am no stranger to foresight either, that your line and mine will become entwined as the serpents in this ring, and that by his sacrifice a great good will come to Middle-earth,” the young man had predicted then; and she had believed him. Aware that fate had finally caught up with her, she sighed deeply, closed her eyes briefly and acknowledged her obligation to this offspring of both lines.

For all that day Galadriel glided over her chores, wearing a calm front while she internally debated in the throes of a bitter struggle. All of a sudden, the weight of three ages of hopeless fight was too much for her to bear, so that tiniest of favours, which Arwen had asked of her, stirred an uncalled-for storm of outrage and grievance as she measured Frodo’s losses – and the recompense that was asked on his behalf- against all the unrewarded sorrow and bereavement that paved her long defeat.

Sunset found her standing again on the ramparts in the King’s gardens. A soft breeze cooled the heat radiating from the stones. It also carried chirping voices and laughter from a terrace below. Leaning over the wall to look down, she caught a glimpse of the irrepressible Halflings, all of them, sitting on the walls sharing a well-provided basket and an earthen jar among them and with Gloin’s son while they chattered endlessly. Not far from them, Legolas stood on the parapet, his gaze fixed west.

“They are recovering fast. Their good spirits are a blessing,” a soft voice observed beside her. She acknowledged the bright presence without turning. Since his return from the timeless lands, Mithrandir did nothing to veil his true nature from her wise eyes, and she was almost always glad of it.

“But this is going to be a deep blow for Thranduil,” she pointed out thoughtfully. Legolas had turned briefly to join in some joke but almost immediately his gaze was drawn back to the west; to the sea and what lay beyond. And she felt a sudden twinge of pity to think of the brave, stubborn woodland king and of that last blow that fate was about to deliver to him, just when he hoped that light and joy had at last returned to his beloved forest.

“Something good may yet arise from that, though,” Mithrandir said, as she expected he would; and she knew better than to object, even if she could not find it in her weary soul to agree, or even to hope that it might be so. Yet Mithrandir’s next words shook her. “Much must now pass away;” he pronounced solemnly. “And the power of the Rings also is ended, and many fair things will fade and be forgotten with their passing, yet it is said that all the Elves would willingly endure this loss if by it the power of Sauron could be broken, and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever…”

“He who said so surely did not have to endure loss in his life,” she objected, levelling a scorching glare on the Maia, who nodded blandly and acknowledged her grief.

“It was Glorfindel, if I remember rightly,” he murmured. When she would not answer, he went on cautiously. “Small hands freely accept to carry a task that is beyond their skill to fulfil, and in doing so they are confronted with an evil that is beyond their power to defeat –and on they carry still, even to the brink of self-destruction, out of love and duty…Do they not deserve a high reward for all their labours?”

“Others nobler and wiser went even beyond self-destruction and were rewarded with an eternity in Mandos,” she reminded bitterly, because for all that day the fate of her beloved brother had been weighing heavily on her mind.

“But their fortunes are not in your hands, my lady. And yet you would refuse to perform a small act of kindness, which you could grant easily for the benefit of one who has already lost so much, because you deem that others are more deserving of Eru’s compassion?”

“Then why is this required of me, who have not the power to grant it? Have I not passed my test, lost far more than Frodo has, endured this long defeat to its bitter end? Why don’t you call up to the Valar yourself, beg them for this mercy for Frodo if they deem it fitting?”

“The One demands of each of us within the measure of our own strength. This intervention was asked of you, my lady, and so it is not in my power, but in yours, to present it to a higher authority...if you would consent. It is not for us to judge the rewards granted to others, only to hope in His immeasurable compassion, and trust that it will be extended upon us as well, when our time comes.”

“Do not talk of estel to me, Mithrandir!” she retorted harshly, tears now glistening on her pale cheeks despite her efforts. “What did it serve him in the end? What good would it do to me, who have already lost so much?”

“I am not talking of estel, my lady, but of what lies beyond estel and sustains it… The knowledge of Eru’s endless pity and compassion, of which each of our small acts of mercy are but a reflection, that will be returned ten-folded to our lives…and our deaths. Not even the wise know all ends…”

“Were I to be offered recompense for all my toils, surely I would choose other prize before redeeming Frodo’s suffering, deserving though he is…” she rebelled, for in that time of fruitless victory her grief and her longing clouded her wisdom.

“Ponder your words carefully, daughter of Finarfin. Payment and reward are not for any of us to grant, as are not judgement or sentence. You are offered another chance for atonement, and for giving away pity liberally in the same manner that you expect to receive it...What would Finrod the Faithful do in your place?”

That gave her pause. She kept her silence for a while; then finally relented. Defeated, she bowed her head and closed her eyes, battling conflicting feelings and a weariness that was beyond comprehension.

“But I have lost so much already, and have yet so much to lose, and still mercy and compassion for others are demanded of me?” she murmured in a thin voice that came out quivering, for she worried greatly about the uncertain fate of her husband and her grandsons. “Who cares for my losses and my grief? Sí man I yulma nin enquantuva?” she chanted softly, recalling the words of her farewell to Frodo. And yet as she sang she suddenly remembered her astonished gratefulness towards the frail Halfling, who had dared carry the fates of Middle-earth in such hopeless quest and had succeeded, though at a high cost for himself. As if a passing veil of darkness had been thrown aside from her soul, she found again the wisdom and compassion that she had learnt in her youth, and all her doubts and all her grievances were appeased as she gladly, humbly, conceded what was asked of her.

“May the Valar accept my plea,” she sighed finally, lifting to Mithrandir a teary face barely lightened up by a wan smile, “for I will yet again challenge their decrees,” she joked tremulously.

“They already have,” Mithrandir said softly after a brief pause, tilting his head as if he were listening to a distant voice and smiling openly. “Your granddaughter will be glad to know,” he added, pointing towards the entrance of the gardens, where Arwen watched them with curiosity. “And your gesture will not remain unrewarded, even if it may pass unnoticed amidst the great deeds of this dawning age,” he promised quietly as Galadriel hurried to her granddaughter, for he knew who would be waiting for her at the quay in Alqualondë.

The whole idea for this new instalment in the apparently never-ending story of the Ring of Barahir came out of Letter 246, in which Tolkien discussed Frodo’s final fate and how he had been granted passage in that last ship. The professor guessed that Arwen might have gone to Galadriel or Gandalf or both. And I wondered what such request would have meant for Galadriel, at the end of her endurance and when all her loses were plain before her, to be asked for yet another service, another act of generosity towards another.

I told Galadriel’s encounter with Beren in Droplets: “Nor shall anything of my realm endure…”

“Sí man I yulma nin enquantuva?” “Who shall now refill the cup for me?” Taken from Galadriel’s parting song in “Farewell To Lórien” LOTR.

At last Finrod rides to Valmar to find Amarië. This follows the events in "A Ring of Words," in Chapter 15.

On he rode Finrod the Faithful, fairest and most beloved of the house of Finwë, and he felt that his heart would burst in joy as he hurried at last to his love.

With no more doubts in his heart, he went about swift and easy as a questing wind, humming merrily as his nervous steed flew under the starlit skies and across the well-known fields that led to Valmar.

And yet he felt music was needed, too. Bliss and relief bubbled too intensely to be freed by mere words. Forgiveness had come naturally to him after his conversation with his father, and his generous heart now longed to hold her in his arms forever, fears and lingering questions already forgotten. Gone too at last was the itching, sore place where the small grudge he had carried across the Ice, and into Mandos, and then back to life –that she had abandoned him to his doomed fate so many sun-rounds ago- had festered.

“But that was another life,” he smiled, threading nimble fingers on the mare’s mane, anticipating the soft touch of golden strands only his mind recalled now. “We have a new one to build forever.”

“And my heart springs anew, bright and confident and true...” he murmured happily, trying different melodies.“What do you think, Lintâl?”

For all answer, the opinionated mare struggled forth with even more energy, apparently eager to race for the whole night as long as she was not forced to listen to love-sick princes making up poetry on the way.

“And the old love comes to meet me, in the dawning and the dew...” Finrod insisted half-laughing, for thoughts and feelings rumbled and bumped inside and his chest felt too narrow to hold them all. “You fear she might again fail to come?” he asked softly, for Lintâl now snorted and tossed her head in obvious discontent. “Fear not on my account, my friend,” he soothed. “This time I am going to her…and everything will be as it should have been. I have forgiven her. She was not allowed to come though she wanted to, I am sure…” Unbidden, the memory shot through him with an intensity he thought he had left behind in Mandos: the torch-lit clearing where he awaited in vain, and the wave of misery that had choked him when he understood that she was not coming. Startled, he blinked away ghost tears that came from another age and life.

And so he rode on, now in silence, his smile frozen in apprehension. Like a fleeting blur of moonlight they crossed silver-dappled meadows asleep under the moon. Swift and silent, Lintâl flew past quiet hills and solitary beech groves and plunged deeper into the forest.

As if cued in by his darkening mood, an angry wind slowly rose and dragged a wreck of clouds over the moon, blanketing the forest in deep shadows. A storm was brewing out of the sea; Finrod could hear the slow, deep rumble of thunder coming closer as the lightning-veined clouds sailed in like massive mountains. Soon rain drummed steadily on the canopy. There were presences moving in the night, hurrying to their shelters –he sensed a distant wolf-howl, the green gleam of a wild cat’s stare, the scurry of furtive claws clambering old oak trees- as the rain became hail and the storm bellowed and roared and crashed against the forest ground. All of a sudden, he found he could not see the way anymore.

“Easy, easy now, Lintâl,” he crooned, battling frightened branches that lashed madly at them in a vain attempt at protecting budding new leaves from the merciless hailstones pelting in wrath from above. “We cannot be too far from the crossroad… go on, little-one, fear not.”

Finally, amidst the writhing trees, he glimpsed the outline of a hut and the ruddy light of a welcoming fire escaping through a narrow window. Too harried to feel surprised, he kneed his mare into the clearing where he had once awaited Amarië with growing despair. The hut had not been there then, nor the crumbling barn on which it leant heavily.

“By your leave, oh, Wise One…” Dripping and soaking in sweat after tending to Lintâl, Finrod stepped into the hut and bowed before the stranger he instantly recognized as one the Powers; a Maia, he guessed, though his current embodied appearance reminded Finrod more of the Secondborn –tried by time- than of the eternal glory of the Powers of Valinor. And yet the mirth that simmered in the sparkling, too young eyes that were turned to him was definitely not something he was used to seeing among the lords of the Blessed Realm, not anymore.

“You are welcome, child…” the stranger chanted, laddling a wooden bowl with some steaming broth and handing it over. “Ah, you are one of the reborn?” he added after close scrutiny.

“Finrod the Faithfu!” the bushy brows shot up in undisguised surprise, then relaxed in an approving smile. “Your deeds have crossed the waters, Felagund.”

Finrod shifted awkwardly as he sat on the packed ground, holding on to the line that had helped him make peace with his past. “That was in another life…”

“All lives are one and the same…different branches of the same tree. And they all bear fruit, too. Take seat, now, son of Arafinwë, and tell me what brings you out on a night like this?”

Finrod sighed, extending his long legs and making himself comfortable against the wooden wall. “I rode from Tirion to Valmar under a starry sky, in search of my beloved Amarië the Fair, whom I have not seen since I was returned to the lands of the living…But then the storm came down on us and a fell wind awoke and the trees would hinder our path and I lost my way… I thought I knew these roads,” he murmured, still confused by how changed his surroundings were.

“Ah, but you are not young anymore, my friend,” the Wise One droned and then let escape an annoying chuckle. “You should know that, sometimes, what we are looking for is right behind our eyes…”

“Before, you mean,” Finrod retorted, and if he sounded a bit harsh, he put it down to the Wise One’s patronizing manner. He was lost in Valinor, he who had wandered the vast, unexplored lands of Middle-earth, and that Maia was close to mocking him!

Finrod winced and took the spoon to his lips, to save himself from retorting. This Maia was definitely aggravating. “And what are you doing this far from Valmar, Wise One?” he inquired politely, hoping to draw the strange conversation away from his own business.

The Maia chuckled merrily. “Oh, you know!” he gestured around vaguely. “Sowing, seeding, planting… a bit of watering, a bit of trimming, a bit of whispering here and there…mainly watching over the new saplings.”

“You are going to be busy after tonight, then; few will escape unscathed,” Finrod said darkly, gesturing to the window. Outside, the wind still growled like the orcs of Sauron as they hunted Elves in the forests of Dorthonion after the dragon…Where did that come from? he frowned. Memories from his previous life did not have the habit of coming to him unbidden, but rather at will… “I… I fear I drifted,” he hurried to apologize, noticing the obvious break in the conversation and the amused, fond glance the Maia had set on him. “I mean, the storm…”

“There will be losses,” the Maia acknolwedged, yet he did not seem too troubled by it. “But not everything will be lost, and the trees will be renewed again and again. The hour is late and none of us is going anywhere tonight…You can take the place by the fire, and there is a blanket over there.”

Not risking more strange exchanges with the eccentric Maia, Finrod simply nodded his thanks and then lay down on the appointed pile of twigs and leaves. The occasional cracking of logs mixed with a soft drone that surely came from his host soon covered the growls of the wind and lulled him into sleep.

Torches, drums, angry words… He waited alone in the clearing, hope failing as the night wore on, though no golden light came afterwards…No golden light but fire; fire and smoke and blood on the water, and on the quays, and on Fingon’s face and hands and sword…Fire of anger in Arafinwë’s eyes as he turned his back on them, and fiery burnts of the merciless Ice… The new sun burnt, too, and the dragon, and the battles in the north…

Finrod tossed and turned in his bed of twigs, trying to escape the dream. All through it the firewood crackled and hissed, and the stars shone cold above even as the poisoned fangs of the wolf rent through his chest. The venom burnt, and the dying elf twisted and cried in agony…

With a gasp and a sob he jerked awake, panting. Outside, the birds sang and the sun slanted her way into a new day.

The hut was empty and the odd Maia was gone, he found out after a quick glance. Gone too was his hard-earned calm. “What was that?” he sighed, pushing his hair back from his face and closing his eyes briefly to conjure back the disturbing images of his dream. He turned them over in his mind, curious. The memories were close and clear, as they had been in Mandos, and yet stingless, the pain dulled by a strange glimmer that outlined every scene until it all seemed unreal, something happened to someone else, a tale of old times. He could see himself there, as if from above, and barely hear a soft whisper that might have been his name.

With a deep sigh he summoned the serenity he had seldom lost -in one life or another- when confronted with events that were beyond his power to change or understand and forced himself back into the living world. Aware of the strange paths the fëa took at times on the way to healing, he carefully folded the memory away and made ready to start the day.

The sounds of dawn were soothing as he went about the cabin looking for some food; birds chirping goodmorning, a soft breeze gossiping among the leaves, the trees humming contentedly. “It never sounded in such harmony back in Middle-earth,” Finrod mused. And yet there was something else, a breathing pulse of hope and trust that beat in the very air. It tingled and thrummed all around in joyful anticipation, a feeling that nagged insistently at his mind.

On a carved bench by the door he found a parcel of food wrapped up in a soft piece of cloth, the kind Vairë’s weavers brought to life in their looms, and a slender walking stick. Like the sun drawing back the beaded courtain of a spring shower, understanding dawned on him. The hope and joy that tingled in the air could only belong to one elusive Maia. “Olórin!” he exclaimed, and then laughed, because he now knew that the Powers looked down benevolently on his errand.

“Morning, friend! Are your well-rested?” he greeted his mare as he stepped out into the clearing. “I fear you are not needed any further,” he added, showing the walking stick. With an unimpressed snort, Lintâl brushed his arm and almost pushed him away before returning her attention to the grass.

“I know, I know, I am not stalling!” Finrod laughed. Searching the parcel, he brought out a couple of wrinkled apples that he offered to his faithful mare. “Go back to Tirion now, beautiful–one. I must follow on foot. Who knows what will I find?”

But even as he spoke, he felt there was only one thing he could find at the end of his path: the thing he had been missing all the long years of his exile, the thing he had been looking for –no, left behind, the thing… wait, was that what the Maia meant last night? Sometimes what we are looking for is right behind our eyes… She had abandoned him, left him standing there, waiting, that terrible night in that same clearing; but in turn he had left her behind, too...

“Did she ever come here?” he asked the trees that had joined him in his mournful vigil back then. “Did you tell her that I cried, and begged, until there was nothing left for me but exile?”

The trees watched him in thoughtful silence. A merry chirrup coming from behind startled him almost out of his soft buckskin boots.

The small wren let go a chirpy tirade, then jumped nervously from branch to branch of the juniper bush, urging.

“I should follow you? Is that so?” Finrod arched a brow then shrugged, waved goodbye to his faithful mare, picked up the stick and the parcel with the food and started after the tiny, nervous fellow.

Over the hills they went, across dales and blooming groves and budding thickets, and always the little wren would fly ahead. When the sun was high in the sky, Finrod sat under the dangling, green-bronze flowers of a young oak, and ate.

On they marched again, to the south-east of Valmar and into the hilly country that stretched from the pastures of Yavanna to the very eaves of Oromë’s woods, the wren leading tirelessly and Finrod following.

Arien was close back home when the wren finally stopped on the lower branch of an elm and twittered softly, his little head jerking nervously to its right. A small creek sang down a narrow, tree-clad gully and bubbled eastwards past his feet. With a kind smile and a courteous bow, Finrod offered the last bit of his waybread to his gentle guide and took the steep, slippery, heavily forested path that ran up beside the stream.

The clearing at the top allowed a wide view of the ragged, craggy terrain before him. The path shouldered a chain of hills; to his back, sea and sky darkened slowly to deep purple in the trail of Arien. Shadows were already slipping out of hiding back there in Middle-earth, he thought with a shiver.

But not here, he remembered with a smile as he saw something glinting on the grass ahead. Bending, he carefully lifted a thin, extremely light silver ring attached to a fine chain that ended in another ring, also attached to more links that tied it to another ring… Curious, he started following the strange trail, coiling the almost weightless, apparently endless chain in his hands as he went.

The string of rings was a voluminous roll when he finally caught sight of a hut tucked between the hills and the edge of a dense thicket of oaks. A silversmith’s hut, he soon discovered, finding the beginning –or the end- of the chain in the ample forge inside. And it belonged to an extremely skilled one, too, he noticed in awe as he examined scattered pieces of work: an eagle-shaped broch with eyes of emerald, the branched, arched candlesticks that rose up like vines, the crystal glasses with impossibly delicate filigree stems, the lacework bracelets that resembled gossamer…

And yet his attention was drawn to the stone column that stood on one side of the chamber, close to the anvil, taunting. Sensing the challenge, Finrod took a couple of tentative steps while studying the carved pillar. The pedestal was a nest of threaded leaves and branches from which rose the entwined, slender bodies of two serpents, which parted briefly to embrace and rim a silver basin before meeting again face to face, one supporting, the other devouring a crown of flowers.

With a deep sense of foreboding, Finrod slowly came to stand by it and peered into the basin.

At first he thought it was a mirror, seeing his own face looking back at him. Leaning closer, he could see the backdrop of trees, and the fumes in the air. He was waiting in the clearing, in the very midst of his darkest hour, and then a messenger came and his world darkened. The clear liquid that filled the basin swirled and changed, and all of a sudden the images from last night’s dream started unfolding and melding while he watched, in awe, from above. Palaces and white piers; trumpets, towers, arrows, wide oceans full of tears... Flags, ragged sails, fairy boats, bloodied spears and swords, rolling green lands and distant visions, underneath the starry skies; dragons, fires, armies, darkness… He saw himself trudging across the ice, hunting in Beleriand, standing in the deep caves, carving the vast halls of Nargothrond, asleep in his chambers, his face turned to the silvery starvault engraved on the ceiling…And all through it he could breathe the same sense of deep calm that had seen him through his life.

A shiver ran through his bent spine as the truth settled on him. Even before he saw his broken body laying amidst the filth in his own dungeon, dying, sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling and a slow smile spreading his tired features in death, he knew –he remembered- what he had seen in that last moment of unbearable suffering.

“Amarië!” he sobbed softly, as the vision trembled and dissolved into the weightless nothingness of Mandos.

“Vaster than the starvault and more slow, unstoppable as the tide eating at a cliff-wall for ages, my love stretched and reached for you in the widest forests of Beleriand, in the deepest recesses of the earth, even in the wall-less halls of Mandos, and watched over you and held you safe –or at least in peace…”

Slowly he turned around. She stood by the door, craddling an armload of sticks, framed in the copper glow of the last embers of sunset and shrouded in the golden haze of her silky, unbound flaxen locks. Stunned and speechless, he took half a step to her, doubting she was real. The coil of silver rings fell clinking from his hands. Her eyes flew briefly to the chain then back to his.

“One for each sun-round that we were apart,” she whispered in a crystal voice that sounded almost amused. “I hoped that, in the end, it would lead you to me…”

“I thought that you had abandoned me,” he sighed brokenly. He lowered his eyes briefly, because all of a sudden she was too bright to look at. “I held on to memories, but all that time you were always with me…”

She nodded briefly, and her compassion flooded him like the tides of Belegaer. “And yet you would not know…”

Overwhelmed, Finrod fell to his knees and raised the chain before his eyes. “I should wear this and do your bidding in punishment…Let me bring you water, firewood, charcoal, tend the fire! Let me be the lesser of your servants, Amarië, until I pay for my blindness and my arrogance!” he cried, and there were tears and laughter on his face as he pleaded.

Her deep blue eyes studied him through the golden veil of her hair, her head slightly tilted, her breathing even. Finrod waited in silence. At last she dropped the sticks and took a couple of steps until she stood by him.

“I prayed, and cried to the King of Arda: Let me be with him! but he would not heed my plea..” she began in a soughing, soft voice that reminded him of the chanting falls of Narog. “Then messengers came and spoke of blood and fire by the quays and the white ships, and I cried again: Let me be with him, but to no avail…”

Finrod bowed his head, burdened by the sorrow that still echoed in her long-missed voice, ashamed that he had been the cause of such grief and had never thought of it. And on she droned, her long pale hand ghosting over his bent head; not touching –not yet.

“And then Mandos came and spoke of Doom, and I fell to my knees and would have forsaken my own fëa as I pleaded in agony to the One: Let me be with him!” And then the King lifted his bowed head, and looked at me with pity in his fathomless eyes and said: But you already are…" Her long fingers caressed his chin and he obeyed their gentle urging, looking up to drown in her knowing glance. “And I knew it in my heart, that I would always be with you,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with immeasurable joy.

And suddenly all his deeds of valour and his words of wisdom and his resolution before misfortune paled before her quiet strength and unacknowledged sacrifice and relentless vigil: Amarië, who had tamed the fire and bent it to her will. Amarië the Faithful, who had held on to him even beyond Doom… Amarië the Valiant, whose valour was not lesser than that of Haleth, or of Andreth or of Lúthien…

“I…” Forge her a ring of words, Finarfin had said. For the first time in his lives, Finrod found himself speechless. There were no words in the tongues of Elves or Powers to praise her worth, he feared. “I…” he looked at the chain of rings in his hands, and then looked deep inside and recognized the presence there, the source of his resolve and his endurance till the bitter end and beyond. “Are you sure that you looked in the right place? Sometimes what we are looking for is right behind our eyes…” And then he laughed, a clear laugh of surprised joy and looked her in the eye, awed, and then just shrugged. “I am yours,” he said simply, and the truth of it just washed over him to cover any other thing in the world.

“So am I,” she acknowledged, kneeling by his side. As she embraced him at long last, it seemed fitting to Finrod that somehow, they were now caught in a living ring, her arms around him, and his around her, like their fea had been all that time, even if unbeknownst to him.

A/N: Thus ends "The Tail of the Ring," an apparently never-ending series of ficlets scattered in chapters 1,2,8,9,15&16 of these Droplets, a telling of the tale of the Ring of Barahir since it was passed down to Finrod by his father Finarfin in the shores of Araman.

With apologies to R.L Stevenson, Ursula Le GUin, The Water Boys and Prof. Tolkien.

About a hundred years before the Breaking of the Siege, Fingolfin tried to gather together the forces of the Noldor to conduct a final assault upon Morgoth. Only Angrod and Aegnor agreed, so the plans were discarded. A few years earlier, Glaurung escaped from Angband, and Fingon had managed to drive him back surrounding him with a ring of mounted archers.

This chapter shows how Fingon took advantage of that last period of peace before the Battle of the Sudden Flame that ended the Siege and turned him into High King.

Alcammïre looked up from the parchments he had been studying and pierced me with a disapproving glare that made me cringe and brace for the worst.

Alcammïre had been my Atar’s most trusted aide since the burden of carrying out King Finwë’s duties had fallen upon Fingolfin's shoulders, and had proved to be the best elf for the role. He had a strange sense of humour, an acerbic tongue when needed and, above all, he knew how to manage the temperamental children of Finwë, all of us.

“Where are they?” he inquired calmly. He knew how to dispel threats. I was suddenly distracted from my target.

“Why, the mounted archers! You’ll need even more of those than when you defeated the Worm from Angband, trust me!”

“That bad. I can’t see why you’re in such a hurry to throw yourself in the path of his wrath…”

“Hear me, and judge by yourself, Your Princeness. Turgon is still missing; supposing that Thorondor delivered your atar’s message, the princeling did not see it fit to send a response to the High King. This alone falls under the category of insult. Finrod did answer, of course, he’s too well bred for not doing so, but he sent along his schedule for the next hundred sun-rounds, and a busy one, I might add, which included the plans for a small haven to be built in Mithrim… “

“… And he even had the cheek to enclose his suggestions for an eventual strengthening of the siege. Now, Orodreth; I’m expecting his courteous and flourished refusal short after he finishes writing his account of the Great March and just before he starts writing the lay of Elwë and Melian…”

“I wish I were, lad, I wish I were,” he let escape a suffering sigh. “Angrod and Aegnor –we know they agree, and the Fëanorians are still unaccounted for...”

I then raised my left hand and waved a folded parchment carrying the fiery seal of the House of Fëanáro.

“Oh. The Seal of Doom!” Alcammïre joked -and then, “Beg your pardon...”

“In the mood for a wager?” I let pass the tasteless joke. “I bet he says “No, thanks,” after less than ten lines!”

“Fifteen or more. You think your half-cousin is as disrespectful as yourself, you cheeky brat...”

“The cloak pin you lost to me the last time we had this type of conversation, Your Highness, and now, my lord Prince, if you would let me announce you…” And with an exaggerate flourish, he knocked open the door to the king’s office.

The growl that came from deep down Fingolfin’s throat had a tinge of threat that could not be possibly missed; yet bold Alcammïre would not be deterred.

“I’ll take that as a yes, please, send my son in, I’m most pleased to see him this morning?” he joked, as he pushed me in and towards my father’s desk.

“Should you need my help…just… call…” he whispered in my ear, making sure that my Atar overheard him. “Any of you,” he added playfully, wholly unimpressed by the murderous look Fingolfin threw his way as he closed the door behind him. I shook my head trying to disguise my smile and turned my attention to my atar, who was chuckling helplessly.

“He is like that day after day, I don’t know what I shall do with him,” he smiled, pretending exasperation.

“Maybe you could send him southwards on a vacation?” I suggested innocently, taking a seat before his desk at his wave.

“The fact that you behaved so remarkably well all this winter while stationed in this stone cage doesn’t entitle you to give advice, young one,” Fingolfin admonished almost officially, pointing at me with his finger.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “I might agree with you, and even consider sending him along when you return to your command.”

“Well.” He studied me for a moment and then relaxed. “So, what’s the news?”

I sighed. Although he wasn’t even half as enraged as Alcammïre had misled me to believe, still the news I was bringing wasn’t supposed to improve his mood. For a whole year we had been planning an attack upon Morgoth’s stronghold and now our plans threatened to come to nothing.

Angrod and Aegnor shared my atar’s opinion that letting an enemy grow freely was not a smart strategy, and the “incident” with the Worm had been enough to reinforce their theory. So the four of us had locked up with our chief commanders for the best part of that winter, and had come up with a detailed plan to sweep away most of Morgoth’s forces in a thorough attack intended to bring war and destruction upon his stronghold.

Only, we needed the support of the rest of the elven realms. And at that point our carefully laid plans began to founder, as Alcammïre had just summarized for me. I handed him the parchment. “A messenger has just arrived; I thought you would be interested in receiving this…”

“Hmmm,” was all he said, noticing the seal as he stretched his hand, tearing the parchment open without haste.

I studied him while he read it, but his face was impassive as usual, and soon I found that my mind had wandered away on its own accord and was now dwelling upon the *other* matter that I intended to discuss with my atar that morning. So engrossed was I in the particulars that his questioning caught me completely by surprise.

I came abruptly back from wherever I had been lingering, only to discover that he had stood up and walked to the window, right in front of my supposedly open eyes, whose condition I started then to doubt.

He still held the parchment in his hand; I could discern the painfully neat handwriting my cousin had mastered with his left hand, his tengwar stubbornly lined one beside the other, like warriors in his army, like a promise of an ordered and peaceful life that was still ours to claim, despite whatever circumstance doom saw fit to throw at us.

He exhaled and turned his eyes again to the parchment, searching the message quickly.

“Yes, listen; “...so it is with the utmost regret that I have to inform you, my dear Uncle and most respected King, that’s line eleven, “That I feel the time’s not yet ripe for such a bold move …” that’s line twelve.”

“I guess that’s a draw, then...” I agreed, wondering whether he was readying to explode or rather he had been waiting for this to happen and was simply amusing himself at the way his nephews were trying to outsmart him.

“I suppose we must call off the musters and … forget about our plans…” he mused.

“And I still think we should reconsider this when some more years have passed…”

“Were I to say that we should invite Morgoth to discuss our differences over dinner, would you too say “yes, sir”?” he asked in mocked exasperation.

I stiffened. “No, sir. I mean, well –no! You’re not talking seriously, are you?”

He sat on the windowsill, facing me, and extended his long legs. Suddenly, he looked too relaxed for my taste. Dangerously relaxed, actually. He tilted his head slightly and eyed me curiously.

“Is there something else that you would like to discuss, son?” he asked, his voice soft and ominous. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably; his uncanny ability to read through me had always unsettled me, and this was not proceeding as I had expected.

“Well, no, I mean, in all truth...” I stumbled upon words, trying to go back to the starting point I had rehearsed in my mind, one that contained a far more collected version of me than my present self.

Fingolfin was enjoying the whole situation with a cruel delight that I found completely unnatural in a Firstborn.

“What I mean is, well, I was trying to, I would like…” This was going to be far more difficult than I had anticipated.

“Let me help you,” he cut in. “Maybe your cousin knows something about it, there is a line here that kept me wondering…”

I felt suddenly sick. “Typical”, part of my mind grunted, the part that had not yet given in to panic, “my atar can read me as an open book, and my cousin can read as easily between my lines.” I was sure my cousin was at a loss as to what my intentions were, but then… who knew?

He straightened the parchment with an elegant flick of his wrist, a movement I shall never master, no matter how hard I try, and searched for a particular line, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Oh, here it is, listen…and pray tell my cousin that I expect him to find a useful way to spend this extended period of peace. Tell me, son, were you plotting a hunting trip with Russandol while we were planning an assault upon Morgoth’s stronghold?”

I felt colour rise to my cheeks. He looked positively menacing at the mere thought that I had been planning to visit my cousin!

I inhaled deeply and lunged forward, in a sense, of course, for I felt as if I were frozen in place by the enormity of what I was about to say.

“The thing is, Atar,” I managed, in a voice that did not shake, “that I am planning -this is, I would like… I would bond with Faelinniel, and I would have your leave to ask her…” I closed my eyes and held my breath while waiting for his outburst. Elves do not bond in times of war, of that I was fully aware, but it did not matter to me in that moment. All I knew was that I had found the missing part of my fëa and that I needed her by my side to be whole for ever.

When nothing happened I opened my eyes to see that my Atar was looking at me with a combined expression of mild amusement and deep fondness. He was still sitting on the window ledge, his arms crossed over his chest, and he shook his head.

He smiled then, standing up in a fluid movement, and in two effortless strides he was before me. I hurriedly rose from my chair as he grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eye.

“You not only have my leave but also my blessing, son,” he said softly, and then pulled me into a tight embrace. “Your ammë would be as happy as I am. She’s a wonderful maiden,” he added, his voice catching slightly, and I found that I could not speak, either, as I returned the embrace.

We stood there for a moment and I could feel the powerful fëa of my atar pouring out all the love and affection he sometimes failed to convey to me, and it made me feel wonderfully reassured.

He pushed me then at arm’s length and smiled. “We should celebrate, if only that you took the first step…” he joked, and then he called, “Alcammïre!”

The door bolted open before he had finished calling and Alcammïre walked in with a glass decanter and three goblets on a tray. “Mithrim’s best,” he declared, pouring generous servings, “as I assume that he finally spat it out!”

“It took a little prying, but he finally confessed!“ my atar acknowledged merrily, handing me one goblet, and only then I began to notice that both of them had, once again, manoeuvred me with the slightest effort and to their greatest amusement.

“What would you do without me to tease mercilessly?” I groaned, shaking my head in despair.

“Well, we would be teasing each other, as we have been doing regularly for many a yén now, child, do not claim such high honour! You simply provide… a welcome distraction!” Alcammïre joked, raising his goblet.

“May the Valiant succeed in this challenge and may the lady be merciful with this poor smitten elf!” Fingolfin jested, and then, raising his own goblet, “May we soon be celebrating with her, too!”

I was feeling anticipation growing within, but still I had a doubt, despite my father’s pleased smile.

“Aren’t you angry, then?” I cautiously asked, as he put down his goblet and made for the door, patting me approvingly as he passed.

“Angry?” he turned then, briefly, raising a puzzled eyebrow. “Why should I? After all, this is the best news we’ve had in a long time! You better go and ask the lady before she tires of waiting and I’ll go tell Calassë to stop the muster!” he said, stepping outside. “We are not going anywhere, after all! Not until my grandchildren are strong enough to disarm their atar!”

His booming voice and contagious laughter echoed down the staircase, slightly muffled by his purposeful strides as he headed towards Calassë’s office to share the news, no doubt, and collect some wagers –I suddenly thought in dismay. I rolled my eyes and turned towards Alcammïre, ready for more teasing.

“Stop fretting, Findekáno.” Only in the most serious situations I had heard Alcammïre address me by my full name.” Maikasulë is ready and waiting in the stables. Your atar is truly happy for you; we all are, so please, get gone!”

As I rode down to her settlement, Arien winking auspiciously among those flighty early spring clouds, I took time to consider what I was about to do, and a sudden apprehension overwhelmed me. I knew I loved her, for her strength, her calmness, her beauty and her generous fëa, and for the way her steady gaze and serene charm managed to sooth my rashness and temper my despair.

Yet I did not know what I was for her, except a source of endless amusement, if one were to judge by the many creative ways in which I had managed to embarrass myself in front of her since we had reacquainted ourselves this side of the waters.

You may laugh, Ereinion, but I had to stop for a while to regain some semblance of control over my feelings, lest I would turn around and ride back to Barad Eithel in panic.

We had seen each other regularly since that summer at Cape Eglarest, because, not many years after that, she had requested permission from Finrod to move to Mithrim and help the settlers there with their wine growing, and Finrod had graciously granted her wish with the only condition that some of that wine should be sent to him. Of course, the whole tale had been received around Hithlum with howls of laughter that lasted long after Turgon was out of reach.

She had found many ways to keep herself busy and make herself useful to the settlements. Everybody loved her and she always seemed so full of joy that I simply felt better just looking at her.

She had no family, as you well know. Her elder sister had married a Vanyarin elf and had remained in Valinor, with their uncles and grandparents. Both her parents had been lost in the Ice, and yet she hadn’t crumbled down, and instead had become a pillar of strength and comfort for others. She had rebuilt her life, choosing her trades and travelling through the lands to wherever she felt she was needed, and what could I offer to such a wende? She was loved, and protected, and held in great esteem wherever she went.

We had grown used to each other’s company in the passing years, as my duties often led me to visit the settlements. I looked forward to visiting hers, and she seemed happy to spend time with me on those occasions. We spoke freely of what worried us: the settlements, the harvests, the vineyards, the children, and the lands beyond our reach. We also spoke about that summer in Cape Eglarest, and our memories of Tirion, and the crossing, and the siege. She had slowly opened her heart to me, and in a certain measure I had done the same. As the sun rounds went by, I had found that my thoughts strayed towards her more often than not.

And then, that past winter, I had been delighted to find that she was in Barad Eithel, too, helping Hîrgon’s wife with the food supplies and the distribution, for she knew the needs of the settlements better than anyone. We had spent most of our spare time together, and by the end of winter, when she was to return to her settlement, I had been surprised to discover that she was deeply embedded in my heart.

I had suddenly decided that I wanted her by my side for as long as Arda lasted and beyond, and so I had turned to the forge and had wrought a delicate silver ring, and had never stopped to consider that she might not feel the same.

“You foolish, reckless, witless, selfish…smitten elf!” I chided myself loudly, kicking stones furiously. My stallion raised his head briefly from his unexpected meal and snorted his agreement. I was remembering a conversation I had held long ago, in the terraces of Vinyamar, when Idril had urged me to marry.

“Love is stronger than the Halls of Waiting, uncle, and you will be a wonderful husband and a loving Atar.”

I had smiled at that, for she was the niece who believed me to be a Vala in her childhood, and who had faithfully supported and trusted me despite my more than frequent falls from grace.

But I was right, I thought. What use had Faelinn for a kinslayer? I inhaled deeply. I had gone that far, I wouldn’t retreat then. It would not be my first mistake in judgement, I acknowledged grimly. “But surely the most painful,” that traitorous voice that lives in the back of my mind supplied in a most unwelcome display of bad timing.

I mounted my disrespectful steed and rode to the settlement almost sick in anticipation. I found her in the communal orchard, readying the soil for the new seeds. I caught her by her hand and led her to the vineyards, followed by the knowing winks and muffled chuckles of her companions.

And there, among the vines, almost breathless, stumbling and shaking as an elfling asking permission for his first trip alone outside his garden, I presented her with my silver ring and asked her to be my wife.

She just said, “Yes,” and smiled, my ring fitting in her finger as my fëa fitted around hers, and then the world stopped, and time faltered, and Arien paused to look down, and even the Aratar felt the stir, Ereinion, for nothing so powerful had happened in Arda since Yavanna brought her trees to life.

Late that night, back in Barad Eithel, I went to say goodnight to my atar. He was in this same study –his own, back then.

If I close my eyes, I can see the whole scene again. This room is so full of memories that some days it feels as if he had been here, working late, and were about to open the door and enter with his booming voice and his optimistic morning mood.

He was seated here, at this same desk, and he raised his head as if sensing me even before I had done anything beyond peeking from the slightly ajar door. He smiled warmly and motioned for me to enter.

“Finrod sent some truly useful insights about how we should reinforce the siege, you knew that?” he joked softly as he poured two goblets of wine and asked me how it had gone. I told him in detail and he laughed. We spent the night here, sitting by the fire, our backs against the stone wall, trading tales as we later took to doing in your begetting days too, do you remember?

He recounted the story of how he had met my mother, and how she had won him over –the wise son of the king, more interested in lore and hunting than in maidens. He then asked me something he had been dying to ask since he began suspecting what was going on, I am sure.

I released a deep sigh. Honesty has been hammered into me since my earliest childhood, and that was a habit I was not about to start breaking then, even if it meant that my father would be disappointed.

“I am not sure, Atarinya. In truth, I…I believe I would have asked her the same.” I raised my head to see my father looking at me with a fond smile.

“I suspect you would,” he nodded. “My mother used to say that out in the world there were many things unknown to the Valar. When I asked her how that might be, she would only say that there were many things Iluvatar had released into the music that the Valar could not see until they came to fruition …I have the feeling that this love of yours is one of those things, Fingon; unpredictable, unexpected, strange, yet beautiful and full of hope, as something Eru sent. May your days be long and your happiness complete, my child.”

We sat the whole night away, at times talking, at times just being there, in silence, enjoying our company, drawing strength and love from each other.

Do not hide from memories, my son, for they are the foundations of our souls. Dwell upon them until they become part of you. Seas and rivers, mountains and trees may perish by Morgoth’s malice, but words and memories shall warm us even in the Halls. You will be stronger if you learn to treasure those moments that are important to you, child, for memory is what we Eldar are made of!

Here, in this cold, late winter night, I find my strength in the memories of many other nights spent by this same fire. If I close my eyes I can picture your mother’s beautiful face, her dark eyes and her bright smile; I can see her sitting there in the couch, reading or sewing or carving, while your grandfather and I ended the day’s paperwork.

I can see you falling asleep on the rug, warmed by the fire, your toys firmly caught in your small hands, while your grandfather and I discussed strategy over a last goblet of wine.

And I can see him too; that day as many others before and after, caring and worrying and giving me strength and love and determination not to falter in my duty. May these memories serve you too, Ereinion, for my deepest love go with them for you to hold on to!

We decided not to wait the usual full year and bonded on Midyear’s day. Finrod insisted on presenting the bride, and I was proud -and honoured- to have him perform this task for her and for me.

He gave us then that beautiful model of the tower of Barad Nimras, as a reminder and a promise of hope.

It was a joyous, if simple, celebration. We spoke the names, exchanged rings, and Fingolfin blessed us all. Most of my cousins and friends were present, though not my siblings, and your mother was beautiful as the light of Telperion and happy as the Lindar by the shores.

We danced and sang and enjoyed that whole day and night, under the moon and the stars.

Droplets by perelleth