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The archery competition was over, and Faramir paused, puzzled, as he scanned the faces of the three young archers before him. He presented the third place and second place winners with their prizes, speaking words of praise and encouragement, before turning to the winner last of all. "Forgive me, but have we matched each other on the training ground before? Your face is familiar," Faramir said.

"I am Mallor son of Hurin Nyarronehtar , my lord," the youngster said, face bright red. 

"Ah, yes, I remember now, Master Mallor," Faramir said, a smile playing about his lips. "I am pleased to see your aim has improved markedly since last we met, and name you Quingaráto."

Mallor accepted the great bow and arrows gifted to him as his prize, as well as the gold feather to pin to his cloak. 

"Perhaps We might trouble you to introduce Us to the one named Quingaráto, Faramir."

Mallor sternly reminded himself he was not allowed to faint and managed a hasty bow. 

"My Lord King," he murmured, after Faramir did the honours. "I am at your service."

"Yes, you are," Aragorn replied wryly. "I think, son of Hurin Nyarronehtar, you will do very well indeed."

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"Farawyn!" Elfwine glared at the little girl tugging on his breeches. "Let go of me."

"Up, El!" Farawyn demanded, holding her arms out, and he shook his head as she stamped her foot at him.

"Elboron, take her, would you?" Elfwine appealed to his cousin and dear friend, sighing. "I have to ride out now, or my eored will be late."

"Of course, Cousin. Come, little shieldmaid," Elboron swiftly scooped Farawyn up and planted her on his shoulders. "We will let El ride off to do grown up things, and we can have fun together."

Farawyn giggled, squirming as Elboron 'galloped' her back across the court of the Golden Hall. "I love you, Bor."

"I love you too, little one."

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"Will you walk with me, my lady?"

She blinked, startled. When had she ever been my lady to him before? Grey eyes flickered uncertainly, wandering over the tall, broad-shouldered form of her childhood playmate. Now, she realized, they were on the cusp of adulthood, despite their youth. Her own body was exhibiting signs of that.

Perhaps he had noticed them?

She placed her hand on his arm. "I will, my lord," she replied, and felt his smile warm her, radiant as the starlit sky as they walked along the beach together. They strolled, deep in thought, picking their way across the damp strand before going up to their old playhouse among the willow-trees.

The treehouse was now a sturdy flet and outlook; toy swords had been exchanged for real ones, but their vantage point was no less useful now that war was no longer a game. She hiked up her skirts and scrambled up behind him nimbly.

"What is up here, Earendil? Is there danger tonight?"

Earendil turned Elwing to face him, cupping her cheek in his hand. He took both her hands in his, meeting her gaze earnestly.

"Elwing, queen of Doriath-that-Was, I made thee a promise when we were children," he said softly. "I have never faltered in my resolve to keep it, if thou wilt permit me, for I find the childhood friendship we shared hath grown into love as my own parents share. I would give thee that, if I may."

Elwing swallowed. "Come here and kiss me, you silly Peredhel."

He gladly obliged.

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"Amroth, must I?" Thranduil groaned, looking down at himself.

His elder cousin favoured him with an exasperated smile. "Yes, Argil-nin, you must."

Elrond's name for him on Amroth's lips stilled Thranduil's next protest; he merely glared. "You have been spending far too much time with Elrond."

Amroth shrugged elegantly. "Elrond is far more used to such things than we. I have accepted his offer of aid. Why have you not?"

Thranduil stood in front of the silvered glass, closing his eyes so he could not see the fall of silk draped over his shoulders.

"I feel like an elfling playing dress-up," he mumbled. "Admitting to Elrond that I need help would make it real."

Amroth gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. "I know, my brother," he murmured. "But it is real. You entered this hall a king; you will leave it a king crowned to greet your people."

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"You shan't escape me."

The voice echoed through Dairon's mind as he tossed and turned in fitful slumber. He had failed. Failed in his mission to his lady, his Queen, his mother. No, not mother, for all she had claimed him as son for a time, he tried to remember. He tried to remember his born-mother's face, her voice...

It was useless. She could not come to him in this haze of nightmare. And yet, and yet...

He heard a lilting melody, light and sweet, yet powerful and strong, dimly at first through the haze that surrounded him. It began to swell, growing louder yet not painful. The music was soothing, gentle, and did not frighten him. But he sensed it frightened her.

The Voice drew back, and he heard another.

"Do not cry so, my son," she murmured, thoughts touching his own. "You are far from her, she cannot touch you. Be brave, my son, and hold your head up. Fear not, but present yourself to the Lady, for her power outstrips our mistress' by far."

"Mother?" Dairon whispered, tears pooling in his eyes.

But there was no answer. He clung to the half-remembered voice, hoping to keep it safe in his memory. Safe, as she surely was not. The pang of loss was too great for that.

His choked gasp got the attention of a fellow minstrel, lying nearby in their shared quarters. 

"Are you well, friend?" 

He barely heard the ellon. "The Queen...please..." he gasped out. "Need...help."

"You need a healer," the other ellon said grimly, as Dairon slipped back into dark oblivion, escaping the Voices battling for him.

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"Chain of flowers, chain of love,
As the moon shines high above,

Let me see my true love’s face,
In every bower’s leafy trace.

Chain of love, chain of gold,
Wherefore hath my true love bold...."

The song stuttered to a halt as Galadriel rounded a corner. She raised her eyebrows, canting her head to one side as the girl froze.

"What is wrong, child?" she asked gently.

"N-nothing, my lady." The girl blushed, rushing to return to the abandoned washtub. "I was just...admiring the flowers."

Galadriel looked out over the greensward where the laundresses spread the linens to dry. The air was perfumed by lavender, which grew in abundance on the hills nearby, and the meadow was dotted with sweet clover, daisies, and buttercups.

She rested a hand on the child's head. "If you wish to rest from managing these heavy sheets to braid the flowers, child, do not fear recrimination from me." Galadriel smiled. 

"But all was to be made ready for you to return home, lady, and you are early!" She was holding back frustrated tears. "Mistress Lotemalda will scold awfully!"

"Hush, child, none of that," Galadriel murmured. "What is your name?"

"L-Lotesse, my lady," she stammered, and Galadriel smiled. 

"Lotesse. You may call me Alatiriel," she prompted. "I am lady of naught any longer, just a daughter of the House of Finwe."

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G - Gold

Rathlóriel.

Oropher knelt on the bank, slowly reaching into the swiftly flowing water.

His fingers slid through mounds of gold and silver, brushing goblets and sheathed daggers, and he gave Celeborn an uncertain look. "Are you sure we should...."

"This rightfully belonged to Uncle Elu," Celeborn replied quietly. "It is Elwing's now - and ours. Beren saved what he could; it is up to us to retrieve the rest."

He called his guards forth. They approached with sacks at the ready.

As each treasure was retrieved, Galadriel sang her blessing over it.

At the bottom of the pile, they found Aranrúth. Celeborn took the Kingsword in his hands, tending to the blade himself. "This, in particular, I claim for the Queen."

"For the Queen," his warriors echoed softly, thinking of the slip of a girl Peredhel who was to be confronted by this vast trove once they had transported it back to their refuge.

At last, no trace of treasure remained in the former River Ascar. Yet, the water retained the memory of gold within it - gold cursed and blessed.

Rathlóriel it would remain.

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"The Rohirrim say that Lord Béma - that is, Oromë - gifted them the Mearas," Thorongil mused, as he leaned over the rail of Lord Adrahil's ship, watching the waves alongside the prince. "Yet, I hear the sailors of Dol Amroth sing of the white horses of Ulmo."

Adrahil laughed, clapping the young man on the back. "Do they not tell of Ulmo's herd in Gondor, then? I thought my daughter would have told you all their tale, for all she writes of your loyalty to her."

Heat crept into Thorongil's cheeks. "I served in her guard, lord, at Steward Ecthelion's appointment. She befriended me, true, but I think--" He trailed off, and Adrahil looked hard at him.

"Speak your thought then, Thorongil, lately of Gondor."

"With all respect meant, my lord, I think your daughter the sort to make friends with all from the highest noble to the lowest-born peasant, be they baseborn or trueborn."

Adrahil smiled shrewdly. "And you do not approve?"

"Oh no, Lord Adrahil, I do. But I think your son-in-love does not. He never liked me to be alone with your daughter."

"Mmm. I expect you are right," Adrahil nodded. "Would you like the tale, then?" he redirected their conversation, and Thorongil nodded, hoping he did not sound too eager.

"Aye, I would like that."

"It is said that long ago, the Earth-Queen was seeking for a mate, and her choices were slim - the Worldsmith, the Lord of Waters, and the Wind-Lord," Adrahil began. Thorongil noted with interest that Adrahil did not give their names, only their titles, when relating the tale in Westron, but said nothing. Adrahil continued, "Each presented her with a gift. The Wind-Lord called forth his power and brought forth the birds of the air to sing in her trees. The Worldsmith raised the mountains, that her green and growing things might have more varied environments in which to dwell. And the Lord of Waters, not to be outdone, swore for her he would make a living creature more to her liking than the Wind-Lord's, that could live in all places the Worldsmith had raised."

Thorongil listened intently, a small frown marring his features as he thought. He had not heard any tale thus - it was well known to him that Ulmo had never desired of any spouse, and that Aule and Yavanna always had eyes for only each other, as well as Manwe and Varda had. Perhaps this was a tale peculiar to Dol Amroth, or to their seafaring neighbours. He nodded, indicating Adrahil should continue.
"The Lord of Waters brought forth a herd of four-legged beasts, glossy and beautiful - long of mane and tail, but with silken coats that shone in the sun, and called them horses," Adrahil continued. "It was a great surprise to the Earth-Queen that he could create such a beautiful creature, and yet something about its wildness discomfited her, so she would ask another's opinion before choosing. She showed them to the Lord of Forests, and he claimed a share for himself. The Lord of Waters scowled at this and directed the rest to run off into the Sea. Their rumbling hooves still shake the sea-floor, and you can see the crests of their manes and tails running in the waves as they tumble to shore."

"And what of the Earth-Queen's choice?" Thorongil asked, eyebrows raised.

"Ah, well, she decided the Worldsmith had brought her the best of treasures and resided with him. But betimes she would seek the beds of her lovers, as is sometimes done," Adrahil said. "Does that end to the tale shock you, young Thorongil?"

Thorongil was blushing, he realized. "I had not thought to hear such a tale before."

"Welcome to the wider world, son," Adrahil said dryly. "No matter what Denethor may call you, I deem you no mere sell-sword. You have been raised in isolation and have much to learn."

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Galion was not quite sure where he was when he woke. He was not in his own bed, that much was clear, nor in the military barracks.

He would have almost preferred that. The softness of this bed and the brightness of the crystal lamp above him made him shudder.

Closing his eyes against the brightness, he buried his head in the soft pillow, moaning.

"Oh, pull yourself together, Galion."

The sharp reprimand made him blink, sitting up slowly.

To his left was seated Prince Legolas, the King's youngest son, reclining indolently in the chair next to Galion's bed in the healers' wing of the palace. He gave Galion a smirk.

"The King wants to talk to you."

Galion was instantly awake, and gratefully accepting the tea Healer Galad brought him for his pounding headache. "Now?"

Legolas nodded. "Or sooner."

"He will see Thranduil when I say he is ready and not before," Galad put in firmly.

Galion sagged in relief, sipping his tea. "Thank you, Healer Galad."

"Oh, I wouldn't thank me yet, Galion," Galad said dryly. "You haven't had the effects of that yet." He nodded to the cup. "I suggest you go now, Highness."

Legolas was only too glad to escape.

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Ailinel sat on the chest at the end of her cot, pulling on her supple leather shoes and staring into the middle distance.

"Is all well, Ailinel?" That was Isilmë, another of the numerous girls aboard ship, with whom she had formed a tentative friendship. "You have seemed rather guarded of late."

Ailinel stood and opened the chest, pulling out a thin gold circlet and turning it over in her hands wonderingly. The set of bangle bracelets followed, and a pair of golden rings, one set with a watery star sapphire, the other with polished aquamarines.

"The King has been very generous to us," she said quietly. "Am I betraying him by making my choice?"

"Our lord father has been very explicit in his directive," Isilmë replied, kindly but firmly. The slightly older girl patted Ailinel's shoulder. "We have our choice of husbands, which is more than we would have got in our old life. He said naught about forbidding us from taking the hand of a Son of Uinen."

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She always wore that key around her neck.

It dangled from a finely wrought gold chain, this key, small and delicate.

No one but her knew what it unlocked. Some guessed at a secret journal, as was the custom amongst daughters of high nobility, or merchant captains - though merchant captains' log keys were not usually carried so openly, nor were they of such fine metal.

Others guessed at a music box, or some other such lovers' trinket.

Whatever it was, the people of Gondor believed it was the key to her heart. They were right. They were wrong.

The Queen walked openly among the people with the slender golden key dangling, letting all wonder.

At night, when Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar, retired to her chambers she slipped quietly into her closet - her private sitting room, where none would come without her permission.

There, a box carved of mallorn wood sat on the mantel, its twin now far away in the Shire.

She unlocked it, lifting the lid reverently.

There was a soft cushion, where once a green beryl lay in wait. Elessar, the Elf-stone, was now pinned to her husband's finery.

Underneath the cushion was a single letter, folded carefully. She opened it once more with reverence.

My dearest daughter,

I regret that only in the West may I find healing, for I see the choice that shall no doubt be yours...

She closed her eyes against the pain of Celebrian's last letter.

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While Ailinel's companions most often stayed in their cabins, away from the deck, Ailinel liked to run free with the wind in her hair. She eschewed her dresses for borrowed breeches and tunics, then learned all that Gaerondur had to teach her about the ship - including, of course, the words for everything. Ropes were not ropes, she learned, they were lines. There were words for directions - fore and aft, port and starboard. The prow and the stern, the masts with the eagle's nest at the very top. She took great joy in scrambling up there, taking her turn as lookout alongside the men.

At first, they had been uncertain, especially first mate Earendur, about having a woman run free on board. Half-wild they were, though hard workers; these orphan girls without fathers, until they had been favored by the King and chosen for the voyage.

Kept as, essentially, cargo was one thing, privileged or not, but running free with the men...

Well, Ailinel had proved herself more than an able shipmate, and after all, was not Uinen the patroness of ships? Earendur had to concede, and called Ailinel "Little Uinen" for surely she had the Lady's favor.

She had learned the language of the sea, and it called to her. Let her sisters, the other King's Daughters, make their home in the settlements - she wanted a life on deck, with Gaerondur and his mates.

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The hills of Mandos sloped away west from the mountains of the Pelori, the eastern range that shielded Aman from the ravages of Melkor. Under those hills, Lord Namo had delved his realm, made ready in earnest for the Coming of the Second Children, ere even the Firstborn were confirmed to awake. 

Namo had often wondered why he had been inspired to begin his Halls so early, but he was pleased with his work. The Halls were spacious, light and airy despite being underground. Large chambers where weary souls could mingle, and smaller chambers where they might go for respite, before departing to stand in the Presence of Eru had been built, as had the conduit by which Namo intended to usher the Secondborn into the Presence - a side tunnel which held a dark river, and a swan-boat floating atop it, leading into the other dimension.

There were windows allowing light in from somewhere, and chandeliers holding softly glowing and flickering candles that would not burn down. The light set the mosaic tiles in the walls to sparkling when they were touched.  His beloved Vaire's tapestries adorned the walls, restful scenes of verdant meadows, still pools and twilit skies. Fountains splashed gently here and there, and there were benches and sleeping couches, offering many places of contemplation.

Soft rugs carpeted the floor, though the souls would not grow cold. That had been Vaire's suggestion.

As Namo walked along one of the many corridors in his Halls, he went still, feeling a strange Power course through him. Without knowing the reason why, he spoke a single word, knowing it to be a name, though whose he knew not.

The next moment, an unknown Being appeared, fleeing past Namo deeper into the Halls. He set his Maiar to search for it.
It was not the Maiar who found it.

Vaire got there first.

She called silently for Namo, and he appeared at her side, giving the creature a startled look. What is it? he asked her, and why does it look like us, when it is not? It was like and yet unlike the forms which they incarnated in, for it was much smaller than they.

Vaire held up a hand, listening to the creature curled on the floor before her as it babbled. Soon the meaning of its language became clear.

"Mama...where is my mama?"

Vaire turned to stare at Namo. "It is a child, Namo," she whispered. "This is one of the Children - the Firstborn Children - and a child indeed." She sank to her knees, opening her arms to the traumatized soul.

"Come here, child," she coaxed, "I will be thy mother, for a little time."

Namo watched, stunned, as Vaire caught the Firstborn child in her arms, weeping over it, and hummed a lullaby.

The Firstborn had awoken? They had to tell Manwe--

No, my son, Eru bespoke him directly, and Namo went still. Thou canst not, for it is not yet time.

But Atar! Namo cried out in anguish. The Child!

I know, Eru replied with grave gentleness and sorrow. There will be others. Thou and thy people must be ready...but this will be between thou, Vaire, thy People, and Me, until thou hearest news of them elsewhere.

I hear and obey, Atar, Namo replied soberly. He still didn't have to like it. "There will be others, beloved - and we cannot tell the other Valar," he added grimly.

Vaire's eyes widened in shock. "Others?"

He nodded. "Atar hath spoken. We may tell our People, but swear them to silence."

"So be it," Vaire whispered. She held the Child closer to her breast. "Oh, Child," she whispered. "Who hath wrought this evil?"

Namo raised an eyebrow, and Vaire closed her eyes in anguish.

Of course. Who but their Fallen Brother could have done this?

Namo stood, and Vaire followed, cradling the benighted soul lying quiescently in her arms. If there were to be others, they must make ready.

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"Atto? Will we ever reach the other side?"

Turucano sighed, lifting his child in his arms, holding her as they walked under endless night. The skies were sprinkled with the Elentari's stars, and he missed the Light of the Trees dreadfully. He knew Itarille did, too, though the stars fascinated her as well.

But for now she was tired and cold. He wrapped her in folds of his cloak, trying to stave off the chill.

"Atto?"

"I am sorry, yeldenya." Turucano sighed. "We will reach the other side someday. We must believe this."

It was hard to believe with endless white spread out around them.

"Have...have the Valar forgotten us, Atto?"

Itarille's arms wrapped about his neck, and Turucano rubbed her back through the folds of his cloak.

"I must hope not, yeldenya," he said softly. "Thou, at least, hath done no wrong. Surely they do not blame thee for the folly of our kin." He kept walking, shaking his head.

"Atto," Itarille whispered again, a short time later.

"Yes, child," he sighed, wanting to save his breath. "Canst thou not sleep yet?"

"Is it night time? Or is it always night time now?" Itarille yawned and looked up at the stars. "It was supposed to be my Begetting Day soon."

Turucano looked at the stars. "I think it is thy Begetting Day now, by my count," he said slowly. "Or just about. It is difficult to mark the days without Treelight, though there are those in our company who wouldst remember."

"Ask them, please, Atya?"

Turucano sighed and nodded, seeking out Atanalcar.

"My lord, thou dost remember the time Before?" By this he meant the time before the Elves had come to Aman, as his intonation made clear.

"I do, my prince," Atanalcar said.

"Is it my Begetting Day yet?" Itarille pleaded, and Atanalcar smiled wryly, for he well understood the ways of elflings.

"When the Hunter fully crests the horizon there, it shall be," he promised, pointing out the stars which made up the picture.

Itarille watched in fascination and waited for Menelmacar to rise fully.

When he did, a blaze of glory followed him - ribbons of light in colors Itarille could not yet name. Her eyes widened.

"The Valar remembered, Atto!"

Chapter Text

"You look right cheerful there, Mr. Mayor. Mr. Gardner, I suppose I ought to say, since we're not in Michel Delving."

"A Gamgee I was born, and Gamgee was the name my wife took with me, though 'tis true enough folk call me Gardner now more often than not, and they will our children as well, Mr. Frodo says." Sam paused, resting his hand on the trunk of the young Party Tree. The mallorn sapling swayed gently in response, new-budded leaves seeming to brighten at the hobbit's touch. "It's comforting, working with my hands round the good clean earth. So, how might I help you, Mr. Banks?" Sam cocked his head to one side and regarded the elderly hobbit shrewdly. 

"It's about my nephew Willie, you see, over in Bree-land. Great-nephew, that is, he's my brother's grandson."

Sam nodded soberly. He had heard the news of Willie Banks. "I sorrow for your loss, Mr. Banks. But I believe matters of the Bree-land are to be handled first by the Master of Buckland?"

Mr. Banks' face hardened. "I've spoken with Master Saradoc. He was the one what sent me to you."

Sam paled, stepping away from the Party Tree and finding a bench to sit upon. He gestured for Mr. Banks to do the same. "Sit and be comfortable, Mr. Banks," he offered.

"I'll stay standing, if it's the same to you, Mr. Gamgee."

"It is not the same to me. Take your seat, Mr. Banks." Frodo's voice rang with authority, and Mr. Banks found himself obeying the Baggins as Frodo stepped around to Sam's side. "What reasoning could Master Saradoc have given for sending you away from Buckland for what is clearly his matter?"

Mr. Banks glowered. "He said it was a matter for them what stole his son away from his side, let them see to the reparations."

Frodo sighed wearily. This sort of thing was quickly becoming part of an ordinary day. His war-wounds throbbed, and he did his best to ignore them.

"Very well, Mr. Banks, I am a hobbit of my word, as Master Saradoc ought to know. We will speak with the Baggins solicitors on the morrow. Know this -" Frodo looked intently at Mr. Banks, his heart and his gaze heavy with sorrow and compassion. "Your great-nephew Willie Banks, and those who died with him fighting the Ruffians, are honoured among the great for their actions. The King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar will hear of their deeds, and raise their memorial in marble along the Road. He conveyed such to me in his last letter - asking the name for every hobbit who forfeited their life in service to the Shire. All these will be honoured together."

Mr. Banks stared, overwhelmed as he processed the hobbit's words. 

"The King?" he repeated.

"The King's Return was proclaimed throughout the Shire," Frodo reminded him.

Mr. Banks gave a slow nod. "I don't know as I believed it."

"Coins have been struck," Sam pointed out, fishing out a copper farthing from his pocket. On one side was the mallorn, on the other, the profile of the King Returned.

Mr. Banks searched in his own pocket, pulling out one of the new farthings himself and looking at the coin. It seemed so ordinary - yet, it encompassed so much. "He's the King?"

"He is," Frodo confirmed, as Sam nodded.

"What ought he to care about such as us, common ordinary folk?"

Frodo laughed. "Now that is a long tale, but one I will gladly tell."

Mr. Banks nodded. "Perhaps, Mr. Baggins, we might go to the Ivy Bush and talk?"

"Yes, indeed," Frodo agreed. "Sam?"

"Of course, Mr.-I mean, Frodo," Sam fought the urge to blush, and Frodo chuckled as the two younger Hobbits walked with Mr. Banks across the Party Field.

Behind them, the young mallorn's branches waved in the windless day.

Chapter Text

Neldiel was seated in the spacious front garden of the royal townhouse in Tirion, watching the fish in the pond and enjoying the warm spring breeze. For once, she had nothing to do, so she had got a little bored, and even with as long as she had been out of Mandos, a bored Reborn left to their own devices could be...problematic, sometimes. She didn't notice the royal party strolling down the avenue, so engrossed was she in her own thoughts, until a twig snapping brought her out of it. The sound drew her to the low stone wall, and she came to look over the wrought iron gate, shaking herself out of her mental fog.

"Princess Neldiel? We are meeting for luncheon in Finwe Park. Would you care to join us?"

Neldiel blinked slowly, turquoise eyes going round with surprise. She turned to look properly at Lady Indis and Queen Elindis, a momentary flash of something like panic in her gaze. She hadn't been doing anything wrong, she hadn't been doing anything wrong. Well...yet. She had sort of been thinking it would be fun to play a prank on someone. Things were getting boring again, with Celepharn and Oropher having to attend on Finar-er, Arafinwe. Maybe she could push Arafinwe in the fishpond. That would be amusing. More amusing if his mother and aunt weren't right there to watch her planning it, though.

She set aside the thought of pranking Arafinwe in revenge, fun as that would be. "You want me? Are you sure?" Neldiel asked, sounding very young in front of the two Vanyar.

"Of course." Indis and Elindis smiled warmly, as if it were an everyday occurrence for the former Noldotari and High Queen of All the Elves to invite Neldiel anywhere.

"Who else is going to be there, your Majesties?" Neldiel collected herself enough to ask.

Elindis snorted in an unladylike fashion. "Oh please. You must use our names, dear," she said. "This is a strictly informal affair. As for who is coming...oh, we invited Galadriel."

Neldiel was startled again, for the Vanya had answered her in not the halting Quenya Neldiel still sometimes struggled with, but flawless, if lightly accented, Sindarin.

Doriathren Sindarin, at that.

"It will be a relief to know someone there...Elindis," she replied shyly, and the High Queen smiled on the Reborn elleth. 

"It has been a long time since you have seen each other. But there are others I think you will recognise. Will you come? All has been provided for."

Neldiel realised she hadn't really answered the question and nodded. "Thank you for your kind invitation," she said with a smile.

Indis smiled back, putting a comforting arm around the Sinda as the trio set off together. There were guards somewhere, remaining unobtrusive, Neldiel knew, but they did not intrude upon the three royal ellith. When they reached the picnic ground, Neldiel scanned the assembled ellith, finding Galadriel almost at once, flanked by two silver-haired ellith. She recognised the elder as Nimloth, but the younger...

Curious, she drew closer, and was surprised when the young elleth rose and embraced her in greeting.

"Be welcome, Cousin Neldiel."

Neldiel drew back, looking her over. "Celebrian," she said finally, and the elleth's smile broadened.

"When you saw me last I looked different, I know. But that was soon after my...arrival. I have found healing."

"I am very glad of that, child," Neldiel said fervently. She drew the younger elleth close and was rewarded with a firm hug, her own shyness in the presence of the queens forgotten. 

Neldiel found herself seated on the picnic blanket between Galadriel and Celebrian, accepting a plate of sandwiches and sliced apples. She let the conversation wash over her as they ate, breathing the fresh air, redolent with wildflowers.

I have found healing. Celebrian's words echoed in her mind, and Neldiel smiled. Good.

Chapter Text

"It's too quiet." Oropher shared a look with Felith. "Where is Thranduil? He should have been here by now."

Felith's eyebrows arched. "He is well enough, beloved." She would have known if he was not, she reflected.

Oropher turned at the sound of light footsteps padding across the marble floor, but it was just one of Thranduil's many beloved kittens racing past. The palace cats were often up to mischief. Sometimes, it had to be owned, such mischief included their son, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The kitten turned around and came back to the King, smacking at his ankle with a velveted paw, as though to say pay attention. Then he took off again, King and Queen following behind.

They left the minor throne room and allowed the kitten to lead them through the corridors and up a flight or two of stairs, into the family wing of the palace. The kitten led them to Thranduil's door, and meowed.

Oropher opened it.

There, in the middle of the floor, was a jigsaw puzzle, half-finished, and in the middle of it, Gwathui, Shadow, their son's favourite cat. 

Beside him, lying on the floor asleep, was Thranduil himself.

The kitten - Mothren, Dusk, Oropher now recalled - went boldly up to his father, Gwathui, and nudged him awake. Together, the two snuggled up to Thranduil. 

If they thought that would wake the prince, they were mistaken. Thranduil simply pulled Gwathui closer and relaxed in his sleep.

Yes, all was quiet.

Chapter Text

"Atheg, why didst thou seek to constrain me?"

Elu closed his eyes, heart heavy. "I sought only to protect thee from entanglement with one lesser than thyself."

Luthien laughed bitterly. "Thou art a hypocrite, Atheg, dost thou not see that?"

Elu nodded. "Yet, is it not a father's duty to protect his daughter?"

"Not when it comes to the will of Eru."

Elu Thingol woke with a start, lying on his sleeping couch in his pavilion in Lorien. Tears streamed down his face, and he drew his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. "Imsorryimsorry...."

"What ails thee, best beloved?" His Maia attendant was beside him in a moment, her raven hair brushing his neck as she bathed his face. "Didst thou remember something?"

Slowly, the Reborn nodded, looking at Lord Irmo's Chief Maia. "I...remembered my daughter," he offered hesitantly, still feeling tearful.

A flash of pain flickered in her deep grey eyes for the briefest moment, and Elu thought he must have imagined it. "What didst thou remember?"

"She...she called me a hypocrite," Elu offered meekly. "For not wishing her to wed below her station." 

Now a flicker of amusement spiked the Maia's aura. "Yes, that would be the case, would it not," she said wryly. "I am sure she forgave thee in the end, best beloved. All is well."

"H-how could I marry above my station?" Elu asked pleadingly. "Was I not lord of Beleriand?"

Concern marred the Maia's fair visage. "Dost thou not remember thy wife, Elu?"

Elu shook his head slowly. "Sometimes...I think I know something, but then it slips away again," he confessed. "How can I remember being a king, but not my queen?"

The Maia bent and kissed Elu's brow gently. "Fear not, Child, I have every confidence thou shalt remember in time."

"What if I cannot?" Elu pleaded. "Will she forgive me?" He clasped the Maia's pale hand. "Melyanna, please, will she?"

"Always, best beloved," Melyanna promised, tears sparkling on her lashes. "It will be well, fear not. Trust in Eru that all will be well."

"I will try," Elu promised, and relaxed into his Maia attendant's embrace as she hummed a Doriathren lullaby.

Soon, he was deeply asleep once more.

Chapter Text

They whirled and danced, back and forth, side to side, swords gleaming. The spectators watched breathlessly as the two warriors sparred, their elf-braided hair and ever-young faces hidden under their helms. Their armour shone silver, sparkling under the light of Ithil, and the marshals stood at attention, watching the sparring to see no errors were made.

Blows to the torso count more than blows to the extremities. Blows to the head are not allowed. The goal was to disarm their opponent of sword or shield, or else to yield; so far, they were evenly matched.

Eyes narrowed, grey and blue behind the visors of their helms, as the opponents circled one another and began again.

Crack. Crack.

A flick and an unexpected twist sent the taller, broader opponent's sword spinning out of his hand to land, tip planted downward, in the ground, where it stood quivering. He dropped to one knee, feeling the tip of his opponent's sword come to rest at his throat.

"Do you yield, my lord?"

A shiver ran through him. "I do."

His opponent helped him to stand, and he retrieved the sword, cleaning and sheathing it. 

They removed their helms as one, and the crowd cried out in surprise to see Lady Celebrian facing her husband.

She pulled Elrond in for a kiss. "I shall claim my prize later," she purred softly.

Elrond blushed. "Of course, my lady."

Chapter Text

May 1, T.A. 3019

The Coronation was over, and a feeling of jubilation still held sway over the City of Minas Tirith - Minas Anor, as it would be soon again. Yet, one of the King's Companions was restless and ill at ease.

"I would sleep out of doors this night," he said. "A ride by Ithil's light would soothe me."

"Where are you going, Elf?" Gimli eyed him suspiciously. 

"Nowhere that need concern you, Elvellon. I shall be back ere the breaking of fast on the morrow."

"Nonsense, you cannot merely go off alone. Sauron may be defeated, but who knows what ills still haunt the area? We cannot have found every nook and cranny even now. 'Tis barely been a month since then."

"Nevertheless, I am going."

"Then I will go with you."

Legolas smiled wanly. "I thought you might say that, Master Dwarf. Come then, we shall take Arod."

The two went to retrieve Arod from his stall, and upon hearing the two Companions wished to take a nighttime ride, the stablemaster cautioned them.

"Odd things have been seen about on the plains, my lords."

"We shall take care," Legolas assured the Man. "We are warriors proven."

"Of course, my lord," he said, and made a mental note to tell the King of their departure, in case his Majesty had not heard.

Legolas took Gimli up behind him, and they rode through the quiet City, out the front gates. 

"Where do we make for, Legolas?" Gimli asked, as Arod carried the pair. He felt uneasy the closer they drew to the ruined Gates of Mordor.

"Dagorlad."

Gimli silently cursed his luck as Arod carried them swiftly along. The Battle-plain? Was his young elf mad? Quite likely, Gimli thought with a huff and a roll of his eyes.

Yet, as the hours passed, Legolas set his sights on their destination, drawing Arod to a halt when they had come close enough and setting off on foot.

Gimli stumbled after him. "Legolas," he panted. "What in Mahal's name are you..."

Legolas halted at the edge of the Battle Plain, near where the Dead Marshes began. He knelt and scooped out a handful of earth from the ground, lifting his voice in a song of mourning.

Bowing his head, he let the soil filter through his fingers.

"It is done, Daerada," he whispered. "All is well, and all shall be well. Your losses were not in vain."

Chapter Text

"Nana, where Ada?"

Gilraen sighed. She knelt down, lifting the baby-board off her back and unstrapping Aragorn from it. He had outgrown it, for the most part, but when they had been flying from danger she saw no way for him to sit pony-back at his age.

He got unsteadily on his feet, toddled toward Gilraen and threw himself into her arms. "Where Ada?" he asked again, plaintively.

"Hush, sweetling," she murmured, embracing her boy. "We cannot talk about Ada here, little one, you must be quiet for me. Can you do that?"

Solemnly, thumb in his mouth, Aragorn nodded. She led him behind a tree to take care of his pressing need, then  back to the camp, where Elladan and Elrohir had been joined by scouts of Imladris, stationed in the Trollshaws.

The scouts plied Aragorn with toasted bread and a slice of new cheese, and the toddler ate ravenously, accepting a strip of dried fruit leather as well. Gilraen accepted her own share, thanking the scouts for the food. 

"But we must press on and make all haste to reach the Valley ere sundown," Elladan said soberly.

"That is unexpected," Fathrem said. "Why do you fly in haste to Master Elrond, my lords, and with a Woman and child of Men?"

"Of that we may not speak," Elrohir replied grimly.

The scouts exchanged glances, nodding solemnly.

They understood what had not been said, and would keep a vow of silence.

Chapter Text

"I cannot sleep, Amme." 

Idril wrapped her arms around her son, holding him close. "What ails thee, Ardamire?" she asked, using her name for him. He nestled closer, letting her rock him as if he were still no more than a babe.

If he had been a fully Elven child, he reflected, he truly would be that young yet, near enough. But he was almost half-grown by his atar's estimation. 

Still, sometimes he sought Idril's comfort.

"Perhaps you will think it foolish, Amme, but...." Earendil trailed off, resting his head on his mother's shoulder.

"I cannot help thee if thou wilt not tell me, best beloved," Idril murmured, and Earendil blushed. "Is it to do with Elwing?" she coaxed. "Hast thou been dreaming of her?"

Earendil's blush deepened. "Nay, Amme, nothing like that!" he protested. "I...I have heard voices on the wind."

Idril stilled her rocking, cupping Earendil's chin in her hand and meeting his eyes intently with her own. "Voices, thou sayest, hinya?"

"They call to me," Earendil whispered. "They bid me come to the Sea."

Idril drew a shuddering breath and let it out slowly.

Chapter Text

The light danced over the surface of the spray, causing rainbows to spring, arcs of colour through the clouds of mist that ringed the Valley.

Imladris, the Cloven Rift Valley, was surrounded by waterfalls. Many wondered at the wisdom of using such a place to archive the wisdom of the Ages, to house the knowledge of Elves, Dwarves, and Men.

And Hobbits, as Master Hildifons Took said when he heard such things said. He sat with the Peredhel on a balcony overlooking the quietest waterfall of Imladris, the better to hear the Elf-lord. "I will tell you the stories of my people, Master Elrond, that you may keep the lore of the Little Folk amongst your tomes. It is a poor repayment for the hospitality you have shown me, I fear."

Elrond laughed. "Nay, Master Trotter," he said, using the Hobbit's Ranger-name. "It is a wealth beyond what you may imagine, for my folk know little of yours, save what Mithrandir can tell. But you wish to know why I make my home amongst the waterfalls, here in the valley of Bruinen?"

"I would like that very much," Hildifons replied. "This Valley is a peaceful place, to be sure, but a repository of lore seems ill-suited."

"Water has memory," Elrond explained softly. "The Lord of Waters, Ulmo, has ever been beloved of my ancestors, Elves and Men both. My mother, Elwing of Doriath, was born before a waterfall, and I have heard my brother and I played about them as babes. The music of the waters soothes my spirit."

"It has done wonders for mine as well, Master Elrond. Thank you for telling me," Hildifons said with a bow. "Now, where would you like me to begin?"

"I find it is always best to start at the beginning, or what you know as the beginning," Elrond prompted.

"Oh, well, the beginning," Hildifons shifted uncertainly, "I suppose we aren't sure where our folk originated, but we came to settle the Shire about what was reckoned year 1600 of the Third Age..." He looked at Elrond, who gave him an encouraging nod, and relaxed, continuing the tale.

Chapter Text

"What is this, Lady Elanor?" Princess Celebriel leaned in close to examine the tweenaged Hobbit-lass' paper, upon which she had drawn a grid of nine squares, absentmindedly.

Elanor blushed. "Oh, 'tis nothing, Princess - just a game as I would play with my brothers and sisters when we had nought else to do at home. Not that writing letters is nothing!" she added hastily. "Only, I've finished my daily letter to Mum and Da and Robin, and the weekly letter what should be sent off to the rest of my sibs back in the Shire, already. And there was this bit of foolscap left over, so I took to doodling, I'm that sorry!"

Celebriel brushed away her concerns with a laugh, shaking her head. "Lady Elanor, call me Celebriel, please," she pleaded. "We are about of an age after all, or look to be so. I would love to know more of your games, if you would teach me."

"Only if you'll call me Elanor, else I'll have to use your title as well," Elanor said with a mischievous smile. "Twouldn't be proper, elsewise. But we call this in the Shire 'noughts and crosses', and sometimes we play it with marks on paper, or else with buttons or pebbles of different colours as markers. The grid's made so, and you take it in turns to try and get three in a row before your opponent can. There was the quill and ink here, so we can use these." She drew an 'x' and an 'o' to the side. "Unless you'd like to volunteer buttons from your sewing-kit? Mine's across the room." 

"The ink will be fine, Elanor," Celebriel smiled. "So, one of us is 'x' and the other is 'o'? That sounds simple enough. Which plays first?"

"We'll toss a farthing for that. Call it, Celebriel?" Elanor requested, fishing the copper coin from her pocket.

"Heads," Celebriel said promptly, and Elanor set the coin flying. It landed on the writing desk with Elessar's visage upright.

"Then you're to be 'x' and go first," Elanor assured Celebriel. She smiled at her father's image, then made her mark.

Chapter Text

"Master Elrond?"

The Peredhel paused, looking keenly at his houseguest and kinswoman. After eighteen years, she had come to call him just 'Elrond', unless she needed something.

"How may I be of assistance, Lady Gilraen?" he prompted, offering her the same courtesy. They strolled through the herb-gardens of the Last Homely House together, the high stone walls closing out the roar of the falls. Gilraen waited until the echoes had died away, and made herself comfortable on a bench in the shade of a willow tree before speaking.

"Master Elrond, I beg you, give me leave to return to my people. My son is young and in need of guidance, he will need aid--"

"Aid which your people will give him," Elrond seated himself on the bench across the path, facing her, his palms flat on his thighs. "It is not yet safe for you to return, Gilraen. Yes, he is young, but so too are you by the measure of your people. You would be considered ripe for remarriage, were you to go to the Angle now."

Gilraen felt the words strike her as a blow to the heart. "Remarriage?" she faltered. "But it is not--"

"It is not the custom of the High Elves, save in one instance only," Elrond said dryly. "Yet, the Dunedain are not Elves, for all you carry my brother's blood. Short by the measure of Elven life is the span of the Dunedain, and war and strife make widows often and early. You know well that the daughters of your people may wed more than once; it has been done."

Gilraen sighed. "Yes," she conceded, not wanting to have thought of it. "It has been done. If I were to return to my father's house, he might see me wed again to a man of his choosing...or convince Aragorn to do so."

"He might....or he might not, but that is not a risk I will take, Gilraen," Elrond said softly. "You are my brother's descendant, and I bear you the love due a heart-father for his daughter, even as I do for Aragorn as the son of my heart. Among the Elves, you are a welcome member of my House. With your kind, you would be a Chieftain's widow and mother - of high status, but there are those who would prefer a husband to rule over you, at your age."

"I will not be a prize to be won," Gilraen said bitterly.

Elrond nodded. "Then please, stay until the danger of such has passed."

"I will," Gilraen said softly.

How she yearned for Arathorn - but keeping Aragorn safe, without the thought of a stepfather who might try to control him, and her, prevailed over all.

Chapter Text

23 Halimath, SR 1368

Bag End, Hobbiton

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins, but your post's arrived."

"Thank you, Master Hamfast." Bilbo accepted the stack of letters - a goodly number from his Cousin Dora, of course - with a bow of thanks before inviting the gardener in for first breakfast. In the end, he conceded to take it out on his garden bench, so Hamfast needn't concern himself with entering the grand smial. It wasn't that Bilbo wouldn't have had him in, but Mr. Gamgee wouldn't hear of it. He had his own prickly pride to protect.

So Bilbo placed the gardener's mug of tea and plate of toast on the tray beside Hamfast, to take as he worked. Bilbo had his tea and oatcakes, and then he read his post.

Mostly he read silently, for Cousin Dora tended to go on at great length about nothing in particular that concerned Hamfast, but then he came to a letter that was blessedly not from his cousin - at least, not from Dora. It was from her younger brother, Drogo, and his wife, Primula, sending sincere regrets upon missing his Birthday Party the day before without sending word.

"I fear, as my dear sister would say, we were unaccountably rude, Cousin, but I pray you will forgive us, for we have a belated Birthday Present to give you, if you would find it quite convenient to come down to visit us," Drogo had written.

"Most intriguing," Bilbo mused. He shared this intrigue with Hamfast, who chuckled.

"Yes, Mr. Bilbo, I think as you should go down to-day, the sooner the better. I've heard some news about town, though I say as shouldn't. I wouldn't dare spoil the surprise."

Bilbo nodded and thanked him. He disliked surprises generally, but where Drogo was concerned, they tended to be good ones. And who could say 'no' to a birthday present, belated or not?

Bilbo sent Hamfast with his acceptance of the invitation at once, and by the time he had readied himself to call and made his way down the Hill, it was nearing time for second breakfast. Dora greeted him at the door with a dutiful kiss on the cheek, before leading him through to her brother and sister-in-law, seated in the breakfast room.

Beside them, at the table, was a bassinet, and sleeping within, a newborn, fine dark curls already covering the babe's head and curling on his toes..

Bilbo gasped softly, eyes wide. He looked at Primula, who seemed well, if somewhat tired, and she smiled.

"I labored with him all day yesterday, till he was born round suppertime," she offered. "I should have sent word, but I didn't wish to upstage the day, Cousin Bilbo."

He nodded and kissed her cheek. "Thank you, my dear. I know some of our kin would take that as a bad sign, but I am glad to have a new byrding to share the day." Bilbo smiled on the babe, glancing to Primula for permission before gently picking him up. He had held newborn babes before - as Head of the Bagginses, it was his right and duty to inscribe each newborn into the Book of Baggins, of course. But this one was special. This one was precious to him, his birthday-present.

Bilbo shook the words away, feeling the throb of hidden gold in his pocket, and turned his attention back to the little one. "What will you call him?" he asked. "Or shall I wait till the Naming Day like the rest of our kin?" By custom, that would be a week from the day of his birth.

"It is as well for you to know, Cousin Bilbo," Drogo said. "We will call him Frodo."

"Frodo Baggins," Bilbo murmured. "Welcome, Frodo-lad."

Yawning, Frodo slept on in Bilbo's arms.