Barad Lomin
by Laura White, aka halavana
Chapter XV
Revelations and Reconciliations

Once their company crossed the Baranduin, Morfindel and Lurisa set a brisk pace.  The only explanation the elf lord offered was the approach of a heavy snowfall, saying they needed to make the journey in a day and a half, which allowed for no stops overnight.  Jack’s argument that mortals could not keep up fell on unhearing ears until Thistledown guided her horse beside him.

    “Even among elves, our father’s senses are sharp,” she said quietly.  “Can you not see, brother, that something else troubles him?”

    “It must be, for a mere snowfall is nothing to fear.  But what could be so urgent?”

    “Have you not noticed how father flexes his right hand?  Or that he has begun again to rub his throat and left wrist?”

    “I noticed that soon after the wedding and thought it strange, but I do not know what it means.  He has never done that before.”

    “He has, but you are too young to remember it, before the Battle of the Last Alliance”

    Jack shuddered.  “I do not like to think what that means.”

    “And yet we must think it.  The conflicts of these last days are only a beginning,” said Thistledown and urged her horse forward to ride alongside her mother, who was just assuring Keren and Brogan that they could inhabit Ciryafin’s cottage for a long as they wished.  It was secluded and seldom used since Ciryafin’s death and their daughter took ship, though they kept it clean and repaired. 

    “Elves, particularly Noldor, dislike the look of ruin and decay, though we make use of it for concealment,” the elf lady added with a chuckle. 

    The company lined out along the trail, Morfindel in front with Lurisa and Keren riding side by side close behind.  Thistledown and Safronela switched back and forth between the ladies up front and the lads behind.  Jack, Sam and Gil rode with the knights determined to distract Brogan with songs and stories.  Starfoot had informed them of his intention to remain behind with Keren’s father, saying he wished to visit Eryn Vorn where lived Mirdan and Mirlin, twin sons of Morfindel and Lurisa.  Jack made no secret of how silly he thought this was since the twins usually visited Dor Luin at this time of year.  But in his absence, the elf lads made a good showing as minstrels and storytellers.  Some stories were quite bawdy and Morfindel and Lurisa each cast a baleful eye back at their son from time to time, but they said nothing.  Not out loud at any rate. 

    “You promised to tell me how you came by your names,” said Argus to Jack as they cantered along the lower slopes of Ered Luin.

    “My sister’s name in elvish is Quesmacsawen,” began Jack.

    “Quite a mouthful,” commented Brogan.

    “Quite,” agreed Jack.  “It means ‘feather and thorn maiden’ which, in my opinion, fits her character perfectly.” 

    Thistledown laughed.  “Tell of your own name, Jack.”

    “Very well.  Near the end of the Second Age, my father was in the habit of going up into the mountains for days and days at a time.  He felt the need to meditate and pray a great deal then.  Once he was gone a little too long, in my mother’s opinion, and she went looking for him.  They found each other at about the time a snow storm found them.  The cold normally does not bother elves, but this was an unusually strong blizzard.  They burrowed into a snow bank to wait it out.  I was born a year later.”

    “A whole year?” exclaimed Keren.  “Are you sure...”

    “It is the usual time for elves to carry a child,” explained Lurisa. 

    “Elves do not mature so quickly as mortals,” said Jack.

    “Those of us who mature at all,” commented Thistledown, sotto voce.

    Jack purposefully ignored his sister, continuing, “therefore elf children do not age as swiftly.”

    Lurisa smiled at the banter and added “shortly after they are born our children are ready to walk and talk.  And there is so much to teach them before they are born that we do not wish to rush birth.  Elf women are not subject to the same pains and discomforts as mortal women, I suppose, so childbearing is not unpleasant.  Except we do become rather fat,” she laughed.

    “Not disagreeably so,” commented Morfindel, absently, casting a worried gaze toward the east. 

    Argus turned to Jack.  “Do you remember anything from before you were born?”

    “The sound of my parents’ voices, but with little understanding of what they said, at first,” responded the elf.  “But I particularly remember when...”

    “Alcarringwë!” said Lurisa and Morfindel, turning on their son with a sternly cautionary tone.  Jack clamped his jaw shut.

    Thistledown looked at him accusingly and whispered “some things should be left private, brother.  Too much time have you spent with mortal workmen and farm laborers.”

    “What?  What?!  Is Alcarringwë your name in elvish?” laughed Argus then whispered,  “What is this tale you are forbidden to tell?”

    “Later,” whispered Jack to the knight.  “They will severely chastise me if I tell you now.  I know not what worrisome task or tedious work they will give me.  I will tell you later.  Yes, Alcarringwë is my name, but sometimes they just call me Ringwë.”

    Jack refused further explanation and left the stories to others the remainder of the journey.  Snow flurries floated down about them the entire way, but now began to fall in earnest, and soon blanketed the ground with a soft white carpet.  All talk became hushed as the company took in the transformation of the landscape.

    Morfindel guided them by unfamiliar paths, avoiding the main roads and highways so it was not until they reached the trees of guard that Keren and the knights knew of any certainty exactly where they were, though the elves pointed out landmarks along the way.  Once inside the belt of tall cedar trees, they passed the flat stone where they had burned the goblins and the place where Keren nearly succumbed to her wounds.  If the memory troubled her, she said nothing of it.

    As the company drew nearer, the silence was broken periodically by squeals and laughter, as if just beyond the trees a crowd of children was playing.  When they came out of the circling grove, they found that indeed a merry warfare was being waged between two armies of children.  They had constructed their forts, sent their emissaries and now engaged in the exchange of barrage upon barrage of snowballs.  Morfindel, who had been somber and watchful the whole route, laughed and urged Weithlo into a swift gallop.  Across the open field, two elves on horseback responded to his charge, surging forward.  These were the twins, Mirdan and Mirlin, so alike in appearance that the only way to tell them apart was that Mirdan wore a collar on his tunic of silver with green gemstones, and Mirlin wore one of gold with red gems.  When their paths met, Mirdan grabbed Morfindel’s outstretched hand and clasping wrists, pulled him from his horse and swung him around to settle lightly behind him.  Mirlin also swept Lurisa off her horse, but in a more dignified manner allowing her to ride side saddle behind him.  As suddenly as it had begun, Mirdan’s laughter halted and on his face came a look of grave concern.  He called to his brother and together they bore Morfindel and Lurisa into Dor Luin. 

    “The twins have absconded with our parents,” mused Thistledown.  “Perhaps father will allow them to tend his injuries.”

    “Perhaps they will give him no choice,” said Jack.

    All hostilities ceased between the warring factions of children and they ran, jumping and laughing, to meet the company.  Thistledown and Jack were left to make introductions for even though Keren spent so much time in Dor Luin, she never met such children as these.  Dwarf children mixed freely with offspring of a mortal race who called themselves the Bornosse, descendants of Bor and his sons who made their homes deep within the Blue Mountains, untroubled.  As reward for Bor and his sons’ faithful defense of Maedhros and Maglor, Morfindel had sought out the remnant of their wives and children and taken them along when he led the wood elves from Taur-im-Duinath to what became Dor Luin.  Several families of dwarves maintained the mines of Belegost and lived peacefully on the western slope of the Blue Mountains.  Other, more ancient, beings dwelt quietly on the southeastern slopes and in the mountain passes. 

    Inhabitants of Dor Luin came to the Great Hall this time of year, bringing with them gifts and provisions to share.  The lords of these peoples met to discuss conflicts and renew vows of loyalty and celebrate the solstice.  They had been waiting patiently for Morfindel’s return, enjoying the camaraderie and fellowship they shared regularly only once a year.  Now that Morfindel and Lurisa had returned, however, they grew restless.  Jack led them to the house of healing where they found the twins gently mauling their father.  Speaking in hushed voices, Mirdan and Mirlin cajoled, reprimanded and reproved him for going off on a goblin hunt without them, risking injury and death.

    “Not only risking injury,” murmured Mirdan, “but receiving a fair collection of bruises through this fine mithril shirt.  A blessing upon the dwarvish smith who gave it to you, and all his descendants.” He raised his father’s mail shirt to inspect his back and chest.  “Look here, these bruises are nearly healed, but were much larger.  That was a grim fight you threw yourself into.  Do not do so again.”

    “We will not allow you to venture into peril alone again, father,” added Mirlin, as he pulled the mithril shirt over his father’s head and probed a swollen lump just above the collar bone where Tormog’s blade had cut him.  “You should have called us.  We would have met you anywhere.”

    “This is a fine shift, when even my sons tell me what I may and may not do,” laughed Morfindel, by now quite disheveled and embarrassed at being the center of such attention.

    “Father, we do not want to lose you,” said Mirdan, joining his brother’s examination.

    “What would we do without you?” asked Mirlin, pressing around the edges of the lump.

    “You would use what you have learned of me and manage quite well,” said Morfindel, flinching slightly.  “Berate me no further.  It is done and the outcome is as we wish.  The goblins are slain or defeated and fled, for now.”

    “Father, simply promise us...” began Mirdan.

    “Something has changed,” said Morfindel in a quiet, stern voice.  “Something at the edge of my perception that I can not sense clearly.  Exact no promises from me.  Those goblins at Barad Lomin were only a hint at what may yet come.  I will not promise to keep myself safe when so many others are threatened.”

    Looking aside to Lurisa, Mirlin said “Mother...”

    “Look not to me, Mirlin” said the lady.  “Your father has ever been a willful, wild thing, and I will not entrap him with promises he may have to break in our defense.”

    “There is poison here,” said Mirdan as he continued to examine the lump.  “We will have to drain it.”

    Morfindel waved a hand to the onlookers, indicating that they should leave and that he would join them shortly.  “This will not be a pleasant sight,” he added.  All obeyed, except Keren who stood beside Lurisa, watching closely.  She had taken a great interest in elvish medicine during her stay in Dor Luin and on that account begged leave to remain, which was granted. 

    “If you are as strong of constitution as we have heard,” said Mirdan, “we might call upon you to assist us.”

    Brogan observed the goings on a moment, then turned to follow the others, muttering softly to himself, “It’s no use.  I can’t compete with elves.”

    “Not so fast, you with the bruised face,” called Mirdan.  “You also are our charge.”

    “If even our own father can not escape us, do not think you shall,” said Mirlin.  “Come sit beside your bride and wait a while.  Unless what you see sickens you.”

    “I’ve seen worse things than the draining of a poisonous wound,” said the knight and took a seat.  In fact he was curious as to what they intended to do with the fluid they collected so carefully from their father’s injury.  They sealed it in a crystal vial and stored it away in a chest packed with snow.  Mirdan approached him and examined his nose carefully.

    “A thump from a troll can be worse than being thrown from a horse and landing flat on your face,” observed the elf as he reset the knight’s nose.  Brogan was surprised at how little it hurt, even though his nose was partially healed.  In fact when Mirdan was finished, it felt almost as if it had never been broken.  Gingerly Brogan pressed either side and nodded approval.  He first noticed Keren was by his side when she put a hand under his chin and turned his face toward her.

    “That does look less crooked,” she said.  “Did you think you were forgotten?”

    Mirlin gave Morfindel his mithril shirt and said in a tone of warning “it is time the elven lord of Dor Luin greeted his guests.  Kin of Neldoras and Springlily have come for a visit from Lorien.  They have been asking for both of you.”

    Morfindel looked from one son to the other, then at Lurisa and sighed. 

    “Have they again tried to convince Neldoras to leave us and go to Lorien?” asked Lurisa.

    “Not that we have heard,” said Mirdan.  “They say they have a message for you.”

    “Well, my love, we had best discover exactly what this message is, should we not?” said Lurisa.

    “The sooner the better,” said Morfindel and slipped the mail shirt over his head.  “Has Cedartoes spoken to anyone since his arrival?” he asked. 

    The twins looked at their father, mystified.  “Cedartoes?” they said in unison with Brogan and Keren.

    “The ent?” asked Mirlin, laughing, “we have not seen him since the Second Age.”

    “He is standing by the entrance to the great hall.  Surely you have seen him,” replied the elf lord.  When no one answered, he shrugged.  “He must have moved there after I left and before you arrived.  Perhaps he is asleep.”  So saying he led them from the house of healing.

    The great hall was lighted by crystal lamps hanging from branches of the tree shaped pillars.  They glowed by their own light, giving off no smoke or fumes of any kind.  Jack and Thistledown were at work visiting with the guests and telling tales of their travels when Keren and Brogan entered.  The  elves hailed the newlyweds and bestowed gifts upon them.  Brogan thanked them kindly and together he and Keren listened to many songs in their honor, although more company was the last thing they desired at the moment.  Morfindel and Lurisa entered quietly behind them and were greeted by lords of the Dwarves and Bornosse.  In the midst of the songs and story telling, an elf of Lorien approached Morfindel and Lurisa.

    “My lord and lady, my name is Glindin.  Celeborn and Galadriel bade me bring their greetings and...”

    Lurisa turned from the elf and spoke to Keren and Brogan.  “Perhaps it is time to give you the solitude you have longed for these many days.  Come.  Let us go to Ciryafin’s Cottage.”  Taking Keren by the hand, Lurisa led her away.  Brogan looked from Morfindel to the other elf and again toward the retreating back of his bride.  “A thousand pardons, my lords,” he said softly, and followed the two women.  Morfindel half smiled and nodded slightly.  Glindin sighed deeply. 

    “I had hoped for the chance to deliver the message Galadriel sent before being cut off.  Little did I realize the depth of the rift between the two ladies.”

    “Have patience with my lady,” said Morfindel, “for still it rankles Lurisa that Galadriel so firmly stood between us...”

    Mirlin broke in, saying  “and concurred with Thingol that my father should be imprisoned until Menegroth collapsed or thrown out and his life forfeit should he attempt to return, rather than be permitted to wed her. 

    “And also,” continued Mirdan “that the Lady of Light has delayed so in apologizing for statements  made long ago.  Had you brought greetings from Thingol our father might have reacted the same, for the lord of Doriath was overly harsh with her, calling her a courtesan to the house of Fëanor...”

    Jack drew near.  “Galadriel called our mother a courtesan?!  No one ever told me that.”

    “Galadriel only stood by in silence,” said Mirdan, sardonically, “as our mother was berated by Thingol.  And in silence did she stand by as Thaliontaur and Celerin disowned their daughter for daring to love a son of the house of Fëanor.” 

    “Peace, my sons,” said Morfindel, “we need not speak of those who insulted your mother.  They were slain long ago.”   He turned to the elf from Lorien.  “Be patient.  You may yet have your chance to deliver your message.  I will ask her to hear it.”

    “She only stood by in silence,” murmured Jack.  “They say silence is but a means of stating agreement.  If Galadriel would jump to such a conclusion, perhaps she is not so great a lady after all.”

    “You have neither met nor even seen the Lady of Lorien.  Perhaps you should reserve judgment until you make your acquaintance,” said a visitor named Halmir in a sharp tone.

    “A pity no one advised her to do the same in regard to my father,” said Jack.

    “Alcarringwë.  Enough,” said Morfindel, quietly.

    Jack closed his mouth, but other voices took up the discussion.

    “We have seen her,” said Mirlin, “and know that the face of even the most beautiful woman changes when she looks upon those she loathes.”

    “Or fears,” added Mirdan.  “When put to flight by Morgoth, all wear the same face.  Her  disregard for what our parents have suffered...”

    “Mirdan!”

    “...is inexcusable!  But one can hardly expect so great a lady to apologize to a mere handmaid,” finished Mirdan, bitterly, then lowered his eyes under his father’s angry glare.

    The elves of Lorien firmly declared that Galadriel must have had reason to say such things, if she said them at all.  The elves of Dor Luin affirmed that she did indeed say them, and denied the justice of it with equal firmness.  The discussion became bickering and then voices raised in anger as Jack and the twins squared off against Halmir and two other visitors.  

    Thistledown and Safronela drew away from the arguing and made as if to depart to their private chambers, much to the dismay of several visitors who had openly courted their attention.  Neldoras looked from one to another and following Morfindel’s lead, attempted to pacify his kin and quiet the inhabitants of Dor Luin, for the dwarves and Bornosse murmured and grumbled among themselves, making threatening gestures toward the visiting elves.

    “This is an old feud and I will not have it stirred further.  We have suffered worse things than insults and imprisonment in Menegroth, and may yet again.  Enough,” Morfindel said, moving from one group to another, trying to intercede but when one group became calm, another took up the debate.  Finally Morfindel stood aside, near the dais.  In frustration the elf lord gave a cry as men do when completely exasperated and shouted “esh v’even!” at the same moment slapping his hand on an arm of his chair.  The arm cracked and splintered from the force of the blow.  His frame flashed with a white fire and his voice boomed throughout the hall   “Enough!!  I am not accustomed to being ignored by my own people in my own hall!  Be silent!”  The elves of Dor Luin, who had forgotten their elven lord’s Fëanorean temper, turned to face him and bowed their heads, closing their lips tightly.  Morfindel looked on the visiting elves with anger.  “Can my house never be free of this infernal strife?!”

    The visiting elves stared at him in speechless shock.  The dwarves could hardly contain themselves at Morfindel’s use of an oath in their language, searching about for their axes to render justice to those who had offended the elven lord.  The Bornosse looked upon the visitors with glowering eyes.

    Halmir stepped forward.  “My lord, we are only messengers.  Perhaps if you could speak to your lady?  Or command her to grant an audience...”

    “Does Celeborn command Galadriel?” asked Morfindel.  Halmir and his companions bristled at the suggestion, but before they could answer, Morfindel spoke again.  “I thought not.  Your lady knows what is required for my lady to once again count her a friend.  It is between them.  I will have no more of it.  And do not ask me again to command her, for as Celeborn does not command Galadriel, neither do I command my lady.  I have made my request, often, and been answered in the same manner each time.  I will hear no more of the matter nor permit that it be discussed in my hall.  I beg you to forgive this lack of courtesy but my lady suffered much humiliation while abiding at Menegroth, as did our firstborn son and daughter.”

    “I beg of you accept our apology, my lord,” said Glindin.  “In our ignorance we made statements which we should not.  She is known to have been your faithful wife these long ages of Middle-earth.”

    Morfindel sighed and looked down at his ruined chair, seeming to shrink and fade as he did so, like a lamp being dimmed.  “It is naught but the doom of the house of Fëanor being worked out.  Ever has it transpired thus.  Those who should be allies are turned to foes.  All we begin well turns upon us into treachery or worse.  Just when I thought it had been put to rest, this acrimonious strife begun in Valinor rises again.”

    “We know only of the strife begun in Menegroth, my lord,” said Glindin.  “Of what other contention do you speak?”

    “Fëanor begged Galadriel to give him a small amount of her hair and she refused.  Well, it was her hair and her right to decide to whom she gave it.  Though I was only a child, I thought them both foolish, Galadriel for refusing even a single hair to my grandfather, and Fëanor for becoming so bitter about it.  They openly became unfriends, determined at every turn to thwart each other, in Valinor and Middle-earth.  Galadriel sided with Thingol and Lurisa’s parents on that account.  Over so insignificant a thing as hair.”

    “How can you call the lady’s hair insignificant?  It is the most beautiful...” began Halmir.

    “Is it worth three ages of conflict?  Had Fëanor and Galadriel known where their contention would lead, I doubt they would think so.  I thought we had buried our grievances, but here the poisonous seed sprouts again.  I have grown weary of weeding it out.”

    “If you are so weary of Middle-earth, why do you not depart for Elvenhome?” asked Halmir.

    Morfindel uttered a sad laugh.  “No welcome would I find there, except from Mandos and my kin who inhabit his shadowy halls.”

    “You know this?”

    “I have it from Ulmo himself.  For my deeds at the departure of the Noldor from Valinor am I to be held accountable upon my return to Valinor, by what ever means, when ever that may be, either sooner or later, even until the remaking of Arda.  Grateful am I that this doom does not pass to my children.”

    “You have spoken with the lord of the waters?!”

    “He spoke.  I listened.”

    “Surely you were too young to have known...”

    “As mortals count growth, I was perhaps twelve.  Aboard a ship at Alqualondë my father put a sword in my hand and to my unending shame, I used it.  Too well.  He commanded me to let no one pass, and I obeyed.  Being called to account holds no fear for me, but I dread enforced separation from my lady and children. It haunts me as no fear of enemy ever has, save one, and I will not speak of that.”

    “You are truly ancient of days.  I have not felt so young in many yen,” murmured Halmir.

    “Ancient of Days is a title reserved only for Iluvatar.  I will not permit it used of me.”

    “I meant only that your years exceed mine.  As does your knowledge, to rival Galadriel and Celeborn themselves.  No offense have I intended.”

    “There is no offense, only an honor beyond what I deserve.”

    “What do you mean, doom of your house?” asked Glindin.

    “Have you not heard of the Doom Mandos placed upon the House of Fëanor?”

    “I have heard something of it, but never studied it closely.  It is a fearful subject,” responded Glindin.

    “Even for one who is only a listener.  Imagine how it frightens those upon whom it was pronounced.  ‘Tears unnumbered shall ye shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.  On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also.  Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue.  To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin upon kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.  The Dispossessed forever. Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman.  For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in death’s shadow.  For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be;  by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos.  There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you.  And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.’*  So spoke the Valar.  That is a hard thing for a child to hear, and even harder to watch come to pass.  We have lost everything we laid claim to and there are so few of us left...”

    “But if you appeal to the Valar...” began Halmir.

    “They are bound by judgements and oaths no less than I and my house.  Only Iluvatar can release us from our doom, and to Him will I turn.  The only way for anything we begin to endure is for us to relinquish it, and even that is no guarantee.” The elf lord stood silently beside his ruined chair, looking at it with regret. “Forgive me for being such an unaccommodating host, but you came to visit Neldoras and his family and will doubtless not miss my presence.  I am very weary.  Stay as long as you wish but seek me not  for I will not be found by you.”

    Glindin spoke up quickly.  “Celeborn and Galadriel informed me you were grievously wounded in the Battle of the Last Alliance and in the days before Eregion fell.  My errand is also to inquire of your welfare, and that of Lachnir and Ormal.”

    Morfindel looked darkly upon the messenger from Lorien and said, “My son and his son were among the thousands slain in the battle to take the Morannon.”

    “I beg your pardon,” stammered Glindin.  “Galadriel knew something befell them, but could not discover what.  You have become adept at concealing yourself from her.  She can not see you from afar...” The elf of Lorien trailed off under Morfindel’s steady gaze.

    “The enemy inflicts wounds that do not heal.  It is a battle with no victory and a struggle without end.  If I am distant, it is because I know not what the enemy may discover through me,” said the elf lord and turned to leave.

    The dwarves rushed forward to inspect the ruined chair proudly, laughing quietly among themselves and discussing ways they might repair it.  When Morfindel turned away and saw Argus, his stern gaze softened somewhat, for the knight’s fearful expression went to his heart.  Argus stood in the large doorway beside a tree, watching the happenings.  Never had he witnessed a quarrel between elves and, brave though he was, it frightened him.

    “I beg of you, forgive me for what you see here.  I have become volatile of late,” said Morfindel.

    “How did you do that?” stammered the knight.

    “Noldor of the House of Fëanor are more passionate than most.  Our emotions are capricious when unleashed.  It will not happen again,” said Morfindel and glancing back at the elves in the hall he added, “I hope.”  He turned to go out but before he stepped through the door, a deep voice rumbled with laughter.

    “Hrrrrooooooom!  No need to make such a hasty exit, my friend.”

    Everyone jumped and looked about to find the source of the voice.  Mirlin elbowed Mirdan playfully and they laughed, edging forward.  Morfindel halted and his countenance changed from storm cloud to bright smile.  “So , Cedartoes, you have awakened,” he laughed.  “I saw you propped by the door when we arrived and intended to give you a sound thump on my way out.  Not becoming treeish are you?”

    “Hooom  hroom,” laughed the ent.  “You remain as ornery as ever.  Not so much treeish as entish.  And with an ent draught to keep you from fading and strengthen you for the fight.”

    “Ent draught!” whispered several visiting elves who gathered to gaze in wonder at this most ancient of creatures.

    Argus looked quizzically from one face to another but said nothing.

    “Is it not dangerous for an elf to drink such things?” asked Glindin.

    “Dangerous?” rumbled Cedartoes.  “Is there anything when used beyond moderation that is not dangerous?  But most of you need it not.  Those whose spirits burn hottest fade the fastest, however, and that little outburst cost you, my friend, as have your exertions of the past few days.  You have done well and lived quietly for eight hundred years but it seems that is about to change.  Here.  Drink up.”

    Morfindel accepted the dipper and after drawing liquid from the wooden bucket Cedartoes carried, drank deeply.  The visitors watched and sighed in relief when he returned the dipper to its owner and yet appeared unharmed.

    “Well?” asked Argus.  “How does it taste?”

    “Quite agreeable.  The after effect is not so pleasant.  I do not care for any to witness that.”

    “Is it painful?” asked Argus.

    “No, but it burns, so if you see me dive into a snow bank, you will understand why.”

    “I have diluted it this time,” said the ent to Morfindel in Entish.  “You may have to drink more, and over several days instead of just once, but the benefit will be the same.  We shall put the stuff of earth back into you, and battle the enemy who seeks to dominate you.  A pity the elves of Eregion did not come to us ents when they sought to prevent themselves from fading.  We would love to have ministered to them.  But alas, too late for that.  They were too hasty, or too fearful.  But you, my friend, have been neither.

    “Desperation is an effective antidote for hasty or fearful refusals of aid when it is offered,” answered the elf in the same language.  

    Cedartoes laughed loudly and the visitors drew back, not understanding what was said.

    “My huorns always enjoy the visits from you and your lady.  Will you not come to them soon?”

    “We may indeed,” laughed Morfindel.

    This brief discourse lasted more than an hour.  The twins leaned forward, straining to catch a familiar word or phrase.  The dwarves and Bornosse also watched and listened.  The visitors and Argus were completely mystified, however.  Jack merely looked on and smiled as his father and the ent swayed and made incomprehensible noises.  At last they fell silent a moment.

    “How do you feel?” asked Argus. 

    “Would you like to try a sip?” asked the ent in the common speech, holding the bucket and dipper to him.  “You’ve not faded at all, if you’re an elf, and if you’re mortal man, well, it’s not likely to hurt you at all, other than to put more curl in your hair.”

    Argus politely declined.  The twins, however, stepped forward.  “We were raised on ent draughts,” said Mirdan.  “That’s why we grew so tall,” laughed Mirlin and the ent gave them each a long sip from the dipper.

    “Can you tell me how it works?” Argus asked Morfindel

    “Starts at the stomach and spreads outward.  It is only a little warm right now.  We shall know in a few hours what the effect will be,” said the elf lord.

    Glindin walked around and around the ent.  When he again came to Morfindel he said “My lady warned me that I may observe some strange things here.  That you have resisted the tendency among elves to disassociate yourselves from other races.  She said it with much admiration.  We of Lorien are neighbor to Fangorn Forest but have no contact with its inhabitants.”

    “Great is the pity,” called a dwarf, pausing from picking up splinters of stone from the floor near the dais.  “We have all had much profit from each other.”

    “True,” said the ent.  “Perhaps we have become changed from what we were.  My ents and huorns are a little more hasty.  The dwarves no longer use wood for their fires.  The Bornosse grow crops for us all and we defend them from harm.  The elves sit patiently with us in moot and prevent anyone from chopping down my huorns.  We are more together than the sum of each of us alone.  If you return to Lorien, perhaps you might pass through Fangorn with my greetings to my fellow ents.  I think Fangorn himself may not have become treeish just yet.”

    “Perhaps I might, for my purpose was to bear a message and I will return to Lorien when I may.  A pity my message remains undelivered.”

    “Give my lady time. I will request that she at least listen to you,” said Morfindel and began flexing the fingers of his right hand.  Then speaking to Cedartoes in Entish he said  “glad am I for this snowfall.”  He passed through the wide outer door of the hall.  Cedartoes followed.  The elf looked up at the ent and smiled kindly.  “This is not so bad.  At least I am not already screaming in agony.”

    “You had need of stronger medicine at other times.  But I do not remember that you ever screamed,” said the ent.

    “I did not wish to distress you.”  The ent hoomed at this until the elf added,  “fear not, my friend.  Your ministrations have never pained me like the enemy’s torments.  And always have I felt better afterward.”

    Snow continued to fall but none reached below a foot from Morfindel’s head without melting.  He was soon drenched, with a slight mist of steam rising.  A flash of elven light and he was dry.

    “Your spirit burns so very hot,” mused the ent.  “It will sputter and spark before it is dampened, but I do not wish to quench it entirely.”

    The elf laughed.  “More than ent draught will it take to quench the spirit I inherited from my grandfather.  I think perhaps it is time I find that snow bank.”  Switching to the common speech, he called to his son.  “Jack...”

    “Yes, father.”

    “What stories you have for Argus had best be told now.”

    “Yes father,” answered Jack and chuckled at the knowing expression, neither smile nor frown, on his father’s face before he disappeared from view.  “Someday I must take the time to learn Entish,” Jack murmured.

    “What stories?” asked Neldoras, looking apprehensively at Jack.

    “Only stories you have heard before, but our friend knight Argus has not.  He shall be my audience for I think the rest would not care for our taste in tales.”  The young elf nudged Argus.  “Come along to a place more private and we may talk all we like.”

    “We will follow,” said Mirlin, “to ensure our little brother gets the story right.”  And the twins followed them out, Gil and Sam trailing along after.

    “What is this tale of your parents before you were born?” asked Argus once they were outside.

    “It’s quite short, really, and now I think I shouldn't have said anything.”

    “Oh, come now.  Don’t leave me wondering.”

    “Yes, little brother.  Don’t leave the poor knight wondering,”  said Mirdan.

    “You have all the time in the world but he does not,” added Mirlin

    Jack looked askance at his brothers, who grinned and laughed, relieved to have escaped from their duties as hosts to those they still considered unwelcome guests.  But more than that, enjoying this discomfiture of their little brother who so often laughed at the discomfort of others. 

    “Go ahead and tell him,” said Mirdan.

    “We’ll not repeat it,” said Mirlin.

    “Very well.  I often heard them sing to each other,” said Jack.

    Argus laughed, “Is that all?  That’s not much...”

    “No, that’s not all,” said Jack somewhat irritably.  “Suffice it to say that...”  Jack glanced once again at his brothers then said in one breath  “myparentsarehopelesslymadlydeeplyinlovewitheachother.  There.  Now, ask me no more about it and let’s look into that business you hinted at before we left Barad Lomin.”

    Argus laughed.  “You’re mischievous for an elf.  It’s a wonder your father doesn’t call you to account for it.”

    “He does,” said Jack.  “Often.  But his punishments have never been extremely harsh.  Only tedious.  He doesn’t care that much.  And it hardly matters since everyone knows everything about everybody else anyway.”

    “But only our little brother has the audacity to speak of it,” laughed Mirdan.

    “Seems a son who looks so much like his father, should be more like him,” mused Mirlin.

    Jack chuckled.  “I asked him once if I should try to behave more properly, like him.  He said I am so much like him already, as he might have been had Caranthir been a little less harsh, I shouldn’t concern myself about it.  Just that I shouldn’t cross the boundaries he’s set.  Some limits I haven’t found yet.  It’s an enjoyable challenge sometimes, to discover them.”

    “Our little brother enjoys matching wits with our father, when he’s up to it,” said Mirdan.

    “And our father rather enjoys the contest as well.  If you wish to get ahead of him, you’d best get started,” said Mirlin.  “We’ve other matters to concern us.”

    “We’ll find you later,” said Jack.

    “Or we’ll find you,” said Mirdan as the twins departed toward the house of healing.


The path to Ciryafin’s cottage led up into the mountains which surrounded Dor Luin.  Lurisa guided Keren and Brogan onward, speaking of this and that, answering questions as they went.  Keren had often wondered about the number of children the elf lord and lady had and spoke of it.

    “Often have I heard you mention other children, but I know nothing of them,” Keren said.

    “Seven children in all.  Lachnir, our oldest son, was slain with his eldest son during the Battle of the Last Alliance, but many of his children and grand children remain with us.  Iris is his daughter.  Eärlina and Hithwing, our two daughters sailed into the west after Ciryafin, Eärlina’s husband, died.  Hithwing intended to return to us, but tarried overlong exploring the wonders of Elvenhome.  When the world was changed after the fall of Numenore, she was forced to remain in Valinor, sundered from her husband and children until they decide to take ship.  Mirdan and Mirlin are twins you met as we approached the hall.  And you know Thistledown and Jack Frost.”

    “Another question, if you will continue to humor my curiosity.  Who is this Lady Galadriel?”  

    At mention of the Lady Galadriel, Lurisa’s normally good natured expression transformed into an icy mask of stoney displeasure.  The change was so brief, however, that one had to be watching her face both before and after in order to see it.  Keren saw, however, and had never before witnessed this countenance.  It troubled her enough to ask “Why do you dislike her so?”

    Brogan followed listening in silence.  He too had noticed the chance of face which came over the lady.  Lurisa gave no answer to Keren’s question as she led them to the door of Ciryafin’s cottage.  It was a pleasant house, set into the side of the mountain with a terrace in front and out buildings spaced comfortably about.

    “Perhaps it might be best to let you read the story as Orodin and Elendal conspired to write it.  I shall find the volume and bring it to you.  But doubtless you have other matters to attend to just now.  Good night.”  Lurisa withdrew down the path quickly, leaving Keren and Brogan at the door.  They passed inside to find the cottage warm and cozy.  Only two rooms but built into the rock ledge, so its interior was larger than the exterior might suggest.  A fire blazed in the fire place and a pair of tabby cats lay curled together on the hearth, watching their guests through half closed eyes.  A greyhound thumped her tail lazily and closed her eyes again in sleep. 

    A table and two benches near a water pump set into a stone shelf with full buckets nearby, a stack of blankets and pillow in a corner, two low chairs occupied the front room.  The back room contained only a large feather bed.  Lurisa told them, before her silence at Keren’s question, on the way up the stone stepped path, that this cottage had been inhabited by their daughter and her husband in his later years.  It was used only occasionally.  The knights of Cardolan and Arthedain who came at Morfindel’s summons stayed here and reported it to be quite comfortable.

    A few awkward moments passed in which they avoided looking each other in the eye.  Brogan stroked the greyhound’s ears and Keren scratched the backs of the cats.  Finally Brogan found his voice. 

     “Keren.”

    “Yes Brogan.”

    “There is one thing I would know, before...”

    “Yes?”

    “Do you love me, or are you just settling for me?”

    Keren was puzzled.  “Explain what you mean.”

    “Well, it’s plain to all that you love Holly Starfoot...”

    Keren laughed.  “And you want to know if I would rather have wedded an elf instead of a knight of Arthedain.”

    “Something like that.”

    “I was wondering if you might ask me that question and I’m glad it’s sooner than later.  But you may not be satisfied with my answer, so tell me which you prefer, the truth or a sweet lie.”

    “When you put it that way, I almost think I’d prefer the lie,” laughed Brogan.  “But let’s have the truth.”

    “Have you ever been kissed by an elf?”

    “No.  Can’t say I have, that I know.”

    “It’s a remarkable thing.  There are times when I know where he is, and what he is thinking, or what song he is singing, though he is very far away.  These moments are very brief and not common, but they still happen.  I once said that Starfoot is dearer to me than any other living creature, but then I discovered with what disapproval the lord Morfindel viewed our friendship, for that was all it could ever be, or so we thought.  Astounding that so seemingly calm an elf as he should react with such vehemence, and I thought it an over reaction at first.  But Morfindel saw further into both our hearts than either of us did.  I do love him still but he is out of my reach, as was he always.  That will not change, ever.”

    Brogan shifted his weight from one foot to the other and made as if to speak but Keren stepped forward and put a hand to his lips.

    “Put simply, the answer to the question ‘do I love you or am I just settling for you,’ is yes.”

    Brogan was truly puzzled by this.  “Yes?” he repeated.

    “Yes, I love you, more than I know how to express.  We’re kindred spirits, more alike than either of us yet know.  And yes, I’m willing to settle for you, or rather with you.  We suit each other.  I look forward to growing old with you, and watching our children become men and women, and all of the endless trials and troubles of family life, with you.  Uncertain as life as the wife of a knight may be, life married to an elf would be more uncertain still, and short, no matter how long I live, for I would age swiftly and he would age not at all.  Lest I seem fickle, my love for Starfoot has not diminished, but changed into something more akin to what I feel for my father and brothers.  Elves have grief enough.  Starfoot remembers into the First Age of the world and I am but twenty five...”  She paused and stroked his face with her hand.  “Yes Brogan, I do love you.  Now you answer me this.  Will you settle for a bride the elves have rejected?”

    Brogan laughed, wiping his eyes and embraced her and kissed her.  “Now let’s have the sweet lie.”

    “No,” said Keren, brushing a last trace of moisture from his cheek.  “Let’s have nothing but truth between us.”

    “Nothing but truth.  I like that.”  He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the other room and pushed the door shut with the nudge of a foot.


Lurisa found Morfindel in a snow bank not far form the great hall.  He had removed his mithril shirt and hung it on a branch.  The snow was piled high but melted around him so he was not covered.

    “How do you feel, my love?” she asked as she knelt beside him.  She reached to caress his face, but he caught her hands and would not let her touch him.

    “Overwhelmed,” he answered.  “Ent draughts are powerful stuff.”

    “Shall I leave you alone?”

    “No, please stay.  I should like your company for a while, please.”

    “Already you appear almost as you did when I first saw you riding across the Estolad, so long ago.  And yet we have come so far since then.  Our daughter’s descendants honored us beyond measure in asking us to sign their register as eldest living relatives.”

    “That they did, my love.”

    “Perhaps we were in error in distancing ourselves from them for so long.”

    “Perhaps.  My love, would you do something for me?”

    Lurisa laughed.  “So seldom do you make a request of me, much less a demand, how can I refuse?  Ask of me any...”

    “Say not anything until you hear the request.  You have always given freely all I desire of you, no need had I to ask, until now.  And it may be difficult.”

    “I think I know what you will ask, but make your request and I will not refuse.”

    “One of the elves from Lorien has a message for you.  Hear it, I beg of you.  If it is not to your liking, that is between you and Galadriel.  But at least hear the message she sends.  Please?”

    “The one thing you ask is the one thing I wish not to do.  But because you request it, and only for that reason, will I find this elf and hear what he has to say.”

    “Thank you.” 

    “Should I go now?”

    “If you wish.  You will find me later on the steps leading to Ciryafin’s cottage.  Our youngest son and Keren’s eldest brother are in the midst of plans to spy on the newlyweds.”

    “Very well, my love.”  She kissed his hands and stood to go.  “Have you had more visions, as before?”

    “Not yet.  All has been peaceful so far.  I think all will be well.”

    Lurisa went to the great hall, and found the visitors lounging in groups, either playing and singing with the minstrels or enjoying stories with the elves of Dor Luin.  The scene was peaceful and happy now, though she knew there had been strife earlier and she was the cause of it.  It could not be helped, she supposed.  Perhaps it was time to put all contention with Galadriel to rest.  She hoped the message would do just that.  Glindin was standing at the back of a group listening to Orodin, chief scribe and archivist of Dor Luin, relate the story of how Morfindel became king of the Silvan elves of Taur-im-duinath.  It was new to him and like all elves, he enjoyed hearing tales never heard before. 

    “My lord tells me you have a message for me,” Lurisa said to him. 

    Glindin turned quickly, surprised.  “That is so, my lady.”

    She led him aside where they could speak privately.  “And why should I hear it, after all this time?”

    The elf was taken aback, searching for an answer to this unexpected question as Lurisa waited silently.  At last the elf said, “the lady Galadriel beseeches you by the friendship you once shared...”

    “Friendship?  The friendship was between her, my lady Queen Melian and my mother.  I was but a handmaid who on occasion amused her with a song or tune on the harp.  Never were we friends, for never was I her equal.”

    The messenger shifted uncomfortably.  “My lady, you are not making this easy for me.”

    “Nor do I intend to.  Why should I?  All this time I have heard nothing from her.”

    “She told me she tried to meet you many times in Ost-in-Edhel, but was refused, or found you indisposed, or you had returned to Dor Luin.  She thought you wanted not to hear form her.  I am only a messenger and have no knowledge of what lies between you and Galadriel except what I recently discovered.  When these events of which you speak happened, I was not yet born, nor even my parents.”

    “So you do not know the cruel words cast at my lord, when his only transgression was to fall in love with me.  And you did not see his face when he was cut to the heart by ignorant accusations which only by fault of parentage did he have to bear.  And later, when our first son was born, they named the child Serpent’s whelp and Dragon spawn.  Only by the grace and kindness of Melian and Luthien was I allowed a place of service.  Otherwise I would have been cast out, even by my own parents, to what ever fate should claim me.”

    “Aiya,” sighed Glindin.  “My lady, I have no answer for you except to give you the message written by my lady Galadriel’s own hand.  Will you not read it?  And if it is not to your liking, I will go and come again until the matter is settled, for so I was commanded.”

    Lurisa reached her hand out and accepted the message.  She unrolled it and read the three leaves quickly, then rolled it again, and sighed.  “I will take this and share it with my lord.  Will you remain until we may send you with a suitable answer?”

    “I am yours to command, my lady,” said the elf and bowed to her. 

    Lurisa returned to find Morfindel no longer in his snow bank.  When she went to their private chambers, the mithril shirt was in its place and his cut and torn clothing in the basket for mending.  She found him where he said he would be, on the steps leading to the cottage, dressed in clean tunic and leggings.  They sat side by side, in silent conversation a long while, not moving except for occasional changes in their eyes as the talk progressed.  Any who saw them might mistake them for a statue of two lovers with hands clasped, each inclined toward the other, at rest.  But in reality a long debate continued concerning a very old conflict which now seemed at an end. 

    “Why would she wait so long?”

    “She came looking for you in Eregion but found you gone.  Had you remained but a few hours longer, this could have been resolved then.”

    “I did not want to remain for reasons other than Galadriel.  You know that.”

    “Those other reasons no longer assail us.  And I still say we should forgive.  This stupid strife was begun so long ago, between Galadriel and my grand father over nothing more than a single hair.  I will not have it continued now when the enemy is once again gathering strength.  This quarrel with Galadriel will only weaken us and aid the enemy.  It is a weakness we can not afford.  She has done what was required of her.  Forgive her, my love.”

    “You know it is the dark lord, gathering strength again?”

    “Injuries he inflicted have begun to ache and itch, though they healed long ago.  He is again seeking, but not yet able to find me.  I  know not why he goes to the trouble, except perhaps he thinks me an easy target.”

    “That you never were.  Let us talk of other things.  I will forgive Galadriel, because you wish it, and because she has done what I asked of her.  But I fear there will never be friendship between me and your kinswoman.  I doubt she will ever look upon me as other than the handmaid she once knew.”

    “Galadriel is wiser than that, my love.  You are clearly no longer a handmaid.”

    The statue moved.  His hand reached for her face, and he kissed her softly and she spoke.

    “Are our newlyweds sleeping?”  she asked.

    Morfindel smiled slightly.  “I have not listened in that direction so I know not.”

    “You would not do that which you wish to prevent others from doing.  Commendable, my love.”

    About this time, they heard whispers and stifled laughter from the trail below.

    “Now where is that path,” muttered Jack Frost.

    “I told you your father would never let us interfere in my sister’s first night with her husband.”

    “They say Holly Starfoot’s enchantments are potent, but they are nothing compared to my father’s.  And when he and my mother join forces, I surrender,” said Jack with a laugh.  “I would stake a very large fortune that they are both sitting within the sound of my voice.”

    “You would win the wager and increase your fortune,” said Morfindel.

    Jack, Argus, Gil and Sam started wildly, looking about.

    “Father!  Don’t do that! Where are you?” said Jack.

    “Guarding the path to Ciryafin’s cottage, of course.”

    “Why do you want to find the path at this time of night, when you know mortals should be sleeping and not amusing young elves?” asked Lurisa.

     “There!  I told you they were together in this!” laughed Jack. 

    “Which explains why we are unable to find it,” laughed Argus.  “Come along friends.  We’ll have no sport tonight.”

    “Go back to the hall, or to your own chambers,” ordered Morfindel.  “If our newlyweds do not show themselves in two days, they may be considered fair game.  Do not attempt to disturb them until then.”

    “Yes father,” said Jack, in a not quite dejected tone.

    “Yes, my lord,” said Argus, Sam and Gil as they followed Jack down the trail.

    “Well, that is done,” said Lurisa.

    “For now,” agreed Morfindel.

    They sat in silence a long while, watching the snow fall diminish and the clouds clear away.  The stars tracked their courses across the sky once again.

    “Beloved?” she said.

    “Yes, my love.”

    “Newlyweds put me in mind of children.”

    Morfindel nodded silently.

    “Four sons have we, here or on the other side of the sea.  Only three daughters, though, and two have taken ship.  I have been thinking...”

    “Yes?”

    “You once said you wanted no more sons, but the number of our daughters you would leave to me.  My love, might we perhaps have another child?  Thistledown has no sister remaining on Middle-earth, while Jack has two brothers.  There is an inequity which we might resolve.  I should like very much to have another daughter.”

    Morfindel’s features bore a surprised, blank expression for a moment, then he smiled.  “Perhaps we might wait until Cedartoes’ ministrations are complete, and until we may be certain that our son will not disturb Keren and Brogan?”

    “Very well, and I did promise Keren to bring a book to her from the Archives.”

    “Which book?” asked Morfindel.

    “History.  She wants to know of Galadriel.  Seems she has never observed me in such a disagreeable state.  But, about our new daughter, may we not, at least, think on the matter?” said Lurisa, nestling closer under his arm.

    “If it pleases you, we may think on the matter as long as you like,” he said and turned to face her so that they could more easily look into each other’s eyes.  And so they reclined upon the steps, and began to plan their next child.


*from The Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien