Barad Lomin
Chapter XVIII
Gathering Storm
by Laura White, aka halavana

Winter settled its white blanket over the land and the inhabitants of Dor Luin gathered in the Great Hall where a fire always blazed at the hearth. The Hall buzzed with constant activity.  Although dwarves, elves and men rarely interacted with each other, here at Dor Luin many old friends met again after a long year’s absence.  Dwarves, elves and men built booths which served as temporary houses and workshops in the areas behind the tall stone pillars on either side of the hall.  The Bornosse sent their very old, very young and their infirm to winter here.  When this practice began, only the elves knew, for they remembered the distant past more clearly than a mortal remembers yesterday.  Morfindel and his people felt a keen sense of debt to Bor and his sons, having sworn to aid and succor the Bornosse after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears and the abandonment of Himring.  Such tales from the First Age still moved them deeply, always remaining as glistening drops in their deep wells of memory.  The elves did not forget and never tired of waiting upon their guests and entertaining them with stories and songs.  In fact, the elves knew so many tales, no one remembered hearing the same story twice in ten years, other than the tale of Bor which was told, and sung, yearly for the sake of the children and those who had forgotten.
     The dwarves also brought their aged and young, but they rather preferred comparing their works with that of other artisans.  Musicians and minstrels gathered to perform and critique their latest works.  Stone cutters and carpenters and smiths of all three races admired each other’s works in the Great Hall.  Weavers and spinners displayed their tapestries and fashions.  Everyone bustled back and forth from places of work to the repair shops in the corners.  Women of the dwarves and Bornosse did not wait on their men to make or repair their tools or spinning wheels.  This they did for themselves with an expertise at which the men said approvingly,  “There are too few of us to indulge in such divisions as men’s work and women’s work.”  And truth be told, the men were quite proud of their own skills as cooks and house keepers.
    Keren became well acquainted with many Bornosse women, and a few dwarf women also, some of whom were old enough to have beards, which shocked Keren since she thought they were male at first.  They shared many dwarvish secrets of children and family matters, after Keren swore an oath promising to keep the information to herself.  Innate suspicion and secrecy of the dwarves kept them from being known too well by their enemies, they said.  The elves even swore the same oath.
    When a mother and daughter offered Keren their services, she readily accepted.  These two, she soon discovered, were Morwen’s sister and niece.  Her Bornosse kinswomen quickly taught Keren to communicate with Morwen by means of house wrens which flew frequently between Barad Lomin and Dor Luin.  
    “Is this how everyone knows so much about me and my family?” Keren asked, but her Bornosse friends only smile knowingly and continued their spinning and weaving, sewing and singing.  They finally conceded that, yes, Morwen told them almost everything that passed in her household and also received instructions and suggestions. Keren sent her first message to Morwen, “I never guessed you to be a spy!”  as soon as she learned to understand them.  The bird returned the next day with a report of delighted laughter.  The sisters-in-law spoke almost daily through these birds thereafter.  
    The visitors from Lorien observed and took part in the goings on with varied interest.  Glindin joined in more freely than the others.  In fact he seemed rather sad when it came time to leave.  They departed three days after Lurisa finally gave Glindin her response to Galadriel’s message.  Keren saw him speak quietly with Morfindel and Lurisa on that day, but heard nothing they said.  The elves of Dor Luin showed visible relief once they were gone.  Keren determined to discover more of the meaning to this rift among elves, but her cautious probing into the matter drew no response from anyone, other than that it was all written somewhere in the archives.  “Seems everything I want to know is somewhere in the Archives,” said Keren to Morwen’s sister, who laughed and promised to help her research since there was much she also wanted to discover.
    Lurisa and Morfindel announced that they expected the birth of a new daughter in a little less than a year, but no one showed great concern or surprise, except to ask few questions about timing.  Jack laughed and said, “this will go over well in Lorien and Imladris.  They have expressed suspicion of us in the past.  Now they have more reason when elves so old continue to add children to their house.  Perhaps they should test the wondrous effect of ent draught for themselves.”  Truth be told, the presence of newlyweds put thoughts of children into many hearts and minds.  The following year would bring forth a greater blessing of elf children than many in recent memory.  
    One day, Orodin called a special gathering.  “After an age of urging,” he announced, “Iris and Thistledown have finally consented to wed their long time betrothed suitors.”  Keren and Brogan expected everyone to rush and make preparations but no one moved until the bridal pairs entered with their parents.  This double wedding began as a solemn ceremony in which the parents of the brides and grooms gathered together and, reminiscent of Keren’s own wedding, laid hands upon the heads of the couples, all facing west, and speaking the marriage blessing and benediction.  Then they began to sing.  Keren often heard elvish voices raised in song, but never like this.  Shifting from unison to harmony with the deft precision of a hawk in flight, the melody swelled, ebbed and flowed, leaving the bystanding mortals awestruck or in tears.  Silence, high and deep as an age of elvish regret, longing and hope, lingered after the voices ceased.  No one stirred until a scraping and shuffling distracted them and Keren wiped her eyes, turned about and gazed dumbly at the dwarves, bringing in such a variety of musical instruments unknown to her before.  
    “Your pardon for disturbing your solemnity,” said a dwarf named Rhoin, “but elves can sing and gaze westward for days on end.  We have need of movement.  Might we begin the celebration in earnest now?”
    Beginning with a single low chuckle, a wave of laughter swept the room and the once motionless host, with a roll of a dwarvish snare drum, became a whirl of dancing.  At the dwarves invitation, elves took up their instruments also.  Neldoras demonstrated that he could sing wonderfully and Morfindel proved he could do more than merely repair and tune a viol.  Elmoth joked that it took two elf lords to replace one Starfoot.  When Thistledown convinced her father to be her partner in the wedding dance as Sam danced with his now mother-in-law, Keren saw visions of her own father dancing at the weddings of her elder sisters.  She accepted Brogan’s hand when he offered it and they danced until they grew tired.  Then they stood off to the side and watched the elves commence to seriously make merry.
    After their bride and groom dances, Lurisa sat upon Morfindel’s chair, her legs curled under like a contented cat, as her husband propped himself against the side where the dwarves had smoothed the broken and rough edges and removed the remains of the shattered arm.  While Morfindel played with the minstrels and singers, Lurisa took the crown of silver holly leaves from where it was hooked on the back of the chair, and placed it at a rakish slant on his head.  He glanced at her over his shoulder and laughed, never missing a note.  He rarely wore that crown, which he made for Lachnir, unless someone else crowned him with it, and then only for special occasions.  This double wedding certainly qualified as a very special occasion.
    In a private moment with Thistledown after congratulating, Keren wondered, “Why do the lord and lady not dance together?  And why does no on call upon them to do so?”
    Thistledown laughed.  “My parents,” she explained, “should they decide to dance, would soon have us all in a sweat as if it were a summer day.  Would that Sam and I could one day share such love.”  
    “They do have a certain warmth between them,” mused Keren, “not unlike my parents.  I never saw them dance together, though I’m sure they did.”
    Elmoth took Brogan by the elbow and whispered something in his ear, which made Brogan laugh. “Certainly! Ask her if you like,” he replied and guided Keren toward the him.  
    The young elf then requested “May I have this dance?  Your husband grants permission...”
    Keren laughed uproariously, causing a few heads to turn.  “If my husband must grant permission for me to dance with a friend elf, particularly one such as you...”
    “Allow us our formalities,” responded Elmoth with a bright smile and a bow.  He then took her hand and lead her to the center of the dance.
    The celebration continued all of six days, the elves rejoicing without let up and the poor tired mortals joining in shifts.  Starfoot’s extended absence displease Keren, for she thought surely such a wedding would require his presence and she greatly wished to hear him sing and play.  She asked Lurisa if she was the cause and though the lady conceded it was partially so, she also explained it was not entirely on her account that he would remain indefinitely in Eryn Vorn.  Lurisa shared with her the news the wrens brought before Keren learned to understand them and then she let her displeasure abate.  She, more than anyone, understood Barad Lomin’s need for guidance, particularly when strangers were involved.  
    The twins demonstrated no haste to depart for their realm, even after receiving messages which caused them grave concern.  They did not visit with their parents often and refused to cut short their stay for any reason now that they were to have a new sister, and most likely new nieces and nephews also.  They sent for their families, intending to welcome the new arrivals, for elves dearly love their children.  Starfoot and Taseras kept them informed.  The newcomers posed no threat and the elven brothers peacefully resolved the situation.  Morfindel thought more interference would only cause more strife, and the twins concurred.
    The festivities ended and Dor Luin’s inhabitants returned to their usual activities.  One evening many gathered in the Great Hall to listen to stories and songs.  Orodin told the tale of the Last Alliance and the Battle for the Morannon, how Lachnir and Ormal gave their lives to save their father.  As often happened when elves tell a tale, visions of the event appeared before them and Keren felt as if she were right in the midst of the battle.  She saw the host clash on the Dagorlad, the debacle of Orophir’s rush before Gil-Galad ordered the charge, the slaughter of the woodland elves and their retreat.  She heard the plans laid out by the captains of the West and gasped at their audacious bold attack to breech the gate itself.  Morfindel and his sons used their knowledge of metallurgy to devise glass missiles filled with an acid which weakened metal.  Over the course of several days they approached the gate and threw these at a vulnerable spot while the rest of the army engaged the enemy elsewhere.  At dawn on the day appointed, dwarf axes cut through the corroded metal like dry-rotted timber.  The dwarves laughed aloud to hear the dry wit of an elf voice in their midst shouting “Khazad aimenu!” and then their host poured inside.  Confusion ruled the enemy as they were attacked from all directions.  During the bitter fight, Morfindel was struck in the head by a stone.  Lachnir and Ormal fought over him until they were slain.  When the battle was over the twins found them, shielding their father with their own bodies, many enemy dead all around them. One goblin had died grasping Morfindel’s wrist and the ogre’s hand had to be severed to remove it.  
    “And at the request of my lord, I end the tale here,” said Orodin at this point.
    “But you leave off with so many unanswered questions,” complained Keren, who then sighed and added, “The rest may be read in the Archives, I suppose,” drawing good natured chuckles.
    “Indeed,” said Morfindel, smiling at her.  Then he grew pensive.  “I never understood why they battled so fiercely over me.  We agreed that if any of us should fall, the others would continue the fight,” he mused quietly.
    The twins glanced at each other then back at their father, then at all those gathered, then back at each other.  Morfindel raised an eyebrow and gazed evenly at them, waiting.
    “Father,” began Mirlin after an awkwardly long pause. “There is something we have not told you.”
    Mirdan nodded and carefully added, “They fought for you because the enemy was trying to take you alive.”
    Morfindel’s mouth open, but no sound came forth.  Then as if to block out this news he closed his eyes and mouth and bowed his head.
    “Perhaps we should have told you before,” said Mirlin.
    “But you did not ask,” added Mirdan.
    The elf lord nodded.  “You were right,” he whispered.  “I did not ask.” Without another word he rose and went out.  
    One of the minstrels began to sing a song of the Blessed Realm and the rest remained pensive.  Lurisa urged Keren to follow her out and guided her to the archives where they spent hours seeking certain volumes.  Carrying these books, they wandered toward Ciryafin’s cottage, passing a cleft of the mountain which Keren had not before noted.  
    “This was once Lachnir’s workshop, and usually kept well concealed,” Lurisa commented.  
    The two women ventured inside and found Morfindel seated on a bench, his head in his hands.  When he sensed Lurisa’s presence the elf lord extended a hand to her which she took and sat beside him silently.  Keren remained quietly where she stood.
    “I owe Lachnir and Ormal a debt I can never repay,” said the elf lord, finally.
    “As do we all, my love,” responded Lurisa.
    Gazing into space, as though speaking to himself, Morfindel said “We live too much in the past, wishing to preserve things unsullied and unchanged.  Then when we discover we cannot prevent change, we abandon that which we once loved.  We do not see that our efforts are a subtle form of domination and make us guilty of the same error as...”  He trailed off speaking and looked about him at the cobwebs and dust on the workbench where he, Lachnir and Ormal had once challenged each other to such great works in good natured competition. “This workshop has been left to decay too long.  Too much work remains to let it continue idle.”  So saying, Morfindel stood and began clearing off the work area.  
    Lurisa bade Keren follow her on to Ciryafin’s Cottage where they spoke at length and took turns reading aloud from the books, which revealed that the twins carried their father and the bodies of their kin back to Dor Luin, in spite of the objections voiced by the Captains of the West.  “We care not what the woodland elves do.  We will not leave our loved ones in the shadow of the enemy,” they said as they prepared to depart.  “The glory will be yours.  By the grace of Eru Iluvatar, may you succeed in bringing down the enemy.”  Gil-Galad was loath to permit them to leave, but Neldoras promised to remain with the majority of the host, so the High King of the Noldor allowed the last of the Fëanoreans to go their own way.  They had done their part and been slain or wounded in the attempt so he would require no more from them.
    Morfindel recovered was slowly at first, not only on account of his many wounds but also his deep mourning for Lachnir and Ormal.  But with the aid of Cedartoes and the twins, once he decided he wanted to live, he improved rapidly.  Jack was still a young child and Keren laughed at the tale of his antics to make his father smile and laugh again.  He sat beside his father singing songs of silliness and telling tales of squirrel’s folly, bringing in other children to visit and sing and play quietly while Morfindel slept.  Lurisa said that, more than any medicine, Jack kept his father from giving up.
    One small volume told an intriguing history of an elf who wed a woman of the Bornosse to set right a wrong done by several young elves in Morfindel’s absence and during his convalescence, but the name of this elf was never stated, only that a son was born of the union and he chose to be counted among the Bornosse rather than the elves.  And that he was buried with his mother in Ciryafin’s tomb.
    “I thought only kinsmen of Ciryafin were buried there,” mused Keren.
    “That is so,” answered Lurisa.
    “Then who...” began Keren.
    “Allow us our secrets,” laughed the elf lady.  “I am sworn to conceal his name and though I will not lie should you guess, I beg you not to.”
    Keren in her turn laughed.  “Questions.  Always I find more questions than answers.  I hardly know which to ask and which to leave be.”
    “Should you ever discover that, you will be wiser than many whose lives are counted in ages rather than years,” replied Lurisa.

What Lurisa called “Noldorin restlessness” overtook Morfindel after the revelation about Lachnir and Ormal.  He spent more time than usual in conversation with the lords and craftsmen of the dwarves and Bornosse.  Brogan had struck up a great friendship with these also and spent much of his waking time with them.  
    During one of these late night sessions, Morfindel beckoned them to follow, and pulled aside a tapestry which concealed a solid stone face of the mountain side.  The elf lord raised an eyebrow toward Rhoin, the lord of the dwarves of Belegost, who chuckled knowingly and nodded.  Then Morfindel spoke words no edain or elf understood.
    “Ma nîd sakhu,” he said in a low voice that echoed throughout the hall.
    The dwarves laughed uproariously at this.
    “What does it mean?” asked Brogan.
    “Do not look down,” said Rhoin with a wink.  “Lord Mori displays a certain dwarfish sense of humor at times.”
    The outline of a double door appeared.  One of the doors opened toward them and a strong chilled breeze ruffled the clothing of the elves, dwarves and men.  
    “Shall we visit the smithy of Dor Luin?” asked Morfindel.
    The dwarves responded with raucous laughter and back slapping.  Morfindel also laughed and then did something quite unexpected.  He climbed up one of the nearby stone tree pillars in the great hall where was hung a crystal lamp and called for several other elves to do likewise.  They brought down the lamps and used them to light the way.
    As they stepped inside, or outside rather, Brogan gasped.  A sheer drop perhaps a hundred feet down was on the other side of the doors, and a path and stairs leading to a large, dark tunnel entrance.
    “I see why the password warns not to look down,” said Brogan, holding Keren’s hand and drawing her closer to him as they walked the ledge from the door to the tunnel.  
    “You needn’t be so protective,” she said. “The ledge is wide.”
    “And why do you think I am being protective?” he asked with a wink.  “Is it not possible for a knight to fear high places or long drops?”
    “Fear?!  A knight of Arthedain?  Perish the thought!” laughed Rhoin.
    Brogan laughed also and loosened his grip on his wife, merely keeping her hand in his and not grasping so tightly.
    The tunnel led downward by many stone steps of varied size, twisting and turning this way and that.  At last they came to an open space where air currents flowed past them up the tunnel and out.  They walked a narrow path across a dark void and came to a wide ledge where an open, cold, forge was set into the ground.  An anvil the size of a coffin lay nearby, accompanied by several other smaller ones of various shapes and work benches near the far wall.  A faint odor of fumes like tar, or lamp oil permeated the air.
    “Often have I considered relighting this forge,” said Morfindel.  “Perhaps it is time.”
    The dwarves murmured their growling assent.  Morfindel answered them in their language and startled the men and other elves at first to hear an elvish voice making such harsh sounds.  But they knew here was a smith of Eregion, cousin of Celebrimbor.  Why should he not speak to dwarves in their own tongue?
    He commanded them all to cross the narrow path again, and when they had done so he spoke to the forge, his voice singing, echoing through the cavern.  A light flashed with no sound and suddenly the forge burst into roaring flames.  They saw Morfindel’s frame with outstretched arms silhouetted between them and murmured at the sight.  The dwarves were silent, however, only nodding their heads to the rhythm of Morfindel’s song.  Keren thought the sound if this language quite different from the elf lord’s song at the ravine.  Presently Morfindel lowered his arms and joined them on the other side of the chasm.
    “The forge must burn for several days.  We will set a watch and let it burn,” he said
    The dwarves volunteered to take up the watch and stationed several of their number at the door.  The remainder left the smithy, feeling as if something more had begun than the mere lighting of a fire.
*******
Side by side, Halmir and Glindin sprinted down the Dimril Stair.  They experienced no treacherous snowfall, no rock and ice avalanche in the pass of Caradras, no threats at all, which in itself was noteworthy.  They met or passed by groups of elves or dwarves going either direction, but merely greeted them and raced onward for they were on their way home.  A group of twenty delivered a message from Galadriel to Lurisa of Dor Luin, in the foot of Ered Luin and now they returned with the response.  Only Glindin knew its content and Halmir was insatiably curious, asking for a hint or trying to guess.  Glindin, however, had promised the lady of Dor Luin that only Galadriel would hear it.  No elf would break, or encourage another elf to break, such a promise so Halmir waited if perchance the Lady of Light might share it with him.  She and Celeborn once again were dwelling in Lorien, planting a great grove of Mallorn neither too close nor too far from the house of Amroth, who ruled Lorien and had permitted them a dwelling there.  They passed frequently back and forth between Edhellond in the Bay of Balfalas to the south and Imladris in the north.  Galadriel wished to be with her grandchildren but could not restrain her sea-longing, Halmir supposed.  He had been a retainer in the guard of Celeborn since the fall of Gondolin and observed the lord and lady’s struggles and trials.  She longed for a home to which she could not now return and he felt no desire to leave Middle-earth.  The lord and lady did not argue, but often Halmir listened to them reminisce over the wonders of their younger days.
    Halmir felt somewhat irked that he was not chosen to bear the message, but the Lady of light had her reasons.  He was second, at least.  Should anything happen to Glindin, Halmir was constrained to take the rolled message and carry on with it.  Fortunately nothing had happened to Glindin.  
    Another irksome matter troubled Halmir.  Neldoras.  His youngest brother.  Descendants from followers of Turgon, they had been born in Gondolin and lived there until its fall.  Their mother was a lady of the House of the Golden Flower, a daughter of Glorfindel’s oldest son, and their father sprang from the House of the Fountain, kinsman of Echthelion.  Halmir understood that the kin-strife of the First Age was long past, or should be, but all the same for his little brother to take up residence for so long with what remained of the treacherous House of Fëanor...  Incomprehensible.  He knew the story, how Morfindel and his sons rescued the refugees from a dragon.  After Neldoras and a small band were separated as they fled south, they were driven east where the Fëanoreans aided them.  Halmir supposed he should be grateful.  All that was so long ago and with so many worse foes, what did it matter that a Fëanorean lord remained?  Still, Halmir resented Neldoras joining the remnant of Fëanor’s host, becoming a captain no less.
    Often he had tried to convince Neldoras to leave Dor Luin and find a place with the rightful rulers of the Noldor.  But Neldoras always refused, this time with an ultimatum.  Where ever the House of Fëanor went, kin-strife followed.  Now his little brother would not see him unless he ceased to demand that he leave Dor Luin.  So be it.  Halmir promised never mention it again.  But still, he would not like it.  Maybe he should just leave his brother to himself.  He had a family.  Springlily, whose real name was also Lothtuiel, his wife, was a lovely Gondolindrin lady of the House of the Swallow, kind and gentle, sweet as the flower for which she was named.  And their children, the most recent one called Elmoth, were golden haired and beautiful.  He wondered how the elves of Dor Luin continued to bear children so late in life, long past the usual days of children and his thoughts returned to other suspicions.  Elmoth was a reborn elf from long ago, Halmir was certain, but he did not know who.  He regretted not being more ingratiating for he dearly wished to know who this child was, but return to Dor Luin became increasingly unlikely once Neldoras gave his ultimatum.
    Halmir once supposed the elves of Dor Luin felt themselves far from the conflicts in the east.  Now that he knew of their vigilance, he began to think better of them.  He could not imagine what grievance anyone might have against the Lady of Light, but the greater the elves, the greater the distance between he reasoned.
    Glindin ran swiftly in front of the others, his message burning within him.  They ran for many hours, passing Kheled-zaram in early morning and reaching the house of Nimrodel late in the night.  They sat and bathed their feet and Nimrodel herself came to them with her maidens, bring food and drink, listening to what news they gave.  Then they shared songs, stories and jests, asking when her wedding might be.  Nimrodel laughed and said she would wed Amroth when he could promise a safe haven from the goblins and dragons and other fears that perpetually threatened in the north.  She would remain where she was, for she loved the falls, the woods and streams near her home.  And also she loved him but only he could determine a wedding date.

On the uppermost flet of a tall tree near the edge of Lorien, Haldir and his brothers observed the return of a group of messengers.  
    “Glindin is a swift runner,” he observed to Rumil, who watched in the same direction.  
    Orophin turned his head and nodded, chuckling quietly.  “His message puts wings on his heels.  I hope he brings good news.”
    “From the look on Halmir’s face, perhaps not.  Or at least not to his liking,” said Rumil, who like all elves could see far away as clearly as a mortal could see the back of his own hand.
    “Halmir has ever disliked not being the first to know things,” commented Orophin.  “I do not see his kin returning with him.  That perhaps puts the frown on his face more than anything else.”
    “Most likely,” said Haldir.  
    “You have been to Dor Luin,” said Rumil to Haldir.  “What is it like?”
    “They value their fragrant cedars as highly as we do our mallorns.  The lord and lady are genial, though rather aloof hosts.  They have suffered much at the hands of the enemy, yet they continue the fight.  I understand why Neldoras is devoted to them, though Halmir might not.”
    The approaching elves had now entered the forest and could no longer be seen by the guards.  They decided to greet their returning friends and discover what news they brought.  In these days there was much coming and going between Lorien and other elven dwellings.  Sundered kindred went visiting often.  When the messengers took their leave of Nimrodel and waded across, they were hailed by the guards.
    “What news?” called Haldir.  “Did your errand go well?”
    Glindin laughed.  “Quite well for my part.  Halmir may say otherwise.”
    “Then stay and share your news with us,” said Rumil.
    “Your pardon, I must return swiftly.  Farewell until later,”   said Glindin and sprinted onward, swiftly vanishing into the trees.
    “Well, Halmir, you have seen Glindin safely back to Lorien.  Stay a while and share wine and a story with us,” said Orophin.
    Halmir sighed.  “You may find my stories somewhat unhappy.”
    “Only to you, because events did not go as you wished,” laughed Haldir.
    “Perhaps,” replied Halmir.  “But if you wish I will stay and sup, and tell such of the tale as I know.”
    “Stay then and tell of Dor Luin,” said Haldir.  “What news?  And be thorough for I also know that realm and count many friends there.”
 
Glindin came to Ceren Amroth and was greeted by Amroth’s servants, but paused only as long as courtesy required.  The elf lord’s house was on top of the hill, a dwelling made of living tree trunks, its roof their outstretched branches, twined together to form many levels.  Glindin would have tarried here, but the servants of Amroth knew of his message and the need for haste and sent him on his way with wine and laughter.
    The messenger found the Lady Galadriel in an open glade, observing the building of the walls of Caras Galadhon.  He bowed to her, saying, “I bring news from the Lady of Dor Luin.”
    Galadriel stood and said, “Thank you, Glindin the swift.  You did not tarry long on the road.  I expected you not until spring.”
    “The Lady Lurisa urged haste once she decided upon her reply.  She said I should go quickly, before she changed her mind.  I think she spoke in jest, but only partly.”
    Galadriel laughed.  “Give me this message, and we shall see.”
    Glindin obeyed, saying “she sent other messages as well,” and delivering to her a roll containing several sheets.  After Galadriel read the first note, she nodded and said “you are right.  She spoke only partly in jest.  But she has given me that which I requested.”
    Glindin bowed and went to greet his kin.
    Galadriel continued reading the notes and sighed.  Celeborn and Amroth, who also watched the raising of the wall, noted her sadness and asked to know the cause.  Silently she handed one of the papers to her husband and he read aloud as Amroth perused the other sheaves.

Galadriel,
After so many years of silence, it puzzles me that you should condescend to write to me.  No doubt your reasons for the delay are justified, but all the same I wonder at them.  I am surprised that you use the term ‘friendship’ to describe your feelings for me.  You were my mother’s friend, and Melian’s and Luthien’s.  I was merely a handmaid and still hold to my belief that a true apology is so far beneath you that you will never offer it.  You are rather disturbed by the growing darkness you perceive, as am I, and would put away all other conflicts to confront this one.  This is justified, I deem, for I also know the power of the enemy.  My beloved has requested that I forgive you, and for his sake, I do.  What you said, you said of him and if he is willing to forgive, so will I.  But I will not come to Lorien, for I do not wish to see you, or worse still to see my lord humbled in your presence.  You have heaped enough humiliation upon him and seeing you would stir memories we both wish to remain somnolent.  All the same, we are your ready allies against the dark lord and enemy of us all.
Respectfully,
Lurisa of Dor Luin

    Celeborn let the paper roll itself again into a loose scroll and returned it to his wife.  “Well, that is done.  But not all satisfactorily so.”
    Amroth nodded and said, “At least we know all elves are united against our common enemy, in spite of our conflicts with each other.”
    “Yes, it is done,” said Galadriel.  “But she is right.  Were it not for the growing shadow, I would not trouble to ask her forgiveness.  She said once that I would never deign to ask pardon from a mere handmaid, if one who once served Queen Melian the Maia can be called ‘mere.’  But she is now the lady of a realm.  We will need her people in this coming war.”
    “It is enough,” said Celeborn as he took the other papers from his wife and set them aside.  
    “Does she still bear her ring?” asked Amroth.
    Galadriel laughed.  “Which one?  Even she will not tell if one of the rings Morfindel made for her is a ring of power.  Neither will he, for he claims he never reached the skill of his cousin.  Those he made were merely assays into the craft, and their only great virtue that of decoration.  Before the end of Eregion, when Celebrimbor tried to give them one of the three, they refused.  Morfindel insisted the rings would be safer with bearers untouched by the enemy.  Why he is not counted among the wise, I know not.”
    Amroth laughed sadly.  “Does he not live the doom of his house?  A Fëanorean may be right and wise, but none will heed him on account of his kin.  
    Celeborn nodded.  “It is a great pity about Lachnir and Ormal.  I knew not they were slain.  Though we may have been distracted by losses of our own, perhaps we should have been aware.  What ever may be said of the parents, the children were great indeed, and are a grievous loss.”
    “Whatever may be said of the parents,” said Galadriel, softly.  “How deeply I regret some things I said of them  Forgetfulness would be a blessing if it could wipe out my memory of their faces at my judgments.  Lurisa was hurt, humiliated and angry for him.  And he, poor soul, understood I spoke as if to Fëanor himself, or Caranthir.  He forgave the instant the words were spoken; I could see it.  Now he is silent and I can not see him from afar.  Adept at concealment has he become.”
    “He says he means it as a protection for us, so that the enemy’s eye may not find us through him.  Worthy kinsman.  We have many regrets, my love,” said Celeborn.  “This one may be laid to rest, and for that we may be grateful.  My words were no less harsh than yours.”
    They silently watched the continued building of the foundation of the walls.  Many dwarves had hewn the great stones from the quarries of the Misty Mountains and delivered them here.
    The passing of time to those of elven kind is quite different than to a mortal.  They can stand unmoving in the same spot for days on end, neither hungering or thirsting.  Celeborn and Galadriel stood thus, hand in hand, as their laborers progressed with the slow construction of the wall.  Presently, Glindin approached Celeborn once again and requested audience.  
    “My lord, if it please you, I would return to Dor Luin.  The lord and lady of that realm granted me permission, if by your leave I may.”
    Celeborn and Galadriel both agreed this would be to the advantage of both realms and sent him off with their blessings.  
    Watching Glindin depart, Galadriel’s thoughts roamed to their days in Eregion, before she became a ring bearer, at a time when she desired power more than anything.  Not power to shape things to her will, but to preserve them unchanging.  Celebrimbor understood her longing for things unchanged but did not feel the same need to stay it, until she asked him.  She knew he would do whatever she asked for he loved her.  Though she did not return his love, she regarded his craftsmanship more highly than any other smith of the Noldor.  He fashioned the Ellessar for her and with it she succeeded in putting off weariness for a time.  Then he came to her with Nenya, the ring of adamant.  It would have amused her to see a Fëanorean so contrite, but the purpose behind bestowing that ring upon her drove out any delight in the receiving.  He said he sent Lachnir with the other rings to Lindon, and she assumed he gave them to Gil-Galad.  With the power of Nenya she preserved Lorien through the end of the Second Age and beyond.  None could see it except those who already knew it was there on her finger, or another ring bearer.
    Something stirred to the North.  She could sense it, and she was not the only one.  Elrond frequently commented on his own disquiet.  After the fall of Ost-in-Edhel, Morfindel was known to be very sensitive to any movement of the enemy and If he wished Lurisa to respond as she did for the same reasons that Galadriel sent her message in the first place, perhaps the Eldar could truly put away their griefs from so long ago.  It was more of a relief than Galadriel expected that the last of the House of Fëanor should seek peace with her.  She hoped it was a good omen for the future.
* * * * * * *
At Carn Dûm, Millerson had thrown himself into his training with more vigor than that captain had thrown himself from the window some time before.  His wife carried his first child now, and his brother-in-law had become a greater friend than he had ever known.  They spoke often of the wrongs done them by the men of the west and proposed plans for the future.
    When a messenger came to say the Witch King called for him, his heart stopped momentarily, both from fear and anticipation.  He went immediately.
    “Will you serve us, taking no thought to success or failure, or your own advancement, to further our cause, laying down your own life if need be?” said the specter when Millerson drew near.
    “I will.”
    “It is time.  Take this.”  The Witch King indicated a small leather pouch.  At a gesture from its master, a great raven lighted upon the table and took the pouch in a claw.  Then it flew and lighted upon Millerson’s shoulder.  “My master sent this to me and we send it with you.  Take this to the elf, secretly.  Do not let yourself be seen.  The elf will succumb, or he will hide.  It matters not which.  Either way, he is ours.  Go.”
    “Yes, master,” said Millerson and went out.
*******
A lovely scroll bound by a gold ribbon which attached a gold ring to it rested on Morfindel’s chair in the great hall.  No one noticed who left it, or when it was deposited there.  In all the coming and going of their elvish routine, many passed through.
    The ring itself was worthy of note.  A wide, white gold band engraved with leaves and swirls, held an amber stone of a depth and beauty rare indeed.  Morfindel and Orodin passed through the hall, talking of this or that they might do now that the smithy was again alight.  Morfindel first noted the scroll on his chair, and stared at it silently.  Orodin noted his abrupt pause and followed Morfindel’s gaze.
    “Remember that amber ring I used to wear?  The one I made matching the one I gave to Lurisa?”
    “Very well, my lord.  I also remember how it was lost...”
    Morfindel nodded and approached his chair.  He reached to pick up the scroll but suddenly jerked his hand away and leaped up and backward, the way a cat will when startled.  He stood shaking and panting, but quickly gathered his wits and ran to the great hearth where he took up the fire tongs.  Orodin called to him but the elf lord only motioned for him to keep away from the chair.  At that moment, Jack entered the hall and saw the ring.  He went to it and was about to pick it up.
    “Jack! No!  Don’t touch that!” shouted Morfindel and dashed toward his son.
    Jack halted, frozen in motion by more that just his father’s tone of voice.  The name he used, his father never called him Jack.  Ringwë, or Alcaringwë, or my son, but never Jack.  And why should he not touch so lovely a scroll and ring?  He turned to question but before he could form the words, Morfindel flung himself through the air and tackled him.  They rolled over once on the floor and sprang to their feet.  Morfindel took his son’s face in his hands.
    “Did you touch the ring or scroll, or handle it in any way?” he asked.
    “No, though I certainly wanted to.  Why...?” Jack began, but was held by his father’s eyes, searching his mind, seeking something.  When Jack discovered his father was seeking a sign of falsehood, he gaped at Morfindel and would have protested, but his father drew him close in a tight embrace.  “I could have lost you,” he said.
    After his father released him, Jack watched in amazement as Morfindel picked up the tongs he had taken from the hearth and dropped in their roll on the floor and used them to take up the ring and scroll.  Bidding Jack and Orodin to follow him, swiftly he dashed through the door of the smithy, along the ledge and passed down the long winding tunnel.  The forge of Dor Luin blazed in the midst of the chamber.  Morfindel cast ring, scroll and tongs into the center of the fire.  Jack looked on with confusion, and would have argued that such a fine thing should not be destroyed but soon he understood his father’s actions, for from the burning came such a foul stench of sulfur and decay, they rushed to open the upper vents to evacuate the smithy of the fumes.
    “Forgive me father.  I didn’t know what I was doing,” said Jack.
    “Never have you been tried by a work of the enemy.  You could not know his power.  The enemy has again turned his thought upon us.  You must be always on your guard.  He will try to snare you, and through you, all of Dor Luin.  He knows what I fear most...”  Turning his eyes to the east, after pausing as though listening, Morfindel said “I will not submit to you,” in a low, resonant, defiant tone which filled the room and echoed eastward.
    Jack opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, nodding his understanding.  Orodin, who had followed them into the smithy, stepped closer now and Morfindel turned to him.
    “The agent who left the scroll may yet be near,” said the elf lord as he led them from the smithy.  “Perhaps just outside the trees of guard. We must strengthen our watch.  I will speak to Cedartoes and ask that his huorns notify us of anything strange...”

The raven returned with the news Millerson anticipated.  The elf saw through the trap as the Witch King said he might.  A pity the other elves had been kept away, but the damage was done.  Fear permeated the realm, now that they knew they were again under the eye of their enemy.  The Witch King said often that their goal was to drive the elves from Middle-earth, and with each departing gray ship that sailed from Mithlond, in part they succeeded.  The time of the elves was long over.  Let them flee to their legendary realm across the sea, if it existed.
    Millerson gave the raven a bit of dried meat.  After it rested about an hour, he put the remaining item contained in the pouch into the bird’s claw.  Again it flew away, uttering a harsh cry as it vanished above the trees.  
    Millerson knew the bird would return directly to Angmar once the last item was in place, so he broke camp.  Occasionally as he packed a shuffling sound caused him to look up sharply or over his shoulder, but he saw nothing.  Suddenly, a deep, resonant growl emanated as if from the earth itself and Millerson spun about with a cry of fear.
    “Harrroooom!  Who are you?  And who granted you leave to harass my elves?!” rumbled a voice, which seemed to come from all directions.  A tree trunk shifted in front of him and he looked up into the shadows of twigs and small branches.  Shafts of sunlight shifted across a moving surface which revealed itself to be a face with eyes like petrified wood gem stones.
    “A talking tree?!  What elvish mischief is this?” Millerson muttered to himself.
    “Elvish mischief?  Hoom, hmmm, talking trees?  There are no trees here.  You are at the edge of the huorns land.  Had you made your camp but ten feet closer, I would not guarantee your safe departure.”
    Now that he had a clear view of the speaker, Millerson stood dumbfounded.  “What are you?” he breathed, not quite aware of what he said.
    “What am I?  Hoom, hom, haroom, that would take a life time of men to tell, but I have learned to be more hasty of late.  I am an ent.  What are you?  Why are you here?  We allowed your crow to fly to the elves hall twice, but do not think that we will allow you to go there unless you state your business.  Or perhaps I should take you to the lord of the elves and let him decide what to do with you...”
    “No!” said Millerson, casting down his pack and turning to flee.  He heard, or rather felt, the heavy steps of the creature as it pursued him.  After what seemed an endless flight, Millerson caught sight of his companions and ran to them.
    “Help!!  Gather our force and...” he said and turned about to see the creature turn back and vanish into the distant trees.
    “What? What is it?  What happened?” his men called, running to him, looking in the same direction in puzzlement.
    “Didn’t you see it?” Millerson shouted in dismay.
    “See what?” they replied, looking on him with that expression which is a question of sanity.
    Troubled and embarrassed, Millerson tried to describe the creature that pursued him, but the uncomprehending faces of his men convinced him to give up.  He commanded that they return with all haste to Angmar to deliver his report.  He thought of his pack, but it contained nothing he would miss greatly, no notes or messages to identify him.  Those he kept on his person at all times.  His men brought their horses and they mounted up and rode away in haste to the far north.

A great raven flew into the hall and perched on the back of the chair.  In one claw it carried a small, tightly bound scroll of black which it dropped into the seat.  
    At first the guards were loath to permit Morfindel to take up this new scroll, for they deemed it ugly and dangerous, but Morfindel waved them aside. “This bears no spell,” he said and picked it up, unrolled it and read silently.  Jack looked over his shoulder but could discern no writing upon it until his father brushed a finger across the page.  Then to his amazement, words appeared in Fëanorean script, the letters blood red, in a language Jack did not know.
    “What does it say?” Jack asked.  “What language is that?”
    “The black speech of Morgoth,” responded his father.  “I will translate it, for you need to know the peril we face.  But I will not utter that language again.”
    “What does it say?” repeated Jack.
    “The first page says ‘You have escaped me once again, but do not think you shall do so forever.  I have tasted your blood, elf, and claim you as my own.’ This we may not destroy, for it is a warning, and a threat.  A mockery also.  The second is a story titled ‘To Snare an Elf.’  It is the enemy’s version of an event that happened in Eregion.”  He handed to scroll to Orodin, saying, “take it to the archives.  We will translate it later.”  Orodin took the scroll carefully as he would a thing he wished not to handle and moved toward the door, but Morfindel did not follow at once.  Instead he called to the bird, “Fly to the west, where you will find new lands untouched by any evil hand.  Be released from your servitude.”
    The raven perched on the sill of a high window and cocked its head to one side.  Then the bird swooped downward.  The guards leaped to defend their lord but he waved them off and raised a hand for the bird to light upon.  The raven settled upon the elf lord’s outstretched hand as if accustomed to being handled.  Then it spoke.
    “You bid me be free from my cruel master?  None have ever done so before.”
    “I also have known the torment of a cruel hand, and would see all others who have done so be free if they will.  Fly to the west,” repeated Morfindel.  “Far across the seas to new lands men have not yet discovered.  There you may find peace, if that is what you seek.”
    “My master was foolish,” said the bird.  “If he wanted me to return, he should have left alive some of my kin.  I will do as you bid me.”  With that, the raven lifted off and flew straight to the high window where it again perched for a moment, then was gone.

Keren and Brogan shared a table the Archives, reading a volume of genealogies.  Normally this would be considered dull reading, but they sought names they might give their children.  They discovered that Ciryafin descended from Aulendil, second son of Vardamir Nolimon, eldest son of Elros Tar Minyatur.  Brogan found his own family tree as well, though no names as famous stood out.  All loyal captains to the Faithful who took ship with Elendil at the fall of Numenore.  They were writing down prospective names when Orodin entered the Archives and set a black scroll down on a nearby table.  He unrolled it and placed it between two crystal plates so that they could read it without touching it.  Keren and Brogan would have exited, but the elves asked them to stay and observe, for they also needed to know of this.  Morfindel read the black scroll with a strange look upon his face.  Something between amused and horrified.  Jack still wondered how his father could understand the black speech of Mordor.  As Morfindel translated, Orodin transcribed the tale, offering his own verbal commentary to things he knew to be false, or agreement of things known true.  Keren would have handled it but Morfindel prevented her, saying he knew not what harm it may do a mortal, though it hurt an elf not at all.  Brogan agreed and suggested that the desire to touch it might indicate a subtle spell, which he did not want his wife exposed to in her condition.
    “Always the enemy mixes half truth with falsehood,”  said Morfindel at the end of his translation.  “He did not take my ring at that time as he claimed, but he may as well have.  It was tainted from his touch so that I could no longer stand to wear it, or even handle it.  His spell of silence kept me from speaking, but Lachnir would not wear a thing I refused to touch, so he left it in the treasury house of the Mirdain.  I would have destroyed it, but every time I tried they thought I had lost my senses and prevented me.  The Enemy took it in the sack of Ost-in-Edhel and eventually gave it to a descendant of my daughter, who became a sorcerer and his chief lieutenant.  And he did not leave Ost-in-Edhel on that day, but took leave of Celebrimbor a few days later.  They parted on seeming friendly terms, but he said Lurisa’s refusal to allow him to see me under any circumstances saddened him.  He felt he must depart for a while until she should once again look upon him with friendship.  It is a strange thing for him to say, for she never spoke with him and even avoided sight of him.”
    “At least in that one thing my mother and Galadriel were in agreement,” observed Jack.
    Morfindel nodded and continued, “Would that we had all been so wise as Galadriel and refused him entrance to our confidence.  The rest of the story, as far as it goes, is true.  He took the goblet I made for Lurisa and forged of it a single ring.  Six of my hairs were consumed in its making, for they formed designs on the goblet.  I know not what mischief he could cause by the use of elf hairs, but clearly there was no virtue in them.  I suspect that the presence of anything from an elf only lent more power to the ring’s dominion.  Once again, what the house of Fëanor began well was turned against us.”
    “But the ring was lost, and the enemy destroyed.  Is it not so?” asked Keren.
    “He was thrown down; that is all.  As long as the ring remains lost, his power is limited, yet still greater than all the power elves, men and dwarves can now muster together.”
    “Why does he make himself known to you?  Would secrecy not serve him better?”  asked Jack.
    “Perhaps he cannot resist taunting one he once counted a victim,” suggested Morfindel and sent messengers to gather the lords of the dwarves and Bornosse along with his own counselors.  They debated what action to take late into the night and at dawn broke council.  Peaceful pursuits immediately shifted to forging and refurbishing weapons and armor.  They all agreed that, though it may not come for many generations of men, they must prepare for war, and never again be caught unawares.

The sense of dread Millerson always felt when approaching the door of the Witch King’s audience chamber increased ten fold this time.  No one believed what he had seen and now he must try to convince his master. The great door opened before him and with only a slight hesitation he entered.  The room was dark but Millerson knew that his master was waiting even before he spoke.
    “You have news for us.”
    “Yes master.  The messages have been delivered.  Yet the elves have allies of which I was unaware.  Millerson hesitated, but the Witch King remained silent, waiting.  The man took a deep breath and continued.  “An ent inhabits the forest surrounding the elves’ stronghold.  Or that is what the creature called itself.”
    A long silence, broken only by Millerson’s own breathing, filled the chamber with dread.  Finally the Witch King spoke again.  “Ents.  We thought them destroyed, or chased away.”
    “What are ents, please?” asked Millerson.
The wraith did not answer but said, “You will not meddle with them.  We will focus our efforts on the King and his court, for now.”
    Millerson nodded, then tentatively spoke.  “Might I suggest we contact someone who was once a childhood friend of mine?  He is, or was last I heard, a member of the King’s house guard, but has become malcontent of late.  He may be of use, for profit...”
    A hiss escaped the shadows, and Millerson would have been terrified, had he not recognized the sound as the same noise he heard when the Witch King accepted the sword of his ancestor.  It was the closest his master ever came to a laugh.  “Yes.  Do so at once,” said the wraith.  Millerson bowed himself out the door and hastened home.  

Tirion Woodman stretched his long legs and propped them on a bench in a corner of the Prancing Pony, a fairly new inn at a town called Bree less than a day’s ride from the eastern border of Arnor.  A tall man with wavy dark hair and deep set gray eyes, many considered him to be the most handsome of his family.  Not that it did him any good.  His elder brothers, Argus the clown and Fingon the mastersmith, overruled all his decisions except those he made for his own household, and Tirion suspected they might interfere there if allowed.  
    Sipping from a flagon of very good ale, he kept a watch on the door of the inn, waiting for an old friend with whom he lost contact several years ago.  He had forgotten how many.  After marrying a woman whose family lived in Fornost he stopped going to Barad Lomin regularly.  Every time he visited his family a nasty argument ensued between him and his father, which was all the more reason to stay away, even if seeing his spoiled younger sister working like an indentured servant amused him.  When he received a message written in the old code they used when passing notes to each other in Old Mr. Brown’s school, he laughed aloud so that his wife cast him a puzzled glance, before going on about her business.  Though much he learned was forgotten, that code remained forever engraved in his memory, and he still used it for notes to himself.  After asking about his health, Millerson asked a number of questions skirting an unclear subject.  Such was Millerson’s way of requesting personal, or secret, information.  The message said he could find him in a little town called Bree, should he ever care to look him up.  Tirion chuckled, thinking he intended to do just that in a matter of minutes.  He rather hoped to meet Millerson himself instead of that messenger who delivered the letter dressed in a black cloak in the dead of night.  How and why his old friend should choose such an unsavory servant left him intrigued even more.  The black hooded creature wanted a return message and waited patiently as Tirion wrote it, then vanished into the predawn mist.  His wife rose not long after and asked if he couldn’t fall asleep because of a nightmare.  The looking glass revealed his face to be pale and drawn as if from fear.  He shrugged it off and demanded breakfast.  He didn’t want to meet this messenger again, but he did not trust him not to read the letter, so he couched his response carefully. If Millerson himself planned to be in Bree, of course he would meet him there.  
    A family called Butterbur ran the place and served the best ale in the region.  Good food, good drink, pleasant accommodations, excellent service and a central location all came together to make the Prancing Pony an inevitable success.  Amusing somehow that his friend Millerson should know of the place, but Tirion never saw him here.  Most curious.
    Sitting in a corner with a tankard of aile on a table at his elbow, he kept his eyes on the front entrance.  This was his favorite place at the Prancing Pony because it commanded a view of the whole common-room.  In his travels between Fornost and Tharbad, he frequently stopped here, so the proprieter sometimes reserved it for him, as he did today when he sent a message saying he wished to meet an old friend there.  As he waited he either nodded to or waived away the serving boys of the inn when they asked if he wanted another pint.
    At dusk, a familiar voice spoke quietly outside the door and a tall silhouette blocked the light.  The moment Millerson stepped inside the common-room, Tirion noticed something different about him.  With an alert eye Millerson scanned the room.  Tirion always remembered him looking insufferably bored except when up to mischief but now he could see that at last Millerson’s life interested him.  As soon as he spied his friend, Millerson smiled and strode forward.  Tirion rose and they clasped hands and embraced.  They both called a waiter to bring more ale and a light supper, laughing as they finished each other’s sentences.
    “So how is it that we both know this place so well, and have never met here?” asked Tirion after the waiter departed with their order.
    “That is a question I intended to ask you,” laughed Millerson.
    “Where did you come by such a dreadful servant as that creature who delivered your message to me?”
    Millerson blanched.  “Servants they are, but none of mine.  We’d best not speak too much of them.  Tell me of yourself!  How have you occupeid your time since we last met?”
    “There are more than one?” Tirion shuddered.
    “Nine actually,” responded Millerson and drank deeply from his tankard, then added, “you’re looking well.  What are you up to these days?”
    “Business of the court.  I’m a courier between the king and his kinsman who rules Cardolan and from the looks fo things that’s all I’ll ever be.  What’s this about you attempting to wed my sister?  I marvel that you should ever consider drawing near such a wretch.”
    Millerson shrugged.  “Vengeance.  I hated her and wanted to make her life miserable.  But now I wouldn’t draw near her for anything.  One day you should meet my wife and her family.”
    “Perhaps I will.  Any woman who can turn Celebrindor Miller into an old married man must be worth meeting.”
    Cringing at the use of his name and laughing at the same time, Millerson raised his tankard and they clashed them together.  At this point the waiter returned with roast chicken piled with savory vegetables.  The two men split everything exactly in half and ate in silence.  Presently Tirion wiped his mouth and pushed away his plate.  Looking questioningly at Millerson he said, “You look so different.  You’ve put off your old countenance of utter boredom and are now as alert as a tight bow string.  I’m curious to know the cause of the change.”
    “And I am quite willing to tell you, but I do need a few assurances of your discretion.  Have you a room?”
    “As soon as I arrived I asked Butterbur to prepare a room for two on the third floor.  Discrete enough?” replied Tirion with a wry chuckle.
    “Perfect.  It’s best to exchange court gossip privately,” said Millerson with a wink.