Two months by maeglin

T.A. 1975

Two months!

Two months more, Arvedui knew, and his company could begin the long walk back to Arnor.  And a long walk it would be, for all their horses had long since perished - by various means.  Yet his men, for the most part, still lived.  The Lossoth had, in the end, behaved like Men. 

And more than that, like good men.  Had they not given his people food, given them shelter, saved their very lives? 

Seeds of friendship between his people and the Snow-Men had been sown in the long, shared hunts for food.  If his people had not known how to use a spear to bring down one of the great sea-creatures as they came to the ice-holes for a breath of air, the Lossoth had not known how to use a longbow to bring down one of the great white bears that made such hunts so perilous.  The worst of winter was over, and it seemed the seeds would sprout and bear fruit.

What more could one ask for?  

One might ask the snow to melt in less than two months, so that he might rally whatever might be left of his kingdom against the forces of Angmar.  But that would be asking too much.  One might ask the snow to melt faster, merely to give his men a better chance to save the lives of at least some of their wives, children and friends - Kingdom of Arnor be damned.  That, perhaps, was not too much to ask of the Valar, but whether or not it was, still he must wait until the snow melted sufficiently for a long journey.  And that, the Lossoth told him, would not happen for about two more months.

He pondered these idle thoughts, trying and failing to concentrate upon sharpening the spear it was his charge to sharpen.  Ever he looked westward.  

And lo!  Ships appeared on the horizon.  Soon, they were discernible as Elven ships of the Havens.  He would not have to wait for the snow to melt, for good fortune unlooked-for had arrived.   Amid the joyful shouts and cries of his Men, he recalled the wise words of his friend Mithrandir.  Estel he had ever retained, no matter the circumstances, and ever had he bid others do the same - for who could know what fortune Fate might bring? 

And here, before Arvedui's very eyes, these words of wisdom, which he had heretofore doubted in his most secret heart, were proven true.

Chapter End Notes

This story is a "gapfiller" of sorts for Tolkien's account (ROTK Appendix A) of Arvedui's time with the Snowmen of Lossoth (Forochel Bay.)  It may be AU, or it may not..

Doriath

My cousin approaches me and kneels.  His bearing shows both a deference that is not fawning and a dignity that is not pride.  So like my brothers, yet so different.

"Rise, kinsman, and speak."

"I have brought you a gift, Elwë."

"A sword, by the look of it."  My smile is somewhat strained - I have more than a dozen swords already, and well he knows this.

But within a minute I know it to be the finest blade I have ever laid eyes on, much less held.  Elbereth's stars!  It is at once light as a night-breeze, and heavy enough to cleave stone, if I am any judge of steel.  

"What have you named it, Eöl?  I know you could not leave such brilliance nameless."  

He bows, with twinkling eyes.  "I have named it for that which I have so oft earned from you, my Lord.  Aranruth.  King's Ire.  I do but gift it back."

I laugh, bid my cousin sit beside me, and for a while we are friends again - all insults, real and imagined, forgotten. 

I do believe that was the only time he called me anything other than Elwë.

Chapter End Notes

Aranruth is the canon name of Thingol's sword, which was indeed forged by Eöl, who was Thingol's "kinsman."

The tales of Tulkas' deeds in the War fall far short of the truth, perhaps because our language lacks the words to describe them.  But I will try...

Angband had an outwall nigh thirty yards high, and at least as thick.   Another, higher wall lay behind, topped by trebuchets that launched a deadly fire upon our armies - a fire that burned through mail and skin alike.  All Mahtan's long labor proved vain, as Moringotto's fell fire consumed his armored siege engines as easily as it consumed the flesh of those who fought beside them.

No siege engine or living army that has ever been could have breached that double wall.  But where armies were of no avail, one sufficed. We drew back, half a league from the wall.  Tulkas gave our captains a nod, then ran towards it without a word, so swiftly my eyes could not follow him.  A heartbeat later, unbearable Light exploded off the hated walls, followed by a Supreme Wind that knocked all of us off our feet.  

Then came the earthquake.  The ground beneath us … I can only say it shredded.  Mighty crevices opened up and swallowed many of our soldiers.  Those who were not swallowed could do naught but cling to the ground in terror and wait for Endorë to stop heaving like the Sea in one of Osse's storms.  Alas, very few of the Edain survived that tremor, for with it came a cloud of fiery ash that burned even Elven lungs.

When it had finally cleared, we saw that a great gaping hole had been blasted through both walls.  Tulkas stood unharmed and laughing on the other side.  

The Elves lost perhaps a thousand men in those few minutes, but had we attempted to breach the wall ourselves - and we were preparing to try - we would all have died in the attempt.  Tulkas' wrath killed so many of us that day, but saved yet more.

That is what fighting alongside the Valar is like, my son, insofar as I can do it justice - which is, to tell the truth, not very well.  May you never have to learn it from experience.

And of our subsequent, desperate assault through that hole, led by Namo, I will not tell... 

Western edge of Neldoreth Forest, Doriath, YoS 108

The Noldorin messenger halted and stood stock-still, seemingly turning to stone.  After a long minute, he reopened his eyes and looked directly at the guard-captain still sitting "hidden" in the upper branches of a great hemlock.  Then he grinned, looking very pleased with himself.

At once, several guards dropped to the ground, while more remained above, all with arrows nocked.  The Sinda captain followed, and stepped forward to meet the intruder.

"Greetings, Lord.  None of the Noldor may enter these woods, save those who are kin to Finrod, and that only with permission of Elu Thingol.   I was informed of no arriving visitors, and you do not bear the proper token.  If you seek to pass eastwards, you must go around, either to the North or the South.  The northern route is the quicker, the southern the less perilous." 

His gweth's arrows remained nocked.  The messenger frowned, and seemed to consider which path would be better, looking both north and south, and then eastwards again, before turning back to the tall Sinda.

"Captain, I thank you for your suggestions.  However, I bear a message to Elu Thingol, so my road lies directly eastwards."

"You may give the message to me.  I will take it to the King.  On my honor, none save Thingol will unseal it."

"Thank you again, but as the message is verbal, I must decline.  It is for Thingol's ears alone."

"Yet you may not pass.  Here the King's will is law."

"Naturally.  As my King Turgon's will is law to me.  And he orders me to deliver this message personally to Thingol.  Surely you understand."  

Though short for a Noldo, the messenger was built like a bull.  He stood his ground, vast legs set wide apart.  Striking gold-overlaid mithril armor indicated that his House was not a minor one.

The captain frowned.  "Yet you are unknown to us.  At least give me your name.  Here you may await the King's decision."

"Rog."

"That is no name for a Noldo.  Your true name, and that of your father, so that we may know you."

The messenger's eyes glinted in the twilight. "Rog is my only name.  My wife gave it to me when we awoke, and I have never felt need of another."

Receiving no reply other than astonished faces (still behind nocked arrows), the messenger at last spoke once more.  "Is Beleg Cuthalion no longer Marchwarden?  He, at least, will know who I am.  We knew each other well, and fought beside one another, as brothers.  A very long time ago, but he will not have forgotten me, I think."

The Captain returned to his senses.  "Beleg yet dwells in these woods, so of course he is Marchwarden.  I shall send for him, but you must await him here."

Rog relaxed his stance and smiled.  "Excellent!  Tell Beleg the Hammer has returned to Ennor, is sorry he ever left it, and is eager to see the Strongbow."

The captain took one of the other guards aside and spoke swiftly and quietly.

Rog looked upon the guards.  Their bows were now aimed downwards, but still drawn.  Quite ridiculous.  He needed only to call upon the visor of his helm in thought for it to snap shut - he feared no feathered shaft.

"Come now, penneth nin, put away your arrows.  You will not need them today, but I am a temperamental fellow, and like not being threatened so."

And so, less then a week later, Thingol heard that Turgon would be leaving Nevrast, where (generally) he was headed, and that many Sindar would be accompanying him.  

Since the captain of Doriath was wise and his guards disciplined, the most astonishing news of the messenger that came to the ears of the rest of the Iathrim was that he had thrice beaten Beleg at arm-wrestling.  Very few indeed could make such a claim.

Chapter End Notes

Rog was the lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, one of the Twelve Houses of Gondolin.  His is such a strange name that I assume it must be very ancient.  For non-HOME-fanatics, the 'My wife gave it to me when we awoke' implies that he was one of the Unbegotten.

 Minas Tirith, F. A. 3019

Glorfindel stood upon one of the many bastions of the Seventh Circle,  surveying the lands eastward. It seemed impossible that Sauron had vanished from Arda entirely, when ever before he had merely abandoned his material form temporarily.  Besides the famed warriors of the Last Alliance, his friend Finrod had also "slain" the Maia, to no avail.  Or so he had said - Finda's tale had (understandably) been rather vague on that point.  For that matter, if bodily form were all that mattered, even Huan had slain Sauron!  Celebrating a victory was one thing, but how could all be so certain that this time…

A very small Guard of the Citadel tapped him lightly on the elbow.  "Glorfindel?"

Caught off guard by a Hobbit.  That'll teach me to obsess over imponderables.  It is well that it was not Aragorn.

The Elf smiled.  "Good morn, Peregrin.  The sunrise is magnificent, is it not?"  He turned back eastwards - sunrise over a Black Land free of the  Enemy was nothing less.

"It is wonderful." Pippin replied.

And then followed with "Did you have rats in Gondolin?  Faramir was telling us tales of your city, and they all sounded so impossible.  He  said he did not know whether the long years had changed the tales, and  then started talking about someone named Pengolodh, and … well,  Faramir's a grand fellow, but when he starts talking of scribes and …  such, rather than wizards and dragons, it's time to take your leave!"

Glorfindel laughed aloud.  He had been warned of the Steward's insatiable curiosity before arriving in Minas Tirith, and had so far managed to avoid being cornered and questioned on the finer points of Turgon's councils (the handful that had not been excruciatingly dull, had been terrifying), or the policies of Tuor (rather limited in scope, truth be told), or a thousand other things he had no wish to recount.

"Because it sounded so perfect and tragic - not real.  So I wanted to know, did Gondolin have rats?  If it did, the other stories will be easier to believe, somehow."

Glorfindel briefly considered answering "The arts of the Noldor were such that the vermin of Morgoth could not enter," or something similarly fantastic.  Pengolodh, indeed!  He was glad Erestor was not present - the mere mention of that scribe's name would put his friend in a foul mood for days.

"So, did you have rats?"  Pippin looked up hopefully.

"We did, in the beginning." the ancient warrior admitted.  "But we brought many cats with us from Nevrast, when we moved.  So, after a while, the rats died out.  There were still mice,  though.  I remember one day Salgant…"

But the Hobbit did not hear, having gleefully run off.  "I won the bet, Merry!" the Elf heard as the small figure drew near the tower.  "No duty the rest of the day!"

Glorfindel wondered what would happen if he told Faramir that the Gondolindrim had also been famed as, ah, "expert storytellers", but thought better of it.  Better to let a simple spirit remain so.

One hundred fifty years before the destruction of the Trees...

"She is beautiful."

Telufinwë regarded his nephew, collecting his thoughts.  

"Do you love her?"

Tyelperinquar looked astonished by this question.

"Well of course I do!  I love all of our cousins."

"And all equally?"

"Fine, I admit I have little love for Turukano.  But what of it?  You like him no more than I do!"

The elder sighed.

"Turvo is an ass.  But it wasn't Turvo I had in mind."

"Hmm?  Then whom... Artanis?  Certainly I love her!  She thinks too much of herself, but that is hardly uncommon in our family.  You and Uncle Pityo are the only modest ones amongst us," he laughed.

"Thank you... I suppose."  He sighed - his nephew, for all his brilliance, could he remarkably dense.  Or perhaps, merely purposely evasive?.

"Oh, very well, I will speak plainly.  Do you desire her?"

"Manwë in Varda, Telvo!  That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard!"

The elder laughed.  "Take no offense, young one!  Surely you know about Turko and Irisse, so it was not unreasonable for me to think as I did, when you so oft praise our fair cousin's beauty."

"Ah.  Well, if you have not yet noticed, I am not Turko!  Artanis is beautiful, yes - but so are Amil, and Irisse, and Vingarië, and even Hisilrië!"

"Good!  I am glad to hear that.  Turko and Irisse - they cannot wed, of course, but neither shall either have any other, so they suffer greatly.  Or at least Turko does."

"I know."  the younger frowned.  "I pity them.  But it is passing strange to love one's cousin in that way.  You do not think so?"

"I have long grown used to it.  But let us speak of other things.  You must know that I am not the only one to have misunderstood ... this, for you spend so much time in Artanis' company and court no other maiden.  And there is Turko and Irisse's example, so people talk."

"I am not courting her!  Artanis inspires my work.  Not only is she my 'muse', if you will, but she has extraordinarily good taste in jewelry.  I know that if she likes something I make for her, others will as well, and since she sets fashion as much as anyone, I am receiving more commissions every day, and more oft from the daughters and wives of the minor lords.  I have saved almost enough to buy a house suitable for entertaining such guests, with land enough to build my own forge and shop.  And Artanis - unwittingly at first but with great enthusiasm more recently - has helped me more in this than anyone other than Atar.  In some ways, even more than Atar, for she has helped me 'come into my own', as it were."

"And she understands me, better than anyone, excepting of course Eressetor.  Even better than my own sister understands me, for Hisilrië is still half a child.  Our other cousins see me as little more than my father's son, which annoys me greatly, as you must understand all too well.  So, naturally, Artanis is my favorite cousin - why wouldn't she be?  And if others spread ignorant gossip, what of it?  Should I shun her for fear of what others might say?  Grandfather would have my head if I did!"

Telufinwë raised his hands in surrender.  "Very well, Tyelpe, you need say no more!  I will say only this.  Do you not expect, when you finally find a maiden to court, that she will be jealous?"

The younger's face fell.  "This I have found already, Uncle.  They are all so .. silly!  But so am I, I suppose - I am just fifty-two, after all.  In another fifty years, or a hundred at most, surely things will be different.  I can wait.  We have all the time in the world, do we not, so what is the hurry?"

The elder sighed.  "I am ninety-eight, and cannot say that the maidens my age have changed much in the last fifty years.  Not in that way, at least.  I fear that waiting, in and of itself, will not help you.  Eru knows it has not helped me or Pityo.  The one unfortunate thing about being a twin is that no-one can ever understand either of us as well as we understand each other - and that makes women uncomfortable.  Unless we find another set of twins - and the only set we know are much older, with children and grandchildren of their own - I fear we shall never marry."

Tyelperinquar put his hand on his uncle's shoulder.  "Surely the two of you will find a pair of sensible women some day. Other twins will be difficult to find, but perhaps two sisters close in age and mood?  That could work, could it not?"

A smile.  "It might.  And as you say, we have all the time in the world."

Chapter End Notes

Names:

Telvo - Amras (Telufinwë)
Tyelpo - Celebrimbor (Tyelperinquar)
Artanis - Galadriel
Turko - Celegorm (Tyelkormo)
Turvo - Turgon (Turukano)
Irisse - Aredhel
Pityo - Amrod (Pityafinwë)
Hisilrië (OC) - daughter of Curufin, younger sister of Celebrimbor.

I don't buy the Celebrimbor-loves-Galadriel canon/fanon.  JRRT changed this multiple times, and I think the loving-Galadriel bit applies only to the "Gondolin" version of Celebrimbor, who was NOT a Feanorian.  

But of course they were cousins....

About the ages of characters: I know that the "years" in Valinor were different, but assume the Elves still must have had some way of reckoning age comparable to that which existed in Beleriand and the rest of Middle-Earth later on (after Sun and Moon), else it's hard to make sense of JRRT's works.  Here I assume Elves reached their majority at fifty, so Celebrimbor is just past his and Amrod/Amras are about twice his age.

Minas Tirith, F. A. 110

This was not what she expected or had been given to understand from the tales of Luthien and Beren.  

Nor from those of Idril and Tuor - the tales had said that Tuor had felt the bite of old age at only sixty!  That could not have been, and the few survivors of the Sirion colony that she had known, had claimed no frost had touched Tuor - the couple had simply sought their destiny upon the Sea.
 
Today her husband had reached two hundred years of age.  Aragorn was still strong, though his hair was white, his face creased, and he tired far more easily than he had in the glades of Lothlorien so long ago.

She loved him no less.  His aging, in itself, did not trouble her overmuch.  She had always understood he would age and would soon leave Arda - had she not seen many Chieftains bounce around Imladris as youths, and then, seemingly but a few seasons later, return to Imladris at the end of their lives, creaky, sickly, old?  No, Arwen had seen more than a few Mortals wither with age, and her husband was not to that stage yet.  And even when he reached it, as soon he must, it would not be unbearable.

What was unbearable was that she did not age with him.  In choosing a mortal life, she had assumed she had chosen all that went with it.  Yet outwardly, the hundred fifty years since their trothplight had not changed her in the slightest.  Even inwardly, she felt none of the weariness of feä she had expected to assail her by now.

Yet the diverging paths, while they still lived, were destroying them.  Aragorn was wracked with guilt, for he too had believed in his heart that they would grow old together.  But it was not so.  It was, instead, as her father had warned.  Aragorn would weary, and she could neither help him nor even properly share his fate.  

If, when he died, the grief did not kill her, what could she do?  She had no desire to remain as a Dowager Queen of a realm of Men and perhaps see her children age even as her husband now did.  

What then?  Return to Imladris?  Though her brothers and a few of her friends remained, time had come there, and to look on the faded valley would grieve her to no end.  Lorien was even worse, both faded and abandoned.  

The path West was now barred her.  Though she did not regret that gift to Frodo, in her weaker moments, she did wish that the Hobbit had declined it.

There was still her Daeradar's realm in the Greenwood, and Celeborn had begun to hint that she would be welcome there after what ... must occur.  But no, that would not do either, she knew.  

The truth was, there was no going back, nowhere to go.  She must follow Aragorn into death, as foretold.  But it seemed it would not be an easy thing.  In her heart, she knew she would not simply fade from grief, unless she willed it.

The Evenstar shuddered as she realized that that was exactly what was demanded of her.

Chapter End Notes

This story owes much to Gwynnyd's "The Lap of Time".

"And for all her wisdom and lineage she could not forbear to plead with him to stay yet for a while. She was not yet weary of her days, and thus she tasted the bitterness of the mortality that she had taken upon her." -- JRRT, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

Somewhere below Moria, in a time out of mind

I cannot remember ever not-being.  Only being-within-stone, at the beginning.  It seemed good to me, cool and safe.  But after what I suppose would be considered a very long time by the few other speaking-beings I've met, I began to feel a strange emptiness.  So great it became, and with it my anguish, that I gnawed some of the stone.  This eased the emptiness, and so I understood what  it had been.  Hunger!  The few other speaking-beings I've met were  hungry  indeed - they withered quickly, spoke no more, and returned to  the  stone.  Except for two, but I stray ahead.

After satisfying my hunger, I discovered something wonderful.  The stone I had eaten did not return!  I had only to eat more, and I could move!  At first only slowly, for I found I 'tired' easily.  The few other speaking-beings I've met also 'tired' as they withered. Sadly, the stone that fed me could not feed them.  Though a few claimed to love stone itself, and even to be able to speak with it, they regarded me with great terror.  Only when they wearied could I approach and speak with them.   

I suppose many Ages have passed in the world above, which I have never seen, since I last felt hunger or weariness.  But again I stray ahead.  Forgive me, I understand this thing called 'time' not-well.
 
Two speaking-beings I've met did not fear me.  

One I knew long.  A strange fellow, he was a spirit of fire and did not eat anything at all.  Nor did he wither, although he did tire.  He seemed to expect me to fear him.  This was ridiculous; his flames were far too weak to harm me.  The only reason I knew I could be harmed is that once I'd come upon a place where the stone grew soft and too warm for my liking.  That I did fear - the only thing ever to set the feeling in me.  But once was enough to understand it - fear of ceasing-to-be.

The spirit of flame thought far too much of himself, expecting me to fear him!  I shook with great breaths.  Laughter, it was - yet another new thing!   It pleased me, but it did not please the spirit.  His flame diminished  somewhat, and he fell into sleep. 

Many times I passed him by.  A strange sleep it was - he remained aware, and seemed to be waiting for something.  Whatever it was, must have happened, for when next I passed the place where I'd met him, he'd gone.  Somehow he had made his own 'tunnel', leading upwards.  I saw him only once more, long afterwards.

That was the time I met  the other one who did not fear me.  He had been harmed by the spirit of fire, which I did not understand, since he was a spirit of fire himself.  I asked him how this could be, but he was in a great hurry to pursue the other, and did not seem to like being asked questions.  So he departed, saying only "Rockbiter, I have no time to explain things beyond your understanding.  I pursue my foe.  Farewell!"   

Afterwards there was great tumult in the stone.  The two spirits battled, I suppose.  'Battle' I've been told of, by some of the weary ones, before they withered; it was what had driven them into my tunnels. 

The hasty spirit of fire should have been more patient.  Had he told me of the deeds of the 'Balrog', I could have done him a favor and crushed it.  For I can move very quickly, if I wish.  And I'd long since grown stronger than any stone.

But all that came to my ears long afterwards.  That and more.  Perhaps the hasty spirit knew what he was doing, though the tale I heard was strange.  A lot of trouble over  a  small bit of shaped soft-stone, which the weary stone-lovers call "gold." 

The world above must be a very different place than the one I know.  I do not think I shall visit it.  Yet I do think on the hasty spirit at times, for he gave me a great gift.  Rockbiter he named me.  I'd never thought to name myself, but his suits me, so I've kept it.

Chapter End Notes

"Far, far below the deepest delving of the Dwarves, the world is gnawed by nameless things. Even Sauron knows them not. They are older than he. Now I have walked there, but I will bring no report to darken the light of day."

"Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?"

Gandalf and Tom Bombadil, LOTR

Heard in Imladris: T.A. 2939

"And, so, Estel, the Elves can remain Houseless, if they wish.  Not so for Men.  When Men die, they pass entirely out of Eä.  We know not where their feär go."

Unconsciously, without looking up from his paperwork, Erestor interrupted.  "And what, penneth nin, of the spirits of Men under the haunted mountain of Rohan, near the Dimholt?  Are they not houseless feär?"

Elrond suppressed a laugh.  "Erestor, whom are you addressing?"

"It is long since I called you 'penneth', my Lord.  But the question stands.  Are they not Houseless?"

Elrond sighed.  "Estel, I will teach you a new word."

Heard in Mithlond (sort of), T.A. 2960

"Denethor son of Ecthelion son of Turgon shows great promise…"

The  spy's report went on to explain that the young Denethor was likely to serve as a great bulwark against the Enemy when his time came, and why. 

But Cirdan could not help but chuckle. 

Denethor - a fine name for a great hero.  The son of Lenwë had led, fought and died as nobly as any Elf could hope to.  But son of Ecthelion would have been rather difficult, as the former Captain of Gondolin had been born many yeni after Denethor, and in any case had not been inclined to father children.  As for grandson of Turgon,  while the ill-fated Noldorin King had been a friend (of sorts) to the  Sindar, he would not, Cirdan knew, have deigned to receive the son of Lenwë for an audience, much less call him grandson.  Though for the latter he could perhaps be excused, as it would be disconcerting for any Elf to have a grandson much older than himself.  There had been more magic in the world in the Elder Days, but not that much.

The Shipwright chuckled once more, suppressed all thoughts sending a message to Gondor suggesting it would be auspicious for Denethor to  name his daughter (should he have one) Aredhel, then turned to the next report.

1875 S. A.

Elrond had hoped his visit to Lindorinand would be restful, and it had been.  After the horror of the war with Sauron and the long labor of building and fortifying Imladris, Amdir's hospitality and perpetual good cheer were as a refreshing breeze.

But at the moment, he was up a tree. Not that he disliked climbing trees, but usually it did not involve such somber matters as he must now face. The heir of his host faced him in this strange 'talan', looking half-crazed.

"Amroth, she does not love you. Not truly. That is the beginning and the end of it."

"How would you know, Elrond? Wise as you are, do you know her mind?"

"No, but her actions are plain enough for all save yourself to read. Your love for her blinds you."

Amroth looked angry enough to throw him from the tree, and since he possessed both the physical strength and the temper of his parents, Elrond felt more than a little fear. But Amroth made no move - just sat and fixed a hostile glare on his guest. The Prince had Galadriel's eyes, to be sure, so this too was most uncomfortable.

Elrond sighed. "Friend, do you remember Aldarion in his later years? He indeed wed Erendis after accepting her many conditions, but he gained little from it. Fate prevented him from keeping the promises he had made, and Erendis cared little for the reasons. That marriage should never have been."

Amroth's glare only intensified. "The hearts of Elves are not so fickle."

At this point, Elrond thanked the Valar for giving him patience, an even greater gift than wisdom, truth be told. The Prince was fey, and so this insult to Elros's descendants must be excused.  So he merely replied "Be not so sure, friend. It would be wise to consult your parents on this matter. Both would tell you otherwise, I think, as would most who remember the tumult of the last Age."

"Amdir bids me be patient with her."

Quietly and gently Elrond replied "Your blood-parents, Amroth. What grievance lies between them and you, I do not know, nor do I care to. But you will acknowledge at least that I have some experience with such matters. I would have much to say to my own blood-parents were they still on this side of the Sea, but they are not."

The fire left Amroth's eyes. "I am sorry, Elrond. My parents' advice is like to yours. Ada has told me several times of Daeron and Luthien. Forgive me if I insult your family once more, but I merely repeat Celeborn's own words. For all her heroism, Luthien's caprice and thoughtlessness cost the Sindar their greatest loremaster. For that, Ada still has not forgiven her."

"I have heard the same. I cannot comment, for I was not there, but such is life. Some gain, others lose. But let us return to the present, and look to the future! Hearts may be mended. Not all wed who they wish, but the wise go on. I do not think Nimrodel will ever wed you. And even if she does, I am minded again of the bitter words Aldarion spoke of Erendis, his wife."

"She loves herself, with Numenor as a setting."

"Such hearts are to be found in Elves as well as Men. I must tell you, I think Nimrodel's is one."

Amroth's fair face contorted into an ugly mask. "What know you of women, who have never wed or even had a sweetheart? You cannot know, and your cold words of 'wisdom' are like to those which have driven me away from my own mother. Get you gone!"

Elrond dutifully departed, climbing down as swiftly as he could, leaping the last twenty feet. Oh, but what I could tell you, not-so-young fool, if only you would listen! Have I never had a sweetheart? I know your pain, but I at least had the sense to flee it, and so retain some chance for a new beginning! Sad that you will not...

As his heart cooled, he remembered the wonder that had been Silmarien of Numenor. Beautiful, enchanting, and possessed of a mind to match his own, yet never to be his. She had loved him indeed, but knowing she was of the mortal branch of Peredhil, had refused his hand. Firmly and with unmistakable finality. In that, Silmarien had been a thousand times better than Nimrodel, yet she had died, her fea forever lost to Arda, while Nimrodel would live on indefinitely. An injustice.

But he put both women out of his mind as he considered the prospect of reporting this failure to Celeborn and Galadriel. He could bear it, so long as their daughter was not present. That elleth, beautiful and graceful as her name, unnerved him. 

Chapter End Notes

Elrond might well have visited Numenor in the 6th-8th centuries of the Second Age, when Silmarien was a princess of that land, a male-line descendant of Elros. The 'She loves herself' quote is from UT.

Yos 409

She was forty-six today, the woman who had once been thought wise realized as she woke. Strange that her beloved Aegnor still dreamed; usually the slightest noise or movement would awaken the Elda. Sleep would not return, so she looked in on little Ingoldo. Her son slept with the peace only children could know. At eleven, he seemed so small to her, though Aegnor thought him large for his age.

Andreth no longer wondered whether she had made the right decision, though she did wonder at the continued unwillingness of others to accept it. The disapproval of her husband's extended family had been overwhelmingly uniform; only Angrod had supported his brother. Finrod, so honored by so many, had practically renounced Aegnor upon their marriage, threatening to strip him of the co-lordship of Dorthonion as punishment for this brazen flouting of ancient laws and customs. Aegnor had laughed uproariously at the mention of that!  But the brothers had not spoken since.

Her own people had cared little. They had not visited her since she had departed, and she doubted she was missed. Indifference stung more than disapproval.

But it was all worth it, for none of the scornful or indifferent had the love of Aegnor or Ingoldo, and she did. She examined her face in the mirror. A few lines had appeared, but Aegnor did not seem to notice. She doubted not that things would change as she aged more dramatically, yet her beloved had told her not to worry.

"Mortality or immortality means little in these lands.", he had said. "Morgoth does not sleep. We could all be slain tomorrow." These dark words were somehow comforting. Aegnor's acknowledgement of his own possible death allowed them both to accept the certainty of hers.

Yet Andreth hoped that at least time would be granted them to watch Ingoldo grow up. The child appeared more Elven then Mortal. He even had a bit of the luminescence of his scornful uncle, seemingly in Finrod's despite. Husband and wife often laughed at this.

Elves did not come of age until their fiftieth year, and Aegnor had indicated that Ingoldo must be bound by this custom if he were to be accepted by even the most tolerant of the Eldar. Andreth wondered, would she live another thirty-nine years to see that day? With luck, she could. Many of her forefathers had seen their ninetieth birthdays.

So the Lady, once thought wise, smiled as she watched the dawn.

Chapter End Notes

AFAICT Andreth was born in YoS 363.  She and Aegnor both died in Yos 455.  I've always thought it odd that for all Finrod's lecturing in the Athrabath, they ended up dying in the same year.

I do know "Ingoldo" is a much-used name in HOME.  Using it here is sort of a joke.  Somebody has to end up as Ingoldo :).

Finwë waited patiently for the one he had summoned.  Not for long, for she arrived with characteristic alacrity.

“Aiya, Alatatar!” 

Artanis smiled in a manner that few could match.   It did seem, the King thought, that the light of the Trees shone from within her, moreso than from any other of his people.  But on this occasion, the he did not rise from his throne to embrace her, instead regarding her appraisingly.  

After returning the same regarding gaze for what seemed an excessively long time, the young one continued: "You called for me?"

"I did."  He then rose, but did not step down from the dais.  Instead, he now fixed his gaze upon her with greater force, from his full height.  

To her credit, Artanis did not look away, as most would, but finally relented, curtseying, her smile a little less certain.  "I am here!"  

Having given this answer, she seemed to brighten again.

"Indeed you are."  

Finwë did not elaborate, but continued simply looking sternly upon his grandaughter until finally she showed some discomfort.

"Have I displeased you, my King?"

"You have."

"I did not wish to!  But what have I done?  Please tell me, so that I may not repeat it."

The King now descended from the dais and sat in one of the lesser chairs usually occupied by counsellors of the now-empty court.  He gestured, indicating Artanis to sit beside him in a chair of equal rank.  She did so.

"It seems not so long since I bounced you upon my knee, grandaughter.  How you have grown since then!  You are now among the great.  Yet there are still some lessons you have either failed to learn, or, in your pride, forgotten.  I hope it is the former."

Artanis now blushed, realizing the substance.  "I ... did not mean for it to come out that way!" 

Finwë now smiled.  "I am sure you did not, child.  Of course you could have given the same answer more politely.  However, the opposite answer would have been far better.  Princes should be generous.  It was such a small gift my son asked of you.  Why did you refuse him?"

She ran her hand nervously though her unbound hair.  "I do not trust Feanaro, Alatatar.  I don't know why.  It seemed he wanted it for some hidden purpose."

"Beautiful as your hair is, Artanis, I do not think even Feanaro could do much with it, other than set it in a stone.  It is, after all, only hair!"

The king pulled a tiny blade from within his robes and sliced several inches from one of his own raven braids.  "See, it is nothing!  Only hair; it will grow back."

Artanis said nothing, but looked as though she would very much like to speak further. 

At this, Finwë grew quite concerned.  He had heard other rumors about his son and granddaughter, but had always dismissed them as impossible lies, until now.  So, he spoke carefully.  

"But I must admit, the story as it came to my ears is scarcely to be believed.  Did Feanaro ask you for anything else?  Perhaps something of greater ... importance?"

The ellyth, understanding the implication and now thoroughly embarassed, replied in a flurry "NoheonlyaskedforthreehairsnothingelseFeanarodidnothingtodishonorhimselformeoryoumylordbuttotellyouthetruthIwouldnotgivehimevenone!"

The King of the Noldor now wore an expression of utter bewllderment.  There was no deceit in his granddaughter's speech or eyes.  Apparently Feanaro had told him the true tale; he had politely asked Artanis for three of her ... hairs, and she had reacted... well, she had reacted.  

"Very well, Artanis.  I approve of your refusal to do something that you feel strongly should not be done, though I cannot say I understand it.  I will not speak of this matter to you or to anyone else again, but if you wish to speak further of it to me at some future time, by all means do so." 

The ellyth, understanding this as a dismissal, fairly fled.

Finwë looked down at his cut braid and wondered once more whether he had been right to bring his people West.  

Amon Ereb, YoS 545

Maedhros strode into the room where his brother’s foster sons worked on the problems their tutors assigned them.  Given their youth, it was still mostly a play room, but during lesson-hours their various toys and games - sadly few in number, yet still a great luxury on Amon Ereb - remained stacked neatly on the shelves opposite the window.  Elrond, however, had recently announced to everyone who would listen that the room was now their "study", which had drawn smiles from the adults present and frowns of protest from his twin.  Now the boys were both bent over their figures, but one, he noticed, was not performing the task set to him.

"So, Elros, have you solved the problem?"

"Yes, Uncle!” The boy beamed. "If you can carry three packets of lembas, but must make a journey that would require four packets of lembas to return home without starving, you have to prepare for the journey by leaving caches along the way. You will need two additional packets of lembas on the journeys where you set up the caches. So, the total is six packets of lembas."

The famous “lembas” problem dated from the Great March, which had required the invention of both lembas and supply lines, but very few of the Noldor were able to solve it before the age of twenty or so, and the twins were only thirteen.  The boy showed promise…

Elrond’s frown indicated he had not yet solved the problem. 

"Do not be troubled, Elerondo.” the elder said gently. "It is a difficult problem.  Even your Uncle Curvo had not yet solved it at your age."  

Of course, this was true only because at that age Curvo had spent most of his time chasing Moryo and Turko all over Tirion, and the rest of his time alternately astounding and annoying the rest of his family.  A few more years had passed before Feanaro showed him “lembas,” which Curvo then solved within less than a thousand heartbeats.  But Elrond did not need to know that.

The boy gave the slightest pout before turning on his twin, saying "But, what, brother, if someone steals the caches? Will you not then starve?", and then proceeding into a sulk that even Turko would have been hard put to match.

Maedhros knew better than to confront an angry child — especially one that was, however much he might wish otherwise, not his own — too soon.  I will speak to him in an hour's time, he thought. 

Elros, however, now looked confused. “Uncle, he is right! You will starve, will you not?" 

So soon to have to worry about such things, he thought sadly. Already the boys must learn to think of supply lines, rather than playing in the gardens and forests as he had at their age - but here they were, where war and the need to evacuate on short notice were far more than theoretical concerns.

"Yes." he said gravely, "You must set guards on the caches, and the guards must eat, but that is a problem you will not solve in an afternoon. Elrond saw this, and you may find you need his advice in such things. Do not forget that he saw it before you, and that you work best together. But enough of that!  I see you have set your mind to something else.  Tell me about it and then we will go find some dinner.”

Elros looked at the figures he had been working on — a sorry mess of lines they seemed now.  Embarassed, he blurted out "The others call us ‘Half-Elves’, and it's not right!"  

Elros’s hands then flew to his mouth before any more traitorous words could escape.  Elrond pulled out of his sulk so quickly he almost fell over, and looked upon his twin with the “You’ve done it now!” expression so universal to young children that had the situation been otherwise, Maedhros would have laughed aloud.

But it was not “otherwise.”  The boys knew well by now that if there was one thing not allowed on Amon Ereb, it was complaining about one’s fate or one’s lot in life.  When half or more (and for many, far more) of one’s own family and friends had died - or worse - trying to secure what little prosperity and safety they still possessed, when more continued to die - or worse - every year, for southeastern Beleriand was well-nigh overrun, and when one’s own Lord was missing a hand and covered in hideous scars, yet still stood firm and never uttered a word of complaint, well … 

Even so, the boys were only thirteen, Elros was clearly very sorry already, and Elrond was now clearly praying to any Vala listening that he would still have a living brother come sunset.  Maedhros therefore measured his response.

“Few in this city can claim greater lineage than you and Elrond.  What are a few words of scorn, against that?”

Elros was clearly frightened, and half-squeaked.

"No, it's not that. I am proud of my forefathers. But I'm not Half-Elven!"

The elder frowned - was the boy in some sort of denial? "How so?", he asked.

"If my blood were divided into sixteen parts, the Elvish parts would be ten."  Elros exclaimed proudly. “They should call us 'Five-Eighths Elven'. Elrond agrees,” he said, looking accusatorially at his brother.

This was not the response Maedhros been expecting.  It was, it was … and his laughter filled the room and the halls beyond.  Half those on duty smiled at this rare gift - laughter was all too rare in Amon Ereb these days.  The other half wondered whether their Lord had finally gone mad.

“I see my brother has been neglecting your poetry lessons! We will have to amend this!”

But first, a secret had to be revealed.  The twins had not yet been told the true nature of their great-great-grandmother Melian. It did not do to tell children they were part divine - this tended to go to their heads. Even being one-quarter Maia was no protection against swords, as the astonishingly arrogant Dior had learned, too late. But it seemed the boys were now ready for it…

"And how do you conclude that ten of the sixteen parts of your blood are Elvish, penneth nin?  Four come from your father who now sails the skies, so how many from your naneth?" 

He had found that openly discussing the twins’ true parentage was the best track - it allowed the tragic details of their endings, especially Elwing's, to be left unspoken.

"Six, of course!", the boy responded. "Four from Daernaneth Nimloth, and two from Daeradar Dior."

"No", Maedhros replied, "One from Dior."

Elrond immediately protested, "But Dior was truly Half-Elven, as our Star-Adar was.  Therefore two from Dior."

"No again. Dior's blood was less than half Quendi, for his daernaneth Melian was not an Elf as she seemed, but a Maia." Shock transformed the boys’ faces as the elder quickly continued; "Therefore you are nine-sixteenths Elven, three-eighths Mortal, and one-sixteenth Maia. Perhaps I shall decree that you two are now to be known as Nine-Sixteenths Elven." he concluded grandly, feigning gravity.  “Should I issue the decree?”

Elros looked around for a way to escape. Stern and kingly his Ada’s brother now seemed, and surely his answer would be important. "No, Uncle, well, let's ask Elrond, but I don't think he would like it either. I guess Half-Elven will have to do."

The Lord of Amon Ereb grinned, and the many cares that beset him vanished, at least to to a child's eyes. "So, now that we have decided how you shall be known ever after, let's find my brother and dinner.”

Chapter End Notes

Elrond and Elros' grandparents were the Elves Idril and Nimloth, the Man Tuor, and the 1/4-Elf 1/4-Maia 1/2-Man Dior. The six-packets-of-lembas is a reference to a simple case of the famous "Jeep problem" - the age-old problem of how many supplies are required to make a journey longer than one can carry supplies for. The Elves would surely have considered this by the time of this story, very near the end of the First Age. Elrond and Elros, being brilliant (and part-Maia!) could work this simple case out while still quite young.

F. A. 50

The Thain of the Shire rode into the Gray Havens, accompanied by his son Faramir.  The trip had an official purpose - to discuss the trade in woven cotton that had, to the wonderment of many Hobbits, considerably enriched their land.  But Pippin also wanted to see the Havens once more, and remember.  And for his son to see them, and understand a bit of family history.

One of the reasons Cirdan had survived though all the ages of Arda was a vigilant effort to maintain good relations with all of his neighbors, save those who served the Shadow directly.  Thus, though the Falathrim had suffered many defeats, they had never been wiped out.  So, the Lord of the Havens made his small visitors most welcome.

While strolling about the quays, Pippin noticed a silver-haired elleth he remembered from his last visit here, more than half a life ago.  She had been one of those Elves most upset by the departure of Elrond, Galadriel and so many others.  The elleth now stood at the end of a pier, facing the waters but seemingly lost in thought.  He approached her.

"My Lady," the now-silver-haired Took greeted the Elf in Sindarin, "may I have the honor of greeting you?"  Time had improved Pippin's manners.

The elleth snapped out of her reverie.  "Well met, Peregrin son of Paladin.  It is long, by the accounting of your people, since our last meeting.  I am honored that you remember me."

"Well, I noticed that you were one of the few Elves who were as upset as we Hobbits were," Pippin remarked, now in Westron.  "It struck me.  Though we did not get a chance to talk then, I would say now I hope you did not grieve too long.  Merry and I did not fully recover until we had families of our own."  And Sam, part of Sam died that day, family or no.

One corner of the beautiful face turned up.  "Ah, so you remember me only for my tears?"  

Pippin did not know what to say, but the elleth rescued him before he could answer.

"I was most grieved that day.  Mostly for Elrond.  I had known him since his youth, and was sad to see him go, but even sadder to see the cares which weighed on him.  A lesser Elf would have faded.  I hope he has found peace."

"You knew Elrond in his youth?"  Pippin was not shocked - the same could be said for Cirdan and Erestor - but since the Elves who could say that were not exactly numerous, his interest was piqued.

"Yes, he was a friend to my son, and mighty in his service.  Long ago, in Lindon."  

Pippin gasped, but could not think of a polite way to put a further question.

The elleth again rescued him.  "I am Meril, wife of Findekano Nolofinwion.  My son was Ereinion Gil-galad."

Pippin was stunned into silence.

"It is strange meeting a woman you presume to be dead or at least long since departed, is it not?"  

Again, a polite reply eluded him.  The elleth, of course, looked to be in the bloom of youth, as a Hobbit-lass of thirty would, at the peak of beauty.  Though Pippin had come to some understanding of Elven immortality, the lack of differences between generations always threw him off, no matter how many Elves he met.  

He did, however manage to bow deeply.  "Life is full of surprises, Lady!"  

Meril smiled as she passed Pippin by, heading towards her home.  "Indeed, and let us be glad that it is!"

Chapter End Notes

Needless to say, I prefer the Silm/UT version of the canon where Gil-galad is the son of Fingon and Fingon's wife was "a lady of the Sindar."

They all abandoned me.  Departed over the Grinding Ice!  Though all but one have now returned to Aman, I cannot see them, for Namo does not allow guests in his fearsome Halls.  And the one who could still come back alive refuses to!  All followed you, brother, though you deserted them bloodyhanded on the shore.  Oh, they would all say they followed our other brother, but they would all be lying.

Feänaro, the Spirit of Fire, who I will never match.  I followed all of the rules.  Ingwë's.  Eru's.  You followed none of them.  Yet they all loved you more - even my own children.

Chapter End Notes

The last sentences, are, of course, lifted from "Legends of the Fall."

1801 S.A., Lothlorien

The maiden stood, facing her friend, close to tears.  ”I love you, Glorfindel!  Can you not see it?" 

The warrior grimaced.  “I can — never doubt that!  But I cannot give you what you wish." 

"Why not?  You never bonded.  Are you not free?"

"Yes, and no." 

Celebrian's patience broke.  She was not some commoner to be toyed with!  "What then?  Are you one of those half-men Amroth jokes about?  We have danced often enough, and it was not disgust I saw in your eyes!"

He reddened.  "NO!  But ... Celebrian, why do you think I was sent back to Ennor?  I have a task set before me, and it is not for me to wed before it is completed."  He paused for a time before continuing, "Do not think that this pleases me.  Perhaps if I had bonded before ... that day ... I would have been left in Mandos, like all my other fallen friends.  That is all I can say."

The two golden elves sat for a time in silence, before the younger finally broke the silence.  "Never have I believed Naneth's stories about the Doom of the Noldor.  But I believe them now.  It follows down the generations, even!  Will I escape it?  Will Ereinion?  Perhaps our King is wise not to have children."

Glorfindel wanted to comfort her, to embrace her and more, but it was not to be.  All he could say in reply was "I do not know, meleth nin."  After a long pause, he continued.  "But I will pledge to watch over you and your family - and you will have one of your own - for as long as I can." 

4 T.A., Imladris

Elrond watched his Captain with growing concern. Losses at the Dagorlad had been grievous, but Glorfindel had ever been full of joy, whatever the circumstances. Over the past year, however, he had grown increasingly sullen - particularly around his lord.  Erestor had suggested that it was time for Glorfindel to lead his own House again, but the Peredhel sensed that that was not the whole of the matter.

After a particularly terrifying sparring session, the matter had to be confronted. "What troubles you, mellon nin?"

"Celebrian.” he replied. Only in a battle, real or practiced, would the ever-polite, ever-courtly Glorfindel be so blunt.

"Celebrian? Why should my ... why should she trouble you?"

"There you have it, Elrond. You said 'my', but you have not made her yours - not truly. Why do you delay? For if you do not take her hand soon, someone else will."

Elrond flushed angrily, then reminded himself that although only a handful of the Elves of Ennor had the right to speak to him in such a manner, the warrior before him was most certainly one of them.  

“I see." he responded, trying to gain time.  Insight came as a blow.  A rival!  Of course there would be rivals! His beloved was one of the fairest in Arda, and by ancient law, he had no claim on her before a betrothal or bonding. Why had he delayed? He did not know ... but he did know that his friend and mightiest servant had just done him an unheard-of favor. He clapped the older Elf on the back. "I must ride to Lothlorien, mellon nin. This time, I shall not invite you along!"

His friend’s face only froze. This was not going well...

Elrond had been terribly discomfited by the Dagorlad, much as he loathed to admit it, but it was time for him to prove he was still worthy of his position. He dropped to one knee.  "Mellon nin, you are the most noble Elf in Ennor. I never understood why you swore fealty to me in the first place, but you did, and I let the matter be. If you wish it, I will release you from my service. Many would follow you.  You need only raise the banner of your House. There are more than a few that look for you to do so, and would give you advice like to that which you have just given me, if they dared. To take what should be yours."

The golden one looked away. More had 'dared' than Elrond knew. It had not escaped the more astute Elves that marriage to Celebrian would at the very least renew the House of the Golden Flower as a force, and perhaps even make Glorfindel the High King that many still looked for.  He was, after all, kinsman to both Ingwë and Indis.  Yet even this would not have tempted him, had his heart not been certain that he and Celebrian could enjoy a blissful union.  But in fact it was certain.

"I will consider it."

His Lord's face quickly fell, and Glorfindel, embarassed, clarified. "Not taking your beloved! Indeed, ride to Celebrian now, do not wait another day. But reestablishing my House, I will consider. At the very least I will leave Imladris for a while. Probably I shall visit Cirdan. Not to sail! I have no wish to leave Ennor.  I may be gone long, but if ever I return to dwell in this valley, you have my word of honor that I will not be your rival in this matter or any other."

2510 T.A., Mithlond

The ellon watched with a grim, set face as he watched his friend sail away, barely alive.  Though he had failed of his pledge - curse the yrch to the Void! - he would continue his protection, so long as the line of Celebrian and Elrond lasted.     

T.A. 3019, Lothlorien

Celeborn and Legolas took their ease, on a large talan not far from the Hall of Welcome.  Both Elves sipped spiced wine from fine fluted glasses.  They discussed small matters for a few minutes; the comings and goings of some in Thranduil's realm who were known to Celeborn, and vice versa.

Mithrandir sat a polite distance away, with his back to the Elves.  Unfortunately the wizard was smoking his blasted pipe.  Again.  

Can he not find another place?  Celeborn thought in mild annoyance.  This talan is one of our finest, but it is not as though we suffer a shortage! 

Then he announced in an Iathren so pure it could have come from the mouth of Thingol: "Let us play a game, Prince!"

Legolas' look of surprise was priceless, but he recovered quickly, understanding.  He replied in the same dialect.  "Certainly, my Elder-Prince!”

Mithrandir did not stir, having heard nothing remarkable in the words.

Celeborn switched to the language of Oropher's court, Iathren Sindarin flavored with an old variant of Silvan.  "How fares the Queen Amrun?"

Legolas’ heart warmed at the mention of his beloved grandmother, widow of Oropher.  A maternal cousin of Nimloth, she had been well known to Celeborn in her youth, and the two had been friends.  He replied in the dialect of the high-born Nando Amrun had been -- and still, at heart, was.  "As well as ever.  I will convey your regards to her - she will appreciate them!"  If I ever return, that is.

Mithrandir smoked contentedly, having paused only briefly to refill his pipe.

Celeborn, concerned at his distant cousin's unspoken fear, reassured him. ”If my foresight has not failed me, you will see Amrun again, Prince." - in a rather lower form of Nandorin, still spoken in Thranduil's woods, mostly by those of the servant class.

Legolas, eyes brimming with amusement, replied in rapidfire Greenwood Avarin, the native tongue of his mother.  "She misses my grandfather, of course, but she remains for the rest of us, and is content enough, I believe."

Celeborn had a bit of trouble understanding, but only a little — he had been to the Greenwood many times in the early Second Age, when the current Queen, Thranduil's wife, had been young.  In any case, he was not about to bow to this young upstart.  And besides, Mithrandir sat stock still, his pipe smoldering in his gnarled hands!

So he replied in a mix of Telerin, Vanyarin, and Quenya, imitating Galadriel's speech as it was when she was thoroughly drunk.  A rare enough occasion -- the last time being at the end of the feast following Celebrian's wedding.  That had been a night to remember!  “I am not surprised to hear that.  If Amrun is still as she was in her youth, she is no more likely to sail than I am, I deem.“

Legolas had to repeat the words slowly in his mind.  The Telerin Celeborn had spoken was little different from ancient Sindarin, and he had been well educated in Quenya, but he knew no one besides Glorfindel and Gildor who spoke Vanyarin regularly, and they did it mostly to amuse themselves and confuse others.  Fortunately he had been their victim often enough to piece the garbled sentence together.  It actually helped that Celeborn had pretended to have had far too much wine.  Ah, the many languages of the Quendi, all the same when we're drunk, he thought!  But I am not as simple as you think...   

So, he alternated between the cadences of merry Galion and somber Elrond. "Pop's nan will praise stale spider dung to Heaven before she'll exit the Wood.  I can't see her on a great-boat."  All this was delivered in very-current Greenwood slang that his own father would have been hard put to decipher, but with the accent of a small band of Avari that had come to Thranduil's realm a mere five hundred years back.  For good measure, he mixed in just a bit of Sam Gamgee's patois and added "You old folks won't never change!" Checkmate, Silver Tree!

Celeborn had understood exactly one word of Legolas' reply:  "Wood".  But the game had been won -- Mithrandir's pipe had gone out!