Winter Light by

Imladris, the year 246 of the Third Age.

“Yay, Elrohiiiiiiiir!” Arwen’s breath curled like steam in the icy air as she shrieked, wholly taken with the spectacle below. 

Elrohir had no time to look at his sister. He couched his lance and faced his opponent across the tiltyard, urging Rochael into a gallop. This would be a good run: the mare’s mind was tightly meshed with his, wholly bent on her rider’s will. 

Arwen had to be jumping up and down on the stands with all the might in her little body, because she was thundering on the wooden planking like a battalion of Orcs. 

Down in the tiltyard, Asfaloth spooked. Elrohir could only watch in horror as at the very moment their lances met, Glorfindel’s stallion leapt sideways and slipped on the yard’s packed snow. Spiked winter shoes scratched the ice as the horse struggled to stay upright. 

A lesser rider would have taken a nasty tumble, but Glorfindel held on. Imladris’ captain righted himself and his horse with his dignity intact. His lance, however, lay splintered on the ground. The match was lost.   

“Sorry!” Arwen yelled across the field. She had her hands clasped to her mouth, worrying the finger of her glove between her lips the way she would when she was nervous.  

In a flash of white and gold Glorfindel wheeled Asfaloth around to face the little hellion. The Lord of the Golden flower looked truly intimidating in his gold-inlaid plate and his tall helmet shaped like a snarling lion, but when his gauntleted hand came up to raise his visor, he was smiling. 

“Elrohir, I see you have a secret weapon for the Turuhalmë tournament!” Glorfindel called out, blue eyes sparkling with mirth beneath his helmet. “Your sister shall win you the grand prize if she unseats all your rivals!” 

Arwen laughed, wholly unafraid. “Elrohir will win anyhow!” She was beaming, her cheeks red as polished apples. 

A child of Men would be punished harshly for spooking a knight’s mount, but Arwen got no rebuke, and it would not occur to Glorfindel to be cross with her. Even now Elrohir still marvelled at Elves’ limitless patience with children.

Elrohir raised his own visor to wink at Arwen. He kept a more serious face for Glorfindel. “I have no desire to win unfairly. Let us do another course!”

“We have trained enough, I think,” Glorfindel replied, indicating Arwen. “Your sister’s patience has run out.”

Arwen cheered and leapt down at once, a streak of brightness in her red winter cloak. Her little boots cracked the frozen snow as she sprinted to Elrohir. 

Elrohir dismounted at once. He loved jousting, but this was always his favourite part of training. He handed his lance and shield to a smiling attendant while Arwen stood beside them, hopping from one leg to the other and attempting to pull herself up by Rochael’s long mane. The mare shook her head in annoyance, and Elrohir gently unclenched the strand from her little fingers. 

With a great swoop and a giggle he picked Arwen up to lift her into his saddle. Glorfindel came to stand beside them. He stroked Rochael’s nose, his face alight with joy. It was a lovely sight: the laughing little girl atop the great destrier geared for battle, her short legs not even clearing the saddle pad.

Rochael was a pure-bred warhorse with a fiery temper and a knack for lethal kicks, but she was docile as a lamb when Elrohir led her to the stables bearing her precious burden. 

Glorfindel was wise to cut their training short: snow was falling thick and fast, and the brief winter day had sped into the blue light of dusk. The horses deserved rest and good hay, and for their riders the Hall of Fire awaited with music and mirth. 

Arwen sang a riding song in that sweet, high voice of hers, pretending to steer the mare. Her mind was open to Elrohir, overflowing with dreams of all the horses she would ride when she was grown, leading the hunt across fields and forests, faster than all others. 

Glorfindel and Elrohir exchanged a conspiratorial glance. Soon enough, she would. 

The great stable lay quiet. Snow blanketed all Imladris, and inside the high space with its arched pillars the silence was broken only by the steady swish of Elrohir’s currycomb. The pony turned her head to sniff him as he brushed. 

That mischievous little mare had been rolling in the mud again, but Elrohir’s labours had her coat creamy white once more, marked with a scattering of chestnut spots. 

Her ears pricked up, and clever brown eyes caught his own.  

“Here, friend!”

The pony whipped around the instant Elrohir reached into his pocket. He pulled out a carrot and held it up. She eagerly lipped the treat, then chewed with gusto. Elrohir stroked her spotted neck beneath the running braid he just made, and caught himself checking the ribbon that secured it for what had to be the fifth time. Why was he so nervous?

Around the corner, at the stable’s entrance, the great double doors were opened. A multitude of footsteps rang on the flagstones. He picked out Arwen’s light tread at once, but at least ten others surrounded her - it seemed that no one had wanted to miss this moment. 

Even Ardil, Elrohir’s taciturn guard, suddenly appeared from a side door. He sent Elrohir a quick smile and leaned against a pillar in eager expectation. 

“Mommy, can we go to see Rochael?” Arwen’s voice came nearer, chattering like a sparrow. “Has Elrohir gone riding yet? Is Glorfindel going with him? Can I join them, daddy?” 

Elrohir’s nerves leapt at his throat, and he busied himself tidying away his brushes. He had begun his venture five years ago, the summer Arwen was born. He had traded for a Dwarf-pony stallion in exchange for Elvish blades, and bought a string of kindly mares from a hobbit trader. The foal he had chosen with care, and trained her as well as he might before asking a Dwarvish friend to train her under saddle. 

Arwen would love this pony. 

“Hey, you rascal!” Elrohir tried his best to look stern as his sister rounded the corner. Arwen forever needed reminding that she was not allowed to play in the cavalry stables. She was small enough to walk underneath the great war horses. These were Valinórean chargers, bred for their fell spirits and brave hearts. A child could easily come to harm. 

“Oooh, Elrohir!” Arwen was breathless the instant she caught sight of the little mare. Elrohir’s heart leapt in his chest. 

Behind Arwen’s back, Elrond, Celebrían and Elladan craned their necks. Glorfindel followed, grinning like a cat that got the cream.

Arwen dashed towards the pony and threw her arms around the sturdy neck. “She is so beautiful! What is her name?”

Elrohir carefully kept an even face. “What do you think we should call her?”

Arwen’s eyes widened, not daring to hope. Elrohir was quick to reassure her. “Yes, she is for you!”

Arwen flew at him, her little arms tight around his neck. She was so light, and yet Elrohir staggered beneath the weight of her. He had never known that he could love this much , he thought as he curled his body around the wriggling child in his arms, bending his head to smell her sweet scent. His chest ached like it was too small to contain the thundering rush of warmth and care and sheer protectiveness. 

He clung to his little sister with the strength of his lost certainties. This child would never be alone. She would never want for anything. No danger would threaten her. Elrohir would see to it, or die trying.  

Over Arwen’s shoulder, Celebrían caught his gaze. Do you understand now? Her look seemed to ask. It was a sobering realisation that he, himself, was loved like this, made precious by it.    

A hand came down on his shoulder. Elrond did not speak, but his mind was an open bloom of joy. Elladan was less subtle, and simply threw his arms around both his siblings. 

“So, what is her name?” Elrohir managed from within the tangle, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. 

Arwen did not hesitate for an instant. “Spot, of course!” she cried, pointing at the flecked pony. 

“Spot it is!” Elrohir laughed. 

Arwen was hopping from one foot to the other, torn between dancing for joy and cuddling Spot, and coming to a rather peculiar mixture of both. Spot stood quietly beneath the onslaught. A perfect pony indeed. 

“Will you teach me to ride her?” Arwen’s eyes gleamed.

Elrohir hoisted his giggling sister onto his shoulders, spun her around and lowered her gently onto Spot’s back. “I will, sweetling.”

Chapter End Notes

Of course I'd love to hear what you think about Arwen and big brother Elrohir. Too sweet, or just right? Any thougts about the foreshadowing? I'd love to hear from you, so consider leaving me a comment!

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and see you soon,
Idrils Scribe