Winter Light by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 1

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.