Still There Is Much That Is Fair by Arveldis

---

Still There Is Much That Is Fair

Written for LOTR Ladies Week Day 1: Hobbits.

---

Elanor sat upon the wagon bench next to her driver and gasped. The great outer wall of the city—the Rammas Echor, her driver, Idhron, called it—rose before her, tall and white and gleaming in the morning sun. Many turrets and towers stood upon it, and their black-and-silver pennants fluttered in the breeze. The Rammas Echor was far larger than anything she had ever seen, much taller and grander than the hedge that ran around Buckland—and, in retrospect, looked rather insignificant compared to this.

She tilted her head back in awe as the wagon rumbled through the gate, marvelling at how high the gate rose above the road. She heard Idhron chuckle next to her, and she snapped her jaw shut, a flush spreading across her face. If her stature and feet did not make her stand out in the city, her open-mouthed awe at everything around her surely would.

Ahead, the green fields of the Pelennor ran rippling as far as her eye could see, dotted by farms, orchards, and grain silos. Little rivers ran through the orchards and fields, and Elanor longed to dip her feet in one of them to cool off, as she alway had during the hottest days of summer in the Shire, but she wore her best dress in preparation for meeting the king and queen, and it wouldn’t do to splatter its hem with mud.

A pang of longing pierced her. She had already missed springtime in the Shire, having left in early spring, and now she would miss summer, her favorite season, as well. And by the time she returned home next year, autumn would be wearing on, and the golden days of summer would be long gone. It would be two years before she would be able to dip her toes in the Shire-water and lean back upon the bank and let the sun warm her face.

She hoped summer in Gondor would be just as enjoyable as it was in the Shire, full of picnics by the Bywater Pool and afternoons spent harvesting berries from the hedgerows, but her experience of it so far was sticky, muggy, and sweltering. The South was much warmer than the Shire, and the air was not half as pleasant. It stuck to her skin uncomfortably, and she felt as if she would soon turn into a puddle of sweat.

Elanor fanned herself self-consciously, feeling sweat trickle down her sides. It wouldn’t do to deprive herself of the cool relief of the river and spare her dress from mud, and yet arrive before the king and queen sweat-stained.

The wagon rolled past an orchard laden with peaches. Elanor’s stomach growled audibly—they had skipped stopping for second breakfast in order to reach the city earlier in the day—and she blushed as Idhron reined in the horses. He was well-accustomed now to the needs of hobbit appetites, even if he and the other men escorting them had been astonished on the first day of the journey when her father had asked—very reasonably, Elanor had thought—if they would be stopping for second breakfast, or if Idhron meant to drive on through elevenses until lunchtime. 

Ever since, Idhron had been very accommodating of the extra stops for meals, although he only ate during some of them. Elanor was still rather shocked at how little the Big Folk ate.

Now, Idhron reached over and picked a peach from one of the trees bordering the road and handed it to her with a smile. “For you, my lady.”

Elanor had asked him many times during the journey to simply call her Elanor , but he had insisted on my lady. All of the queen’s handmaidens, even those half as tall as the rest, were apparently considered ladies. 

Nonetheless, Elanor received the peach gratefully and bit into it, juice dribbling down her chin. She wiped it away quickly before it could drip onto the bodice of her dress.

The wagon rumbled on, and the orchards ended, and suddenly in the distance Elanor saw it: the White City. It stood tall and proud above the Pelennor, the white spire of its tallest tower glinting in the sun, and the mountain rose high and craggy behind it. The city rose in many towering levels from its base, which was girded with a black wall, and a piece of the mountain clove the levels of the city in two down its center.

She gasped. It was grander even than she had imagined it would be.

Her father rode up beside the wagon on his pony, smiling appreciatively. “Well, if that isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”

“We will reach the city in an hour,” Idhron said.

Maeron, their other wagon driver who drove her mother in the second wagon, pulled up next to their wagon, and Elanor’s mother pressed her hand to her chest. “It is more beautiful than even you or Frodo could describe it, Sam. You must make many sketches of it for us, Elanor, so we can remember it after we leave.”

“I will, Ma.” Elanor had a natural talent for drawing, her mother said, and, at her father’s request, she had made many sketches to accompany the stories in the Red Book. Her loose sketches were tucked between its pages.

The fields and farms rolled on for what seemed an interminable length of time, now that the city was in sight, and Elanor’s excitement had been stoked. She nearly bounced upon the wagon bench but restrained herself with the thought that she would soon be a fine lady in the eyes of the city. Queen Arwen had made her a maid of honor when she and the king had travelled to the Brandywine Bridge last year, and it had felt like a great honor, if rather unfitting for a hobbit lass who spent her days dusted with dirt from helping her father in the garden.

Now, though, she would be a lady both in name and being, and she must do her best to look and act the part. She folded her hands in her lap and stilled herself, taking in the new land around her. It was hard to believe that such a land, radiant with the flush of summer, had once been scored and scarred by war, the fields burned and barren, and the farms and homes empty and abandoned. 

It was harder still to believe that the mighty city looming in the distance had been besieged and overrun by the servants of the enemy during the War, but her father had said it was so, though he had not been there to witness it. And Elanor knew it to be true and a matter still of great pain to those who dwelt there, for when her father had mentioned it earlier in their journey, Idhron and Maeron and their guards had stiffened or looked away, and shadows fell over their faces, and they would say nothing of the siege but that it was an evil memory of dark days best left in the past. 

And Elanor had remembered then that though she had been born a year after the War, and though it had always seemed something remote and distant to her, a story more than something real, for many who had fought in it and lived through it, the War must have seemed only a short time ago, being only sixteen years since its end. And she had wondered, then, what Idhron and Maeron and their guards had suffered during the war, and what pains they still bore, and if somewhere down deep they were rather like Mr. Frodo, forever haunted by the memory of pain.

But now, staring up at the towering City Wall as the wagons rumbled up to the great gates, all such thoughts of Gondor’s war-torn days fled her mind, and wordless wonder filled their absence.

If Elanor had been awed by the Rammas Echor, it was nothing compared to this. The city loomed before their small company, and no matter how far back she tipped her head, she could not glimpse its highest point, so tall did Minas Tirith tower above them. The City Wall of Minas Tirith rose tall and sheer and black, gleaming in the sunlight, and the great gates that stood open in the middle could have admitted five wagons abreast, so wide were they.

Elanor had never felt so small in her life as she did staring up at the impenetrable wall. Behind her, she heard her mother and father talking, her mother sounding awed, but she paid no mind to their conversation, nor to the other wagons that crowded the road, bringing goods to sell in the city. All her focus was upon the city.

Idhron flicked the reins, and at last the wagon rolled through the gates and into the city. The first level of the city was broad and deep, and Elanor looked round in every direction to take everything in. The warm scent of fresh-baked bread drifted past her nose, and she saw bakeries, butcher shops, and produce stands disappear around the bend of the street. The cries of merchants hawking their wares filled the air, and she saw many townsfolk haggling with harried-looking merchants. Servants, some in livery, busily pushed handcarts full of dry goods and bottles of wine up and down the crowded street, elbowing their way through the flocks of people and clattering over the flagstones. 

In the center of the hustle and bustle stood a great stable with a tall entry. Several wagons waited out front as laborers unloaded crates and sacks and stablemen removed the horses from their traces. Idhron pulled their wagon to a stop before the doors of the stable.

He turned to Elanor. “It is here I must bid you farewell, my lady. Wagons cannot travel further into the city, and the horses are in need of watering. Barahion and Astordil will escort you to the Citadel and bring you before the king and queen.”

Elanor shook his hand—Idhron looked rather flummoxed by this gesture but returned it nonetheless—and smiled bravely for him, though it was hard to leave him, after having travelled with him for three months and now feeling as if she had been cut loose and set adrift in a strange city.

Sensibly, she reminded herself that Barahion and Astordil would take care of her and her parents very well, as they had throughout the journey. But Elanor wasn’t feeling very sensible at the moment, for she was greatly overwhelmed by the noises and sounds of the city and felt she was leaving her one source of stability. She was loath to leave the wagon; it was familiar and safe, and the city was so very big.

Sensing her discomfort, Idhron patted her hand and smiled warmly. “Barahion and Astordil will ensure that you do not become lost, my lady. They are good guards—the very finest of Gondor’s guards.”

Elanor nodded.

“If it would be a comfort, I could visit you after you have been taken to the High Guesthouse and see that you are settled in,” he added.

She nodded more emphatically, relieved. “Yes, thank you.”

He smiled again and moved to help her down from the wagon. “I hope you will enjoy the city, my lady.”

She thanked him and joined her parents, who stood talking to Barahion and Astordil. Her father offered her his arm, and she took it, feeling more comfortable with his steady presence at her side.

“It’s busier than Bywater on market day, isn’t it?” he whispered to her.

She nodded.

He patted her arm. “It’s too much for the senses at first, but you’ll get used to it. Learning the streets is like learning the tunnels of the Great Smials, I reckon; once you know how to navigate them, you never forget.”

Barahion and Astordil set off down the street, one in front and one behind Elanor and her parents to ensure that they didn’t get lost. Barahion pointed to buildings and shops of interest, and Elanor felt as if her head turned more than a barn owl’s as she tried to glimpse everything the guard pointed out.

The street sloped upwards and passed through a tunnel carved from the outthrust spur of the mountain and into daylight on the other side. Elanor could little discern the differences between the many white stone buildings that stood along the side of the road, though Barahion identified many buildings of historical significance or general interest, but she soon learned that she could mark a new level with each pass through the mountain spur. 

When she had counted six passes, she knew they neared the Citadel. The streets were quieter here. The cacophony of the lower levels of the city faded away, and the very stones of the city’s walls seemed to hold their breath, expectant. Trees, fountains, bushes, and hanging baskets of flowers grew more numerous, and garden beds skirted every pathway. Elanor wished she could linger here, among the familiarity of leaves and roots and soil, but Barahion led them onwards, up through a tunnel that must skirt the mountain spur, if Elanor placed their location correctly.

“The king and queen are in the Tower Hall, at the base of the Tower of Ecthelion,” Barahion said, his voice echoing off the smooth stone walls of the tunnel. “It is the throne room of Minas Tirith, though it is not called as such. You will meet them there, and then I will take you to your rooms in the High Guesthouse, where the king houses his most honored guests. In the evening, you will join the king and queen in King’s House and dine with them.”

A thrill ran through Elanor at the thought of dining privately with the king and queen, even as she smoothed her hands nervously over her skirt. The king and queen were very kind folk, but they were still the king and queen .

The tunnel ended and daylight greeted them. The Court of the Fountain opened before them, all white stone but for the greensward. In the center of the greensward stood a grand fountain, and next to it grew the sapling of the White Tree, not yet of a height with the fountain.

Barahion ushered them through the courtyard and up the steps of the White Tower, pausing to whisper their names to the door-wardens, who admitted them, and they passed through a long and empty paved passage until they reached a tall door that opened on silent hinges. The hall spread imperious and austere before them, and Elanor at once wondered that a king so kind as Aragorn should have a hall so cold. It did not seem to suit him, for though he was noble and kingly in spirit, he was still the Strider of her father’s stories. He had never ceased being Strider to her father, though he had become the king of all Gondor and Arnor.

Elanor held her father’s arm as they crossed the hall to the many-staired dais at the end, where stood the throne of the king, and Strider sat in it, lordly and noble, the winged crown upon his brow. At his side stood Queen Arwen, radiant with a star upon her brow, her hair as dark as the shadows that pooled behind the dais. At the base of the dais stood a simple black chair, empty. That was the Steward’s chair, Elanor knew, and Faramir was away from Minas Tirith while the king was in the city.

They stopped before the dais and bowed and curtsied, only to be stopped by the warm voice of the king, saying, “Have I not said before that there is no need for such gestures? We are friends, and friends do not stand on ceremony for each other.” He stood and descended the stairs, the queen at his side, and they smiled upon their guests.

“Well met, Sam,” Strider said, clapping her father on the back. “I trust the journey went well?” He looked toward Barahion, who still stood near, and thanked him for delivering them safely.

The king and queen then greeted Elanor and her mother. “Well met, Rose and Elanor. Gondor is proud to welcome you,” Strider said. The king’s face was noble and kind, and he granted her a warm smile. His eyes twinkled. “I believe you are taller than last we met, Elanor! Merry and Pippin must watch out, or else you will soon pass them in height, and that would be a grievous day for them.”

Elanor blushed and curtsied.

The king laid his arm around her father’s shoulders. “If you do not mind my taking Sam away, I have a question for him regarding the Citadel’s gardens that I have been waiting to ask his advice on.”

Her mother smiled and waved them away. “Sam has been eagerly waiting to see you, my lord. I would not keep him from you.”

Her father looked rather bashful as the king led him away, asking of news of the Shire, but he smiled gratefully at her mother. 

Her mother turned to Elanor and the queen, smiling. “I believe I shall take up Barahion’s offer to show us to our quarters. We spent many days on the road, and I’m eager to scrub away the grime of travel.” She squeezed Elanor’s shoulder. “But I think the queen would like to get to know her maid of honor better.”

Elanor felt rather shy and awkward standing before the queen, and she wasn’t sure where to hold her hands, so she opted for clasping them behind her back and waited for the queen to speak.

“Well met, Elanor,” the queen said. Her voice held the warmth of summer nights spent under the stars, and Elanor looked up at her, entranced. The queen’s eyes were kind and gentle and shone with light. The star upon her brow glimmered in the shadows of the hall and caught the light streaming in from the slitted windows. 

“Will you walk with me?” the queen asked, and Elanor nodded and followed as the queen led her through a door at the back of the hall and down a colonnade garlanded with climbing jasmine. 

“I would like to show you the rooms my handmaidens use,” the queen said, leading Elanor into a grand building and down a hall. “You may use them, too, if you wish, although I have also set up a room for your personal use as my maid of honor. I have heard that you like to draw, and I took the liberty of fitting the room with drawing supplies. The afternoon sun shines brightly into this room, so you will have adequate light for your craft.” She opened the door to a beautiful solar, stepping aside so Elanor could enter.

Elanor gasped. Large windows covered all of the walls but one, and sunlight spilled over the smooth stone floors, decorated with richly woven carpets. Several chairs and a low couch sat before one of the side windows, overlooking a fountain in the courtyard. A wide table stood before the center windows, and a stack of paper and several leather-bound journals sat on top of it. A bundle of quills sat on top of the journals, and several ink pots and bottles of paint stood next to the paper. Elanor ran her fingers over the supplies, marvelling at the quality. They were finer than any she had ever owned. 

“Thank you, my lady,” she said, turning to the queen. “You are too generous.”

The queen smiled warmly. “Please,” she said, “call me Arwen. As the king said, there is no need for ceremony among friends, and I hope we shall become friends, Elanor. Your father has been a great friend to Aragorn.” 

“Thank you, Arwen,” Elanor said, testing the syllables on her tongue. “You have a beautiful name.” 

“As is yours, Elanor.” The queen gestured that they should sit in the chairs arranged before the window, and Elanor followed suit. The sunlight spilling through the window was warm but not uncomfortable, for the King’s House stood in the shade of the White Tower. Outside, the fountain splashed merrily, and climbing roses clustered around the windows.

“My father named me for the flowers that grow in Lothlorien,” Elanor said. And as it had many times before, longing leapt in her heart, and she wished again that she might one day be able to see the flowers for which she had been named.

“Upon the hill of Cerin Amroth,” Arwen said. “They cover the hill like a blanket of gold, and when the rays of the afternoon sun shine through the golden leaves of the mallorn trees and fall upon the flowers, it is as if the hill is lit with golden light. It is where Aragorn and I plighted our love,” Arwen said, and her eyes grew distant in memory and her lips lifted in a bittersweet smile. 

It was as Elanor had read in the Red Book, but it seemed more beautiful and more real coming from the queen’s lips than it had when Elanor had read of it.

After a moment, Arwen looked again at Elanor. “I spent many years in Lothlorien during my youth and after my mother sailed West. For her mother is Galadriel, who was the Lady of the Golden Wood, and like a mother she was to me, too.”

Lady Galadriel, who had gifted her father the seed for the mallorn that now grew upon the Party Field and the soil that he had spread around the saplings he had planted after the Scouring. He had always spoken of her with reverence, awed that she would bestow upon him such a gift.

“Lady Galadriel did the Shire great honor with her gifts,” Elanor said. “Because of her, a piece of Elvenhome grows in the Shire and will continue to, even though the realms of the Elves are fading.” She looked down at her hands. “I have always wanted to visit the Elves,” she said, blushing as she remembered that the queen herself was half-Elven. “We took the road south through the Gap, so we did not pass by Rivendell or Lorien, although I hope we might when we return. I want to see Rivendell and Lothlorien before their beauty fades from the world forever.”

“Perhaps you will,” said Arwen. “Many things are different now, and that which was once hidden from the world has been revealed, until it shall dwindle and leave forever. If there are those who steward still the fair places of the world, they will linger longer while there are hands that care for them.” She smiled at Elanor. “But until then, perhaps I might satisfy your longing. Rivendell was my home for many long years, and I have still in my keeping many tapestries and paintings of it that I brought with me to Gondor. I will show them to you, if you would like, so that you might experience some of the beauty of Imladris and Lórien.”

“I would like that very much.” Elanor could hardly believe her luck. Looking at Arwen’s tapestries and paintings would not be the same as visiting, but it would be very near.

Arwen studied her. “You are very like Frodo. I see in you the same reverence for the Elder Days and the same longing for distant lands.”

Elanor smiled. “I’ve often been told that. I wish I could have met him—or at least when I was older and would have remembered it.” Many folk in Hobbiton commented on her Elvish air—there was nothing visibly different about her, except that she was taller than most hobbit lasses. Rather, they said she was like Mr. Frodo, who always did have a strange affinity for the Elves. Her father agreed and often said that he wished she might have gotten to know Mr. Frodo, for they were like as peas in a pod.

“My father says he will sail West one day, and I hope to follow him, if I can. I want more than anything to see what lies in the West,” she said. The longing for it flared in her heart, as it had ever since her father had first read to her from the Red Book of Mr. Frodo’s sailing.

“There are few ships now that can take that road,” Arwen said softly.

Elanor watched the queen. She knew Arwen had given her place upon one of the ships to Mr. Frodo and would never see her parents again. Elanor couldn’t fathom never seeing her parents again—never working in the garden with her father or listening to him read out of the Red Book by the fire, never cooking with her mother or feeling her mother’s fingers brush her hair from her brow.

“What is it like, knowing you have seen your family for the last time?” Elanor asked, hardly daring to voice the words for fear of offending the queen, but too compelled to know to keep herself from saying them.

Arwen’s gaze grew distant and full of sorrow, and Elanor knew that the queen thought of her last moments with her father in the hills of Rohan. “It is the greatest pain I have ever felt, and I bear its burden each day, as I have for all the days since I bid my father farewell. And yet I know it is only a foretaste of what is to come.”

Elanor was silent. She traced the threads on the arm of the chair. What could she say to Arwen’s words, but that she was very sorry for her and that she couldn’t imagine leaving her parents forever? She was quickly realizing that it was one thing to read of the people in the Red Book and think of them only as characters in a grand tale, and it was wholly another to sit across from them and witness their grief.

Arwen smoothed her hands over her skirt and rose. “But come now. The day is bright and fair, and many joys lie ahead. There are still many things I wish to show you before you return to your family for the evening.” With a gracious smile that hid any of the sorrow she might still be feeling, she beckoned to Elanor, and Elanor followed after the queen.

Arwen led Elanor through the handmaidens’ rooms, her own solar that Elanor was welcome to join her in and draw while Arwen sat at her loom, the private dining room where Elanor and her family would dine with king and queen tonight, the private gardens behind the King’s House, the White Tree, the parapets that overlooked the Pelennor and the winding ribbon of the Anduin, and the battlements that stretched out upon the spur of rock and overlooked the city below.

Elanor returned to her room that evening very tired from the excitement of the day but jubilant at the prospect of the days to come. Lying down upon her bed, she laced her fingers behind her head and traced the scrollwork of the ceiling with her gaze, lost in thought.

I want to see the Elves, Sam-dad, she had often said to her father, before they leave Middle-earth forever.

You just might, Elanorellë, you just might, he often responded. Nothing is like it was before the War, and folks as never used to speak to each other now work side by side as friends.

But you got to see the Elves, she would protest. You saw lots of them before they left—the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond and Gildor.

Few folk saw them, Ellie, he would respond. Not even Boromir had seen an Elf before he went to Rivendell, and he had travelled far even by Big Folk’s standards.

What were they like? Elanor would beg, as she always did.

And Sam would pause as he always did. Well, I reckon they’re joyful and sorrowful and old and young all at once. They’re wise and they’re merry, and you never do quite know what they’re thinking or saying. They’re wondrous fair to look upon, and that’s how you know you’re talking to one—that and the riddles they speak in.

And then he would pause again and say something that both confused and thrilled her. Mr. Frodo was like them, wise and noble and greater than any other hobbit I laid eyes on. And you’re like him, he would say, tapping her nose. You’re wiser than your old dad, just like Mr. Frodo and your ma. You love the old tales just like him, and you long for adventure and distant lands. There’s some Elf-blood in you, Elanor Gardner, just like there is in Mr. Frodo.

But I’m a hobbit lass! Elanor would exclaim, laughing.

Even so, even so, Sam would say, tapping the side of his nose. I have enough wisdom to know Elf-blood when I see it. And as long as you live in Middle-earth, so will the memory of the Elves.

Elanor smiled faintly at the memory. She thought again of the queen, kind and beautiful and touched with a sorrow that never would heal. Elanor had seen in her eyes the joys and griefs of centuries, though she could not have explained how she saw it, or how she knew it to be true. And she had known in the first moment she beheld Arwen, last year at the Brandywine Bridge, that her father’s plain-spoken words about the Elves were true. Arwen held all the joy and sorrow of the Elves who still lingered upon these shores in their people’s days of twilight. Celeborn’s parting from Galadriel and Elrond and Arwen’s parting until the world’s remaking—all were threads of the tapestry of the love and grief of the Elves.

But still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater. Haldir’s words recorded in the Red Book came back to her, and Elanor thought again of the queen’s grief. She had thought she had understood it when her father had read from the Red Book of Arwen’s parting from her father in the hills of Rohan, but she knew now that she had not, for the pain she had seen in Arwen’s eyes did not seem the kind of pain that could ever be captured in words.

And then Elanor thought, strangely, of her father’s longing to sail West and see Mr. Frodo again. Frodo had promised that Sam would sail over the Sea, and Elanor had always thought that she would leave with him.

The choice of Lúthien and Arwen comes to many, Elanorellë, or something like it; and it isn’t wise to choose before the time, he had said to her the last time she had told him she would follow him into the West. She hadn’t been certain she had understood his words at the time, but she thought that she did now, now that she had seen Arwen’s grief. And she felt in her heart that one day she, too, would know the grief that Arwen carried.

Elanor furrowed her brow. Such thoughts weren’t meant to be mused upon in the dark silence of the evening. She rolled on her side to look out her door, cracked open, to the hallway that separated her room from her parents' room.

Her father’s sailing was far off, and for now her parents were with her, and they stayed in the City of Kings in high summer, invited by the king and queen themselves. Many days of joy unnumbered lay ahead, and that was promise and hope enough.

---

Chapter End Notes

Much of the information about Elanor I included here (barring her passion for drawing) is taken from Tolkien's discarded LOTR epilogue in Sauron Defeated, including this quote of Sam's: "The choice of Lúthien and Arwen comes to many, Elanorellë, or something like it; and it isn’t wise to choose before the time." If you, like me, don't yet have a copy of Sauron Defeated, this article from TOR is a great character profile of Elanor. I referenced it a lot for this piece.

(Or, if you'd like to read the epilogue in comic form and go through all the Sam and Elanor feelings, I highly recommend Chapter 5 of this work, which illustrates the epilogue.)

Elanor is 16 years old—still a child, about nine years old in human years—when she travels to Minas Tirith with her parents to stay there for a year (for some reason, none of their other children go with them). I wanted to capture her youth but also the wisdom she displays in the epilogue when she talks to Sam about the Elves leaving Middle-earth. She is just 15 years old when that conversation takes place, so I felt like I could probe her insight here and play with the implications of her better understanding now Arwen's choice and how it relates to her father's longing to sail West.

My descriptions of Minas Tirith are a hodgepodge of book descriptions and, when lacking detail and clarity from the books, LOTRO's depiction of Minas Tirith (such as the High Guesthouse in the Citadel, which was not given a name in the books). This analysis of the city's logistics was also a great help while writing this piece.

My OC names were taken from Real Elvish.net's Sindarin name lists.