Shore Beyond the Shadowy Sea by Quente

On the very last night of his fostering at Minas Tirith, Elfwine stole quietly out of the city to find the sea.

One of the only complaints Elfwine had about the city of his fostering was that the great Anduin was several miles to the east at its closest point, and the port of Harlond was farther even than that to the south. Elfwine couldn’t very well build himself a boat to take down the Anduin in the middle of the flat farmland to the east (very few trees), so Harlond it had to be.

And there, he’d have to buy a vessel anyway, rather than make one.

It wouldn’t make for as poetic a tale of adventure as Tuor’s or Eärendil’s, but surely the Ese of the sea, Garsecgesfréa, would see in him a soul as much a blank page as Tuor’s ever was. “Write on me,” Elfwine muttered to himself, gathering his things into a bag. “I am blank enough!”

He set off quietly, feeling somber. His fæder Éomer and mother Lothíriel were still with the King and Queen, speaking long into the night. They’d held a feast for the two fosterlings, Elfwine and his cousin Elboron, upon the conclusion of their final duty rotation with the Dúnedain.

They’d spent the past year with Prince Eldarion, who was chief of the Rangers of the North, and a company of the elves of Thranduil, hunting the remnants of orcs that inhabited Greenwood the Great. Upon their return, they were deemed grown in skill and maturity enough to take up their responsibilities as young lords of their lands.

Which led to the other complaint that Elfwine had: he very much did not want to go back to Rohan. He loved it more than he loved any place in Middle-earth, which was just a little less than he loved the sea. And therefore, it was to the sea that he had to go, before duty bound him entirely to dry land and endless grass, encircled by mountains with no blue horizon in sight.

Elfwine left his horse Blacfínda in the stables at Minas Tirith; if he was going to sea, he would not have his fæder think he’d left his horse abandoned. And because of this, his going was slow and unremarked, for he pulled the grey cloak of Lórien gifted to him by his friend Legolas around his shoulders, and let his dark hair fall into his face.

Or at least Elfwine thought his departure had been unremarked.

Elladan found him before the moon had risen mid-sky. He came sauntering up on his own silver gelding, with Blacfínda in tow.

Elfwine halted and sighed, staring up at the bright moon that did nothing to obscure his face or his pack or his newly gifted bow of the Galadhrim, unstrung and bound to his back.

“I thought you might be coming out this way tonight,” Elladan said, by way of greeting.

Elfwine shrugged, and with a certain amount of resignation hoisted himself up onto Blacfínda’s back. His horse snorted at him reproachfully, and Elfwine patted his neck. When they returned home, everyone would be of that mood with him. “Then you know why I have gone this way, as well.”

Nodding, Elladan started forward, but to Elfwine’s surprise, he did not turn them back to the city of Elfwine’s fostering. Instead, he kept them on the road to the south.

“I do know,” Elladan said, in answer to Elfwine’s hesitation. “I spoke long with your father Éomer this night, and finally, I deem, he comprehends your mood.”

Elfwine bowed his head. “I do not wish to seem ungrateful or dishonorable, nor as one who shirks a hard duty,” he began, but Elladan held up his hand.

“He understood it because I told it plainly. Your speech with him is ever bound up with those words – duty, gratefulness, honor. Nay, lad, I know that you have no other words to use, for your life is –”

“-- But the span of a verse to one who will live to see the end of all songs, yes, I have heard,” Elfwine said. Growing up near Elves was at times a burden.

“Indeed,” Elladan continued, and then his smile faded into thoughtfulness. “Although, I believe I shall choose a different ending. But! This is about your little verse in the song. I let them know that the sea longing of the Elves comes regardless of one’s station – in fact, even the Lady Galadriel felt it, every moment of her life in the flets of Lothlórien.”

Elfwine had not know that. “I wish I had met her.”

Elladan reigned in his horse and stared at Elfwine steadily for a long moment. “You know, my heart forbodes that you will meet her – although what that means, I know not, nor do I wish it to be true.”

“That is odd indeed,” Elfwine said, but his heart was stirring toward something now – and it was much less abstract than simply “the sea.” “So, where do we go, now that you have explained my case so well to my fæder?”

“I go to hand you over to your next prenticeship,” Elladan said, his expression cheerful again. “We will have several days’ ride south to Pelargir, but from there, we shall take a ship to your grandfather’s city. Your lovely mother has already sent a hawk over with the details, and you shall have a berth prepared for you at a shipyard. Your father gives you three years before he bids you return home.”

The flood of emotion in Elfwine’s heart felt like a sudden dawn – something long desired was almost in his grip. “But fæder mislikes the sea,” Elfwine said, faintly, hardly believing it. Their conversations had always returned to your future is to be my heir, and you will be king of this beautiful land where grass waves in the wind like the very ocean.

“We fear that which we do not understand,” Elladan said. “And I do not like the sea either, although my brother…” he looked sad. “My brother does. Your lady mother also had some words: that you would be in as good hands with the Prince Imrahil as with any lord of this land – and that maybe you would choose to return, if given the freedom to explore this side of your lineage.”

They shared a smile, then. Lothíriel could be fierce when rectifying a perceived wrong.

“Do the folk of Dol Amroth have the sea-longing too?” Elfwine said, swaying a bit on the broad back of Blacfínda. “I yearn for it. It is in my dreams at night.” Strange dreams, of a voice full of wind and shifting sand speaking in pure and ancient Quenya to him, telling him something…something he always forgot upon awakening.

“We have long marked that you are the very image of your grandfather Imrahil,” Elladan said. “And like to him in mood as well. He is of the line of the elven lady Mithrellas of Nimrodel’s folk, and their sea-longing was stymied by many things. They were frustrated in their attempts to return to the uttermost west, so the longing still emerges in children of their blood.”

“And so, because a long-ago elf could not sail to Aman when she intended, I am forever cursed by this desire?” Elfwine asked, a little bitterly. His path would have been much plainer if he could have simply become the prince of the Riddermark that his father wanted.

Elladan nodded. “But if there is any grace left in me through my father’s blood...” Elladan’s voice trailed off thoughtfully, looking at Elfwine.

“I don’t understand,” Elfwine said, but Elladan spoke no more of it on their journey.

~

Two years later, near the end of his apprenticeship at the shipyard, Elfwine begged his father to let him go to sea.

Now he was finally at sea, and heartily he wished he was not.

I am sorry, fæder, Elfwine thought as he grimly tied himself to the mast. He was far beyond the path they’d set – and he knew that no ship should have fared this far west on a voyage with youths and a few seasoned mariners as sailors, not even a great ship of the design of Mithlond.

The ships of Dol Amroth were finely wrought, imbued with the elven craft of those who had taught their longfathers, but the wind had carried them far from shore, and the boat’s planks, carefully lathed, were about to turn into so much tinder upon the waves.

The sailors who were left aboard lashed themselves to anything that looked like it had a chance against the swelling of the sea. Above the roar of the storm, Elfwine could hear his father Éomer’s distrust ringing in his ears.

“My son, your blood is mingled with that of the sea-riders, and yet I forebode that no good shall come of heeding the call of your other nature. The sea is too chancy by far.”

Elfwine’s mother Lóthiriel had spoken words in return, with just the right amount of exasperated patience to make his father abashed. “Are there not orcs still in Middle-earth, my lord? Are there not dangers even here in our fair country? Else why would you so often heed the King Aragorn’s call to battle?”

And so after two years of apprenticeship with the shipwrights in his grandfather’s princedom, he had set forth on this voyage to vye for a journeyman’s spot. The boat was sound, and his own labor had gone into the building of it.

“I would not have my son take this chance,” he’d heard his father say again to his mother, softly, the night before his launch. “And yet, I would not unman him by keeping him from his path. I fear there is darkness to come.”

“It is full summer, my lord, and the seas have been still as the duck pond behind Meduseld. I would not set my son upon a sea in a squall, nor in a season of chancy weather.” Lothíriel replied. Éomer bowed his head in acknowledgement. Still, Elfwine remembered his father’s eyes, laden with a deep concern.

Elfwine and his mother owed his father a rather large apology, if he ever lived to see him again.

The storm had come upon them at dawn. It was as though their course northward angered some design of the Ese Sǽfréa, for there was no warning of it the night before – the waves were as quiet as ever they were in summer, and their path forward seemed certain.

The captain, a sailor of many seasons named Malondil, told the crew that they would arrive at port ahead of schedule, and Elfwine planned to send a swift rider back to his father with a message that he had landed safely.

But now, they’d been fighting for hours. For a while they’d battled to stay roughly on course, but as the sea worsened and the dank air thickened, they simply fought to stay afloat. They’d finally given up the battle at the moment when Malondil went overboard – he’d been struggling with the wheel, until a long lick of wind and wave tugged him into the sea, like the whip of the Balrog in Master Holdwine’s tales.

Ossë is angry, the crew cried. They knew not why. And now they simply held on for their lives.

Father, I beg forgiveness. I hope my brother Léofwine puts aside his inks and parchment and learns to be the heir you need. I always had too much of the sea in me. In a moment of black humor, Elfwine thought: And I am about to have more.

Even howling and bitter, the sea was beautiful to him. It was ever thus, haunting his dreaming and his waking, pulling him to the shore. Perhaps Elladan had seen this doom within him, unavoidable, Elfwine thought, fighting to keep his purchase on the rope.

The boat rocked perpendicular in the cradle of a wave so vast it could have swallowed all of the citadel of Minas Tirith. The mast stood sideways, and hanging low to stare down into the mouth of the sea, Elfwine clung desperately to the rope, hoping it would hold.

In his despair, he still found the sea beautiful – beautiful in its rage. Clearing his lungs from the water that fell against him, choking on the mingled rain and salt spray, Elfwine raised his voice in prayer to the Ese who might heed him.

Iethcwen whose feet faltering fled
The falls of the fielded country far from home
Hear your son, who heeding dreams abed
Prenticed to these flyers on your foam
And to the deepest ocean, wind-fed
Fared into firmament of fixéd doom
Heed to us, for we have angered thee
And spare us from thy rage upon this sea –

Shouting his words into the wind –

But a moment later, something strange happened. Thinking back, Elfwine could not coherently place the events. After his prayer, the ship splintered apart, the very mast he was lashed to toppling into the waves, and he with it.

The black waves took him, and Elfwine raised a farewell to the skies. At least, he thought, he was dying at sea. He spared a moment of sorrow for the rest of the crew, who were tugged into this doom with him … And after that, things got stranger.

First, there was the dolphin, who came to him and gripped his tunic in its many-toothed mouth. The dolphin swam upward with him to a sort of hole in the wave, and dropped him into it. Once there in the tunnel made of the sea, an Ese came to him.

They spoke with one another.

They spoke, and the Ese raised his hand, a thing of water and wind. “Thou shalt remember me not till the time comes that I shall call upon thee to speak my words,” he said, and it was as if his message was seared into Elfwine’s bones.

And then Elfwine stumbled, confused, to the other side of the tunnel, staggered to a large, flat stone, and lay on it in a swoon.

Some time later, he awoke, parched, to the sound of small, scrabbling feet.

~

Fëanor was an hour’s ride west of the portal when the pebble in his pocket warmed. At first, he disregarded it, not remembering why that rock out of all the assortment of things in his pockets should warm at all… Until, in the middle of raising his bow to help his son strike down their next meal, he paused.

“I’d best attend to this,” Fëanor said, and wheeled his horse around and into a gallop. He ignored the shouts behind him, and sent back a brief message through mind-speech: I don’t think I told you about the pathways I built to Middle-earth.

No, father. Maedhros’s mind-speech was full of exasperation. Tell me you did not build a pathway, expressly against the interests of the Valar, that connected our continents. Please.

I did, and someone has come through it.

Pushing the connection closed with a firm snap, Fëanor focused for a moment upon the journey. What was the swiftest way? Ah, through the forest. They’d recently cleared it of the latest hatchings of some ill-begotten spawn of darkness, so it was most likely safe. And with any luck, whoever or whatever fell through would be bewildered enough to stay put for a while.

Chapter End Notes

• Once upon a time I wanted to write a story set in Bunn's Return to Aman verse. "Elfwine son of Éomer seems like a nice, innocuous little character, having no wife or kids," I thought, after zero research. "With a name like 'Elf-friend', I bet he's a good one for dropping into a fairyland."

  So I began writing. And then, I discovered that Tolkien already had him hying off to the elflands, in many versions and ways, and I realized that maybe there's a muse or poetic weltanshaung that steps in when people like us are trying to write in Tolkien's worlds -- and it just takes over.

• For instance I figured that Elfwine, being Rohirric, would probably have names for all the Valar/Maiar in his own (translated to Old English) language, and asked people what they would be. I received excellent responses, but in the middle of something else I stumbled across Elfwine's own translations. What are the chances?
• But yes. Many thanks to Jazthebard for the name Iethcwen (Uinen).

Blinking his crusted eyelids apart, Elfwine wondered where his dolphin friend had got to, the one that had neatly gripped the back of his tunic and hauled him upward through the sucking pressure of the wave. It was clear he was no longer in the water: his fingers touched rock, which was promising, but he had the thick taste of seawater in his mouth, which was not. He rolled and spat, and raised his head to open his eyes more widely. What…?

Elfwine’s body ached as if he’d been in battle, but he was no longer in the sea – he was in the middle of a stone circle surrounded by a dense wood.

Then he realized the rock he lay upon was beset on all sides by something dark and crawling, and his eyes flew wide. He reached for his sword and cursed, remembering that he’d left it in his ship trunk when he raced to lower the sail. Instead, his fingers fastened around the pouch that held his sextant, and he cursed again.

Putting aside the where and why and fæder was right, sailing is going to kill me, he looked around for something to bludgeon with, even as the first of the crawling things reached the base of the stone he sat upon. There was a large branch at the edge of the circle, fallen from the trees beyond.

Hopping down hard enough to crunch a few of the fist-sized shapes beneath his heels, Elfwine ran for the branch and gripped it. Swinging, he swept a few more away as the ones closest turned toward him. They broke against his makeshift staff, oozing ichor.

Letting his aching body fight without thought for a moment, Elfwine tried to take measure of his surroundings. Dark, thick wood. Fangorn? Ents would never allow spiders into their wood, not the likes of these. Greenwood the Great? But how did he get there? Perhaps if the dolphin was a friend of Garsecgesfréa, he’d been rescued and … flown? Swum? Transported? Northward.

Another spider dropped from a high limb above him onto his head. It was larger than the rest, and its scrabbling talons dug into his hair. Elfwine cried out, clawing at it until it came loose, and hurled the flailing body into a tree. It cracked apart, and Elfwine shuddered, racing for the center of the clearing again.

He leapt upon the rock, thinking – at least the ground was cleared, now. But what then? He could not simply fight them off until nightfall, worse might come. Should he win free of the woods? They were thinner to the east and west, he recalled, if he was indeed in Greenwood.

But just as he was turning to face east, as near as he could tell – he saw a mass of dark, glittering, eyes. Intent, they stared at him from the blackness of the trees, assessing, lingering. Whatever was beyond the circle was waiting until he tired before it came forth. Until then, it sent its children to toy with him.

Elfwine took a deep breath, letting it out. He might still feel exhausted from the storm, but his fæder had been through worse – and King Aragorn worse still than that. Had he his sword and a map, he could win free of this place – but he had neither, and did not think climbing a tree would save him from spiders. Eldarion, well-schooled in the ways of the Rangers of the North, would counsel: when in doubt, run.

Run it was.

Just as Elfwine had made up his mind to run as far in the opposite direction from the beast as possible, it came swiftly toward him, perhaps sensing his intent.

Elfwine cried out again, bringing his makeshift staff down hard on the center of its head before the mandibles could catch at him. Once, and once more. And still it came.

Fæder, I will never touch a ship again if the Ese allow me to return to you. I will hand back my apprentice sextant, and will content myself with ruling a flat land of grass for the remainder of my days. I will let my brother Léofwine remain in his library with the scribes and scholars.

Although soon, he feared, the choice would be out of his hands. Desperately he swung his staff at a snatching leg, and saw it withdraw – but only because the creature was rearing up to position its mandibles to bite.

And then, his eyes tricked him, because he thought he saw an arrow lodge itself deep within the spider’s eyes.

It screamed, even louder than Elfwine had, and tried to scramble back. He took advantage of the movement to swing again, but before he could, he was shouldered back by a very, very tall figure with flaming hair and a bright sword, held in his left hand.

And held firm by another one. “Peace, Thindar,” the voice said in somewhat rusty Sindarin. “We bid you welcome, and apologize for being late in coming. Arriving? That’s it.”

“Thank you,” Elfwine responded automatically, eyes glued to the figure before him. The tall one dispatched the spider with several brutally efficient passes of his sword, leaving it to collapse in dreadful heaps on the forest floor. Then he raised his hand to hum a song, which had the rippling effect of shooing the smaller ones into the wood.

Battle over, all four of them breathed a sigh of relief. Four? Elfwine looked from figure to figure to figure, catching his breath. The one with red hair was cleaning his sword; the one with golden hair was staring at him. And the last was the one that had moved him out of harm’s way – and he was gazing upon Elfwine with a curious light in his eyes.

“I do find the spiders an arduous addition to the Song,” said the golden-haired man, in Quenya, stretching. “Thank you for dispatching them for me, brother – it takes much effort to get the ichor off the blade.”

Man? No.

Elfwine staggered back several steps to better take them in, now that the pressing danger had passed. They were no men, but Elves, of a sort he had not seen outside of Rivendell – very much like his tutors Elladan and Elrohir, but entirely elf without any human at all. Fey, they were, and fell, and taller than Elfwine by many inches.

“I have no love for spiders,” Elfwine said in heartfelt Quenya. “And I thank you, Elves of…Rivendell? for saving me. I am confused that we have not met before, but surely you were in the company of the Lord Elrond before he left these shores. Or are you of Gildor’s traveling company, under the banner of Finrod the Great? Glad I am that you remained – do you assist King Thranduil and Lord Celeborn in their retaking of these forests?”

His words were met by silence, and then the dark-haired one, who also seemed to gather power around him like an ancient tree gathered shadow, cleared his throat. “Under the banner of Finrod! No, we are not. I am Fëanor, High King of this realm of Beleriand. You have said many things, and I do not doubt that to you, these things all make sense. However, you are entirely wrong.

“I was wrong, too, to believe you a Thindar – you, who come in the raiment of my nephew Turgon’s folk. Vinyamar, I believe it was?”

Elfwine stared down at his sailor’s tunic, which was blue emblazoned with the white swan crest of his grandfather Prince Imrahil’s house. “Vinyamar?”

“You named us elves of the house of Elrond – well, you are somewhat correct there, although it is more true that he was of our house once, is that not so, Nelyo? At any rate, are you one of his house too, young one? You sound it, you speak our tongue like one of us. Nay,” Fëanor said, frowning and leaning in. “You look like one of the House of Fingolfin born far from Aman, if any still linger in the lands beyond the bending of the sea!”

What?

Fëanor was conversing in Quenya fluently, as if he spoke it as much as he read it. Elfwine sent up a small prayer of thanks to Elladan, who had taught Quenya with his father’s pronunciation to all the fosterlings at the King’s house in Minas Tirith, and took a deep breath.

“I am no Thindar,” he said in Quenya, and pushed back his salt-thick hair behind his decidedly round ears. “Nor am I of the Eldar at all.” For the most part, but that was a somewhat longer tale. “Elfwine son of Éomer am I, heir to the King of Rohan.”

Then, he let himself sink to the rock behind him, feeling the adrenaline leave his body in a rush. He was a sinking ship himself. He nearly laughed at the thought, and then shuddered to think of her – the fair ship that they had named for Mithrellas, broken in the waves.

On second thought, perhaps they should not have named her for one of Nimrodel’s people. Ill fated in the sea indeed! He started laughing in earnest, then, clutching his arms around him, feeling the tears start in his eyes.

“A Secondborn!” Fëanor said, his eyes becoming even more alarmingly bright.

“I am Celegorm, the son of this mischief-maker. Are you hurt?” the elf with golden hair asked him, stepping closer. “How came you here?”

“I am not hurt, although I am weary. I was on a ship that I built during my apprenticeship in my grandfather’s princedom of Dol Amroth, and it broke apart in a strange and sudden terror of the sea. I sent up a prayer to Iethcwen, who is called…Uinen in your tongue, and she sent a dolphin to me, who…did something like drop me into a hole in the wave, I cannot explain it better. And then I awoke to spiders.” The spiders! Elfwine started shaking a little, feeling the chill of shock come over his body.

“And this is where we uncover the key to the puzzle,” Fëanor said. “If it was the Lady of the Sea at work, she might have felt the existence of this portal of mine.”

“Father, we must go,” said the other son, looking at Elfwine with concern. “He is suffering. Let us take him back to the hold. Celegorm, get the horses.”

~

Bundled in a cloak, they led Elfwine to where the horses gathered at Celegorm’s whistle. Elfwine gaped when he saw them.

If he was not mistaken, here were three Mearas, of the kin of Shadowfax or his forebears, standing before him and bending their proud necks to nose their riders. “Beauties,” he breathed, and was delighted when the great roan mare came up to him and looked at him curiously.

“What is your name, lady?” Elfwine said, touching her soft neck.

Celegorm started laughing, then. “Ah, you’re after my own heart, Secondborn. You care naught that Fëanaro Finwëion has trapped you in his snare set between worlds, but you melt at the sight of our horses. This lady is Carnirocco, and beside her are her daughters, Morirocco and Súretal.”

“It’s not a snare, Turca. It’s a path!” Fëanor said. “It is meant to be a shortcut between the continents by way of the song that holds the sea road in place.”

Ignoring the discussion, which had quickly become technical, Elfwine put his hand upon Carnirocco’s neck, feeling her snuffle his hair. “I am sorry – any apples I would have had are in the middle of the sea, my lady,” he whispered to her in his fæder’s tongue. “But I would bring you the sweetest fruit from my aunt’s orchard in Ithilien if I could.”

Unlike Shadowfax she had allowed herself to carry a light saddle, well padded for the weight of her rider. “I did not know the Mearas took a saddle?”

“Ah, a few balk at it, it’s true. These ladies are more practical, and know their backs would ache otherwise,” Celegorm said.

The horses, more than anything else, made Elfwine understand that he was far from home. “Am I mistaken, or are these not the horses of the fields of Sindreám, of Elvenhome, who traveled far over the sea to Middle-earth? I know of no horses like this in Middle-earth, unless it is in the fields of my fæder, and even then the blood has been diluted.”

“I believe so,” Fëanor said. “Celegorm knows more of the migration of that herd than I do – I was dead when the livestock were being sorted out at Mithrim. But these three are a gift to my son Caranthir from his uncle, my brother Fingolfin, upon the remaking of the fastness in Helevorn.”

“I do not know that place, except as a story,” Elfwine said, feeling a sinking in his heart. He cleared his throat and swayed a little, gripping Fëanor’s cloak for purchase, like a child.

Glancing sideways at him, the other son’s expression turned concerned again. He took a water skin from his belt and handed it to Elfwine, which he took gratefully.

“We’ll tell you where you are when we get some food in you,” The Elf said. “For now, perhaps you can concentrate on the horses? It helps, when you can think about something to distract you.”

Elfwine was used to living with people out of song – King Aragorn had bandaged his fair share of Elfwine’s scrapes, by his own hand. But these names (Fëanor, Celegorm) were beyond even Glorfindel and Erestor – well, maybe not beyond Glorfindel. His mind spinning, he took the advice, and instead asked after the horses.

The three horses were very well tended, which was to the credit of these Elves and went a long way toward banishing any of Elfwine’s potential distrust. The great mare Carnirocco was the dam of the herd, and her name was apparently a jest upon the name of her owner.

“I’m sorry for the extra weight, Rēadfrowe,” Elfwine said, naming her in his own tongue, patting her flank. “But I deem you can well support it. You are strong!”

Fëanor turned his head to stare. “You spoke a different language, just then. What was it?”

“The tongue of the people of Eorl, the Eorlingas. Or…the Elves term it Rohirric, the language of the horse people. My mother is of the Númenorean race, but my fæder Eomer’s folk are originally of the far North country of Middle-earth, until they were gifted the fields to the north of Minas Tirith by a king of Gondor.

“Horses, fæder would say, are our life and our blood. I have never met one of the Mearas, but I have seen tapestries of him: Shadowfax, greatest of horses. And yet, and yet, here are three such beasts!”

“The tale of your kin as they came south is a story I would like to hear,” Fëanor said, sounding delighted. “Tell me that word again?”

And on their way through the dark wood and out to the fields beyond, Elfwine found himself explaining the migration and language of the Eorlingas. Finally he paused.

“You…are you the Fëanor out of the ages of history, then?”

“Ah! I misdoubt that any would name their children for me nowadays,” the Elf said, a little melancholy. “I am the only one. There is my son, and my grandson, of course – we share a name between us. Curufinwë. But Fëanaro is mine alone.”

“Oh,” Elfwine said, and found that in this long day of gods and shipwrecks and spiders and great horses, he’d stumbled across the strangest adventure yet.

~

A dark-haired Elf who must be Caranthir stood at the gate to greet them. He looked with curiosity on Elfwine.

The fastness of Caranthir son of Fëanor was well enough fortified that it seemed of a variety with Helm’s Deep, and Elfwine looked up to stare at the stone walls and iron portcullis and battlements. “Do you see many raids here? Are there orcs still about? My father is often riding out with the King to settle arguments, of late. Perhaps too often.”

“No orcs any longer,” Caranthir said, “But when I built it before it fell, there were many spawns of Morgoth about the land. Welcome, stranger who rides with my father.”

Elfwine dismounted and bowed, glad that even if he was not of a height with all of these tall Elves, at least he wasn’t short.

“I thank you for your welcome,” Elfwine said, keeping to the Quenya they’d been speaking.

Caranthir took that in silently, tilting his head downward a little to look at him. Elfwine met his gaze, and was struck again by the banked fire within his eyes. Another name out of the ancient tales was before him.

Finally, Caranthir spoke. “Many ages of this world have passed since one from east of the Emyn Luin has set foot upon my lands. I welcome you, Elf of the Twilight. Times must be different indeed if you speak the tongue of the Noldor! I am Caranthir, son of Fëanor, and brother of those two. This is my home. How came you to speak my birth tongue?”

“East of the Emyn Luin?” Elfwine asked. “Where am I?”

“Beleriand. And he’s a Secondborn,” Fëanor corrected Caranthir. “I was confused too.”

Caranthir blinked and reassessed. “Odd,” he said. “Who are you, then, Secondborn who is yet Elf-fair?”

Putting aside the name of a continent long lost to history, Elfwine set his teeth and tried not to grimace too much. “Elfwine son of Éomer King of the Riddermark,” Elfwine said, striving for politeness; Elves would certainly not understand how condescending the term ‘elf-fair’ was. Surely Caranthir had met Men before? “I thank you for your hospitality. Your family has saved me from spiders, and I am in your debt.”

“Saved you? I sense more to the tale than this.” Caranthir replied, a little wryly. “Welcome, anyway.”

Fëanor was uncharacteristically silent during this exchange, and Elfwine noticed that he’d gone off to tend to the horses, along with Celegorm. Elfwine was enough of his father’s son that he stared longingly after the three mares – the dark, high-stepping mare Súretal, he especially wanted to know.

“I hope you still have notes in your study about certain modifications father made to the local area,” the red-haired Elf said. “You have a portal in your eastward wood that links to Middle-earth. Knowingly or not, its presence means you will have guests every now and again. And not all of them might be as well-suited for being dropped into darkest Beleriand as Elfwine son of Éomer.

“Ah, and I will properly greet you now.” He turned and nodded gravely. “I am my father’s first-born, Maedhros, and I will make sure he returns you home…hopefully before anyone shows up to ask questions. You aren’t expecting any other visitors, Caranthir?”

“I am not, unless you are?” Caranthir gave him a meaningful look. “Certain of your companions are, shall we say, curious.”

“Not expecting any companions, no,” Maedhros said dryly. “But they might come nonetheless, if they lack occupation.”

Elfwine gazed at the Elf who did after all make him feel short. He noted the hook in place of a hand. In Elladan’s tales, Maedhros had perished in fire. But in Elladan’s tales, Beleriand had sunk below the waves! His mind began to spin again, and this time he did not have a horse to cling to.

“To me you are all figures out of ancient memory – and I deem the tales were mistold, if you stand before me now, on a land risen from the sea.” Elfwine shook his head, drawing Maedhros’s cloak around him more closely.

“I understand how that must feel,” Maedhros said. “Before we answer any other questions, or show you a map, follow me! I will take you to bathe, and eat.”

He turned, and Elfwine went to follow, but – unexpectedly – tripped and staggered over nothing at all. Catching himself upon Maedhros, Elfwine muttered an apology, and then realized that he was incredibly, immensely … exhausted.

“And also,” Maedhros said, steadying him, his expression concerned. “rest.”

~

Caranthir’s stewart, Orlinn, was a tall elf with dark hair and the stamp of all the rest of the Elves of Caranthir’s keep in his appearance. Orlinn showed him to a room overlooking the interior courtyard. In concession to the weather, which was fine and breezy in the summer evening, the balcony doors were set wide. He bade Elfwine to sit while he prepared the bathing tub in the corner of the room.

“Now, while that water is heating, what shall we dress you in?” Orlinn rummaged in a chest. “King Fingon – ah, I should say Prince, it’s difficult keeping all of them sorted in these after times – he keeps a fair bit of hunting garb here. Lord Caranthir said he thinks you’re of a size. I’ll put some of his things out for you, shall I?”

Looking around, Elfwine saw that all of the furnishings were plain but well wrought of wood, as if the owner had practical taste. Elfwine found he liked it.

Elfwine’s body felt a deal better after the bath. After Orlinn treated the spider scratches with an ointment to keep them from infection, he left Elfwine with a pat on the back. “Ah you’re here now, little Manling. My lord will take good care of you.”

And so Elfwine pulled on the clothing (a tunic in undyed fabric, but with touches of a rich blue at the cuff and collar) that was only a little large for him. Then he looked about for a comb. His hair was a tangled mass, even after washing out the sea water.

There was a mirror, comb, and hair clips of gold. After working out the tangles, he wove his hair into the double braids of the Knights of the Riddermark, and fastened the ends. He wished, thinking of the term “elf-fair”, that he was graced with a beard like his father – but he had none, nor had any of Imrahil’s lineage. He scowled into the mirror for a moment and sighed.

Thus clad, he found that his hunger and tiredness were at war. His hunger won, and he left the rooms, making through the keep toward the sound of voices and smell of food.

Fëanor and his three sons were in the large, wood-beamed center hall, sitting at a long table with maps and notes covering one side of it. Food and drink were set out by some of the people of the keep, and Elfwine caught a glimpse of his first elf maidens of this realm – they were strong like the shieldmaidens of Lady Eowyn’s company in Ithilien. He wondered how old they were. Were they as old as the ones he’d met first, born before the sun?

Maedhros looked up at him as he came to the table and raised an eyebrow at Caranthir. “Really?”

Caranthir looked amused. “I knew you were of a size with Fingon. Now you could be his child, whereas before you were a bit more of a water rat,” he said.

“In truth,” Maedhros said, eyebrows beetling, “You could be a new child of Turgon born in Middle-earth, save for the height.”

Elfwine decided that he was too tired to take offense and smiled at them, sitting himself with little ceremony in front of the food. “Please forgive this rat or elven prince, whichever I am, if I begin my meal. It is hungry work getting tossed about by Sǽfréa.”

“Oh, it’s possible to be both,” Caranthir began, and was immediately elbowed by Maedhros.

Before Elfwine ate, instead of the standing silence (he did not know which way to stand if he was already beyond the west) he bowed his head and prayed for the drowned crew. Things were afoot that perplexed him, but he had the strange luck of being alive while they were not, and he would mourn them properly someday. He sent his prayer up to Garsecgesfréa before he set to the meal of venison stew and bread.

After a time, he found that the elves were eating with him. He blinked up, bowl clean, caught by Maedhros’s curious expression.

“You said you were on a ship – will you tell us more of your tale?”

Elfwine nodded, trying to sort the memory in his head. Then he took a deep breath, remembering his time making and sailing Mithrellas… He told it as succinctly as he could, ending with the dolphin and the tunnel. There had been something else, too – a great voice, the figure of a giant made of sea foam. No, his bones ached to remember it, and he pushed it from his mind.

“Intriguing,” Fëanor said, pulling over a sheet of paper and a pen. “So it appears like a passageway. I was uncertain, when I made it, what shape it would take. The physics make it appear like more of a fold…”

“A tunnel, first of water, then of forest,” Elfwine explained. But then he yawned, his vision fuzzing. “I beg your pardon,” he added, sheepishly.

Caranthir chuckled. “Go off with you, little rat. After an adventure like that, of course you want sleep. You can answer more questions in the morning.”

~

The next morning after breakfast, Fëanor ushered him into the highest room in the keep.

“This WAS my study,” Caranthir said sourly.

The room was remarkable for the deep slope of the roof, which had an opening allowing for an enormous telescope to be pointed out of it, southwest into the sky. Below the telescope was a seat upon risers, accessible by a ladder.

But the room had become devoted to something else, and the windows along the slanted roof were tinted an interesting blue to reduce glare. Beneath the diffused light was a table covered in maps – but these were like no maps Elfwine had yet seen. They were in large part etched upon glass, so that they could create multiple layers over a base map, revealing changes to the lands over time.

Some of the glass maps had legends out of the most sorrowful tales: Coastal impact of the sinking of Númenor, Second Age, and Middle-earth bays after the War of Wrath, Second Age; and some were esoteric, like Climate and soil morphology post-Amon Amarth eruption, early Third Age.

Fëanor pulled over a set that said, Beleriand Risen, and set the glass into several clamps. Ghostly, the map sat hovering above the sea.

Elfwine stared at the land, fingers tracing places well below water on Middle-earth. “But it is still sunk – at least, I have sailed over these mountains, and saw their peaks far below me in the water. Dolphins play there now, and the ruins are grown up with coral and seaweed!”

“I spoke to the Valar,” Said Fëanor, “And they raised it again for me out of the sea — for us, the Noldor and the Sindar and others who dwelt in this realm, that we might delight in it without the taint of Morgoth.”

“I truly am in Beleriand,” Elfwine said, feeling oddly blank inside. What it meant that he was in Beleriand, he did not know – but he was extremely grateful that he was not dead.

“So. From whence did you set sail?” Fëanor asked, and Elfwine traced a finger along the coastline of the Middle-earth he knew, below the hovering map.

“From here, from Dol Amroth, my grandfather’s city. And we came this far, a day’s sail from Mithlond, when the storm took us.” Elfwine ran his finger along the waters he had traversed, paralleling the coastline north, remembering the journey.

“Perhaps this portal was simply the most expeditious, then – look.” Fëanor tapped the glass, over the land labeled Thargallion, at the edge of Dor Caranthir. “Your ship sank here.” His finger traced the land northward. “And you arrived here, in this wood at the foot of the Ered Luin.”

And that is when Fëanor pulled out another set of glass maps which looked like topographical maps, but with calculations arrayed along each line. This he overlaid above the first two, and traced the eddy of one set of lines from the ocean over to the forest housing the stone circle. “Uinen dropped you onto this path, I deem.”

Elfwine peered at it to no avail, and finally settled it in his mind as Elf magic. At the very least, he could see clearly that he’d need two different ways to return home.

“So I need to first return to my own earth and not this hovering one, and then walk back to Rohan.” Elfwine sorely wished he had a king’s ransom of gold with him – a mare like Carnirocco would be prized above jewels in Rohan, and it would spare him the weeks of walking.

“It should not be difficult,” Fëanor assured him.

“Do you believe so?” Elfwine asked, feeling relief wash through him. At least there was hope, now, for setting things back to rights. “Then I might be back in time for the Midsummer celebration in Minas Tirith – King Aragorn and Queen Arwen are throwing a feast for Eldarion’s begetting day.”

Suddenly Caranthir and Fëanor were both staring at him.

“What year is it for you, child?” Fëanor asked, finally, as Caranthir buried his face in his hands.

Elfwine looked from one to the other. “It is the twenty-seventh year of the King, in this fourth age of Middle-earth,” he said.

And then Fëanor seized his pen, speaking softly to himself. “Another axis of travel, beyond world-bending, beyond shifting geographies,” he said. “Time. Well, that is of no matter, we shall find our way through that one too. I shall need to discover the interaction between time and space, surely there is a key – some melody in the Song…”

Caranthir gripped Elfwine’s arm, pulling him away and out the door, leaving Fëanor muttering to himself at the long tables of maps. “Come. I’ll call Maedhros to look after him. We’ll go hunting. I can’t be cooped up in here, and you’ll be better off if you have something else to think on.

“Little rat,” Caranthir paused, his expression softening. “Your King Aragorn has been dead for many scores of years, and thus we discovered that you came not only across the sea road, but through time as well, to visit us.”

Chapter End Notes

• Bunn (reading): Erm, your timeline. Beleriand doesn't actually rise until after the death of Aragorn.

  Me: Crap.

  And that is how this thing is about 30k words longer than planned.

• Fëanor the Linguist is obviously canonical but also deep in Silmarillion fiction, and I love this characterization and give thanks that I've gotten to read it all the time.
• The Mearas especially thank Chestnut_pod for the saddles. Oshun's piece on Rochallor was excellent for understanding Valinorean horses.

lfwine could have dwelt longer upon the fact that he was in the future as well as in a magical country, and all the Men he knew were likely dead; but he was also in the company of Elves out of history, and saved from the wreck of his ship by an Ese of the sea, so it was simply another wonder added to the rest.

Resolutely pushing his worry into a corner of his thoughts and firmly telling it, later, he went to find hunting gear.

Maedhros took the news of Elfwine’s travel through time with interest and some amount of resignation. “What did father think, when he began to build this kind of path? He was no doubt playing with chords of a Song that he only half understood, but deemed useful at the moment.”

“As usual,” Caranthir agreed. “Anyway, we’re off hunting.”

They kitted him in a sturdy leather jacket, another from Fingon’s chest of goods – apparently Fingon enjoyed the hunting and fishing at Lake Helevorn, and could not be bothered to bring new clothes with him every visit.

Caranthir lent Elfwine a beautifully crafted sword that was only a little long for him (“Good enough to spit a spider or two, if need be, until father can fit you with one of a proper length and weight.”), and a hunting bow. The bow’s design looked like the bow of the Galadhrim that Legolas had commissioned for him on his departure from Minas Tirith – only a little shorter, and strung with horse hair rather than that of Elves.

Then, to Elfwine’s great delight, Caranthir gave him the freedom of his herd. Elfwine was nigh frozen by the wealth of choice, eight great Mearas running in the field by the keep, all in the strength of their days.

But he finally lured Súretal to him, the mare as dark as his own hair. He offered her fruit saved from breakfast, and rested his hand against her fine cheek. “I am glad to have met you, lady,” he said to her in his father’s tongue. “If that is Iethcwen’s only design in sparing me from drowning and sending me here, I will praise her with great praise!”

She eyed him as if to say, Fair words mean naught if the pocket is not full, and he laughed, bringing up another slice of apple.

“I see you are practically minded.”

Soon they were riding west, toward open plains. Súretal’s stride was sure, and she was as responsive as he could wish, although she knew him little.

“I am not the hunter that my brother Celegorm is, but I’ve learned a few things from him. We’ll find deer in small copses near water,” Caranthir said, pointing west, “And boar. Boar would be a nice change, I could do with some rashers of bacon to break up all the venison.”

“Where is Celegorm, today?”

“Ah – he is in the woods where they found you, along with a few of my house. They are clearing out that nest of spiders, in case any more of you come tumbling through the portal.”

The forests in the distance looked just as ancient and wild as they had the previous day, and Elfwine spoke to him of Fangorn – both the tree-herd and the wood. “There has been little tale of the Ents for long years,” Elfwine said. “I have only seen them a few times; Bregalad is tending to the Treegarth of Orthanc, as Isengard is called now. And I have not yet met Fangorn.”

“That is because he journeyed far North, and then he came here,” Caranthir said. “He went to investigate rumor of the Entwives in Eriador, but when Beleriand rose, he came here to visit the Lady Galadriel in the willow meads of Tasarinan. Now, he is getting reacquainted with one Fimbrethil, his wife of old. Even if my time and yours are distant some hundred years, perhaps they have finally said ‘nice to see you again.’”

“The tree maidens! I am relieved. Master Holdwine told me that Fangorn was long in search of them,” Elfwine said. It was amusing to him that they had an acquaintance in common, even if it was an Ent.

Elfwine found that despite the past few years spent at ship building in Dol Amroth, the training he’d been given by Elladan and Elrohir and the Rangers of the North held strong. They dismounted on one side of a river and moved toward a copse, and there sat in bracken to wait for their prey.

They were in luck, and before Elfwine could fall into a doze with the wind whispering in his ears, they heard the snuffling from afar of a sounder of boar.

Soon, they had plenty of game tied off the saddles of Súretal and Morirocco, and Elfwine realized that he felt strangely hale. Healthy, entirely present, not at all haunted by a whispering sea in his head… and very much appreciating being alive rather than drowned in a storm. He took great gulps of air, and wondered if Caranthir would let them gallop back.

Caranthir led the way back to his keep at a peaceful walk, however, glancing sideways.

“I am relieved that it was you who fell through this path of my father’s,” Caranthir said. “But I admit that it is uncanny that a stray Man should speak like a scion of my family, look like a grandson of my uncle, and hunt like the people of Haleth. You fit here, in a way that cannot be by sheer chance. The fingers of the gods are in this, and not just my father’s fingers, for once.”

Elfwine was silent, pondering this. There was something haunting him about the phrase ‘fingers of the gods,’ but he wasn’t sure what. “I have Elladan and Elrohir to thank for any language you find familiar,” he said. “And King Aragorn made sure that all the fosterlings of his house took our rotations with the Rangers of the North.”

Suddenly Elfwine realized that the urge to ride toward the shore that usually overtook him in the middle of the fields was remarkably quiet. He took a deep breath and prodded the place in his mind that was restless unless it was on or near the sea. Nothing.

“Have you ever spoken to anyone about the sea longing?” Elfwine asked.

“The sea longing…” Caranthir’s voice trailed off in thought, and so they rode on, out over the wild landscape without a trace of farm or mill or tamed herd, save to the north and east, nearer to Lake Helevorn.

The wild country was beautiful beyond Elfwine’s imagining – the grass was almost greener than home, and everything felt more real than real, although he wasn’t quite sure what he meant by thinking it.

“I have,” Caranthir said finally. “I have felt it myself, a bit, in the before-times. The urge to go ‘home’.”

“Do they say that this longing is quenched once they set foot upon the undying lands, or here, in your father’s realm?”

“It is, in part,” Caranthir said. “I know where home is, now. And it is here.”

If Elfwine no longer felt the urge to sail because he was here – why? His heart felt strangely at peace, there with Caranthir, riding through this wild land, and that in itself was troubling.

~

The boar were taken gladly by elves of Caranthir’s household, and whisked away for butchering before dinner.

That night they ate cutlets with a sauce of apples and cinnamon, and drank golden cider.

“When you raised Beleriand, did you raise Númenor as well?” Elfwine asked, his eyes fixed on a pile of second-age maps set beside Fëanor, depicting the island of his mother’s ancestors. There were several notes scrawled upon the parchments related to angles of trajectory and force projection upon sea-waves during the moment of sundering and comparative sea depths across three ages.

Fëanor’s eyes burned a little more fiercely, and he leaned over to catch up a pen. “I’ll ask Aulë what he thinks of that,” he said, making a note on a list.

Across the table Maedhros frowned at him.

“Aren’t you curious about Elros’s great city, Nelyo? You never got to see it. And I think Elrond would be interested in returning too. We could go on an expedition.”

“It’s nothing but a tomb,” Maedhros said. “Who would live there? The dead of Men remain locked away from us Elves at least, saved for some other purpose in the Song.”

Elfwine noticed that Caranthir looked almost involuntarily up at the shield that hung over his great hearth. The shield was a strangely humble one for a house of stone and iron: made of wood, it was painted with the device of a tree full of berries on a field of white flowers. Whose was it?

Fëanor shook his head, mind clearly afire with the idea. “It wouldn’t be empty for long, if we found folk to dwell there!”

“Would you have it filled with Elves, or Men?” Elfwine asked. “Would you raise it in this hovering part of Arda, or within the round earth, if it were to be raised again? If you raise it within the round earth, I will go and dwell there!”

Elfwine could picture it, a fair harbor of white marble, and a house with a tower looking west.

“Would you? Would you leave the fields of your father to another lord?” Maedhros asked, his eyes glinting at Elfwine beneath his lowered brows.

The question made Elfwine’s breath hitch. He paused before speaking and drank again, another swallow of a bottled-up autumn day, and sighed. “I am torn,” he admitted. “Perhaps this is what comes of being of two races. Even though my fate is to rule when fæder sleeps under the simbelmynë, my heart forebodes that the barrows of his line will be few indeed. My heart has ever been at sea.”

Except when fate took him here.

Would his brother Léofwine become King of the Mark if Elfwine could not find his way home? Would they all mourn him, lost at sea? Elfwine found himself blinking back tears.

“You have the gift of making my guests melancholy, even when they are drinking my best pressing of cider, brother,” Caranthir said, kicking Maedhros under the table. “Let the child dream a little! He’ll grow up soon enough.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes but nodded. “More practically, father, what have you found out about how to send him back?”

“What?” Fëanor asked, his nose deep in a map of Númenor. He blinked up, remembering the rest of the table. “Oh, yes. We must ride to Gondolin – I need a book of mathematics that we don’t have here.”

“I suppose sending a courier to fetch the book would take too long?” Caranthir asked, dryly.

But as Caranthir spoke, suddenly Elfwine felt a strange pressure within him, and stood swiftly, knocking back his chair. He opened his mouth, and it was as though someone else spoke through him, with a voice that filled the room with a low booming power.

“We must go to Gondolin.” Elfwine said, and then, as if the strings of the puppetmaster were cut, his legs gave way.

Celegorm, seated beside him, moved swiftly to catch him.

Fëanor’s expression passed from astonished to concerned, and he was up in an instant. “Fetch a damp cloth,” he called, and caught at Elfwine’s wrists, feeling the pulse. “Erratic, as one might expect from a Man used as a tool of the Valar,” he said, frowning. “Elfwine, can you focus on me?”

Blinking hard, Elfwine did, staring into the light at the center of Fëanor’s eyes. “I remember some of it now,” he said, hoarsely. His throat felt abused. “In the tunnel, Garsecgesfréa stood before me. He said…he said.” Elfwine closed his eyes, but could not bring the words forward. He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t remember! But he was there, and he charged me with a task, and now I cannot recall it.”

“Well, the next part is certain,” Fëanor said, accepting the cloth and pressing it to Elfwine’s forehead, and then his wrists. “Caranthir – more cider, I think. We’ll definitely go to Gondolin – and there, I deem, more will be revealed.”

Maedhros regarded his father thoughtfully. “Have you charted your path?”

“We shall pass through the Gap to Himring,” Fëanor said, “and thence through the Gorge of Aglon to Dorthonion and home, for a bit. I have need of a few more implements to create the return portal. It must be worked in glass and silver. ”

Fëanor pressed a refilled cup of cider into Elfwine’s hands, and he sipped it gratefully. The taste of it did restore him.

“At the behest of Ulmo, we shall all go with you,” Maedhros said, nodding. “All of us. Including Caranthir and a company of his riders; Celegorm; and Amrod and Amras – brother, can you call out to them with the Palantir?”

“Aye,” said Caranthir, rising. “I can try, if they are near it.”

“But why?” Fëanor said, frowning. “Is time not of the essence? Why not just us three who came to visit Caranthir?”

“Because,” Maedhros said, “Elfwine must be alive when he returns to Middle-earth, and not rotting from spider poison, nor fallen off a high cliff, nor party to any experimentation with time or the Song – especially not that. Because anything happening to Elfwine here and now will impact the Elfwine still in Middle-earth.”

Elfwine had not thought of that. Could he ask them to tell him whether he became king, or whether it was Léofwine instead? His thoughts circled for a moment, and then he decided that he’d best act as if the future was not yet certain. Besides, if he had truly drowned, he wouldn’t have a future to worry about.

“I suppose I can see the necessity of it,” Fëanor said. “Very well.”

~

Maedhros escorted Elfwine back to his room while the rest made preparations for the journey. Along the way, he said, “Would you like a way to hide your true identity as a Secondborn, if you wish it?”

Elfwine pondered this. “I mislike deception, but if it will spare Fëanor some trouble, perhaps having such an ability to hand would not be amiss.”

“Then, I shall put a glamour upon your ears. The only part of you that would materially change is how others might perceive them,” Maedhros said.

Pulling his hair away from his ears, Elfwine bent his head.

Maedhros lifted his palms toward Elfwine’s ears, and began to hum. Tuneful and strange, Elfwine felt the notes lodge into his skin, leaving behind a small tingling. Reaching up, he felt it – the most marked difference between Men and Elvenkind.

He turned his head toward a mirror and saw an Elf stare back at him. Indeed, now he was no Knight of the Riddermark at all. The world he was in had changed him, with one more tie to home severed.

“Here is the verse to turn off the change, and trigger it again.” They sang it together for a moment, until Elfwine caught the trick of it.

“Well. That’s done,” Elfwine said, sighing. He’d worked long to prove himself a Man full grown: it should not come undone in one small alteration to his appearance.

Maedhros seemed relieved as he surveyed the results. “Now you seem ordinary enough, as long as you stay away from curious Nolofinwëans,” Maedhros said. “Thankfully, most of those – save for one – are in Valinor, and not in Gondolin!”

~

The next morning Caranthir laughed heartily when he saw Elfwine in Fingon’s clothing with his new ears, but stopped when Elfwine gave him a shove. In apology, Caranthir showed him how to create the braids of the Noldor, and Elfwine truly did look like a scion of Finwë by the end of it. His sailor’s garment with his grandfather’s crest he packed into a satchel – he did not want to part with it, his remaining tie to Middle-earth.

Then, the household gathered in the courtyard to see them off – a company of twenty, along with Fëanor and his three sons, and Elfwine. They gave Elfwine Súretal to ride again, and he spent a moment with his arms around her great neck.

She nosed at him as if in sympathy for his mood. He had not slept well, tossed and turned by nightmares, haunted by a message he could not quite remember.

Orlinn, standing in the courtyard to see them off, handed Elfwine a small jar of salve. “Keep these on those spider-scrapes for a time, and on any other trouble you might find, young one. I recall from ages ago that the Men said it was good for keeping away the wrinkles.”

Elfwine thanked him and bid him farewell, tucking the jar deep into his satchel.

“We will meet Ambarussa at the Gap, and pause there for the night.” Fëanor said, and then addressed Caranthir’s household in extremely brief farewell. “We ride to find this Man of Middle-earth a path home. Thank you for taking care of me, you lot, and please do not dispose of any notes I might have left lying about,” and with that he wheeled around and they were off, riding at a fair pace north and east.

Riding surrounded by a company and their horses settled Elfwine’s spirits again. This, at least, he was used to, and the country he rode through once again lifted his mood.

The rest of the host rode horses that seemed of a half-breed with ones from Beleriand’s northern country, horses as familiar-looking to Elfwine as his own Blacfínda. They were still great horses, especially with the blood of the Mearas stallion in them, but not as noble as the Mearas themselves.

The shieldmaiden who rode beside him, a doughty fighter with deep red scars down her cheeks, was named Orvanis. She was deeply amused that with the charm set upon Elfwine’s ears, he looked of a kind with the rest of their company.

“What is the provenance of the horses?” Elfwine asked her. “They look bred with the native herds.”

“Aye, young prince. Larcatal son of Turcanna is their sire – at least for this batch of mares and geldings. Turcanna is the sire of those that you and the Lords ride, with Carnirocco the dam. Turcanna has retired, and we put him to pasture in a green field in Ambarussa’s land, so that he can eat the daisies in peace.”

“How many generations have lived here, and for how long?”

“Ah.” Orvanis drew her eyebrows together for a moment in thought. “We brought over the first generation from Valinor, just after the Singing – I mean, the days when we called Beleriand back out of memory. That must be a hundred years of the sun back. Two generations, fifty years apiece, perhaps. It is hard to reckon time, here. It flows by, sometimes. Every day on the flat Earth felt like a day, you know? It was all the rushing to keep pace with the sun and moon. Here, we see them drive past, but sometimes I deem they tarry longer.”

Elfwine pondered the idea of the sun and moon tarrying longer than they should and thought, Elf magic, again.

They followed the Greater Gelion down the slope of land as it descended from the snowmelt of Mount Renrir, and from there onto the great plains between the two ranges of mountains. The vistas were beautiful and strange; he’d seen the sweep of Rohan from the top of the mountains behind the Hornburg, but he was well used to that. This landscape was wild in the truest sense, and yet he could feel that it still held memory.

As they rode through the long day, Celegorm came up beside him on Morirocco. He pointed down to a bit of building by the fork in the river, quite distant – some three or four scores of miles ahead, perhaps. “There was where my brother Maglor held camp, back in the days of the Leaguer.”

Obviously, in the first age of Arda. Just when Elfwine felt at peace, someone would say something like that. “I can hardly believe it, sometimes. That you all lived so long ago, and for so long.”

Celegorm shrugged. “Most of us didn’t live for all of that. I was dead for two ages.”

It was difficult to know how to reply, so Elfwine looked out over the fields again, and into the distance where the land turned brown. “What did it look like, when Morgoth held sway to the north?”

“Sometimes you could hardly tell,” Celegorm said. “Except for the feeling of the place. You looked north and felt – unsettled. As if the country was looking back at you with predator’s eyes, but you weren’t sure from whence the stares came.”

“Until all those orcs began pouring out of the hills,” Maedhros said, dryly. “Then you could tell who was looking at you.”

But Elfwine noticed that Maedhros did not look north.

They stopped at the halfway mark in their day’s journey and took some refreshment. Observing the land to the east on sentry, one of Caranthir’s company sighted two horses, so far in the distance that Elfwine could barely see them, riding north along the River Gelion to where the greater and lesser branches met.

Fëanor looked down the slope toward them and smiled. “Give them a hallo,” he said.

Celegorm raised his shining horn, and the long, clear call of it echoed off Mount Renrir behind them, and out over the land.

Far, far away, an answering call came, and the two riders turned, just a bit, to intercept their father’s company.

“A new one,” Caranthir noted. “Did you name it ‘Horn’?” Caranthir did not duck swiftly enough to avoid the smack.

~

They met with Amrod and Amras at the old encampment of Maglor, delved at the northern edge of the Gelion where the rivers met and became one. It had been well maintained, or magicked into order, because the low stone dwellings covered in turves were still sound and fit to house a garrison or more of riders.

Some of the company went to tend the horses, make ready the beds, and cook, and Elfwine gathered with Fëanor’s sons around the large stone-lined fire pit.

“You mean to tell me that Maglor lived like this, for centuries? It’s much more rustic than I would have thought comfortable for him,” Fëanor said.

Fëanor’s five sons stared at him in silence, until finally Fëanor threw up his hands. “And, yes, I know he spent two ages of Arda living in the wild. It’s simply strange to actually see the conditions he lived in out of choice, rather than to be told.”

“‘Choice’ is not the word to use, father,” Caranthir began, but Amrod laughed.

“Let us not rehash our centuries of quarrel in front of a new friend,” Amrod said.

“We heard the story, but did not quite understand what you meant about a lost brother of Idril – until now,” said Amras. “Come to the fire and let us look upon you, Elfwine son of Éomer.”

Elfwine came into the light and looked back at the two, and saw russet-haired elven lords of a kind with the rest of the brothers. He picked out the differences relatively easily – a scar on the neck of Amras in the shape of a burn, the quickness of Amrod’s smile. Elfwine was well used to twin Elven lords, and had ways to tell them apart.

But they stared at him without blinking. “Unnerving,” said Amras finally.

“Quite,” agreed Amrod. Elfwine finally tilted his chin. Were they done staring?

“Let us send him straight to Turgon,” Caranthir agreed, with a smirk. “I desire to know what words Elenwë might have for her husband.”

“We won’t be throwing about accusations of infidelity in this age,” said Fëanor somewhat dryly. “But yes. The Valar, by their grace, have sent him here with a purpose.”

“Although I do not remember what it is, save to go to Gondolin,” Elfwine added.

“What do you guess?” Fëanor asked.

Around the fire, the fey eyes of Fëanor and his sons fixed on Elfwine, pinpricks of light in the dusk. The feeling of their combined attention was weighty.

Elfwine shut his eyes, the better to think back to that moment in the wave. Garsecgesfréa said… he said… “Something about revealing his purpose when the time came. I suppose he did not trust me to carry it through myself,” Elfwine said, a little crestfallen. “Even Tuor remembered his conversation with the Ese.”

“Do not think overmuch much on it,” Fëanor reassured him, “It only means that he considered you too independent. It’s likely that Ulmo simply thought you’d find an interpretation of his words that he did not agree with.”

Elfwine nodded. “Although I have a purpose here, it is still my duty to the Riddermark to return home, if I can,” he said. “As far as my own hopes: I suppose it is too much to expect that my purpose here is the same as any Man’s who stumbles across the path to Sindreám: do deeds of great courage, and along the way, win the hand of a fair elven princess. But I have yet to see a princess among you.”

Amrod and Amras laughed, and Fëanor looked amused. “We did try to have a daughter, as you might have guessed. You’ll be meeting a fair elven queen soon, but I’m afraid she’s quite married.”

But Maedhros looked at him, his gaze thoughtful. “You name Tuor, and you also name Ulmo. What was it Tuor did in Gondolin?”

“He brought word to King Turgon of news about his city,” Elfwine said, and then considered. “But King Turgon is not in Beleriand, is he?”

~

That night, Caranthir’s riders took out instruments, and under the stars and in the light of the fire, they made merry. Their songs struck Elfwine as sad but stirring – of long campaigns that never quite ended in victory, but yet held moments of beauty; deeds of kindness like stars glimmering in the darkness.

Elfwine had been born in the years after the great stories of the third age had already ended, in the first flower of King Aragorn’s realm. His father had seen his fair share of battle, of course, and told Elfwine all the tales of it. He grew up listening to the song of Frodo of the Nine Fingers – and part of him longed to be part of those times.

King Aragorn’s realm was far from free of evil, with orcs and men lingering to give battle…but the sense of preparing himself to fight the darkest powers of Arda, the chance to do great deeds worthy of song, were no longer there. Those stories had ended.

There was not much to be done about it, though, and Elfwine knew that Prince Eldarion and his cousin Elboron felt the same way. Their task was simply to keep the peace. Still, the songs of the Elves stirred his heart: they sang of the slow, hard path they’d chosen, and the joy they’d found despite it and because of it.

When a pause came in the singing, Elfwine asked Fëanor if they’d heard of his grand-uncle Théoden and the part he played in the War of the Rings.

“Some. But can you sing it for us, as you would to the Men of your country?” Fëanor asked, eyes glinting.

As if he was with his fæder’s Eoréd at home, Elfwine rose to sing before the company. He clapped out a slow rhythm that was taken up by drum and tabor, and opened his mind as he lifted his voice, in the way that the sons of Elrond had taught him. He envisioned it as he chanted in Rohirric, the better for the company to see with him the tale of Théoden King of Rohan…

Caught in snares of Saruman, crippled was Théoden King,
Crushed by the grief of son-loss, heir loss, sorrowing sat he…

All the way through to the mighty battle, and the final moments where Théoden King slew the fell beast, but was crushed beneath the agony of his horse, Snāwmana. And then, the final farewell to his esquire, Holdwine, and his death in glory:

Eyes closing, he departed, king unconquered, to the Hall,
Joined the company of his longfathers, unashamed, standing tall.

The company was silent after Elfwine’s song was done, honoring Théoden King. And then they applauded his deeds, their shouts rising high into the star-bright sky.

~

“So your aunt is a warrior too,” Orvanis said, the next day, riding beside him. “Those were my favorite parts of your tale – how she burned in her fury! How she slew the Witch King with a swift stroke of her blade!”

“Aye, one of the great warriors of the third age, but turned healer in the days after the fall of Sauron.”

“Hm,” Orvanis said. “A pity. I suppose to Men, there is never enough time to do all that you desire, and you must make a choice in the end.”

“I suppose,” Elfwine said.

~

Maedhros led the company as they came to the hills to the south and east of Himring, but as they saw the keep getting closer on its bare peak, one of the company cried the alert that she saw riders.

From the south, heading north and west toward the Pass of Aglon, they espied a company of several score of mounted Elves – too distant to tell their livery.

“Could be nothing,” Fëanor said, scanning the horizon. “Could be something. Celegorm – go see what this is about. Meet us at Himring, we planned to tarry there for the night anyway.”

Celegorm wheeled Morirocco and spurred him off, increasing his pace, leaning low to encourage the true speed of the great mare. Elfwine watched his progress until he was too far away to view, feeling his heart thunder from the sheer pleasure of it.

Caranthir smiled at him. “Don’t worry. You will have your time to ride swiftly, before your stay in our realm is over, I feel.”

~

The late afternoon sun silhouetted the keep at Himring against the sky as they approached it from the eastern slope. Nothing grew there save bushes and a short scrub grass that the Mearas pawed at, and the hills around it were similarly cleared of trees. Small wild goats grazed the upper pastures, their long fur patchy with shedding in the height of summer.

The goats bleated at the company as they came near, and Maedhros laughed. “I almost missed those goats,” he said, his expression fond. “They worked well at sounding the alarm when the enemy came near. We used them mostly for milk and cheese – their meat was too gamey even for stew.”

The closer they came to the keep, the stranger Elfwine felt.

The first wave of dizziness swept over him when they crested the edge of the hill where the keep sat. He gripped Súretal’s mane and furrowed his brow – looking up, the outline of the keep wavered between something time-worn and ruined, and something fully built in the strength of its days.

Blinking, Elfwine scrubbed at his eyes. Was the elevation affecting his vision? They were not very high…

Then, closer, Elfwine stared at the keep’s walls. It was covered, he thought, in filth and orc-scrawlings, the writing of black speech. He looked away, wondering why such evil was allowed to continue in a land long cleansed of it, but when he looked back, the wall was pure and bare.

He rode up to Maedhros. The keep shifted in front of him yet again – this time it was broken to a thing worn by the wind and snow to a tumble of stone and brambles. Elfwine stopped, staring at it. “What do you see, Maedhros?” Elfwine turned, and for a moment, no one was there.

A second later, a hand was grasping his arm. “Elfwine? You flickered for a moment there, like a candle about to go out.” Maedhros kept hold of him. “I see my keep, as we sang it out of song. What do you see?”

“I see it as it is in my own time – a ruin on the edge of the world that we call Himling now, an island with nothing else on it. But more than that, I see it as an orc outpost. And now I see it as you see it. But it keeps changing.” Elfwine shivered.

“Father,” Maedhros called, and Fëanor rode up to them. “This place – it exists in Middle-earth, and Elfwine sees it as many varieties of itself. I think he might slip sideways into the Middle-earth version of this place, if I let go of him.”

Fëanor nodded. “We can’t let you go back until we control WHEN you go.”

Elfwine thought with alarm about arriving in Middle-earth a hundred years into his own future. “A century might not seem like much to an Elf, but to me, everyone I know would be long dead. I will not be wandering off!”

“It is good to know that we can use Himring as our starting point for your journey back, if necessary,” Fëanor said thoughtfully. “It seems to hold onto its location within our own plane very lightly indeed.”

“I would rather not,” Elfwine said, shifting to grip Maedhros’s sleeve in alarm. “Unless necessary. It is an island, in my time – and I’d have a difficult time getting off of it, unless a fishing boat chanced by. Inland is much preferable.”

“I see,” Fëanor said thoughtfully. “But until then, perhaps we should sing it a little more into being, to stop any more slips sideways.”

Fëanor gathered the company outside of the walls of Himring, and they began to sing a strong and structured kind of melody, as if reinforcing the stones from the inside. Some of the goats wandered up as well, adding their emphatic bleats as a counterpoint, and Himring began to glow pink around the edges in the sunset.

Soon, the well-built walls looked very solid indeed, and Elfwine tentatively let go of Maedhros’s arm.

After a moment, when nothing changed, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ll sleep beside you tonight and keep hold of you, little rat,” Caranthir said. “Just in case.”

“Thank you!” Elfwine said.

“But for now, let us see if there are any war bows about – you’ll need one, if there is trouble as father suspects.”

~

Elfwine was asleep when Celegorm returned during second watch, but he heard voices, and then felt a hand tighten upon his wrist.

“What is it?” Elfwine asked, sleepily.

“We must away,” Caranthir said from where he sat next to Elfwine on his bed roll. “We are two days’ hard ride from my father’s house, Calissir, in Dorthonion, but Celegorm brought news from the riders. Queen Nimloth, and the elves who dwell with her in Taur-im-Duinath, ride to the succor of the keep. My mother spoke to them by Palantír last evening, but received only the image of a sinking ship when she turned her thoughts toward us.”

The death agonies of the Mithrellas, Elfwine thought sadly. “And now we ride to Calissir? What besets her?”

“It is werewolves,” Caranthir said, “Moving north out of Nan Gorothreb. A mighty pack of them, numbering several hundreds – how they came to find the keep, and why they seek to harry the folk of the highlands, we cannot tell.”

Chapter End Notes

• With thanks to the Silmarillion Writer's Guild for pointing out that if Celegorm's dog is called Huan, his horn would be called Rhoma.
• Also: This is the chapter that made me add the tag "Elfwine is a horse girl," because he's in the middle of a grand adventure and yet would not. stop. talking. about. horses.

Rubbing his eyes at the late-night muster, Elfwine noticed that the Elves were not wearied at all by their journey. Urgent they seemed, however, for the distance between Himring and their High Queen was great, and they were eager to begin the journey.

Caranthir handed Elfwine a flask of hot tea. “I’ve ridden with my share of Men,” he said. “And none of you can do anything on little sleep. It is a great failing of your race.”

“And I’m sure the Men you told this to enjoyed the tea more than your words,” Elfwine responded, but drank it nonetheless.

The road was so dark that Elfwine did not know how they would guide the horses, but then Fëanor took up a song, so soft that it was nearly beneath his breath – and the whole company joined their voices with his. Around them, and on their path forward, a silvery glimmer glowed – enough to illumine the road for their horses’ feet.

Quickly they rode. Súretal’s muscles bunched beneath him as they swept along the glowing path, under a field of stars. Elfwine knew not what they rode toward, but in that moment, in the dark, and riding with a company of warriors toward peril, he found that he was powerfully compelled to sing, too.

Raising his voice, he began the chant of Eorl in his own tongue, describing Eorl’s ride to the defense of Gondor with a seven-thousand strong Éoherē, to the Field of Celebrant. Elfwine let the low rise and fall of the voices around him serve as his rhythm and sang loud above them. Even as he shouted his words into the wind of their passing, he built the meaning of it in his mind, adding it to their push forward.

The murmur of the Elven song abutted his words, and everything became strange again.

Did Elfwine see, out of the corner of his eye, the low mountains shift and throng with riders, spears shining in the starlight? Did he hear the mass of thousands of hoofbeats falling in a great clamor around their own company? Did Eorl the Great ride out on a horse of shining white light to lead the Éoherē?

Did the miles somehow fall away beneath their own horses’ hooves as if they were swimming with the current of a rapid river?

Elfwine was singing, and he was in a song.

His heart was full as he felt Súretal respond to his joy, and she leapt forward with her sisters, and they were at one with each other, and with the flowing land. Long, they rode. And long, he sang. And yet it felt like no time at all.

Thinking back upon it, Elfwine did not know if Eorl and his Éoherē had truly come out of time and legend to join their ride, but suddenly, with his chant nearing the end, it was time for the very last words: Eorl, swearing his eternal friendship with Cirion of Gondor before the Tomb of Elendil in Halifirien. Elfwine felt a bell-like note hanging in the air, harbinger of something he could not quite decipher.

The final words of the chant were in Quenya, for the oath of Cirion was spoken in that language.

In the growing dawn, and with the feeling of a great fate laid upon him and an Ese’s voice in his throat, Elfwine cried out loud as he called upon Ilúvatar, loud enough for all to hear above the hoofbeats and the wind:

Let the friendship between us stand for the glory of the Land of the Star, and of the faith of Elendil the Faithful, in the keeping of those who sit upon the thrones of the West, and of the One who is above all thrones for ever!

And then Elfwine closed his eyes against a sudden brightness and sense of rushing wind, and when he opened them again, he saw the astonished faces of Fëanor and his sons turned toward him. But suddenly the land melted and changed beneath their feet…

…And their host came to a slow halt in a glade beside a high tarn, just as the sun touched the still water, and the company shouted their surprise.

Maedhros wheeled his horse and rode up to Elfwine, his expression full of wonder. “Beyond hope, we have come to Tarn Aeluin, perhaps half a day east of my mother’s house, and two days’ ride from Himring – all that distance in half a night. Your music changed our song as we rode, and we are here.”

They came to him then, Amrod and Amras, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, and their father Fëanor. In a circle around him, they were silent, gazing upon him until Fëanor finally spoke.

“You’ll forgive us our moment of wonder, young Elf-friend – or Elendil, as you styled yourself in Quenya just now, in that oath. There are few who would call upon Eru Ilúvatar to swear a binding oath with my house.” Fëanor reached out to clasp Elfwine’s shoulder. “For my part, I thank you, it brings me closer to the aid of my wife. But do you know what it is you have done?”

“An Ese brought me here through his portal, and an Ese guided my thoughts during our ride. And for that last part, I felt as though I sang with a greater voice than my own. It felt like…” Elfwine struggled to identify the feeling he’d had as he spoke. “His apology to you, or his thanks.”

Fëanor blinked, and then chuckled. “Well. Ulmo owes me that, at least, for the use of my pathway! Ever he works in subtle ways, like the water that is his domain. Did you manage to decipher your purpose, too?”

“His purpose is still hidden to me – but I felt…” Elfwine laughed suddenly, clasping Fëanor’s shoulder too, “I felt as if I was finally a part of the great stories – here, in this world, taking up my own part in this tale.”

“Ulmo is with you.” Maedhros said, “And by dint of that, beyond my own understanding…he is with us. I find that our family must thank you for the swift passage.” He bowed. “Forgive us if we do not vow anything to you in return, that tends to go poorly. But you have our gratitude.”

Fëanor dismounted and walked to a statue that sat, moss-covered and crumbling, at the edge of the lake. It was carved in soft and much-decayed stone, and looked to be two figures gazing west together over the water.

Ignoring it, Fëanor studied the distance. “Oaths or not, my heart forebodes that things go ill at Calissir. For this alone was my road between worlds repaid: the song of the Rohirrim quickened our pace. Especially that final part!”

Fëanor laughed then, just as the sun sent rays of red-gold to touch the waters of the Aeluin. “Son of Éomer, called Elf-friend, I name you Vandameldo, Oath-friend, who brought us here on the swiftest paths to the relief of Calissir. Look now into the water! Perhaps you shall find wisdom within.”

Dismounting, dazzled by the light and their evening’s shining passage through the hills, Elfwine Vandameldo – newly named – came to the water. The surface was still, a shield of beaten gold in the sunrise. He bent to look at the surface of the water, and for a moment, as if by a trick of his vision, he saw two figures – his own face, but transfigured by the water to look like a maid’s, with dark hair flowing. And gazing upward from the water, a tall Elf with shining silver hair behind her. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Caranthir standing there, his face limned with memory.

“Ah, you see Andreth looking up at you,” Caranthir said. “I see the one beside her – we are akin, Aegnor and I, in more ways than one; we feel this pain together, beyond the remaking of the world. We let ourselves get attached to a child of Men, and we ache for them forever after. But Aegnor was more fool than I.”

“Why was he a fool?”

“Aegnor died before he spoke of his regard for her,” Caranthir said. “At least I was more honest in my love for Haleth, my sister in all but blood.”

Touched by the sorrow in his eyes, Elfwine did not know what to say. He felt exhaustion flood through him then, a strange, deep wave of tiredness that came from more than just his body. He heard Caranthir call his name, but he slumped sideways onto the leafy bank of the lake, and his eyes closed.

~

Elfwine came to himself again feeling the motion of a horse beneath him.

“Good rising, Elfwine named Vandameldo,” said Orvanis behind his back, as she held him in place against her. “The sun is nearing noon, and it is a good thing you’re compact, or Larcatal here would be complaining.”

The horse huffed in agreement.

Elfwine flushed and stroked Larcatal’s neck. “I fell asleep?”

“I don’t fault you for it, you pulled us forward a good thirty leagues with that chant of yours!”

“I did not mean it thus. If the Ese was not within me, that song would only be a riding song; I would sing the same for my fæder’s Éored.”

Orvanis chuckled. “And so with the assistance of a handy Valar, you opened your mind to us, and called forth many thousands of mounted warriors, and had them ride with all haste beside us to clear danger from our path…and then you swore an oath of friendship with the house of Fëanor, demanding Eru as your witness, and we ended the song in a great rush to arrive here…all by mistake?”

“Probably,” Elfwine said, and felt sheepish. “I am not used to music being such a serious matter. I am learning otherwise.”

“By accident or fate, I am glad of it; we are within a few leagues of the High King’s home Calissir in the highlands. He foretells bloodshed and strife already.”

~

Riding more slowly now, with Celegorm ahead of them to scout, they came upon the edge of the slope that rose up to a highland covered by a thick pine forest. A glimmering stream fell from its side, wending south through the woods and toward the country below.

Celegorm came running back to them then. He had been up the slopes. “The woods are thick with wolves – I cannot count the number. I saw someone lying dead in the wood – I could not tell who it was. We shall have a bloody time of it fighting through to Amil.” Celegorm’s expression was fierce, his eyes intent. “My hunters are there protecting her, that at least eases my heart.”

“We shall go to her, and recover the body when the woods are clear,” Fëanor said. “Sons, you have lived here far longer than I, and know the ways of such beasts. What is your counsel?”

“We ride along the Esgalduin toward the keep,” Maedhros said. “I would send some of us with Celegorm in a vanguard to clear the way, and move with what speed we may. Then, from behind the walls of the keep, we can regroup and await Nimloth for a final assault – they will be as surprised as I am to see that we have outpaced them.”

“Lords,” Elfwine said, stepping forward. “There is another song I might sing, of my cousin Théodred and his last campaign; he came to an untimely end due to the treachery of his father’s advisor. If you think it helpful, I can sing again as we ride, together with your song as we did before.

“I do not quite understand how my last song worked,” Elfwine said, “but I deem there is enough Elf magic in your music that Théodred would heed my words, even from the halls of our fathers. It may be that Théodred tires of hearing of the deeds of others, and desires to ride to battle once more.”

Celegorm shrugged. “We could try it. Wouldn’t hurt, plenty of wolves to go round.”

“We shall try it,” Maedhros said. “Father and I will sing with you, with Amrod and Amras as our guard on either side. If singing does not avail us, we will draw our swords.”

~

Elfwine joined Maedhros and Fëanor in the middle of the company as they wended upward along the Esgalduin toward the flat of the highland. After a hasty consultation, Maedhros borrowed a lap drum, and Fëanor a small harp, and as they rode along the river bank, the three wove together the steady beat of a war song.

Concentrating on the rhythm, Elfwine took a breath and used Elladan’s tutoring once again to lay out a clear image in his mind. This time, he reached out to his fæder-cousin, long lost and never met, and sang of his last stand at the Fords of Isen. He closed his eyes and remembered when his aunt Eowyn sang it for him – mournfully, at her hearth in Ithilien, far from the land of their fæders.

Now Théodred lies in darkness,
Beloved kin, fiercest of fighters.
The high-strings of the harp shall not wake this warrior;
nor shall women raise the wine-cup,
nor his hawk hie through the hall,
nor his horse stamp swiftly through the courtyard.
An evil death has denied us this noble warrior.
This song sing I, the sorrowing heir of Meduseld:
My noble cousin, long dead to me,
His tale in darkness, lasting forever. [1]

“Come,” Elfwine added unspoken, sending his thoughts along with the song. “Come forth, cousin! Fight with us in this new land, fight with this heir of Rohan!” Still, not knowing if his words would have any power at all, he drew his sword in preparation.

The wolves discovered them nearly immediately, coming in twos and threes, and finally in a pack as they approached the bend of the river that flowed from the high-terraced pine wood. As Elfwine sang, he watched Amrod and Amras turn and move together to cover each other’s weaknesses. It put him in mind of fighting in orc raids with Elladan and Elrohir, and made his heart pang for them.

Soon he found that Maedhros had laid aside his drum and drawn a sword. A wolf battled his way past the guard and stood in front of them, snarling and enormous. Elfwine had heard the cries of the Elf who’d caught the clamp of that grey muzzle. Still singing as he dodged a swiping claw, Elfwine brought his sword down upon the haunch of the wolf. But Maedhros rode close, and with a hard downward stroke of his sword, hewed the wolf’s great neck until it fell.

As that wolf came to its knees, another was revealed, crouching behind the corpse, eyes gleaming with a strange pearlescent sheen.

Then Elfwine saw something glimmering, like the sun between the trees, or a trick of the light on water. The wolf was distracted by it, and then shied back: for lo! A blade like a shaft of sun danced forward to wound it on the leg. Elfwine’s song nearly faltered – he’d gotten to the part where he told of Grimbold standing over the body of Théodred as he lay, injured but refusing to abandon his post at the Ford.

The dancing light made an ending of one of the wolves, and Elfwine thought he could see a sword rise in triumph. He raised his fist to the shape of light. Had it worked? “Westu Théodred hál!” He cried, pausing his song, and received a flash of brightness in return.

“Sing, Vandameldo! Fear not for us,” Maedhros urged, and he and his brothers formed a shield wall around Elfwine. Amras was next to a wolf not a moment later, bringing his sword pommel down in a heavy strike to knock it to the side.

Elfwine took a deep breath and sang again, and in his mind he gathered up a force – the dead who fought at the first battle of the Isen. From memory he drew Grimbold of Théodred’s Éored, long dead, fallen on the fields of the Pelennor. And with him, he drew others, out of song, out of their Halls, who had died for the glory of the Mark.

Harding and Guthláf, Dúnhere and Déorwine, doughty Grimbold,
Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred!

Envisioning them riding forth together, around him in the woods of Dorthonion, he called upon them to join his cousin’s ghostly Éored. Horses, too, he drew forth from memory: Brego with the white star on his forehead, the steed of Théodred, who survived him to seat yet another mighty warrior. Out of light and wind he drew them, feeling ever the swell of Fëanor’s harpsong lending power to his own.

And – to Elfwine’s great wonder (and not a little relief), his people came. Light, like a storm of fireflies or white-hot sparks from a fire, blew around the company of Elves, and one by one, horses of dappled light came forth bearing riders like white flame.

Elfwine closed his eyes now and sang for all he was worth, hearing the battle surge around him in howls and cries and the sounds of swords and arrows. He sang, and sang, and hoped that the words of the tale of Théodred were long enough to sustain them all in battle. Or that his body would sustain his singing — unlike the last time, he felt exhaustion grow even while he raised his voice.

Then, when he’d sung until his voice was near hoarse, almost down to a whisper – he heard the sounds around him finally fade. He took one last breath, and whispered the final notes of the tale.

Elfwine opened his eyes to see the warriors of light flash their blades one final time, and Théodred put a fist of flame to his chest: the greeting of one heir to another. Elfwine did the same, bowing his head in acknowledgement, feeling the battle-fury in him drain out in a flood.

Silence fell, but Maedhros seized Elfwine’s arm. “Well done,” he said. “But we cannot rest yet.”

“Gather the wounded quickly! On to Calissir!” Fëanor called in a great voice. “There is a pause in the assault!” And without even waiting to clean their blades or collect arrows, the company helped the wounded to mount, and hastened away.

They rode hard along the east bank of the river. Wolves gathered behind them as they flew, but such was the speed of their mighty horses that they outpaced them. They came into view of the keep as they rode around a bend in the river.

Elfwine only saw the keep in a brief and scattered glimpse, feeling more the harsh beating of his heart as it echoed the pounding of Súretal’s hooves. But later, looking back to remember it as they departed, he saw that it was a remarkable building that embodied well the spirits of the two who dwelt within.

Calissir straddled the banks of the Esgalduin – a long building of stone with high towers on each side of the water, and a waterwheel between, swiftly stirring the current into a tumult as it passed below the high walls. A flag flew from each tower – one, a great silver hammer set within a circle on a field of gold, and the other a many-rayed sun in the colors of sunset, within a diamond of white.

The great gate into the keep stood on their side of the bank, and at a Fëanor’s signal, Celegorm sounded his horn for their approach. After a moment, the doors were thrust open by Elves dressed in black garments emblazoned with silver stars, and Fëanor’s company all clattered through the gate and into the cobbled yard at the center of the keep.

A few wolves followed at their heels as they came into the courtyard, but these were dispatched by the guards at the gate, while others rushed forward to haul the gates shut.

The gates closed behind them, and Fëanor dismounted, crying, “Nerdanel!”

Out of a smaller door on the far side of the courtyard a tall elven woman with hair of flame came running toward them. Fëanor caught her up into his arms and they held each other close.

For a long moment, Elfwine caught his breath, swaying in his saddle.

Maedhros took command of the company then, directing some to care for the horses, and beckoning the wounded into the great hall.

Elfwine dismounted quietly with the rest, and feeling deep exhaustion, tried to follow the grooms after Súretal. A hand fastened around his arm and he was led instead toward Nerdanel. “Are you well?” Amras asked, catching him. “Come, let us get you sitting, at least.”

~

Nerdanel pulled away from Fëanor and led them all into the great hall. There, healers came with steaming water and poultices for the wounded, and draughts of miruvórë to ease the company from their weariness.

When they were washed and the wounded sent to rest, a stew of grains and salted meat, as well as some waybread and pitchers of beer, were set upon the tables.

“I am sorry we do not have more to offer – we have been unable to leave the keep to hunt or forage, of late,” Nerdanel said. “And I hate to think of the state of our fields!”

“Aid is coming, and has come,” Fëanor said, his arm falling across her shoulders, pulling her close. “And yet, we would not have come so swiftly, nor with such a great force, if not for the guidance of Ulmo.”

“Ulmo!” Nerdanel said, astonished. “It is still strange to me that you are friends. We spent so many ages feeling like we were in deep disgrace, and having the assistance of the great powers again is something to get used to. But how did he assist you?”

“Come, Elfwine Vandameldo – tell your tale.”

Nerdanel turned, blinking at Elfwine.

“Ah – and here I thought you were Fingon all this time! I see that you are not,” Nerdanel said. “Your name is quite interesting. Indeed, I see by your eyes that you were one born more recently, although you have the look of Fingon about you. You are most welcome, and you have my thanks!”

Elfwine opened his mouth, but his voice came out in a harsh whisper. He reached for his beer and drained it instead. His throat ached with each swallow, and his head started to pound fiercely.

Caranthir went to him, and put his hands on Elfwine’s back. In a moment, a slow wash of gentle energy passed through Elfwine, easing his throat and allowing him to sit straighter. “He is a son of Men, although he does have some Nandor in him from Nimphrodel’s folk as he tells it, and perhaps even a trace of our own blood through Númenor. Poor little rat,” said Caranthir to Elfwine. “We have been running you ragged. Amil, do you have honey?”

Nerdanel immediately beckoned to one of the people of her keep, and gave instructions. “Heat some water and steep ginger in it — add honey and a touch of miruvórë.”

Elfwine sank forward a little onto his arms, pillowing his head. He felt depleted, more than he had ever been before. “Sorry,” he croaked, resting his forehead against the cool skin of his forearm.

“Ah, he’s burning up,” Caranthir said, feeling his neck. “We’d best get him to bed.”

“He sang for an entire night and day, songs of power that brought speed and the shades of his people to aid us.” Celegorm said. “He is the reason we came so swiftly. First, Ulmo sent him from a shipwreck forward through time from Middle-earth. He came through one of father’s portals, near Caranthir’s fastness. We just happened to be near when he arrived.”

“This is a strange story indeed,” Nerdanel said. “I sense the Valar at work here, if a son of Men happened to drop through Fëanor’s pathway, and you happened to be near, and he happened to have such power as could aid us in our relief. Yes, let’s get him to bed, and I’ll hear the rest of your story then.”

“Up you go then, little rat,” Caranthir said, and hefted him up.

Elfwine did not have the strength to even protest, undignified though it was. He rested his face against Caranthir’s shoulder, and hazily heard Maedhros take up his tale.

“But it was not until father mentioned Gondolin that Ulmo’s true purpose came forth,” Maedhros said. “We do not know this purpose in full yet, but Elfwine stood and spoke when he heard the name of that city – he spoke like Tuor did of old. He said, ‘We must go to Gondolin,’ in a voice that none could gainsay.”

Chapter End Notes

• [1] Théodred's Lament is something Eowyn sings in the Two Towers movie, tweaked just a little in translation to modern English:

  Nú on théostrum licgeth Théodred se léofa
  hæ´letha holdost.
  ne sceal hearpan sweg wigend weccean;
  ne winfæ´t gylden guma sceal healdan,
  ne god hafoc geond sæ´l swingan,
  ne se swifta mearh burhstede beatan.
  Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
  giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
  on Meduselde thæt he ma no wære
  his dryhtne dyrest and maga deorost.

  It is super convenient when other people just write this stuff for me yanno?

Elfwine awoke once to hear soft harping next to him. Fëanor sat beside him, and somehow, the song eased him.

”Awake?” Fëanor rose from his seat near the banked fire and came to Elfwine. “Drink a bit of Nerdanel’s cordial before you sleep again.”

Fëanor raised a warm cup to his lips and Elfwine tasted a warm flavor, honey and ginger and something like mead. He drank deeply, feeling it ease down his throat and into his body in a wash of comfort.

”Thank you,” Elfwine said, finding his voice was back, if a little hoarse.

”It’s the least we can do, really,” Fëanor said, putting a hand on his forehead. “Sleep, Vandameldo, and fear no foe within these walls.”

At his words, Elfwine slept.

~

The sun was shining through a large window at a low angle when Elfwine awoke; it was not morning.

Glancing about the room, Elfwine saw that he was in a high-ceilinged stone chamber overlooking the top of the woods toward the lowering sun. The other walls of the room had bookshelves, but instead of books, they displayed small clay figures of various kinds.

The figures were of birds, and animals, and faces that Elfwine could not recognize. But some of the figures were of the sons of Fëanor at various pursuits, and these he did recognize. In the middle of the room in front of the window, there was a table positioned to catch the best light. It bore the traces of clay work upon it.

The bed that Elfwine was on appeared to be a small daybed tucked to one side of the room.

Elfwine’s eyes were caught by a series of small figures depicting Celegorm drawing a bow when he noticed the small clacking noises.

There was a long wooden bench beneath the window, and Nerdanel sat upon it, knitting. He saw water near him, and drank.

“Good morning, Elfwine! Luckily or unluckily, your room is my clay-shop,” Nerdanel said. Her red curls were braided about her head in a high coronet that day, and her expression was kindly.

“You are to rest your voice for another day,” she said. “If you are feeling restless, perhaps you could use those young Secondborn muscles to knead water into this for me.” She indicated a bucket of clay. “When you are up and breakfasted, we can begin.”

Elfwine complied. He dressed, and ate as much as his sore throat could stand, and listened silently to Nerdanel speak in her clipped, practical voice about her family, and her work, and her long travels to her house in Tirion and back. They kneaded clay together, and it was a day more restful than he’d had in a long while.

~

When Elfwine awoke the next day, Caranthir was sitting on the bench beneath the window, a pile of weapons on either side of him. He was oiling and honing them, humming a song softly as he did.

When Elfwine stirred, he glanced up. ”Ah, you awaken, little rat,” Caranthir said. “Long have you slept! And yet I deem it did you some good.”

“Aren’t you going to mention anything about the weakness of us Secondborn and how we swoon after a battle or two?” Elfwine said, and realized that his voice was no longer hoarse.

“Why should I, when you have said it for me?” Caranthir grinned at him. “But no, in this case you have more than earned a rest. While you were asleep, the company of Nimloth arrived. Now we are about a hundred strong.

“But instead of deploying us in battle, your music has given my father an idea. He is of the opinion that the wolves are caught by an echo of some discord deep within the great original Song, sent to do battle with us because we have altered that melody.”

Elfwine said, sitting up, “So the songs I’ve been singing have aided in fighting against this deeper discord?”

“Yes, and father believes that another great Singing is in order,” Caranthir said. “Nimloth will lead it, for she knows the music of those woods, and those to the south of here, better than any of us. She is a friend of my brother Celegorm, for reasons I do not entirely comprehend because he ended her life by sword several ages ago, but he will assist her in leading this work; also due to his knowledge of hunting, and of wolves in particular.”

“My lord Elf, before you go on with these words that blend life and death and life again in a manner beyond the understanding of a mere Man, might I have something to eat?” Elfwine looked at him with pitiful eyes.

Caranthir laughed. “I’ll fetch you something, and tease you for it later.”

~

After eating porridge with fruit brought by Nimloth’s company, Caranthir led Elfwine down to the bathing rooms.

Elfwine had not seen anything like this before: the underground floor of the keep contained several rooms that spanned the width of it on one side of the river. One of the rooms held a large pool of steaming water, fed by an underground source that Elfwine could not identify.

Another room held a pool of cold water sluiced in from the Esgalduin, and out again through some piping that traveled back to the river downstream of the keep. In a third room, there was a sauna with a woodstove in it, lined with benches and full of sweet-scented steam. Someone had crushed athelas to add to the water troughs near the stove, and the clean scent went far to mitigate the mineral odor that came from the hot bath.

There were already some few Elves using the rooms, including those of Caranthir’s house, and some of the newly arrived riders of Nimloth.

Orvanis was soaking in the hot pool with more of Caranthir’s household, and Caranthir and Elfwine joined them.

Elfwine noticed that Orvanis looked happier than he’d ever seen her, eyes half-closed, water up to her chin. “Why can’t we have this at Helevorn, lord?” she asked.

“No hot springs,” Caranthir answered. “But I’ll get my brother to draw up some type of machinery to emulate it. I imagine the water can be heated like it is in Gondolin, only we’d need a quantity more of it.”

A woman bathing near them with short-cropped silver hair turned her head when she saw them, and stood to walk over to Elfwine, leaning down to peer at him over a nose both long and crooked.

“What have we here?” she asked, in Sindarin. “You have the look of a Nandor about you, but also something I can’t quite put my finger on. You do remind me of my sons, a bit.”

Elfwine was used to the practicalities of living with shieldmaidens, and kept his eyes respectfully away from her body. He could tell, however, that she had a warrior’s frame. He noticed a scar cleaving her chest in a precise line over the heart and down to her stomach, one that looked to be the kind of scar that would kill a Man, or take even an Elf a while to heal. Elfwine wondered if it was her body’s memory of a killing blow.

“Well met,” Elfwine said in matching Sindarin, and then paused. Should he conceal his identity so as not to expose Fëanor’s pathway, or was the time for that past? He met Caranthir’s eyes, and Caranthir shrugged.

“Queen Nimloth, I present to you Elfwine son of King Éomer, of Middle-earth. He was sended to us by Ulmo, and he is the singer of whom father spoke.” Caranthir’s Sindarin dialect was a little archaic, but comprehensible. “I was about to name you Edain alone, Elfwine – but Nimloth has the right of it, you are also Nandor, from Nimrodel’s people.”

Nimloth leaned closer and closer to stare at him, and Elfwine leaned back, and back, and back…until he overbalanced and splashed down into the water. Rising and spluttering, he heard Carathir and Orvanis laugh.

“Are you a Peredhel, then?” Nimloth indicated the ears.

“Ah!” Elfwine hummed the song that Maedhros had set upon him, and his ears returned to normal.

“Oh,” Nimloth said in astonishment, looking charmed. “May I touch one? I have rarely seen ears like this. Not since meeting Beren, really. Dior and our children looked very much like the rest of us. I suppose there is Tuor, of course, but he is mostly a sea lion these days.”

Elfwine’s eyebrows must have drawn together in distress, because Caranthir caught her hand as it rose to touch his ears.

“Lady,” Caranthir said, “I know more of Edain than you do, and a young Man of this age will be ill at ease if you touch his ears in a bath.”

Blushing bright red at the laughter that followed, Elfwine sank into the water again. Elves, he decided, were a plague upon Men.

~

That night’s dinner was an informal one, coupled with a strategy meeting. After everyone’s appetites had been slaked on the stores of Calissir, buffered by the supply brought in by Nimloth, Fëanor stood, and greeted everyone in Sindarin: “Well met, my friends!”

“We are speaking this accent out of thanks to our guests,” Caranthir said in a quiet aside to Elfwine. “And if you know your history, you’ll know that this is a very large concession from my father. He is grateful to Queen Nimloth, you know, despite the whole…” Caranthir gestured vaguely.

Elfwine caught the gist of it and nodded.

Fëanor cleared his throat, and continued in that language. “Tomorrow, we shall form a ring around Calissir, on both sides of the Esgalduin. The theory of our campaign is this: just as Eru Illúvatar sang a final correction to the song of Morgoth, and set beauty into it that brought light to the darkness, so will we first sing the song of the wolves as they are – discordant and all.

“Then, at Nimloth’s signal, half of us will sing a harmony around it to call it back toward the one great music. My son Celegorm shall sustain the song of the wolves, and Nimloth shall weave the harmony, for she knows how it should sound for the wolves of her domain.”

The company assented to this plan, and Nimloth stood as Fëanor returned to his seat. “I shall teach it to you now, people of Fëanor, people of Doriath reborn! This song I had from Melian the Maia, as she sang her girdle into renewal each Spring. She sang the wolves their correct song, and from it we shall wrest this discord back to harmony.”

Nimloth shut her eyes, calling back the music out of long memory. And then she began to sing, and caught in the music, Elfwine fell into the thrall of her words. He did not understand the language, which was different yet from anything he had heard – but he saw their meaning in his mind as if he was in a dream.

Soft light filtered through trees taller and older than Elves. They stood like a rich canopy, giving air and shelter to the world above and below. Life twined with them, insects to eat the leaves, birds to eat the insects, wolves to eat the birds, Elves to balance the power of the land with their careful hands. And then there was the Maia, Melian, dancing the thrum of all of life there was, her hair a mantle of darkness, her eyes the brightness of stars, her feet bringing the harmony of eating and being eaten, living and dying, growing and changing, while yet she remained.

At the end of the song, Elfwine felt wetness on his cheeks. He wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, and saw that Caranthir was gazing at him with some sympathy. “The songs of the maia are powerful, and not listened to lightly. But we will be with you tomorrow during the singing, and make sure that you are not lost in it.”

Chapter End Notes

• Bunn’s Nimloth is one of my favorite fictional Elves, ever.

The next day, the combined companies of Fëanor and Nimloth set fires around the keep, and archers above, to make sure that the wolves kept their distance. The wolves were already lurking in the forest, just out of sight behind trees and in bracket. Elfwine could feel their menace and their ferocity, waiting for their prey to show any sign of weakness.

He stood with Amrod and Amras on the west side of the river, bow strung and at ready. He was to sing the part of the wolves with Fëanor’s sons – a difficult singing, for it involved discordance. But he was full of the energy that always took him before battle, and his voice was rested.

Nimloth and Celegorm came and took their places with the rest. Taking a deep breath, Celegorm raised his voice in a long note that began softly and ended in a rising howl. Alongside him, others began to take up the cry, and soon Elfwine began too. He raised his voice with the others, and soon they were all a pack together, singing wordlessly for blood.

The music met the cries of the wolves as they recognized their own song, and Elfwine felt the darkness of their voices flooding the melody. Beyond the beautiful and brutal song of hunting, and eating, and hunting again, there was something else – a drive toward destruction that delighted in the savagery of it, of tearing and rending for its own sake.

He caught the edge of it in a wolf’s howl, and tried to sing it himself. After a moment of concentration, it was inside of him. He ached with it for a long moment until he began to understand – the desire to rend, to draw his sword and fight for the sheer love of destruction, with no heed of the consequences.

His fingers twitched for his sword, and for a moment he let the song possess him and pulled his sword half out of its sheath – the sheer, heady exultance that would end in blood. Elfwine’s voice rang forth all the louder; singing, he would burn a path through the forest, death behind him.

But voices steadied him on either side, and a hand gripped his arm, ceasing his motion.

Amrod and Amras, singing soft notes beside him, opened their minds to him. They showed him how to step into a place beyond the music and observe, as if from behind a glass, the movements of the song. Comprehend, contain, wait for the healing, they said. And, struggling with himself, Elfwine pushed his sword slowly back into the sheath.

It was a hard battle, to sing for the wolf and yet not succumb to the longing to join them – and through the morning, it became Elfwine’s sole focus. He sang, and struggled, and kept the hand on the hilt of his sword from drawing it.

As the day drew toward noon, Elfwine realized that his singing was getting easier. Around him, the voices surrounding the keep were joined by others – and for a while they all sang together. But then he felt it inside of the wolf’s song, and inside of his own part in it: a refocusing, a shifting, an acknowledgement and gentle guidance.

And soon, in the part of his mind that was open to the Elves around him, it was as if he saw someone dancing in the woods. A maiden made of the shift of wind on branches, the fall of a leaf, the shifting of the dappled shade – and she was dancing with the wolves, coaxing them from their savage mood, showing them the path home.

Soon the wolves began to change their song, and the Elves with it: they sang of long shadows and quiet dells of Neldoreth, the smell of the wind in the lowlands, the nights spent watching the moon wend through the trees, the comfort of the pack. The wolves wanted to be in their own woods. And quietly, in pairs and in small packs, they went. South, down the banks of the Esgalduin, toward home.

As the day wore on, the music seemed to soften, as if they sang the sun down toward the horizon. Looking out into woods, even the trees seemed oddly alive and waiting, as if dancing in the great music of the Ese that the Elves had woven together.

~

The company returned at sundown, where Nerdanel was waiting for them with cauldrons full of her throat cordial. Elfwine took a long draught of it, feeling the warm honey mead and mint and miruvöré heal him.

Celegorm looking tired, but Nimloth glowing. “Oh, I haven’t heard that kind of music in an age – several ages!” she said to Nerdanel. “It was grand! I saw the very trees waking up and looking about, as if Melian herself had returned to them.”

“And we all took care of the wolves,” Celegorm added dryly. “We reminded them of their part in the music and they took themselves away, back south, into Neldoreth.”

Nerdanel looked at Celegorm then, and Elfwine caught the light of pride in her eyes. “Well done Nimloth, and well done, my son!”

They shared an affectionate look with each other, and Elfwine, watching, felt a pang in his heart. How did his mother Lothíriel fare? He missed her.

~

The next day, the folk of the keep prepared for a feast. Nerdanel took on the mantle of command, and soon organized everyone present to assist.

The people of Nimloth were sent to forage for vegetables in the woods and fields – this proved to be fruitful, for the game that ate the berries and tender greens had been killed, or driven away, by the wolves.

Elfwine was put to work with the hunters, and rode out in a party of Celegorm, Amrod, Amras, and Caranthir to gather what game they could. They concentrated on winged game, leaving the depleted kine to grow in number before any more thinning of their herds.

“It will be some time before venison returns to the table here,” Caranthir said. “I’ll send mother a store of dried meat for the winter.”

The partridge, turkey, and duck from the hunters were stuffed with herbs and spitted, tubers were baked and mashed with dill and pan drippings, and the beets and mushrooms and carrots and turnips were roasted into a wonderfully sweet-savory medley. Nerdanel made a confection of ground almonds that had all of her sons hovering near the ovens until she threatened them with washing pans, and soon everything was ready.

“We found you better raiment,” Amrod said, arriving at Elfwine’s rooms before dinner with a set of clothing.

“Caranthir wanted to dress you like a Nolofinwëan again, but we decided not to. We’ve gone through Amil’s closet to find things that might fit you. We thought that in honor of the night, we’d dress you in silver,” Amras said, laying things upon the bed.

Elfwine complied, and soon wore a flowing robe of silver embroidered in green at the sleeves and neck. It was Nerdanel’s, but because of the width of her stonecutter’s shoulders and arms, and the strength of her torso, it fit him well.

“I was correct,” Amras said gleefully. “We’ll take more from her closet for the rest of your wardrobe, no need to wear Fingon’s castoffs.”

“Do I need more clothing?” Elfwine asked, as they tended to his hair. “When I arrive in Gondolin and your father finds the equation he needs, will I not be sent back home?”

“He is not remembering his tales,” Amrod said to Amras. “Elfwine, when Men are touched by the Valar, they generally have a suitable wardrobe provided to them to perform their task, even if it is entirely ornamental.”

When they were done with Elfwine’s braids, leaving most of his hair down, they set a glimmering circlet upon his brow, silver set with green gems. “Ah, this looks especially interesting next to those strange ears of yours,” Amras said, poking at the curve of one with his finger.

“I’d better make them look more fitting,” Elfwine said, batting away Amras’s hand and humming the points back into being. It was surpassing strange to be an object of interest because of something quite ordinary.

And then, looking in the mirror, Elfwine saw that he looked like an Elven lord indeed; in his eyes was the smallest glimmer of white fire, set off by the silver in his hair and his raiment. He frowned at himself.

Amrod, watching, smiled. “You cannot join in the great songs without having a trace of them left within you,” he said.

But Elfwine felt strange, a person of two worlds, unable to fully settle in any.

~

In Calissir’s great hall, before the Elves gathered for the feast, they gave Elfwine a better sword.

“Our plight would have been grievous indeed if not for Elfwine Vandameldo,” Nerdanel said to the gathered throng. “He brought timely aid when we were besieged, and importantly, reminded us that some ancient evils are better persuaded than slain.”

Fëanor rose then, and took up a sheathed sword from a table, and gave it to Elfwine. “We do not swear oaths in this house any longer, but we shall not forget your part in our tale. And while you remain with us, we shall do all we can to aid you.”

Elfwine unsheathed the sword and gazed at it in wonder. It was masterfully made, and fit his height and grip perfectly.

“It will do, given the time I had to forge it,” Fëanor said. “But here it is. I named it Naurmacil, the Wolf-blade, after our battle, but you may find other names for it as you use it.”

Elfwine stared at the runes etched upon the sides of the blade. In Quenya, they read on one side, “Oath-friend of the House of Fëanor” and on the other, “I shall not battle alone.”

“I have not tried imbuing a blade with this sort of power before, so it is rather an experiment,” Fëanor said. “But it should bring aid to you of some kind or another if you ever find yourself in a tight spot. It might even serve to support your singing, if an Elf of power is not there to sing with you.”

Maedhros glanced sharply at his father and looked at the blade, inspecting it for a long moment. “Hmm. Well, I see no darkness bound up with this blade, nor anything that might turn the power of it amiss. But father, if you find yourself suddenly in Middle-earth surrounded by orcs, it will be very hard to fetch you back again.”

“That might be interesting,” Fëanor said, eyes alight, and Maedhros put his face in his hand.

Elfwine sheathed it. “I will wield it wisely,” he said, and slid the sheath onto the belt at his waist. It sat feather-light upon him, although Naurmacil weighed enough in his hand. He bowed then to the company. “I have learned much from everyone here. Thank you for allowing me a part in the song.”

Fëanor spoke next of his gratefulness to Nimloth and her people, but Elfwine did not much attend to his words, instead stealing glances at his sword and admiring the fine work of it.

In Middle-earth, Naurmacil would be an heirloom of his house. In Edoras, Elfwine would hang it in the great hall of Meduseld, where all could see it and wonder how a blade of the work of Fëanor came to Rohan. He felt tears come to his eyes then, unbidden, and wondered at his own mood.

When the feasting began, Caranthir claimed a seat to one side of him, and Orvanis the other.

“You look perplexed, little rat. What troubles you?” Caranthir asked, pouring him a small glass of Nerdanel’s cordial.

Elfwine drank, feeling it ease the lingering exhaustion in his mind and pain in his throat. “I am no hero to be honored thus, I am simply a Man lucky enough to catch the eye of Garsecgesfréa and come to a place where my memory for singing the long tales matters. When I return home, I will once again be a beginning shipwright and reluctant prince.”

Caranthir shrugged philosophically. “By that same chance I was born to Fëanor, for good or ill, in a time when my skills were needed,” he said. “Still, you did your part once you were here, when you could have refused to aid us, or had not the necessary skill, and that speaks to your character.”

“But now is not the time to dwell on these things. You are called to feast, and revel, and enjoy,” Orvanis said. “And if we can’t do that when the time is right, what is the point of all this fighting?”

“I suppose,” said Elfwine, smiling at them.

“Soon there will be music, and that, perhaps, will ease your heart,” Caranthir said. “Although my brother Maglor is the best musician out of all of us, Amrod and Amras have their own kind of skill.”

After feasting, the tables were cleared, and the room was made ready for music and dance. A small group of Elves gathered with instruments on one side of the hall, and Amrod and Amras stood before them. Then, Elfwine was treated to a rare performance – the brothers sang, in twined harmony, a part of the history of the land.

Their voices rose and fell to the sound of harp and pipe, and before Elfwine’s eyes spread the history of Beleriand during the years of the long leaguer. They dwelt upon great hunts and swift rides across the countryside, upon their friendship with the House of Bëor in Estolad, and the joy they found in these Secondborn. Elfwine felt they were singing of Bëor for his sake, and his heart felt full.

They ended their song during these peaceful years, and perhaps it was well, given all that came after. But Elfwine sprang to his feet and applauded, and felt a wild urge to throw himself upon a horse and ride out into that wild land, looking for adventure, for an army to join, for a dark lord to overthrow.

Orvanis laughed at him. “I think that means it is time for dancing,” she said.

The folk of Nimloth took up their instruments, and an energetic music of flute and drum followed. Elfwine found himself caught up in a long line of dancers weaving in circles around the hall, feet stamping and hands clapping in time to the beat. He did not know how long he danced, shouting and turning and weaving, until finally he stumbled into the person before him.

Orvanis caught him. “Careful, now,” she said, and then pulled him out of the throng. He noticed, after a moment, that the sky outside the keep was touched with the light of dawn. “It is time that children of Men go to rest, especially one who is still recovering!”

Elfwine thought about protesting, but then yawned, and rubbed his eyes sheepishly. “You were right, Orvanis. I was thinking overmuch.”

“I know,” she said, and pulled him away to his room.

The night of music and dancing had been glorious, but when Elfwine’s head met the pillow, he fell immediately into slumber.

The next day, the folk of Nimloth departed, with many promises given on both sides to meet again – and Fëanor declared the woods free of wolves, and safe enough that he felt it was time to continue on. “And now we go to meet your fate in Gondolin, Elfwine. Will you join us, son?”

Maedhros shook his head. “Elfwine Vandameldo carries strong companions with him. I no longer fear for his safety.”

And so it was decided that only Elfwine and Fëanor would travel to Gondolin. They prepared for the journey, and Elfwine songs that would hasten their feet. He finally remembered a walking song that Holdwine passed along to him, written by his friend Bilbo. Speaking of whom…Bilbo and Frodo had journeyed to the west, had they not?

At dinner that night, Elfwine asked that question of the company. “I know that before I was born, Bilbo and Frodo journeyed to Sindreám, your Elvenhome. Did they ever find that shore?”

Fëanor and Nerdanel exchanged glances, communing together silently for a moment. Finally, Nerdanel spoke. “Frodo has passed away, but Bilbo remains – time has lain lightly upon him, and he finds he has much still to discover and learn, exploring Valinor. He has visited this realm as well.”

For a moment Elfwine was caught in a strange yearning. In truth, he felt more at peace here than he ever had in Middle-earth. Could he not simply stay?

Elfwine thought of Théodred’s salute to him, one heir of the Riddermark to another, and sighed.

After the meal, the family pressed more gifts upon him. Maedhros gave him back his blue tunic with the swan of Dol Amroth, laundered and carefully mended by his own hand. “Wear this upon your journey,” he said. “It brought you luck before, I deem, and will bring it again. At the very least, it placed the eye of Ulmo upon you.”

“And here are better clothes than that from Amil’s closet,” Amras said, giving him a bag packed carefully with several garments. “Take them back to Middle-earth with you, in memory of your time as an Elven prince!”

Nerdanel handed him a satchel with the smell of something warm and spicy within.

“Is it Lembas?” Elfwine asked, breaking off a corner. Wrapped in thin linen, the piece tasted of almond and honey, cardamom and pepper, and filled him with an energy that he felt would sustain him for days.

Nerdanel looked affronted. “Of course not! That is the recipe of the House of Finarfin. My own waybread is far better in flavor, I assure you.”

Elfwine embraced her in thanks.

From Celegorm he received finely fletched arrows for his quiver, and from Caranthir, a rolled scroll. “This is my telling of our journey from Helevorn to Calissir, a record of your vow to us and your battle with the wolves. May it aid you in memory, lest you forget, as little rats might.”

For that gift, Elfwine embraced him, and kissed his cheeks. “Thank you, Prince Rat. You have taught me that you can indeed be a rat and an Elven prince, both.”

Caranthir cuffed his arm, and then gripped his shoulder. “Come back, somehow. Come back, Oath-friend, if you can,” he said.

~

Orvanis came to the courtyard early the next morning to see them off. She took his hand and said nothing.

“What is it?” Elfwine said, clasping her hand in return.

“I am not used to people that disappear forever when my eyes are no longer on them,” she said, and sighed. “I will have more in common now with Lord Caranthir than I like, I deem. I will miss you, little one!”

Elfwine flushed then, but leaned down to kiss her scarred cheek. “Maybe we will ride together again, someday. Stranger things have happened in these worlds.”

“I would like that,” she said, and smiled a little at their parting.

~

They rode west away from Calissir and the Esgalduin, skirting the tall mountains that bordered the south of the highlands, and finally to the upper mouth of the Pass of Anach. Along the journey, which they took at an easy pace, Fëanor taught Elfwine some of the rudimentary steps of harnessing his ability.

Elfwine, in turn, shifted their speech to Sindarin, to give Fëanor more practice at the modern dialect.

“We know that you can sing, and if a song of power is near you, you join it. But to harness power with your own song, alone, you must first learn to listen to the land,” Fëanor said. “The land is always humming to us. That is why when you come across Elves sitting perfectly still and staring out at nothing at all, they are actually hearing the news of the day from a nearby stand of trees.”

“So Elves are like cats,” Elfwine said, and avoided the sidewise smack to the arm.

But he rode, and listened, and for many hours heard nothing at all. It was not until that evening, sitting by their campfire, that Elfwine finally heard the inkling of something interesting.

“Every so often it feels like the wind, the birds, the trees, the insects, the fire, are all saying something,” Elfwine said, after concentrating hard to hear something - anything - outside of the usual. “They have their own usual sounds, but together it feels like a greater meaning.”

“That’s the start,” Fëanor said. “Keep at it. What are they all saying?”

Elfwine concentrated a little more. “Nothing,” he said, dismally. And then he sat up a little – he heard a bird sing in the bough of a tree, and the limbs shook around her. “Rain?”

“Yes, the trees have raised their arms to the skies, can you hear it?” Fëanor said. “Tomorrow we will hum a little tune to keep us – and Súretal and Sailatári – dry.”

After another day of travel, Elfwine could hear more of it, and caught himself one day sitting perfectly still as they were striking camp, trying to puzzle out what the crickets meant by chittering to each other about a very great bird shadow that kept falling over them. He looked up, but saw nothing.

“Ah – yes, they keep speaking of an eagle, but we are near enough to the mountains of Crissaegrim where they make their nests that it could mean they were simply out hunting,” Fëanor said.

At the top of the Pass of Anach, Elfwine looked down to see their path wind between the slopes of Ered Gorgoroth on the East, and the steep faces of the Echoriad on the west. The landscape was vast, and he felt just like the crickets did when they felt the shadow pass over them. A chill touched his skin, and he felt something move within him – love, for this vast and beautiful land, graven deep by its history and Elf magic.

“It is wonderful, is it not,” Fëanor said with just a touch of satisfaction. “It took some doing from even the Elves to return everything to its proper place, after it was drowned. And now it’s all humming along with its own music, creating life and joy and change again, as it was meant to all along.”

Elfwine contemplated that silently for a moment, and then said, “Was it difficult to convince the Valar to raise this land for you?”

The story of that endeavor took them through to their night’s camp.

On the last day of their journey, Fëanor was teaching Elfwine a song that would reveal his path to a destination when they were greeted by an Elf leaping down from a rock to the side of their horses.

Súretal came to a halt and swished her tail inquiringly.

“Hail to the High King!” The Elf said in Sindarin, and bowed. She was clad in grey, and seemed smaller than the Noldor and Sindar that Elfwine had met. “I am Ahti of the Penni people; we dwell now in the Anach and its hills. If you are going into Gondolin, I have leave to tell you that those that live therein have cleared an eastward tunnel. You no longer must travel south.”

“Oh, thank you,” Fëanor said. “Well-met.” And then he said something carefully in a dialect that Elfwine did not know, but it brought a great smile to Ahti’s face.

Ahti responded in kind, and said, “I shall show you and your companion to the entrance. If you come in this way, you will not get to see the seven gates, however.”

“Ah, we’ll see them a different day, I imagine,” Fëanor said.

“They are still quarrying the road and it is rough, I must warn you. But passable.”

~

Elfwine felt the strange power move within him the moment they stepped out of the passageway and onto the Eastern side of the field of Tumladen. Fëanor glanced over at him and quirked an eyebrow. “I did wonder what would happen when we got here,” Fëanor said.

And, as if in answer, Elfwine felt himself puppeted again – his hands rose high and he spoke strange words that scratched his throat. A mighty wind rose up over the field, circling once around the great white city, and then fell to rest. Afterwards, Elfwine collapsed forward, holding Súretal’s mane and panting.

“I do not envy you, Vandameldo,” Fëanor said, his brow beetling. “But we might have a greeting party now, from the few who live here whom you have alerted.”

“Those moments are surpassing strange,” Elfwine admitted. “They exhaust me. I wonder how Tuor felt?”

And indeed, when they had ridden past half of the great field surrounding the Amon Gwareth, they espied a party of riders coming toward them, dressed in the livery of the city.

“That’s odd,” Fëanor said, watching them. “Those are Gondolindrim, and not the few who decided to return with me. In fact, that one who rides out in front is Ecthelion, if my memory serves me.”

“Ecthelion who slew the Balrog Gothmog?” Elfwine asked, eyes alight, but Fëanor shuddered.

“Balrogs,” Fëanor said, “Do not give an easy or clean death. One of them left me barely alive, after a flaying with a whip of fire. I do not recommend it, and I am quite glad that Ecthelion slew one.”

When the party from the great white city drew near, they paused and waited for Fëanor and Elfwine to ride up to them. Then, one of the company blew a horn, and said in a mighty voice, “Hail to the High King!” in Sindarin. And the group clasped their fist to their breasts as they bowed.

“Gondolindrim,” Fëanor muttered, but bowed his head in turn to them. He shifted his language to theirs. “Glad I am to see you. I have an errand here in your library, and hope you can escort me there swiftly.”

“Library?” Ecthelion asked, riding forward. Elfwine could not help his staring. Ecthelion looked as mighty as the tales told, scarred and broad and thick of thew, with his Noldor-dark hair flowing unbound around his silver tunic. He was well-mannered, however, and his voice soft. “You did receive the message we sent? We sent an eagle out after you a day or two ago.”

“Ah,” Fëanor said. “If the eagle went to Calissir, I was already on my way here. What news do you send us, Ecthelion of the Fountain, slayer of Gothmog?”

“Well,” Said Ecthelion, sitting back on his horse. “That explains how you arrived here first! The message was to invite you for our ceremony of welcome. King Turgon is on his way to our city, and we make ready for him. He should be here in several days’ time with a retinue of all our folk, returned to dwell here awhile. He also rides with Elenwë, who has never set foot in Beleriand. We shall have a parade when he arrives, and a banquet.”

“Ah,” said Fëanor, and then looked sideways at Elfwine. “Much becomes clear. Well – we shall take part in your ceremony, although it may be in a way no one will expect.”

Elfwine drew a breath, waiting for the Ese to move through him again to explain things – but when he did not, Elfwine shrugged and bowed. “Glad I am to meet a hero of old,” he said. “I am Elfwine, called Vandameldo, son of Éomer King of the Riddermark, and the High King has allowed me to journey with him to your city.”

Ecthelion raised an eyebrow and looked Elfwine over once again – from his blue swan-crested tunic to his ears, which were puzzlingly pointed. “Well,” he said again, clearly perplexed. “Welcome. I see there is more to this tale, but come. I will show you to your rooms, and then to the library, as you ask.”

~

Elfwine had grown up in the wooden and gold-thatched hall of Meduseld, and he loved his home greatly. But his first steps into Minas Tirith had broken his mind open with wonder, and he was glad he had his cousin Elboron at his side when he journeyed there.

“Cease gaping, they will think us uncouth,” Elboron whispered to him, elbowing him sharply as they climbed through the grey stonework and encircling streets that led up to King Aragorn’s citadel at the top of the city’s seven circles.

And even as Minas Tirith dwarfed Meduseld in splendor, so did Gondolin dwarf Minas Tirith. It reminded Elfwine of a tale Lothíriel told him as a child – of the two great trees of Aman, and how all the other great trees of Middle-earth were lesser children of these.

Elfwine had heard that Gondolin was built to look like Tirion upon Túna in Aman, and felt the stirrings of a compulsion to see the original himself. As they passed through the south gate into the city, the urge caught him unawares – so like the sea-longing he’d grown up with that he gritted his teeth. So many thoughts swirled in his head that he found it hard to slow them. Tirion is a place I will never visit, he said to himself. Content yourself that you are somehow, beyond all hope, here!

The street leading into the city was wide, paved in stone with marble kerbs. Bright gardens were everywhere, in front of fair stone houses that had just begun to stir with activity. Elves bustled to and fro about the streets as they readied the city for the entry of their kindred.

Amid the houses were squares that held fountains descending with a tinkling music, and above all of the courtyards and houses and gardens and fountains, the slender white spires of towers rose high. Elfwine wanted to pause and look at everything – every carved face in the white marble, every fountain, every flower, every tree.

Elfwine felt tears rise in his eyes, and verse came to him then. He raised his voice and sang it to the trees, and felt the glad welcome of the city as it accepted his song.

For there the fount immortal flows:
Its water white leaps down the hill,
By silver stairs it singing goes
To the field of the unfading rose…

Fëanor smiled at him, feeling Elfwine’s song twining in with the rest, but then he noticed the tears.

“Are you well, Elfwine?”

“I am overwhelmed, I think. It is fair here, surpassing fair, and I know not where to look first. I grieve that I cannot stay, I think, until the city sits in my memory unfaded until I myself pass away.”

“Ahh.” Fëanor’s face mirrored Elfwine’s sorrow for a moment. “I have known very few Secondborn. And so it must be to you, that time is short, and rushing past, and there is little of it to fill with what you love. It must be a thing of great frustration for you – and it pains me that our own journey together will be short, and end before I have truly taught you anything! Or learned much of anything from you, for that matter.”

Elfwine wiped his sleeve over his eyes and smiled, then. “Orvanis said, ‘You are called to feast, and revel, and enjoy, and if you can’t do that when the time is right, what is the point?’ And here I am in the most beautiful city that I have ever seen, and I am weeping.”

They passed through a square full of market stalls and shops – there was a bit of singing from the Elves there, as stalls were resurrected from memory, and then filled with goods that the citizens might need. Shortly past that, they dismounted from their horses, and Ecthelion had some of his people lead them to a stable with a penant above it marked by a blue fountain.

“You will be staying with me, at the House of the Fountain, until the King’s household makes his quarters ready,” Ecthelion said.

Within, the house had fountains a-plenty, with open colonnades encircling courtyards graced by them. Their rooms were on the west side of the house looking out upon the street they had ridden on – the Way of Running Water, Ecthelion named it.

Once they had settled into their chambers, Elfwine took a deep breath and changed into a set of Nerdanel’s robes. He wove silver into his braids, and set a circlet upon his head, and felt a reluctant but growing delight that he might pass for a citizen of that place.

Ecthelion gave him another curious glance as he led them toward the library, but Elfwine simply smiled at him, and did not share his tale. He sensed that the time was not right to reveal it, not before the King entered the city again.

~

In the days before the return of the Gondolindrim to their city, Fëanor spent the majority of his hours in the building that housed the library on one side of the Square of the King. Elfwine, at liberty, felt himself free to wander – and wander he did, unremarkable in his Elf guise. His growing love for the fair courtyards and streets and alleys of Gondolin settled within him like water in a parched man.

Elfwine’s favorite place to walk was along the Alley of Roses – a path that led northward from the Square of the King, wide enough for two to walk abreast beneath tall marble trellises of vines. In the spring, Elfwine imagined, they would hold roses of delicate scent and beauty, but for now the greenery shaded him from the summer sun on the path that led northward to a high, circular courtyard.

This square, Ecthelion told him, was where Tuor and Idril wed – the Place of the Gods. It held a rotunda surrounded by tall white birch trees with silver leaves shimmering in the wind, and a white pavilion overlooking the southern slope of the high-spired city. Here, Elfwine sat late into the day, looking out across the towers and fountains and squares, and listening to the awakening music of the place. Sometimes, he sang his own verses within the greater music.

There elven-lights still gleaming lie
On grass more green than in gardens here,
On trees more tall that touch the sky
With swinging leaves of silver clear.

It was his paeon and his farewell all in one, he sang it hoping to remember the smell of the clear air, the warmth of the flagstones at his feet, and the beauty of the rose vines that encircled the Place of the Gods in their high trellises.

Elfwine wondered if the roses were white to match the city, or pale gold, or a deep, blood red. He wanted to lie there beneath the trellises through autumn and winter, until spring blessed him again with their scent, and their petals fell around his face in soft afternoon light.

At dinner one night in Ecthelion’s dwelling, Fëanor glanced at him sharply. “Elfwine,” he said, “Can you sing your ears back to Man-shape again?”

Surprised, Elfwine did so.

“I am relieved,” Fëanor said. “You were beginning to lose some of your Mannish look, although you had little of it to begin with. I was just making sure you are still a Man. You have a very Elvish light in your eyes, now.”

“I do?” Elfwine put down his knife. He’d just been thinking about visiting the north side of the city the next day, and seeing Idril’s tunnel.

“Perhaps you’d best come join me in the library tomorrow,” Fëanor said. “I am not sure that I trust this city to let go of you when the time comes. And…maybe wear your Middle-earth clothing again.”

Chapter End Notes

• An excellent human compiled a well-researched description of Gondolin. All the names of streets and squares and stuff are from JRRT, with the exception of one -- there's no named road that runs East-West, so I had to make one.

Elfwine took his restriction philosophically; the library was a comfortable and well-appointed place. Elfwine soon lost himself in a book about the crossing of the Helcaraxe, the likes of which the librarians at Minas Tirith would have given a fortune to possess. Here, too, were treasures – and Fëanor’s predatory look toward some of the books indicated that the collection was fine indeed.

At the stroke of noon, Elfwine looked up from his book of lore when he heard the first horn sounding. He turned to glance out the window of the high tower of the library.

Far, far below Elfwine, the vanguard of a procession began to enter the Tumladen from the south gate, marching across the great field toward the city. The desire took him, strong and pure, to race down and shout with the people moving toward the gate to greet them, to cheer for the mighty company as it came.

He turned to Fëanor, who was lost in a tome of mathematics so brittle it still gave off the smell of the sea, and said, “Fëanor, they are here. Whose heraldry is a square field of snow, charged with a sun and moon and heart in their proper colors?”

Fëanor blinked up. “Eh? Ah! We’d best go, then. I wonder why Ecthelion did not send for us? He must have been caught up in one concern or another. That is the livery of my nephew Turukáno, King Turgon the Wise, come to look upon his realm of old. I wonder if he will find it as unnerving as I find the Ered Wethrin?”

“But quickly!” Fëanor stepped over to the table and scanned it, selecting a few books to slide into his pack. “Elfwine, replace the rest, would you? They come from the section of the library behind that barred door, inside of the locked chest. You can set the lock and bar, but hurry. We will join Ecthelion and greet Turukáno at the south stair.”

~

They raced together down the Way of Running Water until they got to the stables of the House of the Fountain, wherein grey Sailatári stood snorting beside Súretal. They led their horses out, mounted, and Fëanor’s expression was gleeful as they rode through the city and down the slope to take their place near Ecthelion.

Cooks and cartiers, bakers and washers, smiths and wheelwrights and grooms greeted Fëanor with glad shouts as he rode down to them on the long slope that led from the city. Fëanor waved to them all, nodding at the people exclaiming in surprise.

“Greetings, people of the House of Fingolfin!” Fëanor said. “Glad I am to see you here in our realm of Beleriand.”

The rumor of Fëanor’s arrival was lost in the great song of Turgon’s host as the rearmost part of it passed finally through the Gate of Steel, and they assembled in companies upon the greensward of the Tumladen.

And lo, even as Elfwine sat beside Fëanor watching the swell of riders take the field, he saw the companies halt, save for the captains of the gates and eleven of the lords of the twelve houses who came riding forward toward them clad in the livery of their domains. The twelfth lord, Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain, stood before the upward slope of the road to greet them.

Ecthelion raised his hand and the singing ceased. “Welcome, King Turgon, Queen Elenwë, and all the noble denizens of this land, to thy city of the singing waters!”

The company of the king rode down the center of the field. Tall was Turgon, and taller still in his high-brimmed helm set about with glittering diamonds, and Turgon’s expression was both grave and wondering as he looked again upon his white city – no longer his tomb – renewed beneath the sun.

The company parted then to allow a tall Man in ancient armor to ride forward to greet him – surely, Elfwine thought to himself with a rising excitement, surely it was Tuor. Elfwine wondered if he wore the very livery of Nevrast in which he had delivered his original message from Ulmo: the device was a white swan on a field of blue.

There, in the middle of the field, Tuor bowed to Turgon, and cried, “Beyond hope and beyond death we look upon thy fair city once more, King of Gondolin! A new star has risen, and the Doom of Mandos is fulfilled!”

And as one, the host shouted “Fulfilled!” in a great voice, and caught up in the moment, Elfwine cheered along with them, unsheathing Naurmacil to let it shine in the sun.

But before the cheering ended, Fëanor clicked his tongue and urged Sailatári forward into the space between the companies of the guard.

As he rode forward, Fëanor called – “King Turgon and Queen Elenwë, and all the people of the Noldor journeying far from Aman – I bid you welcome again to Beleriand!”

Elfwine spurred Súretal forward to join him. Riding between the long rows of knights toward the king, Elfwine wished he was wearing the full livery of Rohan, or the princely garments given to him by Amrod and Amras, to be fit for this glittering company – but he was in his blue tunic of Dol Amroth with the swan upon it, and he straightened his back and tossed his hair, feeling the blood rush to his face as he rode at Fëanor’s right.

And there, as they finally reached the king’s company, Elfwine felt the slow rush of blood in his body rise to a fever pitch. He felt the Ese clamber into him, and he thought to himself, Ah! Finally I will see what I have come for.

In the middle of the field of Tumladen, before Turgon and Fëanor and Tuor and all of the people of Gondolin, he raised a mighty voice to speak over the host.

“Turgon! On the hour of thy return to this city, I lay a gease upon thee: many were slain because thou didst love overmuch the work of thy hands. Not until the histories of those who fell to protect thy city is gathered, canst thou depart from this place. Dwell here, Turgon, until thou learnst that a city is naught but the lives of its citizens!”

A hush fell over all assembled as they stared at him, astonished. Panting, Elfwine felt the dizziness of the god departing his body, his limbs prickling as if waking from sleep.

And then the presence of the Ese left Elfwine entirely, and he fought dizziness by gripping Súretal’s mane. But before he could fall, Tuor rode up to him and held his shoulder to keep him in place.

“My brother,” Tuor said, expression touched with wonder and understanding, “I always misliked that after-feeling. Take a few deep breaths.”

“I wondered if we felt the same,” said Elfwine, staring at Tuor. He could not formulate words yet to explain how he felt meeting this ancient hero. And yet, Tuor looked to be in the strength of his years, like King Aragorn at home. “How is it that you not in the halls of your ancestors?”

“How came you here?” Tuor asked in return. “How is it that Ulmo found you – did you stray too near the shore?”

“My ship was sinking,” Elfwine began, but then the king raised his hand.

“Silence,” Turgon said, letting out a long breath, his face grave. “I will hear more of your tale later. You have somewhat changed the itinerary of my journey.”

Leaning against Tuor’s arm, Elfwine bowed his head.

“No wonder Ulmo made you forget his words,” Fëanor said. “Neither one of us would have come, had we known what sort of doom we were laying upon you, nephew! It is good to see you anyway. I was in your city to make use of your fine library, and did not realize you’d be here until we met Ecthelion halfway over the Tumladen.”

“If you were here, that explains why you didn’t receive my invitation,” Turgon said, eyebrow twitching. But then another figure in his company rode out from behind him, and stared at Elfwine.

Elfwine looked back at the Elven version of his own face and finally understood Caranthir’s joke, to put him in Fingon’s clothing. Fingon was taller and sharper of feature, with eyes carrying a depth of experience – centuries of it – that Elfwine lacked. Still, they were close enough in likeness that they could have been kin. Elfwine fought the impulse to hide from the bright eyes behind the mane of Súretal, and instead bowed.

“Uncle?” Fingon asked Fëanor, raising an eyebrow. “What new relation is this?”

“Ah. This is Prince Elfwine of Rohan. No relation, except perhaps very distantly. He is – if you look closely at his ears – a Man.”

“Ulmo brought a Man to Beleriand to do his bidding, again?” Fingon asked. But then Turgon met Elfwine’s gaze, and looked long at him. In Turgon’s wisdom and graveness of expression, Elfwine saw the original stamp of his grandfather Imrahil, and could not help but smile.

“I hear I am of your blood, King Turgon, in some part,” Elfwine said. “My lineage carries the line of Númenor. I am told I hold the likeness of my grandfather, Imrahil of Dol Amroth.”

“I can see this.” Turgon said. “I will be circumspect before all these people who are eager to rediscover their old dwellings – but be welcome, Uncle and…other kin. We shall speak later.”

Turgon rode forward to base of the long slope up to the city, and wheeled his horse so that he faced the murmuring crowds. “My people,” he cried. “I should have forseen that Ulmo, who has ever had an interest in the affairs of Gondolin, is not done with us yet. His command is clear: before you leave, you must tell me your histories. I will have Master Pengolodh arrange times and places and transcribers, and we will collect your accounts in an orderly fashion, as soon as we may. But for now – I bid you, welcome back!”

~

“I will find you later,” Tuor said. “For now, try to find some miruvor, it aided me ever after Ulmo’s visits.” Nodding his head he rode away then, toward the Elven maidens that Elfwine guessed were the Princess Idril and Queen Elenwë.

“Here, Tuor’s advice was sound.” Fëanor pressed some of Nerdanel’s miruvórë into Elfwine’s hands. “Drink.”

In an orderly fashion directed by lords bearing different insignia, each company processed through the gates. Then, some of the throng split off and went their separate ways, to the shouted greetings from the ones who had come before to prepare for them. Last of all came the king’s household, and Fëanor and Elfwine rode alongside some lords that Elfwine guessed were famous names from history.

One lord looked sideways at Elfwine as much as he looked sideways at him, and soon Elfwine was staring at a golden-haired Elf with a confused expression on his face.

“Elfwine?” the Elf said to him, and in the next moment something occurred that Elfwine could not quite understand, it looked as if someone – Elfwine could not tell who – gripped the reigns of the Elf’s horse and directed him around a corner and away. Elfwine tried to glance around the corner to see who might have averted what was surely a moment of recognition, of meeting – but he saw no one.

“Who was that?” Elfwine asked Fëanor. “A blond, tall fellow – very fell, and very old.”

“I can’t see him, but by description, it sounds like Glorfindel to me,” Fëanor said. “Why?”

“He recognized me, and called me by name.”

“Did he know you in Middle-earth?”

“Nay – he came West with the company of the Ring-bearers, before I was born,” Elfwine said.

“Ah, perhaps he received word from Elrohir about you,” Fëanor said, and then glanced sideways. “Hm. Pretend I did not say that.”

Elrohir. But not Elladan? There was much to think on, so Elfwine nodded, and tried to clear his mind as they rode north along the Way of the Running Waters to the Square of the King. The music of the place soothed him – especially the many fountains of the south part of the city, singing sweetly of their pleasure that their maker had returned.

“Ah, the fountains are happy,” Elfwine said to Fëanor. “Hear them? Glad they will be that King Turgon will tarry here awhile.”

“That is an entirely Elvish thing to say, Vandameldo. We need to send you home sooner rather than later,” Fëanor replied, glancing sideways with a troubled look.

Elfwine laughed. It seemed to him as if the fountains were coaxing away any worry he might have had – of strangers who knew his name and then disappeared, of returning home too early or too late, of doing anything but lingering and listening to the beautiful song of the city’s creation. “You taught me to listen,” Elfwine reminded him.

“I did,” Fëanor said, thoughtfully. “Well, no need to worry about it just now.”

Soon Turgon’s household, and the heads of the twelve houses, and the captains of each gate, were in the Square of the King, riding up to the great fountain that sent water shooting upward twenty fathoms to fall in a glittering crystal rain upon the marble stones of its deep base. They dismounted then, and grooms took the horses.

Directed by the captains, they settled back into their companies, and the king walked to each and bowed to their people, in thanks and in praise for their defense of the city. When he paused before the banner of the Mole, he took the head of the house into his arms, kissing his cheeks. “And you especially I welcome, my nephew. May we find peace here together.”

Long was their embrace, and the great fountain sang a song of hope and healing as its water fell in bright droplets around them.

Finally, at Turgon’s signal, a gnarled and bent Entwife strode forth with two saplings in her arms, scions from the white tree Celeborn of Tol Eressëa, and she planted them in the place before the king’s citadel where Glingal and Belthil once melted in dragon fire.

As the Entwife began a deep and rumbling song to bless their planting, Ecthelion raised his hand, and a panoply of horns blew. This sound was taken up across the city, and the glad sound of the return of Gondolin’s people echoed across the Tumladen, and the very mountains rang with the joy of it.

The ceremony of return was complete, and King Turgon entered once again into the tower that he died to defend.

There Ecthelion of the Fountain came to his lord and bowed. “Everything is to schedule, my king. Please take a cup of welcome before dinner.” He signaled to the pages to pass out wine to the throng.

“I need it,” Turgon said, looking around the long hall of his old house with a strange expression on his face.

“You do,” Fëanor agreed somberly. “It is not easy, to return to the place of your death.”

“It is not,” Turgon agreed, glancing upward at the high support beams above them. His face a little pale, he walked deeper into his halls, seemingly lost in memory.

The wine, when Elfwine tasted of it, was tart and bright and good, and he found himself in the company of more Elves than Elfwine had ever seen together in this realm or his own. Gazing around at the company mingling in the king’s hall, he noticed their beauty and power, and his heart ached at the long ages of their decline in Middle-earth.

“All this company sailed West after the fall of Gondolin?” Elfwine asked Fëanor.

“Ah, no,” Fëanor said quietly. “Many of them died. They were still under the Doom back then, and the rest fled to go elsewhere, to various realms –”

“Sirion,” said a voice beside them. An Elf stepped toward them, eyes dark as Fëanor’s, but with hair falling in a silver sheaf from his tidy topknot. Elfwine’s attention was caught by his grace, and just as much by his expression – out of a roomful of elves, this one had the most concentrated curiosity in his eyes.

He regarded Elfwine for a long moment, and Elfwine in turn felt a strange shock run through him. He’d seen this Elf before, somewhere. Was it in Rivendell? Was it an illustration in a book of old tales?

But then, tearing his eyes away, the Elf bowed low to Fëanor. “High King of Beleriand you are, but long before that, you were master of my order, the Lambengolmor. As one of your guild, I bid you welcome!”

Fëanor looked with interest upon the Elf, eyes narrowed for a moment. “I have it! You are Master Pengolodh. Excellent, excellent. We have been in your library, and I must say that the restored collection here is quite thorough. Did you have it shipped in recently, or was it called back out of Song? I have a few volumes that might round out your holdings on hydro-engineering, but I was quite interested to see that you had some Dwarrow works. How came you by those?”

“I won’t have as much time as I thought I would have to set it to rights,” Pengolodh cast Elfwine a glance somewhere between exasperation, wonder, and something else that Elfwine could not name. “And I am rather surprised that…well, I cannot say more. But I do have a few more of those extracted from Gimli Gloinion, when he visited us in Tirion.”

“Gimli –” Elfwine exclaimed, “He is in Aman? That is excellent news, and I must relay this to him and to Legolas when I return home. But of course he is here, this is in the future of my own time.” He opened his mouth for another question, but Fëanor raised a hand.

“Vandameldo, we hold the past and future in our hands, and we had best not meddle overmuch.”

Pengolodh’s expression was strange again, and it seemed that he had either too much to say or too little. But instead he turned his graceful head toward Fëanor, and they fell swiftly into a conversation about curation and the uncertain nature of books called back out of memory.

Finding himself ignored for the moment, Elfwine wandered away in search of more drink.

From the whispers, Elfwine could tell that he was the cause of speculation, especially when Fingon loomed up beside him, refilling his cup from a flagon.

“Hail, Fingon the Valiant,” Elfwine said, accepting the wine. “Thank you for your clothes, by the bye. I wore your jacket from Helevorn upon my journey here. Are you standing beside me simply to further some rumor?”

“Perhaps,” Fingon said, his grin sharp. “Anything to discomfit my staid brother, in this kingdom of his that I have only just seen! I could not believe it, when I saw you riding up next to my uncle – I did not know what to think, aside from wondering if Idril had a hidden twin. And for Ulmo to send you to lay this doom upon him… my poor brother! I feel that he has had enough of learning his lesson to last him several ages, and yet he is given more. It must be a difficult thing, to be so beloved by a Valar.”

“Were you not beloved of Wolcenfréa, of Manwë, in times past? I know that he sent you an eagle, once.”

“Once,” Fingon said. “I am not complaining, but I could have used one or two more!”

Elfwine laughed, thinking that the histories did not speak of Fingon’s complaints about too few eagles.

“It is true, however – I would not have come, had I known the message. The doom that I helped deliver would imprison any Man for the rest of his life,” Elfwine admitted, and had enough wine in him that he pulled Fingon closer to speak quietly in his ear. “Please answer me something, Elf who has my face. Why is it that some few of these Elves – like Pengolodh there – look at me as if they already know me? Is it simply our similarity in features, or is it … something else?”

Fingon laughed, and leaned down, knowing that he drew the gazes of the room toward them – two dark heads bent together, one well-known Elf with hair braided in gold, and one mysterious Elf with hair braided in silver, so alike they could be uncle and nephew. “The Valar are involved in this. I do not know more, but if there are other parts to this strange tale, they are not yet revealed to me.”

Elfwine glanced around again, and saw that the host was processing into the grand hall, where Fëanor was being ushered to a seat near the middle of the high table. Beside Turgon sat an Elf in a pale green dress, her golden hair bound by a silver-white filet. Elfwine’s eyes followed her, and he found his steps suddenly arrested.

“That is my sister-in-law, Elenwë of the Vanyar. Lovely, is she not? She died in the crossing of the Helcaraxë in the time before the sun rose,” Fingon said.

Elfwine thought through these words, and took another long drink of his wine. He felt younger than a blade of grass.

“You are next to me tonight. I’ll guide you to your seat,” Fingon said. “I will introduce you to her later. I think my brother wants to look upon you a little more anyway – it is amazing how true his blood has run in the houses of Men throughout the great ages! But come, I would know more about you, vessel of Ulmo.”

As they passed through the throngs to their seats, Elfwine found that his heart was aching again. He was indeed nothing but a blade of grass, or the little rat that Caranthir named him. “The tale of my nineteen years is dull enough to tell to one who has long been my hero. And I find I do not want to tell it, in this place especially. It is strange to think that these halls were mostly empty when we arrived here. And not long before that, they were eaten by sea and fire. Looking upon this court, it pains me that so much beauty was removed from my world. I mourn it.”

“Ah!” Fingon glanced around too, smiling. “Glad I am to see this through your eyes. It is quite a sight, is it not? All these lords and ladies of Gondolin in their finery!”

Elfwine looked at the queen Elenwë, shining with her own gentle light. “I would have it all back with me in Middle-earth,” he said. Or perhaps I would stay here instead.

“And that is what my uncle has done by raising Beleriand from the sea,” Fingon said, “And for that deed, for giving this realm back to us and allowing us the chance to live in it in joy, he is welcome in Turgon’s city. It also helps that Elenwë lives again,” he added.

“But in a while, perhaps in a hundred years, two hundred, will King Turgon and this host not return to Sindreám, to Elvenhome, and this city stand empty?” Elfwine asked. He did not want the beautiful city to feel lonely after it had been awakened again in joy.

“Perhaps, and so do all things change in Arda,” Fingon said, “But our fate is not fixed as it was in the first age. Be comforted, Edain! Even though the tales end with loss and leave-taking, the world is different now. This city may not remain empty for long.

“At the very least,” Fingon added, laughing, “You have tied Turgon here for an age, while he learns story after story of his citizens.”

They sat and ate, and Fingon told him more of the Elves that sat near him – things that did not feature in the histories, such as the long-running feud between Ecthelion and Glorfindel over who had the better sword. The meal flew by swiftly, and when the high lords and ladies of Gondolin sat at their ease, there were calls for song.

And so Turgon rose. “Gondolindrim, I have heeded the words of Ulmo! It is time for us to hear the history of our city, of its making, and its glory, and its fall. And no one is best suited to begin this great telling, of the dark and the bright, than the lord of the House of the Harp.

“My Lord Salgant – come and play for us!” Turgon commanded, and from the high table, an Elf in silver and black livery stood, and accepted a harp from his liege. “Sing of the Fall of Gondolin, and sing of our return!”

The minstrel sat before them and looked grave. He drew his hands over his strings as if steadying himself to a difficult task, but when he began, his song pierced Elfwine’s heart.

There, in the great hall below the mighty Tower of the King, near the courtyard in which the saplings of Celeborn set their new roots into the earth, Elfwine heard the story of Gondolin from one of its betrayers, and wept along with the company at all Salgant recounted.

After the tales had been told, and many toasts made, the evening ended in great peace and joy.

After the meal, Pengolodh pulled Fëanor directly toward the library (or perhaps Fëanor pulled Pengolodh). Elfwine turned to go back to his lodging in Ecthelion’s house, when Fingon plucked him into a side-corridor. “Come,” Fingon said.

Somewhere in the center of the house of the king, they found stairs leading upward, and began to climb them. “I told my uncle that you will be with us,” Fingon said as they climbed. “It is time that you and my brother and I had a bit of a chat.”

Elfwine was tired, from possession by the Ese, and from a long night of revelry, but he would not admit to it. He followed along gamely, and they wound their way up and up and up and up, and finally they entered a fair room that opened to a high balcony overlooking the city.

“Thank you for climbing all those steps,” Turgon said from where he stood leaning upon the balustrade with a cup of wine in his hand, gazing out at the marble spires painted by moonlight and starlight. “Why did I build it so high? I remember all too keenly how ill it felt when it came crashing around my head, and I cannot remember why I wanted to return.”

Turgon said softly, as if to himself, “Was it all simply a compulsion from Ulmo?”

“Surely not,” said Fingon.

“I have sent Elenwë to walk with Idril and Tuor through the city, telling her that I needed some time in meditation,” Turgon said. “But I find I want drink instead, and company. Join me! I have watered ale here for young children of Men, and more wine for you, my brother.”

Elfwine felt very young indeed as he sat on a bench near these two of the highest lords of the Noldor. He sipped the ale that Turgon gave him slowly, listening as he bore witness to a long-delayed conversation between brothers.

“Leaving aside that this is my very first visit to your kingdom, which is as glorious as songs tell, I would never question your wisdom, brother. Yet I wonder whether it was quite just to lance the boil right away,” said Fingon, taking the wine and joining Turgon.

“You mean, you do question my wisdom,” Turgon said. “But my thoughts went thus: might as well let everyone hear that Salgant repented of his deeds before they speak of it to him, as they are like to do, with the ghosts of our past around us. Our presence here feels like play compared to the hard years of secrecy in the face of the enemy’s wrath. Betrayal – death – violence – loss. And yet I am here again, and told to confront our ghosts and lay them to rest. So I will, or why bother coming at all!”

“All right,” Fingon said, laughing. “And I take great joy in being able to visit your fair realm, finally, brother. I hope when I return in a year or two, you will still be here, and the city will still feel quite alive.”

Turgon looked troubled, flinging an arm over Fingon’s shoulder. “There are many things I should have done better. You know that my mind moves slowly, and oft I take two days to think through a puzzle when you take but one. When I dwelt in Beleriand I felt I had barely any time to think – always, always, some issue arose that pushed me into a vile decision that, looking back, was against everyone’s best interest.”

Turgon sighed. “Had I been quicker to think through all the implications – had I been more given to questioning the wisdom of the Valar that I should keep my city entirely secret… Perhaps we might all still be here, instead of newly returned. But please finally be welcome to my city, brother! It is yours now too, if you want it. You can be regent when I am allowed to return to Tirion, if it pleases you.”

Fingon looked touched, and smiled, and Elfwine took a deep breath and let it out, smiling too.

But Turgon turned around then, and regarded Elfwine. “Here we are, keeping this young Edain away from his bedchamber, listening to us old kings talk about history that no longer matters to anyone, save ourselves.”

“Legends stand in front of me, and open their mouths to say surprising things,” Elfwine said. “Do not stop on my account, mighty kings!”

But Turgon and Fingon pulled up chairs on either side of him.

“Do not worry that I hold your prophecy against you, son of Éomer,” Turgon said then. “It speaks to your character that Ulmo chose you as messenger, of course, and I was something of a mind to scribe the stories of this city anyway, even before Ulmo laid his gease upon me.”

“But I am very interested in how you have come to look so strongly of our family,” Fingon said. “Tell us the tale of how this came to be!”

“It must be chance, and mingled elven blood from both sides of the family.” And so Elfwine found himself describing the lineage of his fæder’s mother, Théodwyn of the people of Númenor, who, after a terrifyingly long number of generations, was related to Elros.

There was a pause, in which Turgon gave Fingon a rather smug smile. “Perhaps if you’d had a child in the first age…”

Fingon turned pointedly away from his brother, eyes rolling. “How came you here, then? Is it not far for a Man to travel, beyond the bending of the world?”

Elfwine’s head was hazy by then with drink, but he was circumspect enough to omit whose hand provided the twist of fate. He focused his thoughts and told them of the building of Mithrellas, and how she came to fall apart in a storm.

“So how did you fall beyond the world? Was that Ulmo’s doing?” Fingon asked, refilling Elfwine’s cup.

Elfwine described that too, and then said, “When I awoke, I was in a deep wood, and I was beset by spiders, quite without a sword.”

Turgon spoke then, his eyes gleaming beneath his brows. “And that is when you fell in with Fëanor?”

“They were out hunting, and must have heard my cries. It takes a lot longer to bludgeon a spider to death than it does to slice one, and I was sorely confused at being in a wood and not dead in the sea, all of a sudden! I thought myself in Greenwood the Great. They rode in to my rescue, Celegorm and Maedhros, and their father with them.”

“Hmm,” said Fingon. “So it was simply chance that led Ulmo to drop you near my uncle Fëanor? I find that interesting.”

Elfwine felt then a strange pressure from the two lords who looked upon him, as if his mind was assailed by a deep and insightful power. But, recalling the teachings of Elrohir, he brought foremost to his thoughts what was in front of him – the great city, the Elves who had returned to dwell therein, the might and majesty of the lords – upon these things he let his thoughts linger.

“My purpose here in Beleriand is complete, I deem, and for that I beg your pardon, King Turgon! But…” Elfwine let his emotion hold sway, and smiled at them both, meeting the pressure on his mind with the honest wash of his joy. “I feel more blessed than I ever should have been, as an apprentice mariner, and an heir who ran from his duty and his father’s seat at Meduseld.”

Elfwine held the thought of Gondolin in his mind. “Happy was the hour in which Ulmo saw fit to use me for his purposes, for it brought me here to your city, which I find I love more the longer I dwell in it.”

The pressure eased, although Turgon’s eyes still held his. “Our pardon, young Edain. I’d forgotten what it must be like to meet the Eldar for the first time – it has been a long Age since I have seen any Man aside from my son-in-law.”

“Tuor!” Elfwine’s eyes lit again. “He is a hero to us Men, you know. When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming like Tuor – of winning the hand of the Elvenking’s daughter in his secret kingdom, and sailing into the uttermost west. And here I sit with the very same Elvenking – do you happen to have any more daughters?”

Turgon chuckled. “Nay, child! But is that how Men tell the tale? Idril would not have enjoyed being couched as anyone’s prize. If anything, she won the ‘prize’ of Tuor.”

“If I ever return home, I will amend the tale,” Elfwine said, and drank again.

Turgon’s eyes narrowed at the words “return home,” and he exchanged a look with Fingon, who nodded.

Oh no, Elfwine thought, seeing the glance and knowing that he’d let an important detail, the reason for Fëanor’s presence in Gondolin, perhaps, slip. But for some reason, Fingon changed the subject.

“So I have heard much of King Aragorn of the House of Telcontar,” said Fingon, sitting forward, “What can you tell us of him?”

“As a boy, I often wished King Aragorn was a little less war-like, for I rarely saw fæder – Éomer King is often away with him, on some debate or other. They let me come along, once, but back then, I much preferred lingering on the shores of my grandfather’s kingdom to warfare.” Elfwine wondered if the wine was making his tongue loose – was this of interest to these great kings, neither of whom had ever shied away from war or kingship, nor brooked avoidance of duty?

“It is not,” Elfwine hastily amended, “that I do not wish to do my part, for the safety of my people and my realm. I simply felt the calling of the sea more.”

“So they are still much in battle,” Turgon said thoughtfully. “I never enjoyed it either, to be honest. My tactic was always to make a safe place and hide in it.”

“I preferred fighting to hiding,” Fingon said. “And still do, which is likely why I am here in Beleriand and you remained in Aman, brother.”

“And that reminds me to find Master Pengolodh to establish a schedule so that I can return to Aman someday,” Turgon said. “Although he is sequestered with Fëanor at present. I am sure that given an opportunity to ask a few pertinent questions about history, he will monopolize Fëanor for days. I hope you did the research you needed before we arrived.” He glanced probingly at Elfwine. “I assume the research is somehow related to your journey?”

Indeed, they’d caught his slip. “Fëanor found my tale interesting, and pledged his assistance in my quest to return home,” Elfwine admitted, very carefully not thinking about paths between worlds.

“Your purview and not mine,” Turgon said to Fingon, letting out a breath.

“I am not his keeper!”

“And look where that got us.”

Not understanding, Elfwine looked between the two as they strove in thought for a long moment. “Is it not proper for me to desire to return home?”

“Oh…” Fingon laughed, turning away. “It is! We just fear what power Fëanor might have, if he invents a way back to Middle-earth…”

Elfwine thought very hard about something else, for a moment. About how fair Elenwë was beside Turgon that evening, with her golden hair glowing in the lanterns and starlight, laughing with her husband.

“I know not, lords,” Elfwine said, and then, despite himself, he yawned.

Fingon’s expression turned gentle, then. “It is not for you to solve this. I shall watch Fëanor, a while, and make sure he does no harm in his quest to aid you. But watch him, I shall.”

“And now, I think, we should let this one go to his bed! We have kept you up late, young one,” Turgon said, smiling. “And I shall go to my lady wife, and Fingon shall go to the library and sit very obviously in front of the books that might assist in breaking the veil between the worlds.”

The next day, Elfwine went to find Fëanor to warn him of Fingon’s words, but before he could, he met Fëanor at the door returning for breakfast.

“In the early hours of the morning, Master Pengolodh and I found the correct reference.” Fëanor said, eyes gleaming as he sat beside Elfwine at the table. “We deciphered the coefficient to the equation, which resulted in providing the amount of force we need to bend space and time and send you back to the correct when.”

Elfwine breathed a sigh of relief. “Just in time. I was hard pressed last night when I spoke to King Turgon and his brother, and felt certain I had accidentally revealed the truth of your paths between worlds,” he said. “Fingon threatened to watch your every move, today.”

“Well, Fingon can be at peace instead,” Fëanor said, making a face. “The only thing that I have left to decipher is from whence to launch you.”

“...Launch?” Elfwine asked, when an Elf of Ecthelion’s house came to them to announce visitors.

They rose to greet the guests. Fingon entered, leading Elenwë. She was clad in a mantle of blue that day, with gems set in her hair to mirror her shining eyes.

Elfwine felt his heart climb into his throat, and found his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. No words at all came to him as he bowed low before her.

“Did I not say I would introduce you?” Fingon said to Elfwine. “Elenwë, you have struck him dumb.”

A plague on Elves! Elfwine thought, and blushed as he said, “Your pardon, Queen Elenwë! I mean no disrespect to you. I spent my fostering years in the court of Queen Arwen at Minas Tirith, and long my fæder pledged himself to her as her knight, for to him, her loveliness was unsurpassed. And yet, I find that I must gainsay him. If she is starlight, your light is as golden as the sun on the birches in the Courtyard of the Gods.”

“That’s a start,” Fingon said encouragingly. “It is always wise to compare Elves to different types of light on trees.”

“Arwen Undomíel is my twice-great-granddaughter,” Elenwë said. “Now I see how persuasive she must have found the admiration of Men!”

Elenwë stepped toward Elfwine and put her slender fingers beneath his chin. She tilted his face up to hers – she was taller by a handspan. Elfwine willed his cheeks to cease their flushing, but met her bright eyes.

“Oh, you are a child,” Elenwë said. “The only Man I know is my son-in-law Tuor, and I met him long after he attained the lifespan of the Firstborn. You are young to have been dragged into the workings of the Valar and their dealings with my husband!”

“I am young, it is true,” Elfwine said, “And yet I know that my heart has never felt more at peace than it has here, in Gondolin, most beautiful city in any realm. And seeing you within this city, like the brightest gem in a casket, I can understand why Gimli son of Gloin was moved to ask for a strand of Lady Galadriel’s hair.”

Fëanor looked vaguely disgruntled at those words. “Come and sit, everyone! Ecthelion’s household has been kind enough to lay out enough breakfast for a growing Man, which is nearly enough for all of us, provided his hunger is slaked.”

Elfwine sat, sheepishly. He felt he would never stop blushing.

“Fair words,” Fingon said, “But you shifted metaphors. Is my sister-in-law sun on the leaves, or a gem? You must pick one and stick to it.”

“Hush!” Elenwë said, smiling. “He speaks his heart, and it touches me.”

Elfwine drank in her smile, feeling himself warm all the way through at her regard.

Fingon turned to Fëanor then. “How goes your search for a path home for this young knight?”

“Oh, it’s done, save for one thing: a ship to send him in,” Fëanor said, sending Fingon a sharp glance. “And don’t worry, I shall leave my notes on the process here with Pengolodh.”

“Hmm,” said Fingon, eyes narrowing.

“A ship? That is easy enough,” Elenwë said. “My grandson has quite an extraordinary ship, and he might be persuaded to pause by Gondolin one night to take on an additional sailor.”

Grandson…ship. “Vingílotë!” Elfwine cried, leaping to his feet. “Oh, will I have the chance to ride upon her? The shipwrights of Dol Amroth shape all of our ships after Vingílotë – Mithrellas had a carved swan on the prow in her honor.”

Elenwë asked Fingon, “Are all children of Men thus? His Fëa is burning so fiercely, everything is a wonder to him.”

“They were the best part of this realm,” Fingon said. “Indeed, Men ever spurred us to action, and never allowed us to take a century or two to listen to the clouds, or wait for the Valar to play their next part.”

“Vingílotë – yes, that would be very expeditious, if you don’t mind arranging it, Elenwë! Although that means we shall have to say farewell to Elfwine all the sooner,” Fëanor said.

And there it was. Elfwine had tried to prepare himself, of course. He’d always known that he must depart, that the hour of his departure would give him pain. And yet the knowledge that the day was set ached in his chest.

“We shall set the date of his departure for a week hence, then, if Elfwine does not mind the delay.” Elenwë said. “Many of our kindred are gathering here to see the city. I have invited your lady Nerdanel, Fëanor, and whichever of your sons can be persuaded to join her, and my husband’s cousins Finrod and Galadriel. Would you stay and meet them, Elfwine?”

Elfwine remembered Elladan’s words from long ago that he would meet Galadriel, and felt a shiver run through him. “I will,” Elfwine said. “My meeting with her was long foretold, and so it shall be.”

~

Afterwards, Elfwine went down to the south part of the city, wandering alone on a path that wound past many of the fountains and letting each one’s song ease the ache in his soul. But eventually, following some compulsion innate to his upbringing, he made his way toward the stables.

“I know, lady,” Elfwine said to Súretal in the language of his fæder, which was obviously the language of horses, “you have been very patient with Ecthelion and his people! Thank you for staying in this little stone house when you could have been running on the fields of the Tumladen, under the sun.”

Tuor walked into the stable. “I told Fëanor you would be here, but he led me on a merry chase pointing me south,” he said. “I’ve been seeking you, but you have eluded me this day. I hunted you by word of mouth around nearly all of the fountains, were you marking each one off a list?”

“Your pardon, kinsman! My time is short here. If only I were paper, Gondolin could inscribe itself on me in indelible ink,” Elfwine said, and Tuor saw in a shaft of sun from the stable window that his eyes were red. “But Súretal longs for open fields – would you ride with me today? I want to ride her one last time before…before I depart, and she goes back home to the sweet pastures of Helevorn.”

“I will ride with you, although I much prefer a boat, or my own feet!” Tuor eyed the Mearas skeptically.

“Ah, perhaps this fellow then,” Elfwine said, and made some arrangements with the stable master for a patient old gelding of mingled blood, large enough to seat Tuor. He saddled the horse, and together, he and Tuor set forth.

“I thought I would go west today, and see Idril’s tunnel,” Elfwine said.

“A fine choice.” Tuor directed them then, leading them westward from the Square of the King on a wide avenue set on the north and south sides by many large houses, each seeming to Elfwine the size of Meduseld. “This is the Way of the Nobles. These houses are for the lords of the eleven houses of Gondolin, aside from the king’s,” he said. “You can likely imagine how they jostled to be closest to Turgon! The politics of that choice kept us in meetings for weeks.”

Elfwine laughed to think of it, and admired the houses built in marble and stone, each sporting its device on the tallest of its spires. “It is strange to imagine that Elves have such things as tedious council meetings,” he said.

“Here more than most, too! And perhaps you did not know this, but you have spawned just such a tedious meeting yourself. I came to find you on an errand from Queen Elenwë,” Tuor said. “I hear that you have pledged yourself to her as her knight, as your father Éomer did to my great-granddaughter.”

Elfwine worked that out in his head for a moment and nodded. “It is true,” he said. “For whatever that is worth, in the days I have left here.”

“She bade me clad you in the livery of her house, the newly minted House of the Queen. I would describe the many intricacies and details of suddenly creating a thirteenth house of Gondolin, but there is no need to bore you.” Tuor took a tabard from his satchel and handed it to Elfwine.

Elfwine smiled, remembering the words of Amrod and Amras: when Men are touched by the Valar, they generally have a suitable wardrobe provided to them, even if it is entirely ornamental. “My apologies to you for yet another long meeting,” Elfwine said, draping the tabard over Súretal’s neck to look at it.

The tabard was the gold of a noon day, and the circle upon the front of it contained a saffron and orange rayed sun, its eight rays touching the edges of the circle. Wriggling about on his horse for a moment, Elfwine pulled the tabard over his head and rebelted Naurmacil over it.

The moment he did so, Elfwine felt something shift and change inside of him.

Elfwine had fallen in love with a city, and pledged himself to its queen: for good or ill, he would never again question who he was or where he belonged. In his heart, it was here.

“Ah, that looks fine on you!” Tuor said, admiringly. “First knight of the House of the Queen.”

And then Tuor fell silent, looking at him. “Strange,” he said slowly. “I have seen one who looks like you, in clothing with this device, at Alqualonde, working amid the sailors there. But no – clearly it must be someone else – maybe someone of the house of Ingwion.”

Elfwine did not mark his words, for he touched the embroidery on his chest with wonder. How did the queen manage to work it in an hour or two? Was it by Elf magic?

And then Elfwine remembered a question that he needed to have answered before he departed, or he’d never hear the end of it from Eldarion. “Kinsman, will you tell me the answer to a riddle long posed by scholars? What happened to you and the lady Idril after you set out in a boat for the west? By your very presence here, it is clear your mission did not end poorly.”

“This part does not make it into the tales, does it? We were at sea for forty days and nights when Ossë stirred the waves against us…” Tuor said, and as they wended their way toward the west slope of the city, he told Elfwine the ending of his tale.

It was fine to ride Súretal in the fields of the Tumladen under the bright sun, and it was a wonder surpassing many to have Tuor son of Huor tell him the history of Idril’s Tunnel, and all the events before and after it, as Elfwine looked upon it with his own eyes.

As the light faded toward evening and they returned on the road to the city, Elfwine felt the joy of this day fill him to overflowing, and he felt tears on his cheeks again.

“Elfwine, what ails you?” Tuor said, concerned. “Does it pain you so much to think of returning home? I heard from Fingon that the time is set. Are you not glad to rejoin your family, and the life you left behind?”

Elfwine looked at Tuor, and then away, and Tuor sighed. “No, my words are ridiculous, are they not? Of course it hurts to depart, and know that you might never return! Elves cannot contemplate mortality for long – it confuses them to think of Men and their short lives. But for the time that you have here – do not hide from your friends as you did today; we would enjoy your company while we may have it.”

“I thought of sparing myself more pain at parting by hiding myself away until the time came,” he admitted to Tuor.

Tuor gave him a glance that was as reproachful as any of Turgon’s, and Elfwine could not help but smile. “Fine, I am persuaded,” he said, his fingers tangling in Súretal’s mane. “I am leaving the larger part of my heart here anyway.”

~

And so the glad days passed.

When the afternoon of the day of his departure arrived, Elfwine, in his livery, stood near the throne of the queen. As a prince of Rohan, Elfwine was used to such panoply, and had been a page in the court of King Aragorn and Queen Arwen often when he was in Minas Tirith – but this was the first and last time he would perform such a role for Elenwë, and he stood straight and proud before all of the curious gazes.

Elenwë radiated her quiet approval, and Turgon cast glances at him out of the corner of his eye, amusement writ large upon his usually grave expression.

Soon Ecthelion announced the arrival of guests of the House of Finarfin, as well as Lord Celeborn, High Queen Nerdanel, and her son Maedhros. There was a ceremony of welcome, of course, in which Finrod and Turgon strove to outdo each other with flowery words about opening hidden cities to endless possibilities, but eventually a cup of welcome was passed, and Elfwine was dismissed to greet his friends.

Maedhros embraced him, and then looked him up and down. “I have questions regarding your attire, young friend.”

“Ah. I found my Elf princess,” Elfwine said in return, grinning. “And Nolofinwëans, too.”

“It is difficult to avoid them,” Maedhros agreed, and turned to find Fingon standing behind him.

“And why should anyone avoid us?” Fingon asked mildly, looping an arm over Maedhros’s shoulder. “I have heard many interesting stories from Elfwine, and feel like you might be able to enlighten me on a point or two.”

“Perhaps I will be able to, and perhaps not,” Maedhros said, and let himself be led off with a backward grimace at Elfwine.

Elfwine turned then to see Lady Galadriel walking toward him. She rivaled Elenwë in her beauty, of course, but the light in her eyes was that of a fell warrior of many battles. She was mighty like his aunt Eowyn, but ancient of years, and power radiated from her. He could see why Gimli revered her: if Arwen was starlight, and Elenwë the light upon the leaves, here was the burning forge of creation itself.

He bowed low to her. “Lady Galadriel, Elladan son of Elrond once foretold that we would meet, and lo! It has come to pass beyond the veil of the world.”

Galadriel stepped closer and closer and stared at him, and Elfwine found that while he could misdirect Turgon and Fingon, he could not fend off the pressure of Galadriel’s mind. And so he opened his mind to her fully – showing her his love for her realm, and his pain to leave it, and the sense of duty that pulled him away. And, eventually, Fëanor’s pathways between worlds.

She finally smiled at him in a way that looked – strangely – amused. In soundless words pressed deep into his mind, she said, Ah, so that was it. Elfwine Entulessë – We meet again.

“You are anticipated,” Galadriel said aloud, and beckoned forward two of her retinue.

That was strange.

But then, two people that Elfwine knew well came up to him, and he shouted in astonishment.

“Legolas – Gimli!” Elfwine said.

“Now I told you it would be here in the king’s hall,” Gimli said to Legolas. “We shall simply have to tug him into the dolphin courtyard.”

“Ah, but he said we would meet in the dolphin courtyard. Perhaps he misremembered the exact details of it,” Legolas responded.

“What?” Elfwine said. Legolas gripped one of his arms, and Gimli the other, and to the sound of Galadriel’s bright laughter, they broke away from the party.

They tugged him into a courtyard on the quieter, farther side of Turgon’s dwelling. The courtyard was beautiful, of course – it held a small fountain in the shape of a leaping dolphin, singing to the ever so slightly neglected trailing vines of morning glories. Elfwine supposed it was difficult to keep track of so many courtyards and fountains.

But then Legolas embraced Elfwine, and Gimli did as well, and they looked long at him.

“I greet you, friends?” Elfwine said, uncertainly.

“Now,” Legolas said, “Heed me, Elfwine. You will depart tonight upon Vingelot. The passage will be tumultuous, and you will fall from the ship to land at Himling Island. Do not despair when you arrive – before long, you will see us. We will land our boat upon the shore beneath the ruins of the keep.”

“We are there because we’d heard rumor that the ruin on Himling reverts sometimes to its form of old. We mean to search the ruin for books on the building of a boat to sail west,” Gimli said, “But when you see us, you will tell us that you have what we seek: a diagram of a ship. This one.” Gimli handed him a leather document case, well-oiled against water. “Ah – what else I am missing, Elf?”

“Both blueprints are within?” Legolas asked.

“Of course,” Gimli said, smiling.

“You will tell us your tale,” Legolas continued, “And we will not believe you, at first, thinking you fevered from your shipwreck. But then you will give me this –” Legolas handed him a ring of black metal, carved with crossed antlers. “It is the ring that Elu Thingol of Doriath gave to my grandfather. It has long been lost to my family.”

Elfwine took the ring and put it on, and looped the document case about his shoulders. Then he took a deep breath, feeling the beginnings of distress. “I am glad that you will journey – have journeyed – here, and that I will assist you – have assisted you – on the way,” he said. “But I shall miss you when you depart Middle-earth.”

“Elfwine, we shall not depart while you are alive in that realm,” Legolas said.

“Aye, do not concern yourself overmuch with our parting. But for now, my lad, as you sometimes say to us: You are called to feast, and revel, and enjoy. And if we can’t do that when the time is right, what is the point? Oh – and one more word that you wished to deliver to yourself: Fear not, for no time at all has passed upon your arrival home. But on your last night, avoid King Finrod the Great, for he will trap you for many an hour, when you wish to be elsewhere,” Gimli said, chuckling.

“My friends,” Elfwine said, many questions on his tongue. He decided on the most important. "The Mithrellas -- her crew, her captain. Were they spared?"

"Aye. All of them spared, found ashore near Mithlond," Gimli said.

Elfwine's relief was profound. He gathered Gimli and Legolas up in another embrace, and did not ask any more of the dozen questions in his head. But his heart forbode that strange days lay ahead.

~

They feasted, and sang, and danced, while the long light of the summer evening lingered over the courtyards and gardens and spires of that white city. Her fountains sang brightly with the joy of being as alive now as ever they had been in the early strength of her years.

Elfwine stood beside his queen and watched as Maedhros and Fingon danced with each other: a twirling, complex set of steps that looked more like a duel than a duet, and ended in spins so swift that they became a blur of motion. When they paused at the end, gazing upon each other with fierce eyes, everyone’s breath was baited to see what would come after – and Maedhros broke their impasse, kneeling before Fingon to kiss his hand, to great applause.

And then Elenwë, Nerdanel, and Galadriel came forth and danced together before the mingled kindred of Elves, and the grace and sorrow of their movement was long remembered in the histories of Beleriand Risen, and called ever after the Dance of the Reunited Houses.

Elfwine remembered it in later years as a vision of the loveliness that had passed forever from Middle-earth. But many of the company wept to see it, for Turgon’s people had lived long ages without hope of ever meeting their Noldor kin in their own fair city, and great was the rejoicing now to see them at last in Gondolin.

And in the hour of this joy, Elfwine saw Finrod the Great approaching him with a curious light in his eye. Elfwine, heeding the words of Gimli, dodged swiftly into a corridor. Then he suddenly felt a hand take his – pulling him along a dark passageway of the king’s house into a room where many books lay upon the tables and shelves.

Pengolodh stood there, twisting his hands together, eyes on the floor.

Elfwine had not spent any time with Pengolodh; the Elf had spent every hour since his arrival closeted away with either Turgon or Fëanor.

“These are to take back with you,” Pengolodh said, indicating a satchel.

Elfwine looked with wonder within the contents of the bag. “This is a princely treasure indeed,” Elfwine said, seeing that it was filled with books and scrolls from the Gondolin library. “But why? Is it from Fëanor?”

“Each one was requested very specifically,” Pengolodh said, and stopped. “Oh, this is difficult!” And to Elfwine’s deep and lasting confusion, Pengolodh stepped forward and slid his fingers into Elfwine’s hair, holding his head firmly in place.

Then he leaned down and gave Elfwine a warm kiss on the mouth. Pulling back, Pengolodh smiled as Elfwine stood gaping in surprise, staring up at him. “You’ll want to translate all of those into Westron, they are in a rather ancient language at present.”

Elfwine took a breath, feeling another strange adjustment in his heart, as if the final piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. “It was you,” he said. “I saw you, in the waters of Tarn Aeluin. I saw us both there.”

“I know,” Pengolodh said, and his face was carved for a moment in sorrowful lines as his hands lingered in Elfwine’s hair. “I know well the fate of those whose faces appear in that water.”

Elfwine’s hands had risen to Pengolodh’s hair as well, and the silver of it was soft – so soft – beneath his fingers. “But how you came to your regard for me, I know not! I depart in an hour, and you have given me yet another thing to think on.”

“Do not ask me that question, or why I must give you these books,” Pengolodh said. “But I am here, Elfwine Entulessë, as I have been bidden!”

Touching his fingers to his mouth and feeling warmth lingering upon his skin, Elfwine said. “I am parting from you with more questions than answers.”

Pengolodh looked torn for a moment, but set his expression firmly. “Ever you have had more questions, and this time I cannot give you answers,” he said, tugging the curved edge of Elfwine’s ear. “I shall not see you off tonight. But be safe on your way. Be safe, Elfwine!”

He kissed Elfwine one more time, soft and lingering.

And then Pengholodh filled his arms with the satchel of books and firmly shunted him out into the corridor. When Elfwine turned back toward the door, he heard the sound of a clicking lock.

“A plague on Elves,” Elfwine muttered, sorely confused.

~

When the moon had finally set and dawn was near, a star descended to the Fountain of the King, and the company all came out to the courtyard to greet it.

Elfwine went to get his things, trying desperately hard to not find Pengolodh again and demand answers, or another kiss. Instead, he gritted his teeth and tried to think of nothing at all.

Vingelöté dropped anchor directly into the fountain’s base, and soon a long ladder unfurled from over her side. Without waiting for his son to descend, Tuor leapt onto the ladder, hailing those above. Hands gripped his arms and tugged him into the ship, and Elfwine heard joyous greetings.

Elfwine looked upward with great wonder – for the ship was indeed Vingelöté and not the ship of mithril and glass that the Ese gave to Ëarendil, according to Bilbo’s song. The ship above him was built indeed of wood from Nimbrethil, with silver sails and lanterns, and her prow was carved into a swan – Elfwine loved her immediately.

“Is it time for our farewell, so soon?” Fëanor asked. He handed Elfwine an hourglass girded with silver, filled with faintly glimmering starlight on one side, and moonlight upon the other. “If we have the luck to meet again beyond the breaking of Arda, I will remember you, Vandameldo! And mark me, do not activate the toggle that combines the two sides until you are just before the bend in the sea; the sailors will let you know when you are there.”

Elfwine carefully stowed the device in one of his many satchels, and then turned to grip Fëanor in an embrace. “I will miss you,” he said. “Thank you.”

Then he handed Fëanor an apple stolen from the table at breakfast. “Please give this to my lady of the Mearas, Súretal, best of horses. If I could steal her I would.”

“Be content with your sword,” Fëanor said, chuckling, but took the apple and stepped back.

Elfwine bowed to the assembled House of Fingolfin, and especially its lady. He was still wearing her crest, and he saluted her. “I know that I will take up other devices and titles in my life, but this one will ever be closest to my heart,” he said.

Elenwë smiled at him. “Go, Prince Elfwine! May your reign be long and joyous! I have made you the waybread of the House of Fingolfin for your journey. It is in your pack. And it is,” she shot a glance toward Galadriel and Nerdanel, “more sustaining than some.”

Elfwine took her hand and kissed it, and looked again upon her face, so that he might remember it beyond the veil between worlds.

“May your days be blessed,” Elenwë said, and her breath hitched. “Turgon, I feel strange!”

“It is hard to say farewell to the Edain,” Turgon said, and pulled her gently back against him.

Sailors came to help Elfwine gather his things, and with one last glance around him, he clambered up the ladder, trying very hard not to simply run off and hide until they all forgot to send him back to Middle-earth.

When he pulled himself aboard the great ship, Ëarendil came to greet him. He was as tall as Tuor, but had his mother Idril’s look to him, for he was tanned and fair of hair.

“I hear from my father that you are also a sailor,” Ëarendil said to Elfwine. “We are always glad to have people assist us. Come and let me show you the ship. My father will be taking a shift or two with us as well – it is long since I have spent any time with him.”

~

When they came to the bend in the sea road, Elfwine made sure to keep hold of his satchels.

“Fair winds and following skies!” Elfwine called to Tuor and Ëarendil and the sailors, “Be warned – I am switching on the device!”

They all braced themselves, and Elfwine toggled the switch that allowed the two lights in the hourglass to meet. Duly warned by Legolas and Gimli, he gripped his satchels to him as he awaited the result.

There came a great flash as if he held a star in his hand, and noise, and a long, swift plummeting sensation. With a rough thump that utterly winded him, Elfwine landed again in Middle-earth.

“I think I prefer the Ese’s path,” he gasped to the sky, rubbing the bruises upon his side. He let himself flop back to the ground. And then he lay quietly for a while, feeling the familiar air around him, and hearing the sound of a familiar sea – and the familiar hard ache of longing to be somewhere else.

Well. He was back.

It was just evening, with a few bright stars beginning to appear in the west. Elfwine stared up at the star far above him. It seemed to hover there for a time, but before long it did a very un-starlike thing and turned about in the sky. A moment later, it winked out – which was a fine decision, for a star exactly like it was rising.

When morning came, a small boat pulled up to the shore of the island. Elfwine, who had been staring at the stars and thinking all that long night, arose.

Elfwine took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and descended the slope.

Chapter End Notes

• "And so the glad days passed." -- This is me trimming 4k words worth of Elfwine gushing over Elenwë in the truest manner of courtly love. Oy!

Age lay lightly upon the king who stood by the dock. Hale he was, and scarred with many battles, but the light in his eye was ever the light of one who had journeyed west of west. And although his hair had turned to silver, his back was unbowed.

The other set of blueprints had proved handy, and the ship was made ready for him by the shipwrights of Dol Amroth. Although the timbers were not from trees of Nimbrethil, they were from the finest cedar of Lebennin, and Elfwine made sure the sails were woven of silver cloth. The prow, of course, was carved like a swan.

Across her hull was written Nimrodel, for Elfwine was eager to settle the sea-longing in the blood of his line, and return her home.

Legolas and Gimli were there to see him off, alongside Fréaláf son of Léofwine, whose face was pale and sorrowing. Elfwine had given him Naurmacil the night before and it was girded about his waist, and a delicate circlet of green gems in silver was set upon his nephew’s dark hair.

“Grieve not, Fréaláf King!” Elfwine said, clasping his nephew’s shoulders. “Long I have tarried when my heart would go westward. I gave the strength of my years to Rohan, would you deny me my choice for what I have left?”

“I would not, uncle,” Fréaláf said, wiping a tear with his sleeve. “Save out of love for you. For that, I would keep you near. But none shall gainsay that you have done your duty. The might of Naurmacil and the power of your songs will live long in the hearts of our people. And you would live in my heart without your sword or your song, simply for being the best of uncles.”

Elfwine embraced him then, thinking that partings beyond the world were strange indeed. And yet… “We are not parted forever, brother-son! I will see you next to me in the halls of our fathers. But do not hasten there!”

The tide was turning. The small crew of Elves of Mithlond were preparing the sail.

“I know not where your path may lead, uncle! But may Garsecgesfréa speed your way.”

“Fréaláf: keep your oaths, and love your horses and the people who ride them, and your rule shall be as great as your grandfather Éomer. And my love goes with you, always.”

With one last kiss to the forehead, Elfwine turned to depart.

“Elfwine, your feet are ever eager for the sea road! But we shall see you soon enough,” said Gimli. “I have it in my calendar, where and when.”

“The white gulls are crying, and your Nimrodel awaits!” Legolas said. “I will see you on the far shore, under a swift sunrise.”

Legolas and Gimli stood beside Fréaláf, watching until the silver sails were a gleam of sun on the horizon.

~

Nimrodel sailed ever west. And as she sailed, Elfwine gathered up the threads of song.

He sang of Middle-earth, and the many foes that fell to Naurmacil. He sang of the deeds of King Eldarion of Arnor, and Eldarion’s father the High King Aragorn. He sang of the horses of Éomer King and the wisdom of Lothiríel Queen; and the beauty of Queen Arwen, and the stout-heartedness of Master Holdwine, and the many great deeds done in the time of the High King.

But as the days of their journey passed, Elfwine began to sing of other things: a fair city that lay still beneath the waves, and her king who was in the Halls of Mandos awaiting rebirth. He sang of the bend in the sea road, and the star-bearer that sailed this path. He sang of the hope that lay in his heart to find Sindréam, and of the beauty of Tol Eresséa, and the one he longed to find there. He sang of Elladan son of Elrond, and the gift that he had passed on to Elfwine when he chose the path of Men.

And then, Elfwine sang to the Ese Garsecgesfréa, reminding him of their long history, and asking just one boon.

Upon a day of fair winds and following seas, Garsecgesfréa answered him: the path shifted before them, and the sea road climbed into the sky.

“Hurry,” Elfwine cried to the sailors. “Pengolodh is waiting!”

~

Many things there be in the West-regions unknown to Men, many wonders and many creatures: a land lovely to behold, the homeland of the Elves and the bliss of the Valar. Little doth any man understand what the yearning may be of one whom old age cutteth off from returning thither.
- Tolkien, The Song of Ælfwine

Chapter End Notes

• Tale of years: Elfwine’s ship is lost at sea in FO 27. He is transported to Beleriand of FO 160, which is 20 years after the death of Aragorn. Elfwine returns to Middle-earth FO 27 again, and becomes king at age 54 when Éomer dies. He does not marry, but rules for a number of years (fewer than his dad, let’s call it 30), and in his old age (this part is canonical in some versions) makes a boat and sets sail into the west — and (also canonically in some versions) spends a lot of time with Pengolodh.
• I invented a brother for Elfwine, Léofwine, because Elfwine had no wife or children before disappearing out to sea, and having just one mound for Éomer’s line would have been far too sad.
• Blessings upon Bunn for creating this lovely universe and providing encouragement for writing in it. Bunn’s questions about plot threads resulted in me saying in total exasperation: Pull a plot thread and get string theory.