Rúmil was amused to discover that Glorfindel had evidently seen the merit in Erestor's strategy for dealing with the orcs and, instead of heading southwest, the group rode almost due south. Lord Elrond had been in contact with Lady Galadriel and she had promised to send more elves from Lórien, who would travel with due haste through Nanduhirion and past Caradhras - at this time of year, an elven company could travel that route if they were well-equipped and provisioned.
They would meet in the foothills of the Misty Mountains and, from there, track down the orcs and deal with them. Rúmil rode tirelessly. After the sojourn in Imladris, however brief it had been, he was glad to be free to move through the bright, expansive woodlands and gallop across endless open plains. On the journey to Imladris, he'd been nervous when he and Haldir had first emerged from the tree cover and had set off across the exposed moorland. It had taken most of the first day before he'd got over the initial sense of agoraphobia and learned to appreciate the wild beauty of open spaces. And within two days, they'd found a special place in his heart. He knew he'd now always love listening to the wind whistling through the heather, watching lapwings performing elaborate aerial acrobatics high above his head, gazing out across leagues and leagues of undulating purple-green land. Yes, as a Silvan elf of Lórien his soul would always reside among the towering mellyrn in the Golden Wood, but now he also understood that trees were not the only beauty to be found in Middle-Earth.
Glorfindel's laughter carried on the breeze as Asfaloth fearlessly leaped over a wide brook. For a while they could forget the gravity of the quest and enjoy the journey. If only Faelon was here, with them, instead of sitting hunched over some book in Elrond's library. But that wasn't fair -Faelon had chosen his path and, if he genuinely enjoyed his books, which he seemed to, Rúmil had no right to impose his own preferences on the Noldorin scholar.
Some months later
Faelon awoke to the sound of the dawn chorus, with warm, pale light falling across his face. Today would be a good day. He'd been left in charge of translating some historical records from Gondor and translation was one of his favourite tasks. As a result, he was feeling very pleasantly disposed towards the world.
He was halfway to being dressed before he realised that today was also his begetting day. And it was then that he spied the cake. It was enormous, three-tiered, decorated with pinkish-purple icing and fresh blackberries. Blackberries - his favourite. But who on Arda had sent this? He crossed the room to examine the cake more closely.
The lower tier also had tiny white bramble flowers arranged around the edge; the overall effect was very pretty, and clearly much time and effort had gone into it. A small card rested against the engraved silver tray on which the cake was presented. Faelon picked it up, turning it over in his hands and noting the gold-embossed lettering and decorative borders. He read the message aloud:
"Best wishes on your begetting day. I hope you enjoy yourself. Rúmil."
Rúmil!? How had he found out? Nonetheless, the gesture was touching - and when he cut a generous slice of the cake for breakfast a few minutes later, he discovered it to be very good indeed. It had a sweet and fruity jam filling which oozed out everywhere and made his fingers sticky. This was no token gesture.
But this was just the first surprise. When he entered the study where his translations awaited, he found it festooned with garlands of flowers. More bramble briars, of a strange thornless variety, wreathed the door, and little posies of...of elanor stood at each corner of the desk. The scent was it exquisite. And a second card, on top of the other papers, said, "Thinking of you."
He sent down, shaking his head. Rúmil had left Imladris months ago. The Silvan elf must have arranged all of this before his departure - what had caused him to be so thoughtful? Such an elaborate set-up suggested this was more than just a passing crush. Sighing, Faelon pushed the matter from his mind and got to work.
The day got better; Erestor was unusually mellow all morning and professed satisfaction with the fruit of the younger elf's labours. What a glorious day this was turning out to be! The chief adviser even added that, if Faelon wanted to finish early, the remaining work could wait. "Go for walk, enjoy the day. The woods are beautiful at this time of year."
Melpomaen, on the hand, was his usual self - and had completely forgotten his brother's begetting day. Faelon didn't bother reminding him - the last thing he wanted was a frantic fuss being made over him and for Melpomaen to attempt to obtain a decent gift on short notice. So he settled for enjoying the good food at dinner and joining Melpomaen in trying to coax Lord Elrond to sing for them. The Peredhel eventually relented, and performed some popular ballads in his deep, rich voice. Some other elves also offered to provide music and the Hall of Fire was a lively place that evening.
As they headed back to their rooms, Melpomaen cleared his throat nervously. "Faelon?"
"Yes?"
"It was your begetting day today, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"I forgot. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, brother. You know I haven't been bothered about it since I was an elfling."
"Yes, but it's nice when someone remembers."
"Yes, Melpomaen, it is." He smiled distractedly.
"It's odd that I should forget - do you remember that Silvan elf who was here a few months ago?"
"Haldir?" Faelon asked, deliberately avoiding mentioning Rúmil if he could.
"No, the younger one - Rúmil. He got talking to me the night before he left on the patrol. It was very odd. He acted as though he just wanted to make casual small-talk, but I noticed after a few minutes he kept steering the conversation towards me and my family. And especially you. And at one point he had me telling him the dates of all our begetting days - mine, yours, our parents' - even some of our cousins! You'd think after that, I'd be able to remember, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Faelon agreed, without really listening. "Yes, you would."
Faelon had a short-term relationship with one of Glorfindel's scouts during the subsequent months, a good-natured elf who served along the northern borders. But he broke it off after only a brief time, when it occurred to him that unconsciously or otherwise, he'd chosen an elf who reminded him strikingly of Rúmil, both physically and in character.
Increasingly during the day, he found himself staring at the large map of Lórien pinned to the wall of the study and wondering what was going on in the Golden Wood. Was Rúmil still thinking about him? And why did he, a Noldorin elf living hundreds of miles away in Imladris, care?
"Faelon, you are persistently distracted and this transcript of yesterday's meeting is full of mistakes. One of the junior scribes could have done a better job. You're supposed to save me time, not make me waste more double-checking every document you submit to me." Erestor glared at him across the desk.
"I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."
"Faelon, there are more orcs around every day. The shadow deepens all the time. Everyone in Middle-Earth has a lot on their mind with that kind of threat hanging over us."
Faelon, abashed, realised the counsellor had a good point. Here he was, angsting over his love life - and when had Rúmil begun to count as his ‘love life' anyway? - when there were so many evil creatures making trouble all around. "You're right. My work has been substandard lately. I'll make up for it - that, and more - I promise."
"Not good enough," Erestor snapped impatiently. Then he paused, and narrowed his eyes enigmatically. "I think you need a change of scenery. As you are aware, Lord Elrond is sending me on a diplomatic mission to Lórien in six days." Faelon actually looked down at his stomach when he felt it flutter as Erestor said the word ‘Lórien'.
"Of course." He'd come alarmingly close to approaching the chief advisor and asking if he might be permitted to accompany him on the trip, before reason had won out and it had occurred to him just how desperate that made him look.
"I want you to come with me. I could use an assistant, and it will provide you with an opportunity to prove that in spite of your recent performance, you are still an excellent scribe, an accurate translator and a gifted administrator."
"I'm...really?" Erestor's curt nod made the compliments seem more like accusations. "I'd be honoured to accompany you. Who else is coming?"
"Glorfindel had volunteered to escort us himself. I think he will also assign some of his scouts to us - perhaps Tellumiel, that youngster he's been training recently." Faelon frowned as he thought back to the elfmaid's exploits. It had emerged that she'd been sneaking out to practise archery for several weeks before the Lórien envoy had arrived, succeeding in avoiding being seen by any Imladris's residents the entire time. Thinking of Tellumiel reminded him of Rúmil all over again. "There will be plenty of work for you in Lórien, so you will be busy. I won't tolerate inefficiency."
"I will be a model of efficiency," Faelon assured him. He meant it - the more quickly he got through whatever tasks Erestor had in mind for him, the more time he would have to explore Lórien, and perhaps run across a certain Silvan elf in the process...
"This is not the best route," Erestor declared, drawing back the hood of his cloak as their horses retreated under the trees away from the torrents of rain. It was as if Ulmo had decided to relocate all Arda's oceans to the sky, without considering a way of keeping them there.
"It's the shortest," Glorfindel replied. He slung his cloak over the saddle-pommel and nonchalantly shook the water from the tips of his hair.
"Not if we have to stand around in this copse for the next hour waiting for the rains to stop."
"We don't. The track ahead is gritty and free-draining - if we go carefully, we can make good time even in this weather. And after a mile, it meets a ridge which offers some shelter."
"Going via the forest would have been a far better idea," Erestor said, refusing to give in so easily.
Glorfindel sidled up to the chief advisor until the two horses' shoulders were touching, and brushed his lover's cheek with two fingers. "You'll dry off, melamin. And you'll thank me for this when we reach Lórien nearly a day sooner." Erestor didn't look convinced. "You've hardly left Imladris in the last half a century, melme. Leave the route-planning decisions to me." He'd almost been tempted to give in to Erestor earlier and take the longer, drier route through the trees, purely for the sake of spending more time with his beloved, but instead concluded that it would be far more rewarding to press on, and instead be together in a comfortable talan in Lórien
He addressed the whole party, which besides him and Erestor consisted of Faelon and two armed scouts. "Let's have a brief stop here, and carry on in a short while." He would have said, "and carry on when the rain eases off," but suspected the odds of that happening any time soon were extremely low.
As soon as Erestor dismounted he seized his lover's hand and steered him towards a large oak tree growing nearby. There, he sat down on the moist, springy moss, pulling Erestor down with him, encouraging the counsellor to lean against him. Trapped between the rough tree trunk and a wet Erestor, he was perfectly content. His hands felt their way to the fastening on his lover's cloak and he removed it, squeezing as much water out of it as he could, watching the drops bounce as they hit the earth beside them. The hood had kept most of Erestor's hair dry, but the ends, where they'd escaped from under the rim, were damp and tangled. He used a dry corner of his own cloak to towel-dry them, smoothed them into place with the rest of the raven mane. His own hair went wavy when it got wet, but Erestor's hung perfectly straight, no matter what. Yet another contrast between them, he supposed.
Faelon was looking, if it was possible, even more miserable than Erestor. Elven cloaks might be waterproof, but he still gave the appearance of being utterly bedraggled. It was daft, really - when the soft, warm rain fell in Imladris, no-one objected, and, in fact, almost everyone enjoyed it. Elflings would run barefoot on the grass, and even older, supposedly more dignified elves would stand out in the downpour, water trickling down their faces, singing joyful songs to the restless skies. Yet if the weather ever had the audacity to interrupt a journey, or arrive without due warning...
Glorfindel smiled and beckoned Faelon over; the younger elf clearly wanted some company, but was reluctant to intrude upon the lovers' private moment. He seated himself a short distance away and pulled out a flask of miruvor. "Do you want some?" he offered, holding it out.
The elder elves refused politely, and Faelon took a few sips before putting it away again. They rested for a few minutes before Erestor stood up and approached his horse again. Opening one of the saddlebags, he produced a clean, dry cloak.
Glorfindel shook his head. Erestor hadn't mentioned he had a second riding cloak when the golden-haired Elda had been wringing out the first one earlier. Trust him to be awkward. Trust him to be well-prepared. Glorfindel supposed it wasn't really a surprise, considering he knew how much his lover hated travelling in wet clothes.
Faelon glanced somewhat longingly at the thick, dry fabric; and when Erestor shook out a third cloak, even Glorfindel was amazed. "So you have changes of clothes for Lórien, food for the journey, paper, ink, quill pens, sand and everything else you'll need once you're there, plus a seemingly inexhaustible supply of riding cloaks, all packed into those tiny bags?" he asked.
Erestor nodded. "It's just a matter of packing carefully."
"Even careful packing can't make bags bigger on the inside than the outside," Glorfindel muttered.
He was glad he didn't mind the rain nearly as much as the two scholars. "You know, we could break here and stop overnight," he suggested, as he watched Erestor steel himself to brave the weather outside. "There's only a couple of hours of daylight left."
"Even the trees here don't keep all the water away," was the scornful reply. "We are going to get wet, whatever we do, and I daresay we shall remain that way until we reach Lórien. The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll arrive somewhere civilised." Erestor shrugged the cloak closer around his slender shoulders and mounted up again.
Glorfindel realised that the chief advisor's action had prompted the two guards to prepare for departure as well, which was vaguely irritating as he was meant to be in charge of the party for the duration of the journey. "Check the horses' legs for any cuts or grazes," he called across to them. "They've all stumbled in the mud at some point over the last few hours."
The scouts' horses were not hurt, but Faelon found a small wound on the heel of his mare's forefoot. "It looks as if her hind hoof struck her fore pastern when she slipped on that slope just before noon," Glorfindel concluded thoughtfully. He applied some salve from his medical supplies, and examined the cut for any sign of infection. "I'd prefer to bandage it, but with the mud and the rain, it'd be off in a matter of minutes. Keep an eye on it, and tell me if she seems to be suffering any discomfort."
Asfaloth, who seemed to find the scholars' misery as amusing as Glorfindel did, trotted over to the Elda of his own accord, and nudged him in the shoulder. "You want to get going?" he asked the stallion lightly. "Very well then." At the golden warrior's command, the party emerged once more into the rain and headed westwards along the stony path.
The downpour continued, and they rode close to the cliff, clinging to the small amount of shelter it provided. The horses skidded in the mud with increasing frequency, so all five elves were relieved when the earth at the cliff's foot gave way once more to free-draining rocky ground and gravel. The horses disliked the rough surface, but the footing was better as the ground was level and firm.
Glorfindel had been correct when he'd promised the cliff would shelter them somewhat; the wind was blowing from the mountains to the northwest, and they were protected from the worst as they passed along the track which ran at the base of the southeast-facing overhang. Still, everyone had to squint against the rain and almost shout to be heard above the noise of hooves, the bells on the headstalls, the rain on the rocks and the gusts of air which swirled and whistled through cracks in the cliff face. Glorfindel hummed to himself, still apparently unperturbed by the weather, occasionally shaking water droplets from his hair as a hound will shake itself off after swimming in a river. He chatted amicably with the guards and his fair skin seemed to glow in the fading light as water droplets ran over his forehead and cheeks. Erestor, by comparison, became quieter and quieter, seldom initiating conversation and retreating further into the confines of his hood.
Faelon concluded that he may as well make the best of the situation; he was now so wet, he couldn't see any way in which he could become any wetter, and stopped worrying about it. Instead, he observed the surroundings. He began to appreciate the obscure beauty of the dripping landscape, marvelling at the way Arda seemed to revive under menel's moist touch. The vegetation smelled pleasantly wet and fresh and, after the long period of dry weather, wilted plants breathed once more and swelled with new life. As the evening drew in, and the persistent rain lessened slightly, nimble bats could be discerned flitting against the darkening sky, whilst rustling in nearby bushes hinted of other nocturnal comings and goings.
His reverie was cruelly broken by a cluster of rocks tumbling down from above and Asfaloth's irritated snort as the stallion jumped sideways to avoid getting hit. Glorfindel backed his mount up, both to escape the heavy chunks of stone and to get a good look at what was going on. The other five riders followed suit, putting a good thirty feet of open land between them and whatever had taken a disliking to their presence. "Yrch," Erestor and Glorfindel spat at the same time.
Sure enough, savage orc faces leered at them from the top of the cliff. There was a harsh grating noise of heavy objects being moved, and several huge boulders suddenly appeared up there as well. "Get back! Get back out of range!" Glorfindel yelled to the others as he pressed Asfaloth into a controlled gallop, wary of the terrain when visibility was generally so poor. He only pulled up when there was no chance that the boulders which the orcs were rolling off the cliff-edge would be able to reach them.
Faelon glanced back as he halted near the golden-haired warrior, only to discover that the orcs, seemingly not content with anything less than a kill, were now swarming down the cliff face, finding far more handholds and footholds than there had any right to be. "They're pursuing!" he warned the seneschal.
Glorfindel didn't answer, but Asfaloth sprang forwards under him once more and, half-turning in the saddle, he waved for the others to follow. The ground disappeared under the horses' hooves as they tried to put breathing distance between them and the orcs, but as she veered sharply to avoid a rock partly hidden by ferns, Faelon's horse stumbled and broke into an unsteady trot, favouring the already injured foreleg. Glorfindel, hearing the younger elf's shrill curse, slowed as well. He let Faelon catch him up and, without losing his seat or altering Asfaloth's stride, somehow lit a torch and held it up so the light would illuminate the other horse's lame leg. "Bleeding," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Thank the Valar for the horses' speed - we still have time." Erestor and the guards fell into stride alongside them a moment later; the counsellor frowned as he saw the injury.
"There's a river ahead," he said. "It's wide, and deep - except for a narrow ford. Do you know it?" he asked Glorfindel. The seneschal nodded. "If we can get across without them following us to the ford, it could take them hours to find another way across - enough time for us to reach Lórien's borders. "
"As I recall, you have to push through a lot of thick scrub to reach that ford," Glorfindel said, the spitting torch flame throwing odd patterns of light and shadow across his patrician features. "You and Faelon have all the important documents. You two ride on. We'll buy you time; we'll catch you up later. "
"Melethron..." Faelon raised an eyebrow at the offhanded way Erestor used the endearment. He knew about Erestor's relationship with the golden Elda, but Elrond's chief adviser seldom used such an intimate address to his lover in public. "If you're staying behind, I'm not leaving you."
"We can handle it," Glorfindel answered confidently. "The papers need to reach Lórien."
"I can transfer mine across to Faelon. Four of us stand a better chance than three against all those orcs." As he spoke, he drew a long, thin knife from his robes and carved an experimental arc through the air.
"Someone has to go with Faelon to show him the way, " Glorfindel countered, seemingly unimpressed by the skill with which the scholar handled the blade. "You have time if you go now. You must reach Lórien. Go!" As if to emphasise his point, he directed an urgent, "Noro lim!" at Erestor's horse and, stringing his bow, promptly issued the same command to Faelon's mount. "Trust her; she'll get you there!" he shouted at the younger elf's back. "She'll gallop on a lame leg if it'll save her life!"
Faelon felt guilty for leaving Glorfindel and the guards to face the orcs alone, even if it was only a smallish band. But, he realised as he tried to sit lightly, attempting to ignore his horse's bobbing head and uneven steps, he was no warrior and would most likely just prove a liability. And the documents he carried, triple-wrapped in waterproof cloth, had to reach the Lord and Lady of the Wood. The diagrams, reports and contracts contained within the sealed packages could not simply be relayed by Elrond Far-Speaking with Galadriel or Celeborn.
He followed Erestor, who seemed to have a very exact idea of where he was going, keeping the counsellor's bay mare always in sight. Erestor led him into a patch of dense thornbushes, bracken and thick shrubbery, further hindering his lame mount's progress. He whispered words of encouragement to her, begging for more speed; he could almost smell the orcs behind them. He earnestly prayed Glorfindel and his men were distracting enough of them.
The twigs all seemed to be trying to grab him, tugging at his cloak and leggings, overhanging branches snagging his hair and pulling his braids apart. A thick bough appeared at the same level as his head, thudding into his skull and causing him to inhale raggedly in pain. The night was no longer starless, as several were bursting before his eyes. He rubbed his head and felt torn skin and sticky blood.
Then the ground dropped sharply away and his horse skidded down a muddy slope to land with a splash in water up to her fetlocks. "Keep in a straight line," Erestor's voice drifted to him in the semi-darkness. "Don't falter, as the water runs deep both sides of the causeway. Ride straight -and hurry!"
Faelon glanced at the water, which looked black in the twilight, and saw that the surface was smooth and calm; it was indeed a deep river, and probably had a strong current as well. But his logic informed him that if Erestor called from ahead, the advisor had crossed the river safely, and therefore the ford really did exist and was passable. He urged his mount forwards. Should Lady Uinen decide she still held a grudge against Noldorin elves now... But the causeway dropped no lower, and his mare picked her way carefully to the far bank. He sighed with relief as the water gave way to solid ground again, but before he could reflect further, Erestor's voice was coaxing them onwards again.
Glorfindel was not fond of night encounters, especially when orcs were involved. They were truly creatures of darkness, with better night sight even then elves'. At least he could locate them by sound - and, to some extent, smell. They were not the most stealthy of creatures, especially in lands like this, where all the plants and animals despised them, and would make no attempt to ease their passage.
Fortunately, the odds were not bad; the elven company were only outnumbered sixteen to three; or sixteen to six if he counted the horses, who would loyally aid their riders wherever they could.
They peppered the oncoming orcs with arrows, but soon had to abandon their bows when the orcs got too close for arrows to be properly effective any longer. As a Noldorin elf and a former captain of Gondolin, Glorfindel's weapon of choice was the sword rather than the bow anyway, so he was all too glad to sling the long, slender arc of wood across his back and draw his blade instead. The battlecry that leaped from his lips was a name familiar to every elf in Imladris, and most in Middle Earth - an elf who had once been Glorfindel's closest friend. "Ecthelion!"(1)
Sharp teeth sank into his shin, and he cut downwards, cleaving an ugly skull in two. On the upstroke, he twisted and opened up the ribcage of another hideous creature who was trying to sneak up on him from behind. A third fell to the ground, gurgling wetly and coughing up bloody froth, when Asfaloth lashed out with a powerful hind hoof. Arrows sang in delight; one of the scouts had repositioned himself so he could shoot at the orcs again; the slim bolts sliced first through the damp air and slanting raindrops, then through orc-flesh. The fight was over quickly.
"I suppose we ought to do something with the corpses," Glorfindel remarked, wiping his sword off on a clump of grass. He was largely unhurt; his only concern was the bite on his leg, which could well be poisoned from those disgusting yellow fangs. He'd better clean it up before they moved on. His companions were both covered with a fair amount of blood, but he could smell even at this distance that it was not their own. One of the elves was favouring his right side a little, but made no complaint; nothing urgent, then.
He was more than grateful for the rainstorm now, as it served to cleanse him of much of the sense of contamination which clung to every square inch of his skin. He avoided touching the bodies if possible, gingerly kicking them into an irreverent pile to one side of the track. It would take a wizard to get this soaking wet mound ablaze...
When they left the battleground, the corpses were certainly not ablaze -they smouldered sullenly, sending great plumes of hissing black smoke spiralling up in reeking columns into the night. Glorfindel buried his nose in the collar of his cloak and curled his lip in revulsion. Extending all his senses forwards instead, he felt for the aura of light and power which signalled that they neared the welcome borders of the Golden Wood. He smiled faintly; it wasn't far now, thank the Valar. Asfaloth knew they were nearly there, too, and quickened his pace.
"Daro!" Two Silvan marchwardens dropped from the trees, arrows pointed squarely at Faelon's chest. Looking ahead, he saw Erestor had been similarly challenged.
"I'm a member of the envoy from Imladris," he said hastily, stressing ‘Imladris'. "I believe we are expected?"
The arrows were lowered a few inches, but the bowstrings remained taut. "You're injured, and your horse is lame," the leader commented coolly.
Faelon dabbed at his forehead self-consciously with an already stained sleeve. "She stumbled; we've had to flee a band of orcs in a hurry."
"Only one band? An uneventful journey here, then." A trace of wry humour crept into the elf's voice. "At least we begin to see proof that the joint venture of six months ago was successful. Come; you were right, you are expected. You may refresh yourselves at our company's talan tonight, and we shall escort you to see the Lord and Lady tomorrow."
"Is it far?" Faelon asked, worried about his mare's heaving flanks. He dismounted and ran a concerned hand down her arching neck.
"The company's main talan is another hour's walk from here; but our captain, Haldir, won't be there. He's challenged his brother to a poetry contest to pass the hours until their watches begin and they've commandeered a smaller talan further to the east for tonight." The mild envy which tinged the elf's voice hinted that he, too, would sooner be among their company than out here this night.
Faelon felt a flame of hope igniting and growing within him. "Haldir is your captain?"
"You know him? Aiya, but he was in Imladris a short time ago, was he not?"
"Aye, with his brother, Rúmil." Faelon heard how his voice cracked as he pronounced the name.
"Faelon, what are you doing?" Erestor wound his way though the trees towards the younger elf, leading his horse by the bridle and looking thoroughly exasperated. "It's long past sunset, we're wet, tired and hungry, your horse is lame, and you can think of no better pursuit than making small talk with the local marchwardens? "
"Faelon?!" exclaimed the Silvan elf, jerking his head up and grinning like a cheeky elfling. "You're the one he's been pining for this entire time!"
"The one who's been pining for?!" Faelon demanded.
"Rúmil, of course." Faelon was going to urge the marchwarden to elaborate, but a delicate cough from Erestor's direction effectively communicated the advisor's impatience with the conversation. The Lórien elf took the hint and, gesturing for the visitors to follow him, set off deliberately, picking the best paths between trees with such dispatch Faelon had to increase his own speed to keep up. After a few paces, the marchwarden remembered the visitors were unfamiliar with the woods and turned back sheepishly to check he hadn't lost his wards already. "Seems as though his taste wasn't as bad as I thought, after all," he commented appreciatively, eyeing the Noldorin scholar critically.
Faelon's eyes widened in astonishment and renewed hope, just as he saw Erestor shaking his head wearily. He looked questioningly at the elder elf, but Erestor only rolled his eyes and sighed. But Faelon was falling behind his escort again and, in his haste to catch-up, missed the devious and self-satisfied grin which then spread slowly across Erestor's face as he watched his dark-haired protégé hurry through the trees with a freshly optimistic spring in his step.
Site Info
We are the home of 1292 authors from among our 2552 members. There have been 2904 reviews written about our 3820 stories consisting of 10734 chapters and 29400445 words. A special welcome to our newest member, Rosamundeb.Categories
Skin Change
Donate
Help us keep one of the oldest running LotR archives available to all. Even the smallest donation helps!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
The Library, elsewhere
Other projects
Underestimated by Enismirdal
Chapter end notes: Translations: daro - stop melamin - my love melethron - lover (male) melme - love
Notes (1) Book of Lost Tales 2, p181 "Tis said that Ecthelion's folk there slew more of the goblins than fell ever in all the battles of the Eldalië with that race, and that his name is a terror among them to this latest day, and a warcry to the Eldar."
