Posted: October 2004
Title: Underestimated
Author: Enismirdal

*****

Glorfindel turned up to dinner discreetly holding hands with Erestor, their entwined fingers concealed by robes, wondering what in the name of the Valar his lover had been alluding to before. He had reached the conclusion that Erestor had, for some reason unknown to him, taken the clothing to lend to another elf; and he would have gambled anything on Arda that the elf in question was Rúmil. But the reason *why* remained just as obscure.

He was correct. The young Silvan elf looked truly dazzling; the aquamarine formal robes brought out the blue and green in Rúmil's eyes and made them sparkle like well-cut turquoises. His hair had been braided and twisted with great attention to detail, and served to accentuate his delicate features. If it weren't for Erestor, perhaps even Glorfindel might have been momentarily tempted by the Lórien scout.

He and Erestor took their customary places near Lord Elrond, and Glorfindel threw a casual glance at the gold cutlery in the hope that the implements would tell him something of what to expect food-wise tonight. They didn't; there was no soup spoon, hence tonight, no soup, but apart from that snippet of information, he could glean nothing. The knives and forks were all of generic design and could be used for a variety of dishes. He enjoyed this somewhat juvenile guessing game, anticipating the dishes of the evening, whether they were cheese, fish, roasts or casserole; he'd have another stab once the first course was served. For the moment, though, he'd just have to wait and see.

Erestor, typically, ate in silence; Glorfindel, typically, took to amusing himself by turning to Elrond and debating politics with the Half-Elven Lord. However, the golden-haired Elda was also keeping a discreet watch on Rúmil. The young Silvan elf seemed nervous and unsure of himself, and kept throwing glances at, of all people, Faelon. If the Imladris scholar noticed, he gave no obvious sign; but often when his gaze wandered in Rúmil's direction, he made an overt point of staring through the Lórien visitor.

Glorfindel caught Erestor gazing at a dish of steamed vegetables, and immediately passed it across; in return, his lover reached for the wine and refilled the golden-haired warrior's goblet. It was a fine but heady wine, and although Glorfindel was far from drunk, he thought he might appreciate some singing sometime soon.

***

Whatever explanation Erestor had given to Glorfindel to account for the disappearance of some of the seneschal's best robes, and their subsequent reappearance on Rúmil, it seemed to have mollified him. Glorfindel's face showed only curiosity and - for a fraction of a second, Rúmil was amazed to see - attraction, even if *that* had disappeared a moment later. He relaxed and began to enjoy the meal.

He soon discovered Faelon was watching him. Not overtly; whenever Rúmil's eyes crossed to the dark-haired elf, he was either staring at his plate or conversing soberly with one of the other counsellors sitting nearby. Rúmil didn't know whether to be pleased or uncomfortable, and ended up compromising and feeling a combination of both.

It was then that he saw that Faelon was sipping very sparingly at the wine. Not carefully, as an elf would do when making absolutely sure he did not accidentally become inebriated, but disapprovingly, as if he did not agree with the choice of vintage. Faelon seemed to have a good point; this wine could have benefited from being laid down another year or two. However, Glorfindel had just been complementing Lord Elrond with great enthusiasm on the selection; Faelon must have been reluctant to contradict the seneschal and risk offending his Lord. Rúmil chuckled to himself. He could see that, actually, the two elder elves were drinking a different wine altogether, a white, when he and Faelon were sipping a red. But as the goblets were inlaid mithril, Faelon, from where he was sitting, would not be able to see the contents. He was unaware that Glorfindel was loudly proclaiming the virtues of an entirely different wine to the one he was drinking.

"Tell me," Rúmil said to a servant as he laid another dish on the table. "Is this red wine Lord Elrond's selection, or that of his vintner?"

The servant was momentarily taken aback. "Lord Elrond personally recommended the white, sir, but I believe the vintners chose the red, on the advice of a note he received today."

"Curious. This wine is too young, you see, and does not complement some of these dishes."

The servant became flustered and apologetic, before Rúmil made a placating hand gesture. "It doesn't matter, no harm has been done. Could you just instead open several bottles of the batch we brought from Lórien? And send some to the elves over there - the ones wearing indigo." He pointed to the group around Faelon. "Say it comes highly recommended from Lothlórien, and you hope they find it more to their liking."

The servant ran off to do as instructed; Rúmil looked once more, longingly, at Faelon before returning to his food. As he did so, he made brief eye contact with Erestor. The counsellor had not spoken to anyone the entire meal, and did not now; nor did he smile. But Rúmil saw the sparkle in the dark eyes, and wondered how much of his conversation with the servant Erestor had ever heard, and how much the advisor knew about it all.

***

Faelon looked up in surprise when a servant appeared, hovering at his shoulder with an unopened bottle of wine. "I have been asked to open this for you," the elf explained. "It comes highly recommended from Lórien, and I hope you should find it preferable to that which you were drinking before."

Faelon was intrigued. Surely, the servants hadn't been watching him so closely as to realise he wasn't enjoying the first vintage? He had deliberately not made a display of his disapproval, as it would hardly do to slight Lord Elrond's competence as a host in front of guests - even if those guests probably wouldn't know a good wine if it was poured over their heads. But someone had ordered a better bottle for him, and he remembered from his last visit to Lórien that Lady Galadriel was personally fond of this one.

He thanked the servant and allowed a fresh crystal goblet to be half-filled with the drink. Holding it up to the light, he took in the rich colour, an intense burgundy like molten silk. The aroma was exquisite and complex, oak and river air, dark plums and warm earth. And the flavour was as exceptional as the scent had promised. Whoever ordered this for him knew their wine; it was a perfect accompaniment to the game dishes being served all around. He nodded his satisfaction to the servant. "Please pass my gratitude to whoever sent this," he instructed with a subtle smile which he'd picked up from Erestor.

The servant dashed off, heading for some elves further down the table. He leaned down to say something to one of the Silvan elves from Lórien - Rúmil, in fact - before disappearing from the room. The servant was busy tonight. Faelon wondered what Rúmil had wanted; he'd noticed the sardonic raising of the young elf's eyebrow as the servant spoke, and wanted to know more of the exchange which had taken place.

Lost in thought, it took nearly a minute before Faelon realised he was staring at Rúmil again, admiring the way his long locks shivered when he laughed and the way his eyes glittered. Faelon was quite sure he'd seen those robes before…the way the sheer surface reflected the play of a nearby candle flame as Bruinen reflected Arien's bright rays was distinctly familiar. He remembered in an instant. But what in the name of the Valar was Rúmil doing in Glorfindel's robes?

"What in the name of the Valar is Rúmil doing in Glorfindel's robes?" muttered Melpomaen into his brother's ear. Faelon jumped, shocked by their identical thought patterns, until he remembered that he'd been watching the Silvan elf so intently it was no surprise Melpomaen's attention had been drawn to him as well.

"Don't ask me," he answered curtly.

"It looks almost as if he's trying to impress someone," Melpomaen mused. "I wonder who the lucky one is… If he's got Glorfindel to co-operate with him on it, he must be keen. And I must say, I think I envy the object of his affection, just a little. He cleans up rather nicely, don't you think, brother?"

"It's the fact that he needs cleaning up at all which puts me off."

"Perhaps." Melpomaen tilted his head thoughtfully. "Still…you *were* looking."

"Oh, come off it." Faelon cursed himself for sounding so defensive. "I was admiring the statue over there."

"The one that's been there for the last four hundred years?"

"Melpomaen." The name was spoken with a mild but unmistakable warning.

"Suit yourself." The elder brother returned to his food, leaving Faelon to his thoughts. He sipped the wine again, appreciatively. Next time the servant who had delivered it walked past, he beckoned the elf over.

"Did you pass on my thanks?" he asked without preamble.

"Of course, sir. I relayed your message as soon as you gave it to me."

"But you went to speak to Rúmil."

"Yes, sir." The servant was well-trained enough not to look smug, but his polite smile was perhaps just a little too polite.

---

At first Faelon didn't recognise the chief advisor hurrying down the hallway, as only Erestor's eyes were visible above the enormous pile of books he was carrying. "Do you want a hand there?" he asked courteously, pointing to the stack.

Erestor considered for a moment then accepted the offer. "I'm taking them to Rúmil's chambers - I found him in the library earlier, and he asked me if I knew whether Lord Elrond had a complete set of Daeron's early compositions."

Faelon knew that Elrond, but they were kept in the Master of Imladris's personal study. A complete set of the works was now a rare and valuable asset. "I had some time," Erestor continued, "so I thought I'd deliver the books personally, as a favour to a guest." It was surprising in itself that Rúmil would be asking about such highbrow literary works. *Or perhaps, considering the business with the wine last night, not so surprising*. Faelon was beginning to feel that the Lórien envoy might be worthy of further attention.

He took the top six volumes from Erestor's arms, momentarily taken aback with their not insignificant weight, and followed the counsellor towards the guest quarters. It was a glorious day, with a refreshing and good-natured breeze to offset the warm sunlight, yet Faelon was not in the best of moods. Melpomaen had been teasing him about Rúmil, *again*, until Faelon had practically had to escort his older brother from the room. The worst thing was, he was starting to doubt himself whether or not the other Elda had a point.

Erestor somehow managed to balance his books on one arm in order to free up one hand to knock on Rúmil's door, then entered. The Silvan elf was not alone; he was in the middle of a chess game with his brother, and when Faelon glanced at the board, it was obvious from the numbers of pieces remaining that Haldir was losing.

"I've brought the books you asked for," Erestor said brightly. "Where would you like me to put them?" Rúmil did not look up from the board, but indicated a nearby table, and the counsellor complied. Faelon saw that if he were to add his own to those Erestor had placed on the small table, it would result in a dangerously unstable column, so hesitated.

"Is there somewhere less precarious where I can leave these?" he asked the room in general.

Rúmil's head shot up with a small gasp. "F…Faelon? I wasn't expecting you."

"I was merely assisting Erestor with these books," he returned stiffly.

"Oh, yes, of course." A flush rose in the young elf's cheeks; his distraction caused him to make a bad move in the game.

"Check," Haldir declared lightly, placing one of his ebony pieces with a carefree air.

Rúmil regained his concentration and captured his brother's offending piece, at the same time putting Haldir in check in turn. The elder brother groaned. Erestor casually moved to Haldir's side and whispered something to the Silvan elf. The marchwarden's defeated expression became a calculating smirk. "Perhaps…" he breathed, and made his move.

Rúmil's eyes grew wide as he watched Haldir remove his queen from the board. "But…" His response was desperate and sacrificial, but protected his king.

Erestor made another suggestion to Haldir which, judging by the smile on the marchwarden's face, he liked. The strategy was highly unorthodox and both Rúmil and Faelon frowned. "That was rather risky," the younger elf commented, and took another of his brother's pieces.

"Not so," said Haldir coolly. He made his answer. "Check again."

Rúmil's eyebrows drew together to form a single line above his nose, and Erestor's eyes gleamed with triumph. Sighing obviously, Faelon pulled up a padded stool beside the younger brother. "Two on one is hardly a fair match, is it?" he said. "I suppose I'll lend my aid." He intentionally put a facetious note in his voice, but Rúmil evidently interpreted it as mocking.

He gave a look of disgust which was of a standard with one of Faelon's own. "I don't need your help." But he was clearly discouraged by Erestor's cunning strategy.

"He's a wicked one for quiet moves," Faelon advised, ignoring the younger elf's refusal. He knew from experience, having played the chief advisor often enough, generally when Glorfindel got sick of being beaten.

"Then he'll set me up to lose that rook, won't he?" Rúmil murmured back, so softly it only carried to Faelon's ears, and took his brother's last-but-one pawn

The counsellor gave a brief but scornful smile and turned once more to Haldir. The Silvan elf looked at him aghast. "Surely it would be better to…" Erestor shook his head.

"That's what they *expect* you to do," he argued reasonably.

"If it suits you. But it's your fault if this doesn't work." The move Haldir made had nothing to do with trying to capture Rúmil's pivotal rook.

Rúmil dealt Faelon a suspicious glance. "You said…"

Faelon gestured for the young elf to come to the window at the other side of the room, affording them a small amount of privacy to talk. "I said he liked quiet moves," he whispered. "*You* said he'd go for the rook." Rúmil glanced across at the chief advisor. Erestor was completely ignoring the two younger elves, seemingly absorbed in straightening ornaments on a nearby shelf. "Listen to me," Faelon continued in an undertone. "He's as cunning as any double-dealing Dwarf or Man and a good deal more subtle. You won't beat him by trying to anticipate him. I know. I've tried."

"Then what should I do?" Rúmil demanded, trying to sound challenging but actually looking rather helpless.

"Play like you've never played before," he replied. "Use your instincts. Treat it like a real pitched battle. And remember, Elrond wouldn't have chosen him as chief counsellor if he wasn't a brilliant strategist." He glanced back over at the game board, where the other two elves were once more conferring. "Come, I'll show you. I'll play the next couple of moves, and then you can take over."

With immense joint effort, the two managed to stave off Erestor and Haldir's inevitable victory for a good two hours, at which point Haldir came out with some unusual strokes of inspiration of his own, and managed a checkmate with only four of his own pieces remaining. Faelon suddenly realised the time and, thinking of the amount of work he still had to do, excused himself. Haldir pleaded hunger and went to get a bath and something to eat.

Erestor and Rúmil were left alone in the room. "Thank you for the books," the Silvan elf tried weakly.

"It was no problem. In fact, it resulted in an intriguing diversion, don't you think?" The younger elf nodded agreement. "And you managed to get Faelon not only to pay attention to you, but to co-operate with you for some time."

"No," Rúmil corrected. "You did that. You set the whole thing up from the moment you started giving Haldir tips."

"I may have started it, but you persuaded Faelon to ally with you. He isn't *naturally* as soft-hearted as, say, Glorfindel, you know. He didn't help you out of pure pity. He saw you had some real talent at the game and recognised that, with some guidance, you had the potential either to beat Haldir and me, or make us fight for the victory. I could see he was impressed by your ability - that's why his advice was so vague and general rather than specific."

"I impressed him? That's impossible. He thinks of me in much the same way as he thinks of Men - not very intelligent and something of an embarrassment to be around." Erestor was shaking his head.

"I suspect that wine episode of yours got him thinking, and along with your reading preferences, it seems have convinced him to re-evaluate you."

"Yes - about the wine episode. You looked very knowing at dinner. Did you have something to do with that?"

"I might have."

"You did!" Rúmil laughed incredulously. "You set it up so we got an inferior wine!"

"I might have," the counsellor repeated.

Rúmil rolled his eyes. "I'll find out," he threatened.

Erestor didn't seem especially intimidated. "I hope you enjoy the books."

"I am certain that I shall. But you know you didn't have to bring all of them. I only really wanted the first three."

"If I brought only the first three, would Faelon have offered to help carry them?"

"Oh. I see."

---

"Lord Glorfindel?" The golden-haired seneschal turned from rechecking his weapons for the fifth time at the sound of his name.

"Yes, Rúmil?"

"Do you know where Lord Erestor can be found?"

"Right now?" The younger elf nodded. "Probably in Lord Elrond's study, dealing with work which could quite happily wait until next month, next year, or sometime after Arda is broken and remade. If the door's ajar, you can go straight in; if it's shut he'll be talking to Elrond and they won't appreciate the disturbance, so you'd have to wait. Is it something I can help with?"

"I doubt it," Rúmil replied. *Not unless you're in on this whole plot*. "But thank you for offering."

"I offer out of concern, I assure you," the Elda answered with a sly grin. "Erestor doesn't always take kindly to having his work interrupted, even if he's not doing something you or I would count as important. Although you may be lucky - he does seem to have a soft spot for you."

"Aiya - Erestor hasn't yet had to live and work with Rúmil for a couple of millennia," Haldir, who was walking past, added facetiously. "If he had, maybe he'd think differently."

"I'm not that bad!"

Haldir assumed a whining voice. "Oh, Haldir, we haven't seen any orcs for *three days*! I'm bored! Oh, Haldir, Orophin's eaten twice his ration of /lembas/! Oh, Haldir, I don't like this /talan/; it's lumpy and so uncomfortable! Aye, brother, of course you're not that bad."

Rúmil swatted his elder brother. Glorfindel interceded before the argument stopped being playful. "I think you'd better stop now. I have enough problems with those Peredhel twins, without having to cope with you two as well! And this sortie's going to take some time." The two Silvan elves fell into line without further protest at the rebuke from their elder, Rúmil glancing around anxiously to ensure Faelon was nowhere nearby to witness him being treated like an elfling. But of course, he wouldn't be. What would a scholar want near the weapons stores?

So when he passed Faelon in the hallway literally ten seconds later, he was distinctly perplexed. The Noldorin elf was clutching a sheaf of papers and striding purposefully towards the weapons stores which Rúmil had just left. He did not react to the Silvan elf in any way. Rúmil's heart sank, but he willed himself to believe that Faelon was simply preoccupied with some important matter of administration relating to the outgoing patrol. He remained unconvinced.

***

Faelon didn't have to visit the stores in person; he could just have easily sent a message down there to the elf in charge, asking for a list of everything in there at the moment. He still hadn't found out where those arrows had gone.

But some curious urge caused him to head down there himself, and he reacted with bemused displeasure when passing Rúmil in the hallway gave him a mildly uplifting sensation. This was ridiculous. Just because the Silvan elf could play chess and read Daeron's ballads didn't suddenly make him interesting. And worse was the fact that Faelon had actually stopped, turned, and found himself admiring the sway of the marchwarden's slender hips as he disappeared off on whatever business he was attending to.

***

Rúmil found the door to Elrond's study slightly open so, following Glorfindel's advice, entered. Erestor was not seated at the desk, but stood by the bookcase leafing through a well-kept volume on Second Age history. He gazed at the intruder over the edge of the pages through inscrutable eyes. "Is there something you want?"

Rúmil suddenly felt very silly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and finally blurted out, "I'm leaving in just a few hours, and Faelon's still not showing any interest in me!" His shoulders slumped miserably. "What can I do?"

Erestor sighed heavily. "You leave tomorrow morning, correct?"

"At dawn."

"I told you Faelon was difficult. There's still a chance, but you can't expect an instant response. It's more of a medium-term tactic; you'll have to wait to see results."

"All right." He would have agreed to anything if it allowed him to cling to the strand of hope which insisted Faelon might still accept him.

"You need to find out when Faelon's begetting day is. You could try talking to Melpomaen. No-one else I've asked seems to know. It's not as if, on one specific day every year without fail, he undergoes any noticeable personality change, so I'm certain it's not that he's trying to forget his begetting day for whatever reason; presumably he just hasn't thought to tell anyone else the date. Then drop a message off at the kitchens, and tell them that on that date, they are to prepare a special surprise for him from you. What that surprise is, I'll leave to your imagination - after all, it is you who is courting him, not me. Remember what I told you before?"

"He loves blackberries, and his favourite flower is /elanor/. I can manage all that…"

Erestor held up a hand. "I'm not finished yet. Faelon, at the moment, has a small but annoying problem which he's supposed to solve, but his success so far has been…well, non-existent." He described how the inventory and requisition lists over the last six months failed to match up, how nearly fifty arrows had gone missing from the stores. "If you could track them down, he - and I - would be very grateful."

"Have you asked the twins? Perhaps they decided to hold an archery contest, or maybe they've been sneaking out on midnight orc-slaying patrols." He'd got to know the Peredhil slightly over the course of his stay, and was now well aware of their impulsive natures. But Erestor shook his head.

"That was the first thing I thought of. They knew nothing about it."

"And you think I'll be able to solve this?"

"I trust your resourcefulness."

***

Rúmil had left his message in the kitchens, feeling very pleased with himself and quite sure that Faelon wouldn't be able to deny his thoughtfulness. But moving on to the second problem, he remained stumped, and it was getting on towards early evening. He had a matter of hours to solve a problem which had been vexing Faelon for days.

He wearily made his way back to his rooms, envisioning the welcome sight of a steaming bath and the soft sheets of his bed. He needed them to help him forget about his troubles. Erestor thought he was so great, but what did he know…?

As he passed the library, he overheard voices, one of them raised and getting more and more heated by the moment. The other, he identified as Glorfindel's; the seneschal sounded patient yet bored, as if they had been arguing in circles for some time. "Tellumiel, no, and again, no. You are *not* accompanying the party south. I'm not risking it."

"You think I'm incapable!" she shot back. Rúmil, aware he was committing something of an indiscretion, pressed his ear to the door so as to be able to hear the exchange properly. He knew full well why Tellumiel wanted to come; ever since he and Haldir had come to Imladris, the elfmaid had been besotted with his brother. Haldir revelled in the attention, saying she'd been like this with him for years. Rúmil thought she was being very childish, especially the way she glared at anyone else who even so much as asked Haldir for a dance at feasts, and *especially* at those who were accepted.

"No, I think you're inexperienced. You're untested in battle, and I don't know how you'll react. I have no idea of your capabilities, so I'd be likely to put you in danger by assigning you inappropriate tasks. If you're really serious about becoming a patrol rider, I can arrange for you to go out with one of the regular border patrols sometime. Then, if you find yourself out of your depth or you're confronted with a new situation, backup is close at hand and not so much will ride on the outcome of your decisions." He paused. "You know, I had an almost identical conversation with the twins when they were about your age."

"You never object to their patrols!"

A groan. "I did at the time. Elrond and I agreed to make them wait. I'm doing the same now with you. But Tellumiel, you are not going on *this* patrol. It's too late to start making plans for additional riders now, anyway."

"So you're saying no?" The young elfmaid sounded desperately disappointed.

"For now, yes, I am saying no. In future, maybe I'll change my mind. Now, if you'll excuse me, I still have preparations to attend to." Rúmil moved away from the door so as not to look suspicious, and affected ignorance of the exchange as the seneschal left the library. "Oh, hello, Rúmil. Have you any idea what's got into Tellumiel today? She's suddenly started acting as if her inclusion is essential to the successful completion of our patrol. She even claims to have been practising her archery in secret over the last year!"

"Maids, honestly - there's no logic to them," Rúmil agreed, then paused. "Practising her archery?" The pieces clicked into place. He was halfway down the hallway before he'd taken another breath, leaving a bemused Glorfindel staring after him.

"It's not just maids who have no logic," the golden-haired warrior sighed to himself, shaking his head. "It's youngsters. All of them."

***

Rúmil stopped outside the study, realising he couldn't just charge in there, proclaiming that he had the answers to all Faelon's problems. How was he to approach the subject? An idea tentatively formed in his mind, and he ran back to the weapons stores, to return a few minutes later clutching a slender arrow fletched with pure white feathers. This would require a little prevarication, but he thought he'd get away with it, assuming Faelon was really just a scholar and not a scout.

He took a deep breath and knocked. Faelon's voice from inside called for him to enter. The Noldorin elf looked up curiously as Rúmil stepped over the threshold, and his expression hardened. "What could you *possibly* want?" he asked tetchily.

"I discovered my arrows were running short - Haldir and I had a run-in with a small group of angry Dunlendings on the way here and it used up a lot of arrows." That part, at least, was true. "So I went to collect more from the stores and found they were almost out of these, the kind I use." He held up the arrow he'd brought. Faelon had better not notice that it was far too short and light to be any use with Rúmil's tall Lórien bow… It was, however, a perfect size and weight for a less experienced elf still accustoming himself - or equally herself - to the weight of a proper longbow. "The weapons master said you had all the inventory lists at the moment, so I should come to you to find out if there are any more around anywhere."

Faelon frowned, and swallowed. "Unfortunately, there aren't…"

Rúmil timed his interruption so perfectly as to look natural. "But I've been asking around, and I found out Tellumiel keeps two whole quivers full!"

"Does she?" The spark of triumph in Faelon's eyes was unmistakable. "What does *she* want with arrows?"

"I wondered that, too. Until I heard she's been practising her archery skills in secret so she'd be able to prove to Lord Glorfindel that she's good enough to join his patrols."

Faelon's expression alternated relief and satisfaction. Yet his ingrained Imladris manners prevailed. "Rúmil - you've just solved a problem which has been bothering me for some time. I have to admit I owe you." He dropped his voice and actually smiled in a conspiratorial fashion. "If you hadn't come to me today, I imagine Erestor would be throwing me in the Bruinen a few days from now for failing to explain why the stores don't have as many arrows as they're supposed to."

Rúmil returned the smile. "Just promise me you won't be too harsh on Tellumiel. She might have caused you all this trouble, but she was just being a silly young elfmaid who wanted to impress someone." The parallel struck him at that moment; he and Tellumiel were both striving towards that same goal. He just hoped he would have more success than she'd had.

---

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, /meleth/. 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, /penvain/. 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. "

"/Meleth/…" 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.

Translations:
daro - stop
meleth - 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."

*****

previous | Chapter Index | next

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Enismirdal