Author's Notes:

We will arrive at Rivendell in the next chapter. (Yea!)

Thanks muchly for those who have put this story in their communities, favourite lists, and story alert lists. (Please drop a comment or criticism if you could. Silent company is all right, but talkative one is much preferred, especially those with constructive criticisms. :)) And for the lurkers out there too… Wow! The story hits climbed rapidly! And special thanks to those who dropped by and reviewed: Vanime18430, Tara-Yo, Jenni, Blackinky, yamiyugi23, Stelmaria, child-of-paradox-and-chaos, Svenka, AnimeIceFox, Tamahome8, and Lala. You are all so awesome!

The terms here may be unfamiliar to you, since they are in Quenya; therefore I advise you to scroll down to the translation section and read it before all. (But do not read the end yet! LOL)

Hope you like this chapter!

- Rey

Chapter 7

Yes,no,yes,no,yes,no,yes,no,yesAh!Thisissosilly.`

Gildor scowled at the door; not just a door, but the door leading to Wenlach's room. He had battled Sauron, although indirectly, just some time ago, and now he dithered from entering the sleeping area of a nís.

He had been woken up by Aros' insistant shaking on his shoulder. The nightmare of his long past, particularly the events happening in the Isle of Werewolves, had plagued his reverie. He had managed not to scream out during the horrifying, vivid recounting, it seemed, but his limbs still thrashed in futile defense. (Angarillo and Aros were the victims of his reaction this time, judging from their disgruntled looks and bruises.) That forced him to be away from sleep for the reminder of the resting time. (Besides, nobody would get their deserved rest if he kept trying to sleep.) That also made his mind go down some unexpected trains of thoughts, unfortunately, one of which was about Wenlach and Laikanáro.

Laikanáro. Ah, such an apt name, if only the child would accept it. But perhaps it was yet too early for the child to assume an Elven name? He seemed to have lived with another race and been accustomed to the said race's ways – as odd as it sounded. They could not just tear him from those ways.

If only he could reach the child… Did Wenlach keep those concealed daggers in the presence of a baby? Angarillo had nearly become a victim of her knives once, when he was in the process of weaving a Working around her dreaming form, in hopes of concealing her female nature from the approaching band of orcs. And it was by no means the only occurrence, although until now nobody had figured out why she had always reacted thus. Personally, though, Gildor guessed that most of Wenlach's dreams were not pleasant, leading to violent responses to seemingly-harmful approaches done while she was vulnerable. Still, he did not wish to prove his theory by barging in and approaching her well-defended self and charge, not especially now. But he wanted to see how his company's charge – whom he was beginning to claim as his also – was fairing, and he did not want to wait until sunrise to know.

Atar *(1)Ingoldo had taught him about many things, including the Songs of Power, before his demise battling against a werewolf to save Beren the Secondborn, Lady Luthien's beloved. Gildor had been an eager learner, and his adoptive father had been just eager to teach him about many things. Still, it was painful for him to practise what he had been taught, always; he only missed the presence of his lord and foster father all the more in that way.

Was the pain worth the result, now?

There was nothing he could do except try. He just hoped he was not caught doing what he was about to do, because nowadays almost no one of the Ñoldor knew how to harness the Song in what Atar Ingoldo had done back then, when facing *(2)the Abhored One in the fallen Maia's accursed lair. There could be awkward questions and unwanted attentions aplenty, and scorn too, if they ever knew for what purpose he performed this over-glorified art. (The Lindar did it all the time for various reasons! And Atar Ingoldo's sister did it too in numerous occasions. What was special about it, then?)

"Open now the door, silent.
No crieking nor footsteps and breathing heard,
By the nís, and those outside,
Until I deem it enough, and my purposes achieved.

"Deep be the nís' slumber.
Be she not disturbed, nor stirred in anger,
Until I deem it enough, and my purposes achieved.
But let the child wake, if he so wishes.
Then he and I can talk, safe from any listening ears…"

The door swung on silent hinges, as if hushed and pushed by an invisible hand. Gildor's eyes widened with disbelief and glee. It worked! Much of his strength had not returned to him after the vigorous ward-making twice done in a row, and the race against Sauron's storm, and he had initially thought this impossible.

With his heart beating rapidly, he snuck into the room and nudged the bewitched piece of wood back to place, sealing a part of his woven words with his own deed. His eyes instantly roamed the vicinity, and latched onto a figure laid atop the old covers, her eyes half-way open in Elven slumber. Now where was Laikanáro?

Oh no. Firstly, where were her hidden weapons? He did not want to be gutted, stabbed or beheaded by one of her lethal knives after coming this far and doing so much. He cared deeply for her, true, yet nobody was perfect and he had been making himself acknowledge that fact in regard to the nís. Besides, he did not wish to find out about how she would feel if she had accidentally murdered someone in this way.

Glint… Glint… Handle… Ah, there, under the pillow and slipped between the frame and the mattress on Wenlach's side of the bed. But only two?

Gildor smirked to himself. Wenlach had been softened by the Elfling, definitely.

But had he not been also? And for that matter, everyone else who had ever come in contact with little Laikanáro. (And he could not discount the suggestion that she was too exhausted to keep up her vigilance, too.)

Something moved on Wenlach's side, apparently disentangling itself slightly from her. Gildor held his breath and inched towards that side of the nís, away from the daggers. There could only be one living being small enough for the size of that moving lump under the sheets, who did not make Wenlach uncomfortable.

A tiny hand poked out of the top of the covering, then pushed the layers down, exposing the sleepy face of Laikanáro. The baby blinked his eyes into focus and yawned, looking away from the disappointed Gildor. He seemed intent on continuing his slumber, or at least lazing about.

"Little one, please turn around? I wish to see your face," Gildor coaxed in Sindarin, his voice not above a whisper. He caressed the tip of Laikanáro's left ear, which stuck out from his messed-up nest of hair, which made the little one yelp – tickled. It did not make him turn around, though.

"I need to talk about something with you," frowning, Gildor said, choosing another tactic. What could he possibly talk about with a one-year-old baby? But Atto did—

Regardless, Laikanáro turned back to him, and this time he shifted so that he was positioned towards Gildor, not Wenlach like before. The Ñoldo smoothed out his features, making sure that he looked more friendly than aloof, although inwardly his frown deepened. What kind of youth preferred a discussion over admiration and a chance to be spoiled? His trepidation about the child sored to new heights. Laikanáro seemed too mature for his age, ridiculously and incredulously so.

Dared he ask Sinderáno, though? Dared he face the truth – whatever it was – the Istar and perhaps Laikanáro himself had been concealing so far?

But those emerald orbs looked up at him with perfect innocence, flawless…

No, no, he could sense wariness in their depths, as if the child expected to be harmed any time soon. He fought from gagging and grimacing. The notion was too vile for even his wildest and darkest imagination. Had some Elves fallen that far into Moringotto's grasp?

A noise of whinging impatience reached his ears. Gildor started, then looked guiltily at the pouting Laikanáro. "I was carried away by my thoughts, little one," he said by way of apology. Intending to pacify the child further, he reached out a hand towards him, thinking that babies liked playing with someone's fingers – as his experience a long time ago had taught him.

He did not expect Laikanáro to flinch away, as if avoiding a blow. And now that he was caught off-guard, Gildor could not hide his dumbfounded expression, which then transformed into fury to whoever had hurt the baby. A baby! Who had been heartless enough to strike a baby?

"No, little one, I am not angry with you," he said for the terrified Laikanáro's sake. His voice was strained, and it was hard to breathe, lest to inhale deeply in order to banish his rage. But his time with Laikanáro was limited (because Wenlach would surely want to carry the baby again in their last leg of the journey to Imladris), and he had to make do with what he had, without the disturbance of his own emotions and feelings.

"Where are you from, Greeneyes?" he murmured. While he was schooling his emotions back into order, the strange Elfling was scrutinising his limp, splayed upturn hand lying before him atop the sheets as if a piece of brand-new invention. Laikanáro shook his head.

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead."

Gildor caught himself from jerking his hand back in reflex on the shocking news. Laikanáro's tone was bland, detached. He only had one idea why: Laikanáro had never grown up with his parents, and he had only heard from his caretakers that his parents were dead. But that meant there was a chance that his parents still lived, if somehow his caretakers had lied to him—

And if they had hurt him—

Gildor shook his head and breathed out his penned-up emotions sharply through his nose. At the sudden noise, Laikanáro snatched back his miniscule appendage and shrank into the sheets. That only exacerbated the situation in the older nér's mind.

"Come out, please, Harí? I never mean to harm you. My hand is yours to play with until Wenlach is awake."

Because, as furious as he was now, Wenlach's wrath could be greater even only on finding that he had snuck into her room and bewitched her dreaming form. He might have to flee the vicinity of the inn if she knew that he had upset Laikanáro. He would even be willing to call the child with the peculiar name if only the said child would cease taking him as a possible tormenter, therefore giving him time to acquaint himself with the little one.

Wenlach… If only she would accept him as her spouse… The three of them could built a family together, albeit an unconventional one at that.

Pushing the thought violently to the back of his mind, Gildor glared up at the boney ceiling. He could feel a soft, tiny hand with splayed fingers press against his own, much larger one, then dragged itself towards his index finger and curled around it tentatively. A faint smile tilted up the edges of his lips, twitching, forced. The touch was somehow warming and comforting, surprising him in its potancy.

Was it how his foster father had felt back then, in *(3)Helcaraxë, when his begetters had been murdered by the violent chill and grinding ice?

His heart clenched on that thought. Now he had lost all his parents, foster or no, in such violent ways. Strange that the coming of an Elven child, which should have heralded hope and joy, instead brought the weight of the world around and on top of him, suffocating him. But would it be that way always? Would he someday meet his Atto *(4)Finda again?

He let loose a deep, shuddering breath. It had been long since last he had thought of Atar Ingoldo being reborn. Yes, the presence of Laikanáro had triggered all the memories from his youth, as much as he despised such notion.

With yet another sigh, he looked at the Elfling before him,

And flinched in surprise. Laikanáro's vivid-emerald eyes shone with deep understanding and even the wisdom of one who was much older than he was. That scared him immensely.

It was no wonder, thus, that Gildor excused himself (feeling rather stupid afterwards for asking for permission to leave from a very young child) from the room in the span of a moment. The Elfling's gaze was too eerie, and he did not wish to dwell in disturbing images or memories now.

Right when he closed the door behind her, Wenlach stirred and blinked her eyes into focus. Her baby charge, meanwhile, stared bemusedly at the wooden plank which had just clicked softly shut. Gildor just did not know that at that time he was just as great a mystery as the child himself, at least to one whom he called Laikanáro.

However, Gildor had another to occupy his mind then: the Istar.

Who was striding quite purposefully towards him from down the hall.

Faking innocence, he greeted the disguised Maia with a nod and a statement in Quenya – cutting right to the matter, surprisingly for an Elf like he was. "Never say to anyone about what I did, please, Sinderáno. I will not likely repeat that performance… and I do not want questions thrown at me about it, including from you." The mask fell from his countenance and he pleaded openly to the Istar.

Something like ironic amusement flitted past the old man's sharp gaze, but Gildor had no chance to comment on it. The Istar had turned around – while beckoning at the Elf – and stridden back the way he had come. A feeling of foreboding rose in Gildor and he hesitated, gulping audibly. He had not thought, nor wanted, to spend more than a chanced moment with Sinderáno. Their discussions always turned into debates in the end, and he was not prepared for it now.

But he would have been a lesser Elf if he shirked from the inevitable. So, with stiff posture and his chin raised in defiance, he followed the deceptively-frail-looking not-quite-a-Man to the parlour.

Sinderáno had seated himself before the blazing hearth on a rickety chair. Not wanting to be put at a disadvantage, Gildor brought a chair to a nearby spot in line with the Istar and seated himself in it tensely. In that way, he could see the other eye to eye clearly, as opposed to if he had chosen a seat farther from the hearth and let Sinderáno turn against the hearth to face him; there was no shadow to hide the other's countenance, at least, although the reflection of fire proved just as distracting.

The Ista, however, perceived the gesture – and all the tension – as something bemusing (or so it appeared). "Why are you so stiff, Gildor? I am in no mood to involve myself in a word fight with you. The Firstborn are impossible when it comes to that," he said offhandedly in Quenya. Gildor scowled.

"And what about Ainur? I heard that they are superior to Elves and Men," he growled harshly in a low tone in the same dialect, his eyes dark with painful memories.

The eyes holding his captive softened with understanding and a slight compassion. Sinderáno leant forward in his seat and spoke in a murmur, "It is not my place to ask pardon for the one who felled your foster father, Gildor, but I am truly sorry for you and what you have endured at his hand, albeit indirectly. But please, do not treat all of us similarly. It is like comparing Lord *(5)Manwë to Melkor."

Gildor's eyes hardened, but he said nothing. After a moment, Sinderáno continued, "You will meet him again someday, young one. You may be reunited with your parents as well."

A small choked snigger escaped Gildor's throat. His lips tilted upwards in a bitter sneer. "My parents, Sinderáno? I can barely remember them," he said in something almost like a cat's dark purring. "They were taken from me very early in my life, too early. But I was not as famous as Fëanáro to deserve more pity, was I not? And there were many losses similar to mine in that journey. No one knows that Itarildë and I used to huddle together after her mother's and my begetters' death, trying to comfort each other. Why did the Valar exile us, Sinderáno? Was it not our freedom to come and go between Aman and Endorë – our homeland?"

"It is not my place to answer—"

A contemptuous, derisive snort.

"—But I can assure you that you will be welcomed back in Aman when you tire of this land."

The sneer and the glare were not shaken.

"And the little one is coming. I guess he is interested in you, just as you are in him."

That did it. The dark emotions choking Gildor up were swiftly replaced by askance surprise. His eyes narrowed.

Before the nér could say anything about it, though, his ears picked up the faint sound of fabric rustling in the hall, coming closer and closer in a slow but steady progression. Sinderáno was right. But what part of him intrigued Laikanáro? The little one had been quite unresponsive to him so far.

"He has many secrets, as do you, I, and others. Please do not force him to reveal them. He is not what you think he is, Gildor. Do not treat him like a mere baby, as having no say in a matter, although I do hope you will come to love him like you would any other children. Time will tell if he will truly be a child in the end." Sinderáno's soft words startled Gildor from his thoughts. On the nér's arched eyebrows (much less hostile than before), he sighed and said, "I shall tell you only if the child permits me to. It is his life's story, after all. Or mayhaps you could ask him yourself, when situation allows it."

The frown marring Gildor's countenance deepened, but then it smoothed out and he nodded stiffly in reluctant assent.

It was just as the subject of their small conversation showed himself on the open door of the parlour. It was also the first chance Gildor had to examine the curious toddler in full, somewhat at his leisure.

Laikanáro was staring around the room and at the two people in it with wide, wary eyes, as if one waking up from a nightmare and with the vestiges of it lingering in his awareness. He barely stood to the height of Gildor's knees, and his raven locks only reached down to his shoulders, and his overgrown fringes curtained his small face, creating a somewhat-ragged appearance to him, exuding mystery and – strangely – danger. The pair of emerald orbs captured the nér just as surely as they had the first time he had laid eyes on the Elfling, and they had not changed either in intensity, emotion or shape; they were always round as if with awe, wonderment or tension.

And his clothes were most peculiar. The thick cotton breeches were patched here and there and looked worn, but what attracted Gildor was the elastic band around its top. What was that? And he was wearing that strange tunic also, whose front was seamless and whose neckline was smooth and round. They did not look well on the child, but the easy regard he had towards them gave Gildor a – weird – notion that he had been wearing the like of those garments all the time. Well, thought the nér grimly, it should change.

And with that, he rose to his feet, displaying his hands to the startled toddler in the process, in a gesture of trust, and padded slowly to the little one. There was enough time yet for him to acquaint himself with Laikanáro, if the child so wished, and in that way he hoped to flee his past… if only for a while.

Footnotes:

*(1) It is said to be Finrod's mother-name. (Elves, especially the Ñoldor in Valinor, have each a father-name and a mother-name and one or more after-names.) I saw both "Ingold" and "Ingoldo" being used by fanfiction writers, but I think "Ingoldo" is closer to the rules of Quenya. (Yes, I only adopted it from fellow fanfiction writers, but it is not just fanon. I might find the time to search in HoMe later…)

*(2) The translation of Sauron's name in Sindarin; his after-name, so to say.

*(3) "The Grinding Ice." The strait between the Undying Lands and Middle-earth in the past, where the coastlines of both continents ran nearest to each other. It was said to be the way through which Melkor/Morgoth fled after the death of the Two Trees with Ungoliant on his heels. The ever-moving crevasses and ice slabs were said to be deadly, and perpetual winter reigned there.

*(4) A shortened name of Finderáto. Elves took great pride on their names, but what about when they were children, or when young children addressed them – especially intimately, like to a parent or a guardian? That is the idea of why I put Finrod's shortened name there.

*(5) Manwë was Melkor/Morgoth's fallen brother. Manwë basically held the position (King of Arda) which should have been filled by his brother.

Translation (all are in Quenya):
Ainu: Holly One, a generic term for a Vala or Maia, referring to a male in particular
Ainur: plural of "Ainu"
Atto: Dad/Daddy
Finda: the butchered form of "Finderáto," Finrod's Quenya name
Helcaraxë: Grinding Ice (literally), derived from Valarin
Laikanáro: (sharp) Green Fire (literally), Harry's Quenya name
nér: male Elf
níss: female Elf
Moringotto: Morgoth's Quenya translation, first bestowed upon him by Fëanor
Sinderáno: Grey Wanderer (literally), an invention of mine for the sake of this story