Chapter 11

She is here at last!

Elanor closed the book with a gentle thud.

She was finally finished.

It had taken her just over a week to complete The Lord of the Rings, and almost twice that time to labour through The Silmarillion.

Her expression was wistful as she gently leafed through the pages, noting Georgia's pencilled notes at various points.

Now can you see why she liked it so much?

…yes, she was forced to admit. Whilst partly driven by the necessity to get up-to-speed with the Fellowship's endeavours, Elanor could not deny she had greatly enjoyed reliving the events of Tolkien's novels—for the most part.

Putting the book down, she sighed and stretched. It was late afternoon, by the angle of the pale sun. Lord Elrond was expecting her to dine with him that evening, and she knew she ought to be readying a bath and choosing something to wear. Instead, she moved to the open French doors and leaned against the railing. Somehow, mid-November had arrived, and the previous three weeks had passed with uncanny swiftness.

Elanor had been busy—and, she realised, rather content. Her days were spent sparring with Legolas, dabbling in whatever style of fighting happened to interest her, and in the company of the hobbits, Gimli, and a number of the Elves. Evenings were pleasant and cheery, with many a night slipping by in conversation with Lord Elrond on the laws and customs of Middle Earth. Being one blessed with an interest in learning, Elanor was entranced by the great mine of information that opened up beneath her feet. Elrond was a great scholar, and between him, Gandalf, and hasty readings of Tolkien's literature, she found she was beginning to appreciate the magnificence of this fantasy world.

And therein lay her problem.

A heck of a lot of these people are going to die.

How could she conceal from Gandalf that he would have to go through the horror of the battle with the Balrog?

How could she not warn Aragorn that Halbarad of the Dúnedain would die for their cause?

How could she look Boromir in the eye—mortifying kiss situation aside—when she knew he was going to take the Ring and perish at the hands of merciless orcs?

How much of this can I prevent, and how much of this do I have to leave as it is?

Let's be real, though—you haven't looked Boromir in the eye anyway, much less spoken to him since you made an idiot of yourself that night…

That's true… but it doesn't help me figure out what I'm supposed to be doing here! I obviously have something I'm meant to fix, or change, or help—Elrond hinted at it. I just don't know what, and I hate the idea of innocent people dying because I knowingly let the story unfold.

Innocent people are going to die anyway—these people are preparing for war.

Elanor sighed heavily. That was true enough. Many scouts—amongst them Aragorn and Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir—had departed immediately after the Council. She knew that they should not return until December by the book timeline, but she was beginning to worry. Whilst Gandalf, Elrond and Glorfindel knew of her peculiar origins, there had been little opportunity to discuss it of late. There were almost always others present as they sat around the fire, and Elanor hoped fervently that tonight they would be alone.

Rousing herself, she left the balcony. Over the past weeks, Indilwen had continued to supply her with a steady stream of new attire. The Elvish style of dress generally ran towards wide necklines and waistless bodices, which flowed becomingly down her slender form. The sleeves drooped to varied degrees, and the overall effect was very pleasant. However, she found—to her own surprise—that she much preferred the practical shirts, tunics and breeches which she donned to spar with Legolas. They had high collars and were far less cumbersome than the mile-long sleeves.

Sifting through her growing wardrobe, Elanor selected a sapphire blue gown with silver beading about the neck and sleeves.

At least they won't drag in your food too much.

Grinning at herself, she draped it carefully across a chair and began to prepare her bath.

The House of Elrond was very quiet as Boromir trod its corridors. He could hear no sound save his own footsteps, and wished heartily—not for the first time—that Faramir were by his side. He longed for his brother's companionship, lacking the cheerful banter and easy charm that came so naturally to him.

He tugged irritably upon one sleeve. The hunter-green tunic was small for his mighty frame, and he longed for the looser cuts of the Gondorian surcoats. The Elves were slighter than Men, and this particular tunic was too narrow across the shoulders.

He took several more turnings before pausing before a door. Hoping he had remembered his destination correctly, he breathed deeply before rapping upon the wood. Half a moment later, golden firelight slipped out as it opened.

The sight of Lord Elrond never failed to inspire awe in Boromir, despite his own rank in Gondor. The mighty Elf stood several inches taller than himself, and carried an indisputable air of command. He was dressed in a fine surcoat of moonbeam silver, over which were a set of deep azure robes. Upon his dark hair rested an elegant circlet, and his eyes gleamed in the warm light.

"Lord Elrond," Boromir said, bowing courteously.

Elrond returned the gesture with a pleasant smile. "Boromir. Please, come—we are to dine shortly."

Nodding his thanks, Boromir stepped inside. Lord Elrond's study was at once both spacious and cosy. It was an L-shaped room, lined with books, maps and paintings. At one end was a dining table, lit by flickering candles, and at the other was a comfortable sitting area.

Elrond gestured for Boromir to move to the armchairs, which he did gladly. There were several others present; Gandalf was frowning pensively over a long-stemmed pipe, whilst Glorfindel was engaged in merry conversation with a young, golden-haired woman—Lady Elanor.

Three weeks had wrought much change upon the thin, frightened girl he had discovered in the wilderness. Her face was no longer drawn and haggard, but rounder and fuller. She had ceased to look like a frightened child, but instead a composed, refined woman.

And yet she is forward and uncouth!

Shaking himself a little, Boromir sat down and turned to Lord Elrond. The raven-haired Elf poured a goblet of wine and passed it to him.

"My thanks, Lord Elrond."

"And mine, for joining us, Boromir son of Denethor. Busy are my days of late, and little time do I have for pleasure. Long years have passed since last I ate with a man of Gondor," he smiled.

"Indeed; it is not often we journey north, though the hospitality of the House of Elrond is exceedingly great."

"It gladdens me to hear it," Elrond laughed, taking a sip from his goblet.

Silence fell for a moment as Boromir savoured the Elvish wine, thinking hard.

Lady Elanor is evidently a woman of some rank and intelligence, for Lord Elrond would not permit her to be present otherwise… and yet, no such woman would drink to excess, and behave so…

She was much distraught when you found her, and has borne great strain…

That is no excuse!

Stealing a glance in her direction, Boromir studied her briefly. She was bent over a book with Lord Glorfindel, reading hesitatingly as if she were a child doing lessons. She appeared to make a mistake, for the pair broke out into clear laughter, and her gaze moved upwards and met his.

Her face froze for an instant, before breaking into a tentative smile. Boromir glanced hurriedly away. He was profoundly grateful when four Elves entered bearing trays of food, and Lord Elrond suggested that they move to the table.

Elanor felt her heart sink in her chest the moment Boromir entered the room.

His almost-black hair was neatly combed and barely brushed his powerful shoulders. He exchanged civilities with Lord Elrond before joining the group sitting by the fire.

"You must take heed, Lady Elanor, or you shall never learn," came Glorfindel's voice from her right shoulder. The Elf smiled at her, his finely-chiseled and handsome face full of merriment.

Elanor laughed, turning back to him. "You have had much longer to practice reading in Sindarin than I have, my Lord. And anyway, I know three languages already—its not my fault that none in Arda speak French or German."

Laughing in his turn, Glorfindel gestured once more at the top of the page. He had challenged Elanor to translate The Lay of Leithian into Sindarin from the Common Tongue, and she was labouring over it slowly. Whilst she was picking up Elvish swiftly enough, the poem was verbose and beautiful, and very often she mistranslated the elegant phrases horribly.

After reading "bondage" as "bird", they both burst into laughter.

Glancing towards where the other three men sat, Elanor met Boromir's steely eyes. Her heart thudded apprehensively.

Does he hate me? Should I say something? Oh gosh, what do I do?

Her palms were beginning to sweat. Smiling hesitatingly, she watched him. He stared back for half a moment more before glancing back to Lord Elrond.

Yep, he definitely hates you.

At that moment, four Elves—Indilwen among them—entered the room.

"Come, Lady Elanor—now is the time for feasting and enjoyment, and not for study," Glorfindel cried, standing. He offered her a hand and she gladly stood, desperate to escape Boromir's gaze.

Never had she been more grateful for the golden-haired Elf's civilities at that moment. He was a perfect gentleman, offering her his arm and seeing her to her chair before taking his own.

Lord Elrond occupied the head of the table as was his custom, with Boromir on his left and Elanor on his right. She was somewhat disconcerted to be facing the stern, lordly figure, and glad for Glorfindel's presence at her side.

Lord Elrond helped himself to a flavoursome-looking casserole before passing it to Elanor.

"I trust you found plenty to occupy yourself with today, Elanor?" he asked, smiling. Her heart warmed at his casual familiarity with her first name.

"I have an overabundance of enjoyable activities," Elanor replied, wondering whether to give the dish to Glorfindel or Boromir. Setting her teeth, she proffered it across the table. Boromir took it carefully, avoiding both her fingers and her gaze.

"That is well. And yourself, Lord Boromir?"

"Far be it from me to name any lack in the House of Elrond, for I have found none."

He's so… polite. All the time.

"At any rate, it is rude to mention such things before one's host," put in Gandalf, speaking for the first time. Elanor hid a grin as she took a mouthful of the casserole. As usual, it was mouthwateringly delicious.

I definitely need to get this recipe to give to Mum… if I ever see her again…

"Is there aught news of the scouts, Lord Elrond?" Boromir asked, handing the serving dish to the wizard.

"None as yet, I am afraid. There is much ground they must cover, and the land is wild and unsafe. I know little of their specific errands, save that Lord Aragorn has led a company south to Tharbad, in search of the Black Riders."

"A wild country, and a savage one," said the man, shaking his head. "The crossing at Tharbad is perilous."

"I do not doubt it, for the Greyflood runs swift, and it has been many a year since the city was abandoned," Glorfindel said. "Winter shall arrive before the scouts, I fear."

Boromir looked somewhat displeased by this; but then, Elanor thought his brow seemed perpetually furrowed these days.

After a moment's silence, the man of Gondor spoke again: "I could not help but notice Lord Glorfindel was aiding you in some form of study, Lady Elanor." Her title held a certain degree of bitterness, and Elanor felt herself prickle at his tone. "If I may ask, what is it you desire to learn?"

"I was reading," she responded, trying to keep herself from snapping. She wished she could let loose her tongue, but knew that she would swiftly relapse into the phrases and colloquialisms of contemporary Australia. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Boromir's face registered a flicker of smugness at this. "What tale do you peruse?"

"The Lay of Leithian," Glorfindel supplied. "Lady Elanor was translating it from the Common Tongue to Sindarin, for my pleasure."

Yeah! That's right! I'm not an uneducated little girl, so stick that up your—

"You are a scholar, Lady Elanor?" came the somewhat-caustic reply, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes," she said tartly. "I have spent the last three years studying history and diplomacy at university. Before I travelled here, of course." Unable to resist, she added, "I also have a good understanding of chemistry, physics and mathematics."

High school counts, right?

"Chemistry?"

"It appears to be a more advanced form of alchemy," Lord Elrond explained in a measured tone.

Elanor glanced up from her plate, meeting Boromir's eyes squarely. She knew his character well enough; he was kind-hearted, but also proud. She still kicked herself for being so foolish that night, but resented his aloofness nonetheless.

As she watched him, his eyes seemed to soften a little, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"You would greatly enjoy the libraries in Minas Tirith, I believe," he said finally.

Breathing a sigh of profound relief, Elanor smiled. "They must be great indeed, if they are more extensive than Lord Elrond's."

Boromir shrugged, and Elanor realised that he would concede no more at present. It was progress, however, and it loosened the tension that had been present in her chest since she had kissed him.

Smiling as Glorfindel began an amusing tale, Elanor continued to eat her stew.

In the early afternoon of the following day, a gentle breeze drifted through the valley of Imladris. The Last Homely House was quiet, for many walked outdoors and revelled in the meagre warmth of the sun. Few days of light and beauty were left before the coming of winter, Elrond realised, as he bent thoughtfully over a document. His quick mind whirred like a set of intricate cogs as he mused on the information contained therein. It was written in neat, looping script, utterly unlike Tengwar runes, though it bore a similarity to the alphabet that the hobbits used.

Running a finger along his jaw, the tall Elf frowned a little.

The elegantly-carved desk upon which the parchment rested was bathed in the pale afternoon light. The balcony was overgrown with vines and scarcely ten feet long, but it overlooked a secluded part of the garden and Elrond dearly loved its solitude.

Few knew how to gain entrance to the tiny haven, for it's doorway was cleverly concealed in his study. Thus, when he heard the creak of hinges, he had whittled the possible newcomers down to four.

"Adar."

Turning, Elrond's face broke into a delighted smile.

"Arwen."

The tall, graceful woman stepped through the entrance. Her midnight hair was pinned back from her face and rippled bewitchingly down her back. She was clad in soft white, and to Elrond there was nothing fairer to behold.

The two Elves moved close, clasping hands and pressing foreheads together.

"You are troubled," she told him, as they stepped apart reluctantly. Elrond maintained his hold on her slim hand.

"Events move apace, iell. Heavy is my heart, and yet glad also."

Arwen looked up at him searchingly. He grey eyes were clear and starry, and full of compassionate concern.

"Ada," she said, almost pleadingly.

Elrond reached up and brushed her cheek with his fingers.

"There are many questions that must be answered, muin."

She was silent for a moment, before she spoke: "Do not lament, father, for there is hope in my heart."

"Long have you had hope, daughter, for things which should not be." He released her and turned away, staring out at the gardens as he schooled his features. His mind wandered, recalling the face of one just come to manhood…

"Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dunedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you. You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it."

The young man's face was troubled. "Can it be that my mother has spoken of

this?"

"No indeed," said Elrond. "Your own eyes have betrayed you. But I do not speak of my daughter alone. You shall be betrothed to no man's child as yet. But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lórien, Evenstar of her people, she is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And so, I think, it may well seem to her. But even if it were not so, and her heart turned towards you, I should still be grieved because of the doom that is laid on us."

"What is that doom?" said Aragorn.

"That so long as I abide here, she shall live with the youth of the Eldar," answered Elrond, "and when I depart, she shall go with the, if she so chooses."

"I see," said Aragorn, "that I have turned my eyes to a treasure no less dear than the treasure of Thingol that Beren once desired. Such is my fate." Then suddenly the foresight of his kindred came to him, and he said: "But lo! Master Elrond, the years of your abiding run short at last, and the choice must soon be laid on your children, to part either with you or with Middle-earth."

"Truly," said Elrond. "Soon, as we account it, though many years of Men must still pass. But there will be no choice before Arwen, my beloved, unless you, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world. Yon do not know yet what you desire of me." He sighed, and after a while, looking gravely upon the young man, he said again: "The years will bring what they will. We will speak no more of this until many have days darken, and much evil is to come."

The scene changed…

A tall and mighty man stood before him, grown to his full stature. His face was grim and stern, save when he smiled.

"My son, years come when hope will fade, and beyond them little is clear to the. And now a shadow lies between us. Maybe, it has been appointed so, that by my loss the kingship of Men may be restored. Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace lot less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. To the men even our victory can bring only sorrow and parting – but to you hope of joy for a while. For a while. Alas, my son! I fear that to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending."

"…and so it is," he murmured.

"Ada?"

Smiling wearily, Elrond turned back to his daughter. "I fear for what is to come, beloved, for the doom of many shall soon be decided."

Arwen's countenance was filled with pity and with longing at this, and she drew close to him once more. Gently, he grasped her shoulders and placed a kiss upon her forehead.

"Time passes, daughter; I fear that sorrow shall come. We must not dwell upon it, however."

She smiled at him, and in her face was deep affection. "You have my love, ada."

Hey team!

Sorry about the big gap between Chapters 10 and 11. Had a bit of an influx of university work and took me a while to reread this and check it was good to go.

The parts in italics in this chapter are taken directly from the appendices of The Lord of the Rings, and full credit goes to the mighty Tolkien for these ones (especially as they are written with infinitely more elegance than mine!)

Let me know what you think, leave reviews; constructive is good! :D

QUESTION OF THE DAY: Do you think Arwen made the right choice to marry Aragorn? Or should she have gone to Valinor with her father? :)

Chapter 12 should come soon. :)

Finwe