Author's Notes: 12/03/02 - Minor changes to correct a typo and a small inconsistency. At last, the end of this very long history. The revision of Rîn is next, and I expect to make a few corrections to this story, as well. I have briefly introduced some Tatyarin Avari - their names were composed with some phonological continuity in mind, but have no relation to any particular language and are only meant to sound different from the names of the Silvan and Sindarin characters. Language was the chief means by which Tolkien demonstrated cultural difference in his work; it has been said that he invented an entire mythology to indulge his love of making new languages. To the Great One, language was the primary means of understanding a people, and my own experience some twenty years ago as an exchange student in France confirms this. Thus, for the introduction of Legolas' mother, whom Tolkien probably envisioned as a Wood Elf, I've attempted a bit of derivation from the Nandorin language Tolkien invented. Please take it as nothing more than an effort to give the character a cultural background distinct from that of Thranduil - the corpus is very thin, and although I have tried hard to be faithful to what Tolkien did tell us about Nandorin, I am not a linguist and in many cases I have simply had to make assumptions for lack of data.
I've gathered what little I've deduced of Nandorin into Appendix II. For those interested in the phonology, where the endnotes state '(see lygn)', an exposition of lygn can be found in this Appendix.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of original characters needed to fill out Oropher's family tree or move the story along. Translations of Elvish words (Sindarin, unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
The Gift
1980 Third Age, Khazad-dûm
Dwarves milled about the great halls in anxious silence or whispered rumor. In their quarters, Roskva wailed and rent her beard, for her son had been among those lost in the Fourth Deep. Thráin's mother could do little to comfort her sister, and looked expectantly toward the door behind which her husband and his father had remained since early morn. Thráin caught himself wishing that Roskva would cease her wailing, and banished the thought, knowing it uncharitable. He too mourned his cousin, yet his taut nerves overwhelmed his sorrow. A terrible thing had come to pass; he knew no accident had killed the dwarves in the mithril lode. Restlessly he left their quarters, finding in the faces of his grandfather's people an expression alien to dwarves: fear. Uncharacteristic for such an industrious folk, all work had stopped; terror seeped from the great black walls of the underground city.
At last, his father and grandfather came from their seclusion, and in the Second Hall, dwarves gathered to hear Durin VI speak. The reincarnation of Durin the Deathless, or so it was said, the dwarf had aged but slowly, and remained hale and hearty at 249. Yet now, Thráin saw many white hairs in his great auburn beard, and he wondered if such a thing could happen in just a few hours.
"My people," the old King began, pausing a moment as the worried murmurs died down. "What some of you have heard is true. Deep in the heart of cold Barazinbar there lies a great evil, one that has already taken some of our bravest folk." He cast his hood over his head in respect, as did his listeners. "Nay - do not despair, my people," he added hastily as he looked over the crowd. "We will meet fire with steel, and this creature shall not have the great city of our ancestors. This evil shall soon meet my axe and know that Durin is here." A great cheer greeted his words, but Thráin's eyes met his father's; Náin, too, took small comfort in the King's bold words.
1982 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
The ancient elf-lord stood motionless in the magnificent entrance hall, too moved by his memories to respond to the butler who waited patiently. No, this was not Menegroth, but Thranduil had built a fair homage to those great halls. For a moment he could almost hear the laughter of little Elwing. In the flickering light, the statue of Lúthien seemed to come to life, dancing as she had before lost to the Firstborn forever. He sighed, banishing his memories to that distant past. He hoped this King proved wiser than had the builder of Menegroth.
Galion waited respectfully; an elf of Doriath himself, he knew what distracted the visitor. "Aran Eryn Forodren awaits you, híren," he announced, when the elf-lord at length returned his attention to the present. (1)
Thranduil received his visitor with poor grace. "What brings you hither, Celeborn?"
"Concern for Lórinand. Why did you refuse them help when they were attacked?" He took a glass of wine from the tray the butler had left.
Thranduil shook his head. "You tried this same ploy with my father, and I will answer as he did. I cannot put my own people in jeopardy for the sake of another land. The Galadhrim, I will welcome into my realm and my protection, but we are nearly at war already in our own lands." He scrutinized the label of the Dorwinion vintage, recalling the missive that had accompanied the latest shipment. "Nórui sends messages of unrest in the south. Lórinand is not the only concern. Since Rhovanion collapsed, we have no buffer to the east. My sister-daughter believes that Mordor is occupied again."
"The Witch-king!" Celeborn spat. "We drove him from Eriador, but he had what he sought in the end - the North Kingdom is no more. He now turns his attention to Gondor. Will you maintain your neutrality as one enemy to the Dark Lord after another falls?"
"Neutrality! You forget that we fought the shadow arising when none dared to name its source. How came the dwarves to lose Hadhodrond, putting Lórinand in such peril?" Thranduil was frankly curious, for this Mitharas had failed to discover, despite his well-connected network. The dwarves themselves - those who had escaped - had come to the Iron Hills, but remained secretive as to the source of their ruin. (2)
"None can say, nor can any guess how Lórinand came to be so suddenly overwhelmed that Amroth fled. He fought bravely in the war against the Witch-king; it was not like him to desert his folk."
"Yet he has done so, and left no heir. With a stronghold such as Hadhodrond from which the orcs might launch attacks, I cannot see how Lórinand can survive." Thranduil truly regretted this, yet he could not send a sizeable contingent to Lórinand without perilous loss to the security of his own realm. "Even the dwarves of Iron Hills do not speak of retaking Hadhodrond."
"Indeed, Hadhodrond, that your Wood folk have called Morag in jest has become so. Nonetheless, we cannot also abandon Lórinand to orcs." (3)
Thranduil could no longer check his temper. "You judge us without knowledge of what you speak, for you have lived under the protection of the Noldor. We fought the Enemy when your Gelydh friends were his unknowing allies. We fought him when they thought he had been defeated forever. Do not tell those who are bailing water that the boat is sinking! We are stretched thin already to stay the evil at our borders. I am stretched thin," he added, an unexpected admission. "We cannot afford a war now."
Celeborn studied his kinsman as he sipped his wine. As an elf of the Elder Days, Thranduil had the ancient strength of their race and of their bloodline. Celeborn had felt this when he entered the realm, that the power of its lord as much as the valiance of his people drove out the darkness of the forest. The King did look weary. "Yet war you may have if the Vale is lost. If you allow orcs to have Lórinand, they will soon have the Vale from Parth Celebrant to the Iron Hills, and you will find yourselves cut off from the west," he answered calmly.
The King resisted the urge to tear out his hair out in frustration. Briefly, he considered doing the same to the other elf. The image of Celeborn without his silver tresses so pleased the King that the ancient elf-lord escaped the throttling he so richly deserved. "I know this, Celeborn," he conceded. "Yet, for all you urge my involvement, you say little of what you and your Noldorin friends will do."
"I will explain this, if you will have patience," Celeborn smoothly turned the conversation to his real purpose. "Galadriel has the light of the Calaquendi, and she has other resources at hand, such as you do not have."
Thranduil suppressed a groan, knowing that he had walked neatly into Celeborn's trap. His father, for all his faults, had been intrinsically honest, and thence came his quarrels with his kinsman. He did not have Celeborn's talent for intrigue and manipulation. He realized too late that he should have left this matter to his son; the halls of Imladris had taught his son to recognize and outmaneuver such wiles. "And what, may I ask, are these resources?" Thranduil stared hard at the other elf.
"You may not ask. But they may perhaps save Lórinand."
Thranduil sipped his wine, uneasy with Celeborn's words. He thought he knew what the ancient elf refused to name. "And the cost of these resources? Perhaps they will put all of our people in greater peril."
"That we must chance."
The blond elf's mind moved quickly. Did Celeborn test him - did he bluff? Innolas believed that Elrond had already put Vilya to use, but Imladris did not lay a day's hard ride from Dol Guldur. Would Galadriel really chance the use of Nenya, with Sauron awakening, and so near to Lórinand?
'The folly of the Noldor - they make the same mistakes in each Age, yet expect different results,' he thought. He did not like the thought of Celeborn and Galadriel permanently ensconced in Lórinand, whatever their reason. Galadriel would at last have her realm to rule. If she could truly restore Lórinand to its former beauty, she would earn the love of even the Silvan folk.
"Galadriel has little understanding of the Galadhrim. The Noldor bend the gifts of Arda to their will, and are aghast at the results. They cannot tolerate the change that the passage of time brings, and will never understand the Wood folk, for the Tawarwaith do not fear change, but welcome it. To them, it brings renewal." His eye caught a small, rather awkward carving of a wren that sat patiently watching them.
"The wren is favored by the Elves of the Wood, for its beautiful and cheerful song and its ability to nest anywhere," his mother had once told him. The Noldor, he thought, resembled more the eagles - beautiful, brave, and stubborn about their habitat.
Celeborn lowered his head slightly. "Do not be too hard on Galadriel," he pleaded, his voice softening. "Change her people may fear, but she has changed nonetheless. Remember that she puts herself at greatest risk. She does not take this upon herself lightly. Few are the foes of Sauron more passionate than my wife.
"In any event, Amroth is gone, and you cannot hold Lórinand," he continued briskly. "We have assumed guardianship of the land, that it may not be deserted."
Thranduil nodded, inwardly cursing himself. The baiting of his kinsman had led him to accept what was already decided. Still, he saw Celeborn's reasoning, if he did not approve of his methods. The decision to withhold his help from the land he had made uneasily; he had felt as though he were caught between two choices, both unsatisfactory. He let out a heavy sigh as he went to find his son and sister-son, that they would know of the latest developments. Terrible things loomed ahead, he felt it in his bones, and already he felt pressed. Never had his kingship felt so heavy.
~~~
The Balrog brooded in his deep lair, perceiving the barrier that now stood against him in the elf-lands. In his most potent form, he was a thing of awe to behold. Yet this form quickly drained his power; Morgoth had used his kind wisely - sparingly - in great battles. Even without his great wreath of flames, the unlight of his being held terror, and having easily overcome Durin, the Balrog roamed the dark mines in this form. Dwarves proved more stubborn than elves; they would not relinquish their ancient home, despite their fear. Seething with frustration, he sensed his time of rest growing nigh, and so came against Náin in a great storm of fire. The dwarf-king perished with his hardiest warriors, and those who survived fled the mines, but the Balrog had wasted his powers. The elf-lands to the east must wait. Orcs soon took the place of dwarves, plundering the great underground mansion. The Balrog hardly heeded them, for he had retreated into the deeps - the few orcs who dared to disturb him soon regretted it. From such wretched creatures, he gathered strength, waiting, watching. (4)
2020 Third Age
Duration proved the hazard of archery competitions in Mirkwood. Such an event might last days - if the King would allow it. He took pride in his warriors' skill, and pride in the Cúcherdir, who had trained every archer in the kingdom, from the outlying villages to his own sister-son. Yet so rarely did Brónalm's former students miss their mark that elimination of a single contestant would often outlast the light of Anor.
Such competitions afforded Thranduil a rare luxury - a chance to observe his people. One of the archers he knew well - Caranduir was a guard at the caverns, young, only a few centuries old, but Mitharas thought highly of him. Two others were not unfamiliar - they came from the village near the caverns, and he met them occasionally on their patrols when he went out riding. The last two he did not know.
"Tórasin and Norarna are from the outlying villages; they come rarely to Forod'lad," Mitharas explained. (5)
The King nodded. No doubt the winner's spoils - a fine stallion of his own stables - had enticed them to test their skill. His eye settled on the elf-maid, as his appreciation for comely maids had hardly waned since his younger days. The archer's hair, captured by a carved wooden clasp, had a coppery shine to its dark length, an unusual color among the Avari of his realm. She had small, narrow features, somewhat Noldorin in their grace - again, strange to his people, but not, Thranduil decided, with unpleasant effect. Her warrior life made her a bit lean; he preferred maids a bit rounder of cheek and bosom. Still, he found his attention returning to her as the competition wore through the afternoon.
At last, there remained but two: the elf-maid and young Caranduir. Tórasin stepped up and drew back her bow. Without hesitation, she let fly her arrow - for in her remote village, a moment of hesitation might be one's last - and missed the target by the slimmest of margins.
The guard now took his turn, taking more time to be sure of his aim. If he missed, they would continue on. If his arrow flew true, the contest would be over. He did not miss, to the relief of many hungry spectators, ready to get on with the feasting. As the eliminated contestants had done before her, Tórasin presented herself to the King, a bit annoyed with herself. Her folk had lost their breeding stud to wargs last summer, and she had hoped to remedy this loss. She tried to hide her disappointment as she bowed before the King.
Tórasin knew him well by sight, though he but rarely passed through her village, for she had not forgotten his ceaseless walks through the camps in Mordor, as Silvan hearts flagged under the starless night, far from living things. He brought hope that seemed to have perished with their beloved Gran Oropher. No longer soiled by the unwholesome grime of Sauron's fortress, the King looked much different in his green and gold ceremonial robes. He had inherited the beauty of his mother and the height of his father, and one might rightfully accuse him of harboring some vanity in the golden hair that flowed unrestrained under his crown of spring flowers and green leaves. Yet it was not his fair face that inspired the awe of the elf-maid. A certain air there was about him, one that recalled the words of Tórasin's great-grandmother. No more than a child then, she had come to the King's vale in the Emyn Duir with Phingés. The matriarch pointed to the King as he wandered among his people at the Midsummer feast, and spoke of days more ancient than Oropher, more ancient than Phingés herself or even the great bow-master. (6)
"To the West went Tinweg, Golphinweg and Inweg. There, they saw the Two Trees and came back changed - so said my grandmother. You have heard how the eyes of the Exiles were like flames, and so too were the eyes of the three. El-barda gave to them a special gift and a special burden: of the great fathers and their kin should come the Kings of the Elves. And is our Gran Oropher not the grandson of Tinweg's brother?" (7, 8)
Oropher's son, Tórasin saw, had inherited more than his appearance from his noble parents. He had the bearing of one who is born to govern and rule; he wore the mantle of a sovereign as though it were a casual cloak thrown about his shoulders, as much a part of him as his glowing tresses. Tórasin had a sudden urge to touch the King's hair, to feel the heavy silk of his Vanyarin ancestor in her hand. She nearly giggled as she imagined the shock this impertinence would provoke, and only with effort did she keep her face in an appropriately respectful expression.
Thranduil did not miss the brief curve of her lips as Tórasin struggled to maintain her composure. Indeed, the elf-maid was quite attractive. And a fine shot with her bow, even if she had been bested at the end. "It is a shame that we must distinguish between two archers so fine! I suspect that many a warg and orc have come to grief by your quick bow," he said now.
"Too many, Granna," she answered soberly, using the honorific of her native tongue. "Would that times were better, but as they are not, it is my honor to serve you as I can." (9)
"To the valor of our border guards we are all indebted. Do not think you have gone unnoticed," he added, his pale grey eyes holding hers for a long moment.
Tórasin blinked. A confession beyond words she saw in his eyes, and knew that quite without her conscious will, her own eyes had responded. Desire may disguise itself, but the naked fëa cannot lie. It cannot deny its recognition of what mortals call a 'soul mate' (a whimsy perhaps inspired by the Firstborn, as only the immortal fëar of elves can truly mate one to another). Though the hroar be sundered, by denial of will or mischance, the fëa remains undaunted, moving the heart relentlessly to seek that which will complete its lindalë. (10)
Thranduil had seen the land of his birth sink beneath the sea; had seen Amar made round; had seen great kings fall, leaving no heirs or kingdom to inherit. Yet for all he had seen, Thranduil remained an innocent in matters of the heart. As if awakening from a long sleep, feelings strange to him stirred - not yet did he know love, but now its cousin, enchantment, had taken hold of his heart. A daughter of the forest, he realized, the elf-maid must lack the refined manner of his late wife, sister-daughter to Círdan. Still, he sensed nobility in her, a spirit in harmony with her surroundings and with the Valar who most loved the Third Clan. Moreover, Tórasin had in common with Berinaeth a trait he had greatly admired in the lady: she nourished a solitary flame, quite unneedful of the fuel of other souls about her. Thranduil knew that he had not this gift - his own fire grew dim and cold without the comfort of those he loved. (11)
The morning sun threw its golden light across the path, heedless of the somber turn of his mood. As he and Mitharas rode under the beeches, he thought sorrowfully of all those lost to him, his passionate and quirky elder son the most grievous loss of all. He murmured to his horse, who had taken advantage of his rider's distraction to graze.
Mitharas turned back, realizing that the King had stopped. "You are preoccupied this morning," he said, looking curiously at Thranduil.
They rode on, the King marveling at the lush green of the midsummer forest even as his thoughts were troubled. "My mind had turned to my sons," Thranduil said at last, his sorrowful expression telling the younger elf that he spoke chiefly of his dead son. "We gave up much in the war, and now find ourselves worse off."
"Not a day do I forget this," Mitharas answered grimly.
"That elf-maid spoke truly - these are evil times, and I see no end to it."
Mitharas glanced quickly at his mother's brother. 'Let Innolas admit his error,' he thought with a smile.
"What amuses you so?" Thranduil asked, his mood lightening as his thoughts returned to the maid.
"Nothing. It is a pity," Mitharas began innocently, "that the maid was bested. Dunnadór lost its breeding stud last year, and the villagers had need of that stallion."
Thranduil said nothing to this, but upon return to the stables, the King lingered by the field in which the yearlings were grazing.
"Do not be surprised, cousin, if that elf-maid's village does not have a stallion by iavas," Mitharas concluded later. (12)
Innolas laughed, looking up from the books spread before him. "My father has a generous nature, and he would not see elves who have served him so well in need. I shall be more convinced should he accompany the gift himself."
~~~
Dunnadór often played host to unexpected visitors, but rarely welcomed them, for such visitors consisted largely of orcs and other unwholesome things. The unlooked for arrival of the King, however, the villagers greeted joyfully. Such an occasion demanded a feast and merrymaking - joys too rare in their hard life on the border of Northern Mirkwood.
Tórasin alone was unmoved. She waited patiently as the King discussed matters of business with her grandfather, the Master of Dunnadór. "I would have a word with you, 'ere the feasting begins, Granna," she spoke up as they at last came from her grandfather's hut. Thranduil looked far less daunting today; in place of the robes he had worn at the Mereth Perethuil, he had clothed himself in the dark green tunic and leggings his people wore in summer. Dunnadór was a day's travel from the King's caverns and Thranduil knew that here, on the edge of his realm, he and his company might need to defend themselves. 'He is just an elf, after all,' Tórasin realized. (13)
"My lady, I am sorry if I have offended you," Thranduil said earnestly, responding to the frown creasing her brow.
"I did not win the contest, therefore I did not earn the prize. I have no need for your pity," Tórasin answered, her voice cutting as deeply as the pierce of her gaze.
"Look upon it not as pity but as a token of my esteem." He had not expected his gift to so vex the elf-maid, and though his expression did not change, his eyes searched hers in confusion.
"To be paid for how? If you think me to be some maid of Forod'lad, then you are mistaken, lord," she retorted. What had begun as a matter of pride had become one of honor. She was now truly angry.
Rarely will an elf's poise abandon him. More rarely still will such poise desert a king. Yet Thranduil fumbled, wondering if a clumsy mortal had taken possession of his suddenly ineloquent tongue. "My lady, not the furthest thing," he stammered. "Nothing could be so far from my mind."
Tórasin, her arms crossed and her brow still tight and severe, had to admit to herself that the elf underneath the royal trappings had a rather endearing innocence. Nonetheless, her tone remained cool. "I will accept your gift, on behalf of my village, for we have much need of it. But you may keep your esteem. I am not inclined to be called a mistress when I have henceforth held the title of warrior."
"But Dîs-e-guren, would that title suit you?" Thranduil decided that his sanity had fled with his poise. A surge of unreasonable joy had taken hold in their absence, and he studied the elf-maid as if with new eyes, understanding now the restlessness that had haunted him since mid-spring. He heard her protests, but felt as though the words missed their weight and true meaning. (14)
Tórasin was shocked. "My lord, you do not know me." She wondered briefly if the King trifled with her, or made sport of her. She considered him for a moment, and then laughed. The golden elf had no guile or malice in him; too easily, she read his heart.
"Our kindred errs but rarely in matters of love. Come," he added, holding out his hand to take hers. "The Master summons us to the feast, and I would have a dinner companion. Let us have wine and talk and then you may say if I know you or not."
Tórasin shook her head, charmed by the King's impetuous behavior. Perhaps, she admitted, he even moved her guarded heart. Still, she remained wary. Thranduil had been a good King, yet she wondered if he could truly understand the wild Silvan spirit that moved her people. 'Ai, wine and talk hardly make a betrothal!' What harm could come of humoring the King?
In a nearby tree, Phingés bowed her head in acceptance as the two elves walked together toward the village green. The tree hummed sorrowfully, sensing her sadness. The visions her scrying evoked rarely erred; this match would bring her great-granddaughter to a bitter end. 'Why must it be Tórasin, Abanna?' she questioned. The elf-maid, of all her many descendants, most resembled her in temperament, and was held most dear by the ancient matriarch. Yet she would not interfere with the design of the Giver of Fruits. Had not she favored Phingés when her own folk had scorned her? At best, they had called her a dreamer; those less kind had named her a Sorceress, and feared her. Yavanna had led her to these woods, to the Nelyar. With the favor of a Valië came sacrifice. (15)
100 First Age, Amon Lanc
From the ramparts of the citadel, Angatëor gazed in wonder and fear at the peaks of Hithaeglir, their heights shrouded, as their name indicated, in misty clouds. He turned as a voice interrupted his thoughts and saw the tall leader of the elves of Eryn Galen.
"You mean to press forward," Lenwë guessed.
"Ah, you think me as foolish as do your people, Denweg. But I have faith in your Cogatora." Brónalm assured him that across the mountains, beyond a great forest and the strange but friendly tree shepherds, over blue hills far to the west, Angatëor and his folk would find others of their kind. (16, 17)
Lenwë smiled affectionately. "Little does Brónalm fear, and he has traveled much, as few of my people dare to do. Yet he has always returned to me, and assures me those who followed Denthar my son live now under the protection of Tinweg." (18)
The ancient elf-lord had welcomed Angatëor's company, though they were of different clans, for they were all of the star-people. The newcomers numbered among the people of Morwë, the Tatyarin Elf who refused to leave Cuiviénen with Finwë. Though they lacked the training Aulë had given to the Noldor, Morwë's people had become great craftsmen and smiths, for their innate skill came not from any Vala but from the blood of their clan.
Their hosts at Amon Lanc were strange to them, for the Tatyar knew little of wood lore, and in the millennia since their separation the speech of the Wood folk had developed many new sounds. Those left behind had also made new words, for all elves, from Aman to the uttermost East, shared a love for the making of language. Still, the dialects of both peoples remained near enough to the ancient Eldarin tongue that the differences did not greatly hamper converse between them.
Angatëor had stumbled upon Lenwë's people with relief, for in the lands to the east they had found no such haven of strength and safety. His folk mourned the desertion of their ancient birth-waters, but knew their leader had spoken rightly when he told Morwë that they must go or starve. The devices of the Enemy had shrunk the great Sea of Helcar, and the Avari of both clans found the woods as perilous as in the days before the Great March, before the Valar destroyed Utumno. Many years had passed since Nurwë, leader of the Nelyarin Avari, had led her clan south, for with more foresight than Morwë, she knew Cuiviénen could no longer sustain the elves. (19)
What became of this folk none among the Eldar or Tawarwaith can tell, but Angatëor and his followers would find their way to Menegroth. Thingol, seeing their great skill, grudgingly permitted them to work with the dwarves in the smithies, though they were not of his ancient clan. One of these elves would bind himself to Thingol's sister-daughter, despite the objections of that haughty king. Of this elf's son, Eöl, and all the sorrows that followed, the tale is well known. The story of Angatëor's sister, however, no loremaster of the Eldar preserves, yet the elves of the wood remember it, for she remained with the people of Lenwë. (20)
Pingasë had the shining copper hair that so often signified great skill of hand, and Angatëor had such skill, though his locks were as coal. His sister, however, took after their Nelyarin grandmother. Rather shamefully unskilled in crafts, she spoke to the birds and trees, her head in the clouds and her mind unfocused, or so the people of Morwë believed. Thus her betrothal to one of the Penni, as they called themselves, came as small surprise to her brother. He hoped that among Lenwë's folk, Pingasë would find the sense of belonging that had eluded her since the Nelyar left Cuiviénen. (21)
Indeed Yavanna herself, taking pity on the outcast, had led Angatëor to this place, that the talents Eru had given his sister might help to heal the things Yavanna had made. Phingés, as the Silvan folk called her, came to be reckoned as a wise mistress of magical lore. What the Tatyar had found strange in their kinswoman, the Nelyar reckoned a gift, for they cherished their symbiosis with living things. Thus Phingés and all her descendants had been dedicated to the Valië, serving her and their kings as guardians of the forest.
~~~
With a purpose Phingés could not discern, Yavanna had not made lightly the choice of Tórasin as her instrument. The Valië had great trust in the bloodline of Phingés. Not a burden, but an honor did she bestow upon the faithful matriarch and her most beloved descendant.
2070 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
An oil lamp burned brightly as Thranduil examined an array of gleaming gems. Thráin's people at Erebor had not the resources their fathers found in Moria, but the dwarves, Thranduil reluctantly admitted, had not lost their skills with their fortune. He had a mithril brooch, acquired when that valuable silver could be bought at a price, and intended to have it made into a chain for the necklace, but this he would not send to Erebor - his own smiths would do this work. The metal was now too precious to risk such a journey.
The gems were yet uncut, but the dwarves had sent some of their finest, polished to display their quality. The King, though fondest of emeralds, found his eyes unable to escape the lure of another stone. Held to the light, the fire opal gleamed with the red flames of its name - a beautiful stone, worthy, Thranduil thought, of his beautiful lover. Men believed that the opal had come of an early experiment of Fëanor, en route to the making of the Silmarilli, but elves knew better. The hand of Aulë had made these gems, and the fire opal had, in any case, been known to dwarves and elves long before the return of the Noldor. The truth of its origins did not diminish the gem's magic. Its luster held passion and subtlety, a fine mix, Thranduil thought, for Tórasin's vitality and her Silvan harmony.
Lost in such thoughts, a knock at the door startled him.
"It is not usual for you to close your door when you are alone," Innolas observed, lowering himself into a delicately carved chair. "Would your want of privacy be inspired by a certain package delivered by a rather greedy dwarf?" he asked, smiling.
"Perhaps," Thranduil smiled.
"And perhaps by a certain elf-maid?" Innolas leaned forward, his eyebrows raised.
"Perhaps."
The son laughed. "Adar, you are a poor keeper of secrets. The light in your eyes tells me it is a gift for Tórasin that you are considering."
"Well, I have been found out. It is indeed a gift."
"She makes you young again - it is good to see you smile." Innolas shifted uncomfortably, unhappy with his errand. "You have found in her what you did not have with my mother," he began.
Thranduil frowned. "I was content with your mother, do not think that I was not. But we shared an understanding. She would not oppose this."
"No," Innolas agreed. "She loved you within a certain definition of love, as you loved her. She would not wish unhappiness on you. As you are now sundered by her death, she could not deny you, who are yet living, love's comfort.
"But the Valar can, and will, Adar," he finished gently. "You know the Laws of the Eldar. You cannot think to defy them."
The Laws, so easily made when death among the Eldar was rare, had come to Beleriand by Melian's guidance before the unchaining of Melkor. They had remained mostly intact through the Middle Years in Eriador by the authority of the High King of the Noldor. Beyond Hithaeglir, however, the Avari knew nothing of the Statute of Finwë and Míriel. Death was no stranger to Lenwë's folk, and once widowed, an elf might seek companionship and children with a second spouse. Lenwë himself had taken such a lover, and his heir Oropher hesitated to interfere with the customs of his people. Thus the practice continued, despite the pious King's misgivings.
After the war in Mordor, many elves found themselves widowed, and the Laws at last began to break down among the Eldar, as the widowed pledged their love to one another. The Valar could not coerce the Firstborn into obedience, only advise them of what doom awaited those who strayed. Námo, however, after long consideration, could name only one doom - that such pledges must naturally end with the departure of one or both widows by death or the Straight Path. Marriage existed only between the first spouses. The second marriage did not defy the law because it did not, by Námo's definition, qualify as a marriage. (22)
All of this Innolas knew. His widowed father might seek companionship - with another widow. Therein lay the problem. As a maid, Tórasin was yet free to bind herself, but Thranduil was not. Should they bind themselves by oath, the laws of the Eldar must be broken.
Thranduil looked at his son. "I do not take the Laws lightly. We cannot be bound after the manner of our people, this I know."
"You cannot be bound. She is yet a maid."
His father wore a patient expression. "Then I still cannot bind myself to her. I miss your meaning."
"There can be no child of her," Innolas said gently.
Now Thranduil understood. The begetting of a child would bind his love to him as surely as his sister had been thus bound to her lover. If Tórasin were also a widow, and not free to bind herself, a child between them would pose no such risk. Yet she was, as Innolas pointed out, a maid, and therefore free. No elf could have two wives, yet both Berinaeth and Tórasin would thus be bound to him.
With the arrogant folly of one accustomed to making law, Thranduil thought this condition of childlessness missed Ilúvatar's intent. "I cannot believe the Valar would permit union between the Eldar and yet exclude the chance to bear progeny of that union," Thranduil told his son.
Innolas sighed. His father's argument had some merit, but his vast understanding of the lore of his people lay against such an interpretation. As it turned out, both elves were quite mistaken.
436 First Age, Doriath
The little elf watched anxiously as his mother unwrapped the gift he had made for her. "Does it please you?" he burst out, unable to control his excitement.
Anórieth smiled at her son, who had not yet acquired the stillness and patience of a mature elf. "Let me unwrap it first, Thranduil!" she chided. She untied the last bow and the wrapping fell open to reveal a small, carved wren.
"It is not so good as Stamgól would make, I know," Thranduil added. He had gone to the Laegel for help in selecting and carving the wood. Stamgól's little animals were prized in Doriath, but the elf made them only for pleasure. Like all of Oropher's people, he dearly loved the Lady of their Lord, and Anórieth had a small menagerie of the exquisitely lifelike woodcarvings. (23)
"No, it is better, for your hands made it," Anórieth told her son. "The worth of a gift is not in its value but in the sentiment of its giver." The wren, her favorite creature, was perhaps somewhat crudely rendered, but the mother's eyes saw no such flaws. She gathered the young elf into her lap. "Pride can never cast its shadow upon what we make for the pleasure of others, for only when we claim ownership of what we have no right to hold can such things be tainted by our greed.
"Take the example of the little wren. She loves most to sing, and to hear her merry chirp we elves make little houses for her nest," Anórieth explained. "But we do not keep her in a cage, for she would be miserable, and would sing no more. She is meant to be free."
~~~
Thranduil smiled, recalling his mother's words. She had loved the simple life of the Laegrim, perhaps because it contrasted so strongly with the strivings of her grandfather's unhappy clan. The Noldor could not find happiness in the present - in the Elder Days, they thought ever of the future and now, as they faded, they regretted the past. (24)
As for himself, he had the simple joy of nearness to the one who held his heart, and he refused to think now that she must leave him before Anor rose high in the sky. They sat by the riverbank, Tórasin singing to the water. She rested her head against his shoulder, and Thranduil felt the vibrations of her voice where his sensitive ear touched the top of her head. He decided that he had best give his love her gift before the base instinct of lust took the lead.
Tórasin drew the necklace from its velvet purse and let out her breath slowly. Here in the sunlight it gleamed with its liquid fire, a beautiful piece of which she hardly felt worthy. Reluctantly, she replaced it in its purse and looked away, not wishing to see the hurt in her lover's eyes. "I cannot accept this," she said quietly.
"Why?"
Tórasin winced at the raw emotion in Thranduil's voice. She forced herself to look at the crestfallen King. "If I take it, it would be a promise of more than I am willing to give. Do not mistake me," she added hastily. "My heart would accept the necklace and its giver without reservation. But better counsel warns me against this.
"I belong in my village, not a king's palace," she continued, brushing her hand nervously through the strands of hair that had escaped their clip. She turned away, unable to hold his eyes longer. "I am sorry - I cannot give you more than I do." She felt as torn as she had when Thranduil had come to Dunnadór and charmed her into his life. 'He does not know what he asks of me!' she thought, anguished.
"You read too much into my gift," Thranduil interrupted her thoughts. "It is freely given, without expectation of return." He placed a hand on her cheek. "I cannot deny that my heart's desire is to have you at my side when I wake, to hear your voice sing to the trees when I walk and watch you fall into your dreamscapes when I retire. Yet I would not make you a prisoner of my affection.
"Go home to your village," he concluded, with a regretful smile. "But take my gift, that it may remind you that you have taken my heart also, and it will not find rest until you return to me."
2105 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
His lover raised herself on one elbow, the fire opal accentuating her white skin and the copper light in her hair. Far away in the caverns, Thranduil could hear stirrings as the cook began to prepare for the day. "Will you not stay?" he asked, running his fingers through the silky hair.
"You have had me all night. Now I must greet the trees, lest they feel slighted."
"You greeted them yesterday," Thranduil protested, smiling.
"They have a short memory," Tórasin explained, but of course this was not so. Though younger than the elves, they shared the memories of trees long gone, memories of a time before even the Firstborn had awakened. From such a source Tórasin's people drew their wisdom, in their own way as learned as the loremasters of the Eldar.
The elf-maid finally untangled herself from the covers. Her heart and her King's persistence had persuaded her to live in Forod'lad, but her sense of duty would not desert her vocation. Mitharas had found occupation for her among the guards who watched over the river - work less dangerous, but also less peaceful than the hours of solitude she had enjoyed as a border guard.
Thranduil knew this well, and watched the warrior's lean limbs move gracefully toward the dressing room, half-jealous of the task that must take Tórasin from his side and half-moved by the love that had steadily grown for this strong and passionate elf. He could not complain. He knew the sacrifice she had made for him.
Thranduil, Tórasin worried as she made her way to the river, wished to formalize their bond. The King, she had discovered, had flaws and failings and worries just as any of his subjects, and she had come to love the elf within the regal trappings. Their fëar danced with joy, whether the two elves walked in the woods or joined their bodies. In time, she had come to miss her love more than she missed her village when sundered from one or the other, and thus did she now share a hut in Forod'lad with her old teacher. Yet, much more must she give up should she accept his yet untendered proposal.
The elf she had come to relieve told her briefly of an uneventful night, and Tórasin settled onto the talan with a cheerful greeting to the tree in which it rested. In lieu of a greeting the tree's branches whispered in the wind, their song soothing the tension the tree sensed in the elf. Tórasin sighed - the tension came not from her dilemma, but of a night spent underground, no matter, she recalled with a smile, how pleasurable it had been.
Tórasin could not fail to appreciate the beauty of Thranduil's caverns, and understood his great pride in the place that he could at last call home. The dwarves had turned the caves into halls befitting a King, with perhaps more understanding of their customers than the elves might have expected. The stunted craftsfolk had etched various designs, from abstract scrolls to symbols of the Valar, into the highly polished stone floors, and the ceiling of the King's hall bore carvings representing the elenath. The grand entrance hall still held visitors in thrall; even the Wood folk, not disposed to love anything made of stone, spoke reverently of the hall's beauty. Nothing had the dwarves overlooked, from floor to ceiling and every detail between, smoothing the limestone walls so that one could hardly tell this had once been a cave. Still, Tórasin knew. She felt the great weight of the stone above her as though it rested on her heart. She heard not the trees whispering in the night, the chattering of crickets or the call of the nightingale. Her spirit grew restless after a short time in the dark.
Relieved in the afternoon by the next elf to sit watch, she went to the hut she shared nominally with Brónalm, though she spent little time within its walls. 'I might just as well live in the caverns,' she rationalized. She found the old bow-master sharpening arrows in the glow of the afternoon sun. In a few hours, after the song of twilight, they would go to the evening meal at the King's table. Brónalm had lived as a member of the royal family at Amon Lanc and in the Emyn Duir, but since the move to Northern Mirkwood, he had taken a hut by the river. Though he had assumed many customs and the speech of his King, he remained a Wood Elf at heart, and the caverns discomfited him.
Of this he had warned Thranduil, for the King had confided his intention to ask the lady's hand in betrothal. "She is of the Wood folk, Aranen. We are not at ease underground."
"She should have the same freedom to come and go as she does now," Thranduil had insisted, but this answer did not alleviate the ancient elf's worries. Yet, his heart warned him that the matter was quite out of his hands - or the King's hands. Like Phingés, he sensed greater forces at work here. 'What the Bali have set in motion must be seen through to its end, bitter though that end may be for my King and his Lady,' he resigned himself. (25)
Tórasin sat on the ground, watching the Cúcherdir at work. If she might reconcile herself to living in the caverns, other concerns she found less easy to quiet. She did not know how long her heart could deny the wish most dear to Thranduil's heart, yet it would change her forever.
"I would be too diminished, if I had a child," she explained to Brónalm. She was as strong now as any male elf, but that would change with childbearing. Her days as a warrior must end with motherhood. (26)
"Where one door closes, perhaps another may open, herina," the old bow-master counseled. "You are as fine an archer as I have seen in my time, and you will remain so." (27)
Brónalm, she realized, did not truly understand her dilemma, how much of her very essence must be spent in the bearing of children. "Were I a teacher, perhaps it would not matter so. If I had the skill of scrying as my great-grandmother has, it would only grow more powerful. Yet I am a warrior - I do not yearn for battle, but if there is to be one, my place is at the King's side. I may still shoot with accuracy, but if we should again bring our host against Mordor - and that is not unlikely, it seems - I must remain behind, for lack of strength."
"You would remain behind in any case," Brónalm pointed out. "The King would depend upon you to run his kingdom in his absence. Do not be too quick to dismiss such a role," he added, as she again protested. "Those who did not go with us to Mordor revere still the lady Berinaeth for her wise rule during the war. The Eldar may have forgotten her great act of courage, but the Bali know that she gave her life in defiance of the Enemy. Nor should any overlook the quick bow and tireless guard of Nórui."
Tórasin lowered her head. "I did not mean to trivialize such service to our King. Yet so much I do not understand - I am a simple Wood Elf, I was not born to such lofty aspirations."
The bow-master examined the brown feathers she had brought to him, courtesy of the King's cook. "These will make fine flights, and the pheasant a good meal, so that bird's sacrifice goes not unappreciated." He returned to the subject at hand. "It is no secret that our King intends to ask for your hand, or that he wishes for more children. Both would bring great happiness to him." He looked up, fixing the maid with a solemn look. "Do you love him as he loves you?"
Tórasin knew her answer must confirm this, but her old teacher wished for a more thoughtful response. She sat silent for long minutes as she searched her heart. "I do. But love is not always enough," she reluctantly admitted. "One can be very much in love, yet very unhappy in situation."
2106 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
The sheer cliff above the cavern doors rose quite high above the river, so that the ground above swelled to a great knoll over the entrance hall and King's hall. The knoll dropped sharply to flatter ground, and here were kept the royal gardens. The cook and the King's healer grew their herbs in these gardens and Innolas, with his mother's fondness for flowers, tended his roses and irises. Beyond the flowers and herbs rose the cornfields of the Ivonwin. Between the gardens and fields lay a small glade, a refreshing bit of forest in the middle of the cleared land. Elegant marble benches lined the paths and a stream coursed through the middle of the glade, nourishing the many wildflowers that grew under the trees. (28)
These delicate flowers had captured the attention of Tórasin as she walked with the King on this bright morning. Their walk had become a lesson of sorts for Thranduil, who admittedly knew little of the Silvan tongue, as Tórasin told him the names of the flowers and trees in her language. "And this we call oebana," she told him, pointing to the lovely white flower. (29)
"Ever-fair," Thranduil translated. "A fair name for the fair uilos. But tell me, my lady, can this flower bloom in caverns such as mine?"
"The oebana must have light and stars and green things around it, else it withers."
"And if one brings the flower into the light, can it tolerate the darkness for a time?" Thranduil looked intently at his companion, hardly breathing.
"Ah, that, my lord, it may do, for it is a hardy flower." Dark grey eyes met pale ones. "But we speak not of a flower."
"No, my lady, we do not."
Tórasin clasped her hands behind her back in thought. She turned suddenly, her chin raised in determination. "This is much you ask of me."
"I do not intend to keep you caged, if that is your fear."
"That is not my worry. I come from a different people. We are not so alike as we should be." Tórasin fingered the opal that lay on her breast nervously. Never had the necklace felt so heavy.
"Have I not tried to learn of your folk?"
"You have. Yet we are ever different. You speak for our people. I speak to the trees."
"Then that is good, for the trees are a part of your people, and I have not the right manner of speaking to them. At least, they do not answer me," Thranduil answered playfully. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Your doubts cannot withstand me, for I have more patience than your trees and have lived longer than any of them. I am quite content to continue in my plea until I have a wife who will bring life into my empty rooms."
"I cannot be the wife you want. I would not ask you to give up your throne. It is what you are made to do, and to protect your people is what I am made to do." Tórasin frowned, her sense of the distance between them never more poignant.
"Have I asked you to change that?" Thranduil was genuinely confused.
"You do not think what this title of Dîs-e-guren must entail. I am a breadwinner, not a breadgiver. I am not the wife you need." Tórasin broke away from his grasp and leaned against a nearby tree for support. Her heart ached as she made her objections, and she felt her will ebbing away.
"I married once already to the wife I needed. I do not regret that - it was right for me and for my father's people then. Now, I have the freedom to marry for love."
"I cannot give you children - not now. Do not deny that your heart longs for this above all else."
Thranduil could not. He realized that this concession he must make. Though he perhaps underestimated how her life must change as she assumed the role of his consort, he knew that she had come to the limit of what she could accept. Ask more, and he might lose her. "Then I must be patient. You have my word that we will not speak again of this matter until you choose to do so."
~~~
By the waning candlelight in Thranduil's chambers, Tórasin examined the silver ring that had somehow come to be placed on her finger. She was at a loss as to how her objections had melted away so easily. Love, she knew, partly explained it. She cast her eyes over the King, envying his easy dream-sleep. Her fëa burned to meld with his, though such mingling must be limited to Arda. Tórasin had never given much thought to the Laws of the Eldar. She thought of death strictly in terms of the world she knew. She had seen many warriors die, and she had seen many births. In children were the hopes of the dead reborn; even were she to die without descendants, she had bequeathed some of her spirit unto the many children and grandchildren of her siblings. Thus, it did not matter to her that they could not bind themselves before Eru, and so make a union not even death could cleave. They would have one another until one died, and her mind could not grasp a time beyond that, so alien was the Eldarin concept of death to her Silvan mind.
This thought reminded her that she had but meagre understanding of her lover's culture. A simple elf, she spoke imperfect Sindarin and knew little of the history that had so affected this family's fortunes. Thranduil refused to see that this might come between them, and though she had his pledge that he would not press the issue, he clearly expected that she would give him a child. Too easily had he undone her defenses. Tórasin turned over restlessly, feeling that she was swept away by a tide that centered on her and yet over which she had little control.
2460 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood (Spring)
Tórasin watched anxiously over her great-grandmother's shoulder as Phingés sprinkled jasmine oil over the leaves, crouching near the ground to study them. At last, Phingés straightened up. "You will bear a son," she announced.
A frown furrowed across the younger elf's forehead. "But how - I have taken the herbs faithfully."
"Child, the power of such herbs rests in she who made them. If it be the will of Abanna that you have a child, then no herb can defy her." The wise old elf looked at her great-granddaughter sympathetically.
Tórasin sighed. For many years they had known peace in Northern Mirkwood, but the Wood folk sensed a change in the air. Her heart's tumult warned against the bearing of children in such uncertain days. Indeed, she realized, there had been no births for some time. By custom, mothers would bring a new baby to the caverns, where the King would solemnly welcome the child into his realm, and write the baby's name in a great ledger kept in his Hall. At least two rounds of Anor had passed since the ledger had seen the last birth recorded.
In spite of this, Yavanna had given her this child; in spite of Tórasin's still-deep ambivalence over the diminishing she already felt, Yavanna had given her this child. To lose such an essential part of her being grieved her, but in the glow of Thranduil's eyes she found some comfort, for what this child would cost her would ease the heart of the one she loved. The King, she knew, had lost many he loved - his mother at a young age, and so many in the war. He had come to accept these losses, but his eldest son's death, she knew, remained painful to him. More than anything in Eä, he wanted this child.
The King's healer shared his joy that a new baby would come to the royal House for the first time in this Age. Brúniel had been healer, midwife and nursemaid to the House of Lasgalen since the Elder Days. Wife to Galion, she had escaped with him from Doriath, and after the sack of Arvernien, they had joined themselves to Oropher's people, for they would not live under the rule of the Golodh king on Balar. She had seen the births of Oropher's grandchildren and had cared for them in infancy, and she had followed her King to Mordor and eased him into death. The ancient Sinda had a stern disposition, well suited to care of willful Kings and their stubborn progeny, but Tórasin chafed under her watchful eye. If she had accepted her lot, she had not fully reconciled herself to it, and she found herself continually at odds with Brúniel, who in truth knew more than her charge of such matters.
The paths around the caverns now disappeared under the orange, red and brown harbingers of firith. Though the trees had become sleepy, Tórasin had a favored talan in the beech trees over the river, from which she could observe the changes wrought by autumn. These moments were precious to her. Though she loved Thranduil and their marriage had been a happy one, she relied on this time among the trees to nourish her Silvan heart. She refused to let her condition interfere with her daily habit, and as she grew heavy with child, the King's healer worried for her safety. "Trees," the midwife clucked in disapproval, "are no place for a pregnant elf. (30)
"Wood Elves do not fall out of trees," Tórasin laughed at her concerns.
The Mereth Iau-Grithol came, and ended with the traditional farewell to Yavanna, as her creations entered their winter sleep. All the Wood folk felt sadness come upon them as the trees turned bare and the grass brown, but Tórasin felt the winter more keenly than usual this year, for the longer nights meant more hours in the caverns; snow and cold must keep her indoors, though she would ordinarily have much to do. The fell creatures of the forest did not sleep in winter, and indeed, threatened the elves more than ever in their hunger. In Dunnadór, she imagined, her folk had become doubly vigilant, that here in the interior of the realm they might be reasonably safe. (31)
Tórasin looked pale and tired to Brúniel, but the healer found nothing unnatural in this - the great amount of vitality elven women put into their babies - especially a first - often taxed their health. Ordinarily an expectant elf might pass the final weeks at rest. Until Tórasin came under her care, Brúniel had never had a bess question this time of lying-in. Her lady overestimated her strength, Brúniel thought. The healer had conceded much for this strange elf, but in this matter she would not give way, and soon had the support of the nervous father behind her. Tórasin stubbornly resisted their efforts, escaping the midwife's watchful eye when she could by way of the hidden passage. Though Bilbo in later days found only two exits from the caverns, there existed, in fact, another. Of this only the King's family and his most trusted subjects knew; modeled after the hidden way from Amon Lanc, the passage would serve in the event of a siege. Tórasin soon found, to her despair, that her secret outings only proved the wisdom of Brúniel. Her body would no longer perform as she expected, and after a narrow encounter with a hungry wolf, she admitted defeat. She looked toward the final two months of her pregnancy with great unhappiness; already, the walls of the caverns seemed to close around her. (32, 33)
Thranduil grew increasingly concerned for his lady as these days passed. Listless and seemingly preoccupied, Tórasin took little pleasure in all the King did to cheer her. Her hair grew lank and lost its healthy copper glow and her slate eyes did not smile, even when she coaxed that expression to her lips. Had Brónalm been there, he could have told Thranduil what ailed the lady, but in late winter he had left Northern Mirkwood on one of his periodic walkabouts, desiring to see Gondor, for an old friend resided in Belfalas.
Brónalm might have told him that Tórasin did not dream, that her fëa, trapped by the thick stone walls, withered. He might have told his King that the caverns disturbed the natural rhythms of her mind and body, that the Wood folk lived so close to the stars and green things that their very being was attuned to them. But Brónalm was not there to warn Thranduil of these things, and languishing under this stress, the lady felt the first quickening of her labor - much too soon.
Her handmaid sent for Brúniel at Tórasin's cry of surprised pain, and soon had the help of the healer in restraining the lady, who told them feverishly in her own tongue that she must leave. Brúniel understood none of this. She knew only that she must quiet her patient and do what she could to delay her labors.
Brúniel's considerable skill prevailed. Gravely, she confronted her worried King. "Aranen, I cannot promise that my arts will stay delivery of the child, and it is still too early."
Thranduil looked at her as she hesitated. "There is more," he guessed.
Reluctantly, the midwife continued. "Her mind strays - she calls out, but I confess I do not know her language."
Thranduil understood no better her ravings. The final weeks of her lying-in crept by, Brúniel's efforts delaying the delivery, but the midwife could do nothing for the lady's mind. Tórasin knew not her husband and would take no food. She called in the night for stars she could not see, falling into nightmare and visions of flame and unlight.
2460 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood (Late Winter)
Elven babies, it is said, at last leave the safety of the womb out of desire to see the stars. Though the Eldar had forgotten this, the Wood folk had not. Shortly before the baby's birth, the female kin of the mother would go into the woods to prepare a place. When the mother knew it was time, she would go with them to this place, so that the first thing her child should see would be the stars.
Tórasin had not thought to tell her mate or her midwife of this; she did not know that the Sindarin custom differed. Yet on the night that she again felt the quickening of her womb, her muddled consciousness found its way to the hidden exit, for an instinct as old as Cuivienyarna led her to the forest. Neither she nor her child could be kept any longer from the stars.
Some time after Tilion slipped away from sight, the mother delivered her son. Wrapping him in her cloak, she held the baby up. "Ele!" she whispered, in a tongue even more ancient than her own. "Ele, ondona. El-barda made these lights for the elves, and when you look upon them and call her name, she will always hear your cry and bring you her protection." Indeed, under the stars her mind had cleared, Varda's healing balm of light lifting the shroud over her thoughts. She knew she should take the baby home, but in her exhaustion, and yet unwilling to return to the dark caverns, she laid the baby beside her and passed into a deep slumber beyond the elven dream-sleep. (34, 35)
The baby lay quiet, his eyes open and looking with wonder at the stars that had persuaded him to leave the safety of the womb. As dawn came, however, he knew hunger, and cold. His mother's cloak and her nearness had kept him warm through the final hours of the night, but now an icy frost glistened over the land, and no more warmth came from the elf beside him. Even his infant mind sensed that all was not right, and in reproach, that none tended to his needs, he raised his voice in the universal language of babies.
Relief washed through Mitharas as his sharp ears caught the cry. Tracking a Wood Elf he had found near to impossible, and though they had neared the place where Tórasin had hidden herself, his party had backtracked many times as they lost the trail. Mitharas now followed the sound of his cousin's complaint, at last finding the little hollow in which he lay with his mother. The baby's wails attested to his health, but the elf beside the child left his mouth dry. The lady was still, her expression serene, as though she had been at peace when she drifted into deathly sleep.
He took the baby and sheltered him under his cloak, to warm him, and for the moment his cousin was quieted. At his nod, the other elves of his party gathered the dead elf, and returned to the palace.
2460 Third Age, Halls of Mandos (Late Winter)
"I may choose, in time, to be rehoused in my body, or I may give up that choice, and remain in the Houses of the Dead. Yet by both choices do I lose. Should I remain in the care of Mandos, I will not know my son, when he should pass beyond the Shadowy Seas. Should I be rehoused, I must be sentenced to a life in Aman, and my husband, should he die, must therefore remain unhoused."
"These are the choices given you, yes."
"Yet a third choice I have, that you do not name. I can repudiate this summons, and remain in Arda with those I love."
"You lack understanding."
"I lack understanding? I made not such Laws that would sunder me from those I love until Eä should be remade."
"Yet you shall be sundered the same, for the dead shall have no consort with the living. You shall grow weary of your state, and envious of those who live, and vulnerable to temptations of evil things that would use you as their instrument." (36)
"I am the great-granddaughter of Phingés, whose descendants speak the language of the trees. The very essence of Abanna runs in our blood; to us she gave the charge to heal the hurts of her creations. That we should come under the spell of the Enemy is impossible - we can never but serve Abanna, in death as in life."
~~~
For two nights and two days, he stood over the grave of his beloved, the multitude of tasks that demanded his attention seeming to pale beside his grief. Thranduil had buried the many deaths of those he loved in his work, clinging to the impulse instilled from birth to put the welfare of his people above all else. Yet now, even this failed him. He had reached the limit of sorrow he could endure, and he felt lost.
"I have given him miruvor, híren, but it only quiets him. It cannot replace a mother's milk." Brúniel's worry showed in her strained expression, and she looked expectantly at the King's second son.
Innolas sighed. His father had not yet seen the child, but if Innolas did not intervene, the baby would soon follow his mother in death. He did not know where to turn. "Aiwendil," he said finally, grasping at hope. The Maia they saw but rarely these days - some at Imladris whispered that he had lost sight of his purpose, that his birds occupied his mind more than the charge of the Valar. Still, Innolas could think of no alternative. "Aiwendil will know what to do." Summoning his cousin, he bid Mitharas to make haste to bring the baby to the Maia, and then went to speak to his father.
"Adar?"
The King did not respond, standing still as he had since the grave had been made.
"Adar, you cannot remain thus. Your people need you. They are fearful, they know of Tórasin's madness and fear that you suffer likewise, that a curse is upon you. They know I have sent messages far and wide for the Cúcherdir."
"Then they speak truthfully, for a curse does indeed lay upon me. Brónalm cannot help her now. Perhaps her fate was beyond his help," Thranduil said at last.
His father's words chilled him. Innolas truly began to wonder if his father's many tears had at last driven him to madness. "Speak not thus, Adar."
"The stars," Thranduil said softly. "She asked for the stars, and by my own ignorance she remained in what must have been as a tomb to her."
"You had no fault in it. Do not blame yourself for misunderstanding her." He took his father's arm. "Come away," Innolas pleaded. To his surprise, Thranduil allowed him to lead him away from the grave, docile in his son's lead. This perplexed and worried the younger elf all the more.
A fortnight passed. Innolas struggled to soothe the worried populace and keep his father busy. Simple tasks brought the King out of his stupor, but his heart remained in his lady's grave.
"Mitharas has returned, híren."
Innolas rose from his desk. "At last!"
Mitharas followed on the heels of Galion. "Well, I did not find Aiwendil at Rhosgobel. He had gone just the day before to a little village near the Gladden, whence a fever taken hold had summoned him. I saw no choice but to follow, though it was a longer ride than I wished. Yet the Lady must have heard my prayers, for just as I thought the little one must perish, we found succor in Folcagard." A woman who had lost her own baby to fever proved willing to nurse the tiny elf, even to return with Mitharas to Northern Mirkwood.
Innolas considered this. "I had not thought of a mortal," he said doubtfully.
"Aiwendil believes the child will thrive. He seems well enough now that he is fed." Mitharas threw himself into a sofa in his cousin's library. "Ai, it has been a long journey. I fear the forest grows more dark; the Silvan folk are uneasy."
"It has been a long wait here, too," Innolas said quietly.
"How fares your father?" Mitharas asked, sitting up.
"Not well. Not worse, but not well." He stood, rubbing his temples. "I know not what to do."
"Oh, I nearly forgot - our Brónalm had passed through Folcagard not four days before we came there. Aiwendil has sent Rovalthór, the eagle, to seek him."
Brónalm's long sojourn had taken him to Belfalas, where he found not his friend, nor any elf, but heard the sad end of Amroth. As he passed north again, a foreboding took hold of his heart. Dol Guldur, he thought, was still unoccupied, but the air seemed on edge. Something would soon happen to jar the moderate peace they had enjoyed since the ithron Mithrandir had forced Sauron from the ancient citadel. Brónalm had therefore gone north to the Beornings, knowing that among men, they possessed greater senses of the unseen, and they, too, told of foreboding and dread. There, Rovalthór found him, and Brónalm made haste to depart, greatly disturbed by Mitharas' message and its tidings. (37)
He had left Northern Mirkwood before Tórasin had conceived - indeed, he would not have gone had he known of this. Nonetheless, he sensed still that he could not have changed the path of things. On his return, Innolas pressed him to speak to the King, but first, Brónalm had to know what purpose the lady's unhappy end had served. In his hut, he drew a circle and sat within its protection. Lighting a black candle, he sprinkled it with powdered mandrake root and waited.
"Cogatora. You knew I would come."
"I knew you would not leave." The elf-maid he had taught once had become a lady, a mother and now a shade. He could make out her ghostly features, the mist of her hair and the plain burial dress.
"I had little choice. I did not fear death," she asserted, and Brónalm nodded - that was the way of their people. "By their Laws, the Bali have broken the circle of death unto life. I do not have the patience, I suppose, to wait for the end of Eä. But that is not why you have called me here."
"No, herina, it is not," Brónalm answered.
They spoke long into the night. At length, Brónalm sensed the closing of the stars. He must bring this, too, to a close. "Your words, I think, will bring some comfort to our King," he assured the shade.
"He will never leave these woods. His children will leave him, but he will remain, to fade into one of the tawri like our people. Spirits of the wood, he and I shall both be then, and perhaps reunited." (38)
Brónalm nodded, feeling tears spring to his eyes. How long must the time seem to her! What sins had the elf committed that Mandos must heal her? What joys could await her in Aman, among strangers? Yet here, unhoused, she would see Anor rise countless times, able to do naught but watch and wait. He hoped that just to be near her infant son and her beloved husband would be a comfort to her; she would see her child take his first steps, hear him speak his first words.
He, Brónalm, would be certain that the child would know his mother's Silvan tongue and the ways of her people, that he would learn to speak to the trees and sing to the stars. This much he could promise her.
"You must speak for me, as I cannot. He must hear what Abanna has made known to me." With these words, the shade melted into the shadows.
Brónalm extinguished the candle and lit a lantern, glad for the light. As morning broke, the river came to life. A group of elves returning from patrol floated by on a raft, softly singing in the Silvan tongue, a lay for the unfortunate Amroth and Nimrodel. Perhaps, Brónalm thought, this tale of faraway tragic love, but a fairy tale to the elves of Northern Mirkwood, distracted them from the pall cast over their own kingdom.
The bow-master knew he should seek out his King, but the events of the night had wearied him. Great effort had he expended to maintain the circle of protection around him, to ward off other spirits. Tórasin, he was certain, had no malice, but other spirits would have a body. For this reason the Valar forbade such contact with shades. Yet he thought they would forgive him for this, for he served their interest. (39)
Having considered his words carefully, he at last made his way to the caverns the next day. He found the King in his library, the household accounts before him, but his mind elsewhere. He knocked at the open door; failing to rouse Thranduil, he knocked again.
"My apologies, Cúcherdir," Thranduil greeted the ancient elf, bowing his head in respect even as the other bowed to his King. "I fear I was distracted."
Brónalm sat. "Your loss is felt by us all," he said simply.
Thranduil nodded. "She was well-loved by the people."
"As you are. The Silvan folk know you have lost and endured much on our behalf, Aranen, and we grieve for you. Nor are the Valar blind to all that you have given. Though your father's house had no part in the making of the Rings, you fought valiantly to free Arda once of Sauron and your realm now suffers of the Dark Lord more than any other among our kindred. This, too, the Valar do not forget."
"And they have remembered me how? By sundering me from the lady who will nonetheless remain a part of me until the end of Eä?"
"You were bound to two wives - by Námo's doom that could not be. Yet Yavanna allowed this to happen, that your father's promise to you might be fulfilled."
"More sorrow awaits you, I fear. Yet from your sorrows shall come one among the Silvan folk, a child of your heart who will bring joy to the dark days you have yet to endure."
'Adar vuin, I fear the sorrow is more than I can bear,' Thranduil thought as he remembered his father's words. (40)
"The child is a gift of the Valar. They dearly wished that he be given to you, to ease the troubles yet to come. More Silvan than Sindarin will he be, for Yavanna's spirit breeds true from mother to son. The lady Tórasin lives in this child, Aranen.
"And," he added with a secretive smile, "you are not so sundered as you think, Aranen. There are other fates for the elves; fates over which even Námo cannot speak."
Thranduil sat long in contemplation of the ancient elf's words. Yavanna herself had defied her fellow Vala and his stern Law, and he saw that somehow, Tórasin had cheated Námo of his righteous retribution. He smiled for the first time in weeks, remembering his wife's stubborn spirit. It felt good to think of her without sorrow for a moment.
He had feared that her son would too painfully remind him of her, and saw he had failed her - she would want him to find joy in their child, not regret. "Galion," he called, seeing the elf's shadow by his door, waiting for his request.
The butler appeared in the doorway. "Aranen?"
"I wish to see my son."
Galion smiled with relief. "I will tell Brúniel." He left, but returned a moment later. "Aranen?" he asked again.
"Yes? What now?" Thranduil asked, impatient.
"I am glad you are back." The elf did not wait to see the effect of his words, but disappeared, leaving the King to shake his head at the sometimes-childlike heart of the ancient elf.
Brúniel took so long in coming that Thranduil thought that perhaps Galion's message had been mislaid. "What kept you?" he asked.
"The baby was napping. You have waited a month to see your child - I saw no reason to disturb his dreams." Her face sharp with disapproval of her King, she laid the tiny elf in his father's arms. The baby gave a squeak of protest and began to work himself into a more indignant state at separation from his nurse.
"This little one must have the care of a father, Aranen. The mortal Viduwyn cares for him most attentively, and he has my love and that of your sons. But he is motherless already, and fearful of abandonment; he cries if left alone at night. He does not like the dark." Brúniel kept her voice soft, less to soften her disapproval than to avoid upsetting the baby.
The King hardly heard her. This child, for whom he had sacrificed so much - this child, Oropher's dying promise...this child wrapped his little hand around his heart. "Man amarth al le dhartha, ionen bigen? Even the Valar have quarreled to bring you into the world," Thranduil wondered, stroking the soft white-gold down on his head. In this alone would he resemble his brothers, for his slate grey eyes and delicate features came of his mother. The baby grasped his finger, his eyes looking about him with great curiosity. (41)
Innolas entered the library, smiling at the sight of his majestic father, clearly reduced to jelly by his tiny brother. His father, he thought, would overcome his sorrow and his realm would remain strong, even as the shadow lengthened in the days to come. Edhellendor-Vedui, Oropher had named his son, and his words proved true. No Ring of Power protected them, and no Maia encircled their lands with an enchanted girdle, nor did the legendary flame of the Calaquendi keep evil at bay in Northern Mirkwood. The resilience of the House of Lasgalen rested in what neither the Noldor nor Thingol had in abundance. 'We have loved and trusted in one another. By our unity we have endured where petty jealousies and quarrels have undone great kings,' he realized. (42)
"You will be much loved, muindor dithen," Innolas informed the baby. The child looked up at him with wide eyes. "He will be a beautiful elf, Adar." (43)
Thranduil thought of his youngest child's improbable beginnings. He could not then know that his son would avenge the kin of Thranduil's mother and the death of Oropher, or that this Sindarin child with a Silvan heart would be the most renowned of all the Wood folk. Destiny lay heavy on this baby, but Thranduil thought only of his father's promise. "He will do great things, this little one. Yet more precious than all he might do is the joy he will bring to our house. He is truly a gift." (44)
I've gathered what little I've deduced of Nandorin into Appendix II. For those interested in the phonology, where the endnotes state '(see lygn)', an exposition of lygn can be found in this Appendix.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of original characters needed to fill out Oropher's family tree or move the story along. Translations of Elvish words (Sindarin, unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
The Gift
1980 Third Age, Khazad-dûm
Dwarves milled about the great halls in anxious silence or whispered rumor. In their quarters, Roskva wailed and rent her beard, for her son had been among those lost in the Fourth Deep. Thráin's mother could do little to comfort her sister, and looked expectantly toward the door behind which her husband and his father had remained since early morn. Thráin caught himself wishing that Roskva would cease her wailing, and banished the thought, knowing it uncharitable. He too mourned his cousin, yet his taut nerves overwhelmed his sorrow. A terrible thing had come to pass; he knew no accident had killed the dwarves in the mithril lode. Restlessly he left their quarters, finding in the faces of his grandfather's people an expression alien to dwarves: fear. Uncharacteristic for such an industrious folk, all work had stopped; terror seeped from the great black walls of the underground city.
At last, his father and grandfather came from their seclusion, and in the Second Hall, dwarves gathered to hear Durin VI speak. The reincarnation of Durin the Deathless, or so it was said, the dwarf had aged but slowly, and remained hale and hearty at 249. Yet now, Thráin saw many white hairs in his great auburn beard, and he wondered if such a thing could happen in just a few hours.
"My people," the old King began, pausing a moment as the worried murmurs died down. "What some of you have heard is true. Deep in the heart of cold Barazinbar there lies a great evil, one that has already taken some of our bravest folk." He cast his hood over his head in respect, as did his listeners. "Nay - do not despair, my people," he added hastily as he looked over the crowd. "We will meet fire with steel, and this creature shall not have the great city of our ancestors. This evil shall soon meet my axe and know that Durin is here." A great cheer greeted his words, but Thráin's eyes met his father's; Náin, too, took small comfort in the King's bold words.
1982 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
The ancient elf-lord stood motionless in the magnificent entrance hall, too moved by his memories to respond to the butler who waited patiently. No, this was not Menegroth, but Thranduil had built a fair homage to those great halls. For a moment he could almost hear the laughter of little Elwing. In the flickering light, the statue of Lúthien seemed to come to life, dancing as she had before lost to the Firstborn forever. He sighed, banishing his memories to that distant past. He hoped this King proved wiser than had the builder of Menegroth.
Galion waited respectfully; an elf of Doriath himself, he knew what distracted the visitor. "Aran Eryn Forodren awaits you, híren," he announced, when the elf-lord at length returned his attention to the present. (1)
Thranduil received his visitor with poor grace. "What brings you hither, Celeborn?"
"Concern for Lórinand. Why did you refuse them help when they were attacked?" He took a glass of wine from the tray the butler had left.
Thranduil shook his head. "You tried this same ploy with my father, and I will answer as he did. I cannot put my own people in jeopardy for the sake of another land. The Galadhrim, I will welcome into my realm and my protection, but we are nearly at war already in our own lands." He scrutinized the label of the Dorwinion vintage, recalling the missive that had accompanied the latest shipment. "Nórui sends messages of unrest in the south. Lórinand is not the only concern. Since Rhovanion collapsed, we have no buffer to the east. My sister-daughter believes that Mordor is occupied again."
"The Witch-king!" Celeborn spat. "We drove him from Eriador, but he had what he sought in the end - the North Kingdom is no more. He now turns his attention to Gondor. Will you maintain your neutrality as one enemy to the Dark Lord after another falls?"
"Neutrality! You forget that we fought the shadow arising when none dared to name its source. How came the dwarves to lose Hadhodrond, putting Lórinand in such peril?" Thranduil was frankly curious, for this Mitharas had failed to discover, despite his well-connected network. The dwarves themselves - those who had escaped - had come to the Iron Hills, but remained secretive as to the source of their ruin. (2)
"None can say, nor can any guess how Lórinand came to be so suddenly overwhelmed that Amroth fled. He fought bravely in the war against the Witch-king; it was not like him to desert his folk."
"Yet he has done so, and left no heir. With a stronghold such as Hadhodrond from which the orcs might launch attacks, I cannot see how Lórinand can survive." Thranduil truly regretted this, yet he could not send a sizeable contingent to Lórinand without perilous loss to the security of his own realm. "Even the dwarves of Iron Hills do not speak of retaking Hadhodrond."
"Indeed, Hadhodrond, that your Wood folk have called Morag in jest has become so. Nonetheless, we cannot also abandon Lórinand to orcs." (3)
Thranduil could no longer check his temper. "You judge us without knowledge of what you speak, for you have lived under the protection of the Noldor. We fought the Enemy when your Gelydh friends were his unknowing allies. We fought him when they thought he had been defeated forever. Do not tell those who are bailing water that the boat is sinking! We are stretched thin already to stay the evil at our borders. I am stretched thin," he added, an unexpected admission. "We cannot afford a war now."
Celeborn studied his kinsman as he sipped his wine. As an elf of the Elder Days, Thranduil had the ancient strength of their race and of their bloodline. Celeborn had felt this when he entered the realm, that the power of its lord as much as the valiance of his people drove out the darkness of the forest. The King did look weary. "Yet war you may have if the Vale is lost. If you allow orcs to have Lórinand, they will soon have the Vale from Parth Celebrant to the Iron Hills, and you will find yourselves cut off from the west," he answered calmly.
The King resisted the urge to tear out his hair out in frustration. Briefly, he considered doing the same to the other elf. The image of Celeborn without his silver tresses so pleased the King that the ancient elf-lord escaped the throttling he so richly deserved. "I know this, Celeborn," he conceded. "Yet, for all you urge my involvement, you say little of what you and your Noldorin friends will do."
"I will explain this, if you will have patience," Celeborn smoothly turned the conversation to his real purpose. "Galadriel has the light of the Calaquendi, and she has other resources at hand, such as you do not have."
Thranduil suppressed a groan, knowing that he had walked neatly into Celeborn's trap. His father, for all his faults, had been intrinsically honest, and thence came his quarrels with his kinsman. He did not have Celeborn's talent for intrigue and manipulation. He realized too late that he should have left this matter to his son; the halls of Imladris had taught his son to recognize and outmaneuver such wiles. "And what, may I ask, are these resources?" Thranduil stared hard at the other elf.
"You may not ask. But they may perhaps save Lórinand."
Thranduil sipped his wine, uneasy with Celeborn's words. He thought he knew what the ancient elf refused to name. "And the cost of these resources? Perhaps they will put all of our people in greater peril."
"That we must chance."
The blond elf's mind moved quickly. Did Celeborn test him - did he bluff? Innolas believed that Elrond had already put Vilya to use, but Imladris did not lay a day's hard ride from Dol Guldur. Would Galadriel really chance the use of Nenya, with Sauron awakening, and so near to Lórinand?
'The folly of the Noldor - they make the same mistakes in each Age, yet expect different results,' he thought. He did not like the thought of Celeborn and Galadriel permanently ensconced in Lórinand, whatever their reason. Galadriel would at last have her realm to rule. If she could truly restore Lórinand to its former beauty, she would earn the love of even the Silvan folk.
"Galadriel has little understanding of the Galadhrim. The Noldor bend the gifts of Arda to their will, and are aghast at the results. They cannot tolerate the change that the passage of time brings, and will never understand the Wood folk, for the Tawarwaith do not fear change, but welcome it. To them, it brings renewal." His eye caught a small, rather awkward carving of a wren that sat patiently watching them.
"The wren is favored by the Elves of the Wood, for its beautiful and cheerful song and its ability to nest anywhere," his mother had once told him. The Noldor, he thought, resembled more the eagles - beautiful, brave, and stubborn about their habitat.
Celeborn lowered his head slightly. "Do not be too hard on Galadriel," he pleaded, his voice softening. "Change her people may fear, but she has changed nonetheless. Remember that she puts herself at greatest risk. She does not take this upon herself lightly. Few are the foes of Sauron more passionate than my wife.
"In any event, Amroth is gone, and you cannot hold Lórinand," he continued briskly. "We have assumed guardianship of the land, that it may not be deserted."
Thranduil nodded, inwardly cursing himself. The baiting of his kinsman had led him to accept what was already decided. Still, he saw Celeborn's reasoning, if he did not approve of his methods. The decision to withhold his help from the land he had made uneasily; he had felt as though he were caught between two choices, both unsatisfactory. He let out a heavy sigh as he went to find his son and sister-son, that they would know of the latest developments. Terrible things loomed ahead, he felt it in his bones, and already he felt pressed. Never had his kingship felt so heavy.
~~~
The Balrog brooded in his deep lair, perceiving the barrier that now stood against him in the elf-lands. In his most potent form, he was a thing of awe to behold. Yet this form quickly drained his power; Morgoth had used his kind wisely - sparingly - in great battles. Even without his great wreath of flames, the unlight of his being held terror, and having easily overcome Durin, the Balrog roamed the dark mines in this form. Dwarves proved more stubborn than elves; they would not relinquish their ancient home, despite their fear. Seething with frustration, he sensed his time of rest growing nigh, and so came against Náin in a great storm of fire. The dwarf-king perished with his hardiest warriors, and those who survived fled the mines, but the Balrog had wasted his powers. The elf-lands to the east must wait. Orcs soon took the place of dwarves, plundering the great underground mansion. The Balrog hardly heeded them, for he had retreated into the deeps - the few orcs who dared to disturb him soon regretted it. From such wretched creatures, he gathered strength, waiting, watching. (4)
2020 Third Age
Duration proved the hazard of archery competitions in Mirkwood. Such an event might last days - if the King would allow it. He took pride in his warriors' skill, and pride in the Cúcherdir, who had trained every archer in the kingdom, from the outlying villages to his own sister-son. Yet so rarely did Brónalm's former students miss their mark that elimination of a single contestant would often outlast the light of Anor.
Such competitions afforded Thranduil a rare luxury - a chance to observe his people. One of the archers he knew well - Caranduir was a guard at the caverns, young, only a few centuries old, but Mitharas thought highly of him. Two others were not unfamiliar - they came from the village near the caverns, and he met them occasionally on their patrols when he went out riding. The last two he did not know.
"Tórasin and Norarna are from the outlying villages; they come rarely to Forod'lad," Mitharas explained. (5)
The King nodded. No doubt the winner's spoils - a fine stallion of his own stables - had enticed them to test their skill. His eye settled on the elf-maid, as his appreciation for comely maids had hardly waned since his younger days. The archer's hair, captured by a carved wooden clasp, had a coppery shine to its dark length, an unusual color among the Avari of his realm. She had small, narrow features, somewhat Noldorin in their grace - again, strange to his people, but not, Thranduil decided, with unpleasant effect. Her warrior life made her a bit lean; he preferred maids a bit rounder of cheek and bosom. Still, he found his attention returning to her as the competition wore through the afternoon.
At last, there remained but two: the elf-maid and young Caranduir. Tórasin stepped up and drew back her bow. Without hesitation, she let fly her arrow - for in her remote village, a moment of hesitation might be one's last - and missed the target by the slimmest of margins.
The guard now took his turn, taking more time to be sure of his aim. If he missed, they would continue on. If his arrow flew true, the contest would be over. He did not miss, to the relief of many hungry spectators, ready to get on with the feasting. As the eliminated contestants had done before her, Tórasin presented herself to the King, a bit annoyed with herself. Her folk had lost their breeding stud to wargs last summer, and she had hoped to remedy this loss. She tried to hide her disappointment as she bowed before the King.
Tórasin knew him well by sight, though he but rarely passed through her village, for she had not forgotten his ceaseless walks through the camps in Mordor, as Silvan hearts flagged under the starless night, far from living things. He brought hope that seemed to have perished with their beloved Gran Oropher. No longer soiled by the unwholesome grime of Sauron's fortress, the King looked much different in his green and gold ceremonial robes. He had inherited the beauty of his mother and the height of his father, and one might rightfully accuse him of harboring some vanity in the golden hair that flowed unrestrained under his crown of spring flowers and green leaves. Yet it was not his fair face that inspired the awe of the elf-maid. A certain air there was about him, one that recalled the words of Tórasin's great-grandmother. No more than a child then, she had come to the King's vale in the Emyn Duir with Phingés. The matriarch pointed to the King as he wandered among his people at the Midsummer feast, and spoke of days more ancient than Oropher, more ancient than Phingés herself or even the great bow-master. (6)
"To the West went Tinweg, Golphinweg and Inweg. There, they saw the Two Trees and came back changed - so said my grandmother. You have heard how the eyes of the Exiles were like flames, and so too were the eyes of the three. El-barda gave to them a special gift and a special burden: of the great fathers and their kin should come the Kings of the Elves. And is our Gran Oropher not the grandson of Tinweg's brother?" (7, 8)
Oropher's son, Tórasin saw, had inherited more than his appearance from his noble parents. He had the bearing of one who is born to govern and rule; he wore the mantle of a sovereign as though it were a casual cloak thrown about his shoulders, as much a part of him as his glowing tresses. Tórasin had a sudden urge to touch the King's hair, to feel the heavy silk of his Vanyarin ancestor in her hand. She nearly giggled as she imagined the shock this impertinence would provoke, and only with effort did she keep her face in an appropriately respectful expression.
Thranduil did not miss the brief curve of her lips as Tórasin struggled to maintain her composure. Indeed, the elf-maid was quite attractive. And a fine shot with her bow, even if she had been bested at the end. "It is a shame that we must distinguish between two archers so fine! I suspect that many a warg and orc have come to grief by your quick bow," he said now.
"Too many, Granna," she answered soberly, using the honorific of her native tongue. "Would that times were better, but as they are not, it is my honor to serve you as I can." (9)
"To the valor of our border guards we are all indebted. Do not think you have gone unnoticed," he added, his pale grey eyes holding hers for a long moment.
Tórasin blinked. A confession beyond words she saw in his eyes, and knew that quite without her conscious will, her own eyes had responded. Desire may disguise itself, but the naked fëa cannot lie. It cannot deny its recognition of what mortals call a 'soul mate' (a whimsy perhaps inspired by the Firstborn, as only the immortal fëar of elves can truly mate one to another). Though the hroar be sundered, by denial of will or mischance, the fëa remains undaunted, moving the heart relentlessly to seek that which will complete its lindalë. (10)
Thranduil had seen the land of his birth sink beneath the sea; had seen Amar made round; had seen great kings fall, leaving no heirs or kingdom to inherit. Yet for all he had seen, Thranduil remained an innocent in matters of the heart. As if awakening from a long sleep, feelings strange to him stirred - not yet did he know love, but now its cousin, enchantment, had taken hold of his heart. A daughter of the forest, he realized, the elf-maid must lack the refined manner of his late wife, sister-daughter to Círdan. Still, he sensed nobility in her, a spirit in harmony with her surroundings and with the Valar who most loved the Third Clan. Moreover, Tórasin had in common with Berinaeth a trait he had greatly admired in the lady: she nourished a solitary flame, quite unneedful of the fuel of other souls about her. Thranduil knew that he had not this gift - his own fire grew dim and cold without the comfort of those he loved. (11)
The morning sun threw its golden light across the path, heedless of the somber turn of his mood. As he and Mitharas rode under the beeches, he thought sorrowfully of all those lost to him, his passionate and quirky elder son the most grievous loss of all. He murmured to his horse, who had taken advantage of his rider's distraction to graze.
Mitharas turned back, realizing that the King had stopped. "You are preoccupied this morning," he said, looking curiously at Thranduil.
They rode on, the King marveling at the lush green of the midsummer forest even as his thoughts were troubled. "My mind had turned to my sons," Thranduil said at last, his sorrowful expression telling the younger elf that he spoke chiefly of his dead son. "We gave up much in the war, and now find ourselves worse off."
"Not a day do I forget this," Mitharas answered grimly.
"That elf-maid spoke truly - these are evil times, and I see no end to it."
Mitharas glanced quickly at his mother's brother. 'Let Innolas admit his error,' he thought with a smile.
"What amuses you so?" Thranduil asked, his mood lightening as his thoughts returned to the maid.
"Nothing. It is a pity," Mitharas began innocently, "that the maid was bested. Dunnadór lost its breeding stud last year, and the villagers had need of that stallion."
Thranduil said nothing to this, but upon return to the stables, the King lingered by the field in which the yearlings were grazing.
"Do not be surprised, cousin, if that elf-maid's village does not have a stallion by iavas," Mitharas concluded later. (12)
Innolas laughed, looking up from the books spread before him. "My father has a generous nature, and he would not see elves who have served him so well in need. I shall be more convinced should he accompany the gift himself."
~~~
Dunnadór often played host to unexpected visitors, but rarely welcomed them, for such visitors consisted largely of orcs and other unwholesome things. The unlooked for arrival of the King, however, the villagers greeted joyfully. Such an occasion demanded a feast and merrymaking - joys too rare in their hard life on the border of Northern Mirkwood.
Tórasin alone was unmoved. She waited patiently as the King discussed matters of business with her grandfather, the Master of Dunnadór. "I would have a word with you, 'ere the feasting begins, Granna," she spoke up as they at last came from her grandfather's hut. Thranduil looked far less daunting today; in place of the robes he had worn at the Mereth Perethuil, he had clothed himself in the dark green tunic and leggings his people wore in summer. Dunnadór was a day's travel from the King's caverns and Thranduil knew that here, on the edge of his realm, he and his company might need to defend themselves. 'He is just an elf, after all,' Tórasin realized. (13)
"My lady, I am sorry if I have offended you," Thranduil said earnestly, responding to the frown creasing her brow.
"I did not win the contest, therefore I did not earn the prize. I have no need for your pity," Tórasin answered, her voice cutting as deeply as the pierce of her gaze.
"Look upon it not as pity but as a token of my esteem." He had not expected his gift to so vex the elf-maid, and though his expression did not change, his eyes searched hers in confusion.
"To be paid for how? If you think me to be some maid of Forod'lad, then you are mistaken, lord," she retorted. What had begun as a matter of pride had become one of honor. She was now truly angry.
Rarely will an elf's poise abandon him. More rarely still will such poise desert a king. Yet Thranduil fumbled, wondering if a clumsy mortal had taken possession of his suddenly ineloquent tongue. "My lady, not the furthest thing," he stammered. "Nothing could be so far from my mind."
Tórasin, her arms crossed and her brow still tight and severe, had to admit to herself that the elf underneath the royal trappings had a rather endearing innocence. Nonetheless, her tone remained cool. "I will accept your gift, on behalf of my village, for we have much need of it. But you may keep your esteem. I am not inclined to be called a mistress when I have henceforth held the title of warrior."
"But Dîs-e-guren, would that title suit you?" Thranduil decided that his sanity had fled with his poise. A surge of unreasonable joy had taken hold in their absence, and he studied the elf-maid as if with new eyes, understanding now the restlessness that had haunted him since mid-spring. He heard her protests, but felt as though the words missed their weight and true meaning. (14)
Tórasin was shocked. "My lord, you do not know me." She wondered briefly if the King trifled with her, or made sport of her. She considered him for a moment, and then laughed. The golden elf had no guile or malice in him; too easily, she read his heart.
"Our kindred errs but rarely in matters of love. Come," he added, holding out his hand to take hers. "The Master summons us to the feast, and I would have a dinner companion. Let us have wine and talk and then you may say if I know you or not."
Tórasin shook her head, charmed by the King's impetuous behavior. Perhaps, she admitted, he even moved her guarded heart. Still, she remained wary. Thranduil had been a good King, yet she wondered if he could truly understand the wild Silvan spirit that moved her people. 'Ai, wine and talk hardly make a betrothal!' What harm could come of humoring the King?
In a nearby tree, Phingés bowed her head in acceptance as the two elves walked together toward the village green. The tree hummed sorrowfully, sensing her sadness. The visions her scrying evoked rarely erred; this match would bring her great-granddaughter to a bitter end. 'Why must it be Tórasin, Abanna?' she questioned. The elf-maid, of all her many descendants, most resembled her in temperament, and was held most dear by the ancient matriarch. Yet she would not interfere with the design of the Giver of Fruits. Had not she favored Phingés when her own folk had scorned her? At best, they had called her a dreamer; those less kind had named her a Sorceress, and feared her. Yavanna had led her to these woods, to the Nelyar. With the favor of a Valië came sacrifice. (15)
100 First Age, Amon Lanc
From the ramparts of the citadel, Angatëor gazed in wonder and fear at the peaks of Hithaeglir, their heights shrouded, as their name indicated, in misty clouds. He turned as a voice interrupted his thoughts and saw the tall leader of the elves of Eryn Galen.
"You mean to press forward," Lenwë guessed.
"Ah, you think me as foolish as do your people, Denweg. But I have faith in your Cogatora." Brónalm assured him that across the mountains, beyond a great forest and the strange but friendly tree shepherds, over blue hills far to the west, Angatëor and his folk would find others of their kind. (16, 17)
Lenwë smiled affectionately. "Little does Brónalm fear, and he has traveled much, as few of my people dare to do. Yet he has always returned to me, and assures me those who followed Denthar my son live now under the protection of Tinweg." (18)
The ancient elf-lord had welcomed Angatëor's company, though they were of different clans, for they were all of the star-people. The newcomers numbered among the people of Morwë, the Tatyarin Elf who refused to leave Cuiviénen with Finwë. Though they lacked the training Aulë had given to the Noldor, Morwë's people had become great craftsmen and smiths, for their innate skill came not from any Vala but from the blood of their clan.
Their hosts at Amon Lanc were strange to them, for the Tatyar knew little of wood lore, and in the millennia since their separation the speech of the Wood folk had developed many new sounds. Those left behind had also made new words, for all elves, from Aman to the uttermost East, shared a love for the making of language. Still, the dialects of both peoples remained near enough to the ancient Eldarin tongue that the differences did not greatly hamper converse between them.
Angatëor had stumbled upon Lenwë's people with relief, for in the lands to the east they had found no such haven of strength and safety. His folk mourned the desertion of their ancient birth-waters, but knew their leader had spoken rightly when he told Morwë that they must go or starve. The devices of the Enemy had shrunk the great Sea of Helcar, and the Avari of both clans found the woods as perilous as in the days before the Great March, before the Valar destroyed Utumno. Many years had passed since Nurwë, leader of the Nelyarin Avari, had led her clan south, for with more foresight than Morwë, she knew Cuiviénen could no longer sustain the elves. (19)
What became of this folk none among the Eldar or Tawarwaith can tell, but Angatëor and his followers would find their way to Menegroth. Thingol, seeing their great skill, grudgingly permitted them to work with the dwarves in the smithies, though they were not of his ancient clan. One of these elves would bind himself to Thingol's sister-daughter, despite the objections of that haughty king. Of this elf's son, Eöl, and all the sorrows that followed, the tale is well known. The story of Angatëor's sister, however, no loremaster of the Eldar preserves, yet the elves of the wood remember it, for she remained with the people of Lenwë. (20)
Pingasë had the shining copper hair that so often signified great skill of hand, and Angatëor had such skill, though his locks were as coal. His sister, however, took after their Nelyarin grandmother. Rather shamefully unskilled in crafts, she spoke to the birds and trees, her head in the clouds and her mind unfocused, or so the people of Morwë believed. Thus her betrothal to one of the Penni, as they called themselves, came as small surprise to her brother. He hoped that among Lenwë's folk, Pingasë would find the sense of belonging that had eluded her since the Nelyar left Cuiviénen. (21)
Indeed Yavanna herself, taking pity on the outcast, had led Angatëor to this place, that the talents Eru had given his sister might help to heal the things Yavanna had made. Phingés, as the Silvan folk called her, came to be reckoned as a wise mistress of magical lore. What the Tatyar had found strange in their kinswoman, the Nelyar reckoned a gift, for they cherished their symbiosis with living things. Thus Phingés and all her descendants had been dedicated to the Valië, serving her and their kings as guardians of the forest.
~~~
With a purpose Phingés could not discern, Yavanna had not made lightly the choice of Tórasin as her instrument. The Valië had great trust in the bloodline of Phingés. Not a burden, but an honor did she bestow upon the faithful matriarch and her most beloved descendant.
2070 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
An oil lamp burned brightly as Thranduil examined an array of gleaming gems. Thráin's people at Erebor had not the resources their fathers found in Moria, but the dwarves, Thranduil reluctantly admitted, had not lost their skills with their fortune. He had a mithril brooch, acquired when that valuable silver could be bought at a price, and intended to have it made into a chain for the necklace, but this he would not send to Erebor - his own smiths would do this work. The metal was now too precious to risk such a journey.
The gems were yet uncut, but the dwarves had sent some of their finest, polished to display their quality. The King, though fondest of emeralds, found his eyes unable to escape the lure of another stone. Held to the light, the fire opal gleamed with the red flames of its name - a beautiful stone, worthy, Thranduil thought, of his beautiful lover. Men believed that the opal had come of an early experiment of Fëanor, en route to the making of the Silmarilli, but elves knew better. The hand of Aulë had made these gems, and the fire opal had, in any case, been known to dwarves and elves long before the return of the Noldor. The truth of its origins did not diminish the gem's magic. Its luster held passion and subtlety, a fine mix, Thranduil thought, for Tórasin's vitality and her Silvan harmony.
Lost in such thoughts, a knock at the door startled him.
"It is not usual for you to close your door when you are alone," Innolas observed, lowering himself into a delicately carved chair. "Would your want of privacy be inspired by a certain package delivered by a rather greedy dwarf?" he asked, smiling.
"Perhaps," Thranduil smiled.
"And perhaps by a certain elf-maid?" Innolas leaned forward, his eyebrows raised.
"Perhaps."
The son laughed. "Adar, you are a poor keeper of secrets. The light in your eyes tells me it is a gift for Tórasin that you are considering."
"Well, I have been found out. It is indeed a gift."
"She makes you young again - it is good to see you smile." Innolas shifted uncomfortably, unhappy with his errand. "You have found in her what you did not have with my mother," he began.
Thranduil frowned. "I was content with your mother, do not think that I was not. But we shared an understanding. She would not oppose this."
"No," Innolas agreed. "She loved you within a certain definition of love, as you loved her. She would not wish unhappiness on you. As you are now sundered by her death, she could not deny you, who are yet living, love's comfort.
"But the Valar can, and will, Adar," he finished gently. "You know the Laws of the Eldar. You cannot think to defy them."
The Laws, so easily made when death among the Eldar was rare, had come to Beleriand by Melian's guidance before the unchaining of Melkor. They had remained mostly intact through the Middle Years in Eriador by the authority of the High King of the Noldor. Beyond Hithaeglir, however, the Avari knew nothing of the Statute of Finwë and Míriel. Death was no stranger to Lenwë's folk, and once widowed, an elf might seek companionship and children with a second spouse. Lenwë himself had taken such a lover, and his heir Oropher hesitated to interfere with the customs of his people. Thus the practice continued, despite the pious King's misgivings.
After the war in Mordor, many elves found themselves widowed, and the Laws at last began to break down among the Eldar, as the widowed pledged their love to one another. The Valar could not coerce the Firstborn into obedience, only advise them of what doom awaited those who strayed. Námo, however, after long consideration, could name only one doom - that such pledges must naturally end with the departure of one or both widows by death or the Straight Path. Marriage existed only between the first spouses. The second marriage did not defy the law because it did not, by Námo's definition, qualify as a marriage. (22)
All of this Innolas knew. His widowed father might seek companionship - with another widow. Therein lay the problem. As a maid, Tórasin was yet free to bind herself, but Thranduil was not. Should they bind themselves by oath, the laws of the Eldar must be broken.
Thranduil looked at his son. "I do not take the Laws lightly. We cannot be bound after the manner of our people, this I know."
"You cannot be bound. She is yet a maid."
His father wore a patient expression. "Then I still cannot bind myself to her. I miss your meaning."
"There can be no child of her," Innolas said gently.
Now Thranduil understood. The begetting of a child would bind his love to him as surely as his sister had been thus bound to her lover. If Tórasin were also a widow, and not free to bind herself, a child between them would pose no such risk. Yet she was, as Innolas pointed out, a maid, and therefore free. No elf could have two wives, yet both Berinaeth and Tórasin would thus be bound to him.
With the arrogant folly of one accustomed to making law, Thranduil thought this condition of childlessness missed Ilúvatar's intent. "I cannot believe the Valar would permit union between the Eldar and yet exclude the chance to bear progeny of that union," Thranduil told his son.
Innolas sighed. His father's argument had some merit, but his vast understanding of the lore of his people lay against such an interpretation. As it turned out, both elves were quite mistaken.
436 First Age, Doriath
The little elf watched anxiously as his mother unwrapped the gift he had made for her. "Does it please you?" he burst out, unable to control his excitement.
Anórieth smiled at her son, who had not yet acquired the stillness and patience of a mature elf. "Let me unwrap it first, Thranduil!" she chided. She untied the last bow and the wrapping fell open to reveal a small, carved wren.
"It is not so good as Stamgól would make, I know," Thranduil added. He had gone to the Laegel for help in selecting and carving the wood. Stamgól's little animals were prized in Doriath, but the elf made them only for pleasure. Like all of Oropher's people, he dearly loved the Lady of their Lord, and Anórieth had a small menagerie of the exquisitely lifelike woodcarvings. (23)
"No, it is better, for your hands made it," Anórieth told her son. "The worth of a gift is not in its value but in the sentiment of its giver." The wren, her favorite creature, was perhaps somewhat crudely rendered, but the mother's eyes saw no such flaws. She gathered the young elf into her lap. "Pride can never cast its shadow upon what we make for the pleasure of others, for only when we claim ownership of what we have no right to hold can such things be tainted by our greed.
"Take the example of the little wren. She loves most to sing, and to hear her merry chirp we elves make little houses for her nest," Anórieth explained. "But we do not keep her in a cage, for she would be miserable, and would sing no more. She is meant to be free."
~~~
Thranduil smiled, recalling his mother's words. She had loved the simple life of the Laegrim, perhaps because it contrasted so strongly with the strivings of her grandfather's unhappy clan. The Noldor could not find happiness in the present - in the Elder Days, they thought ever of the future and now, as they faded, they regretted the past. (24)
As for himself, he had the simple joy of nearness to the one who held his heart, and he refused to think now that she must leave him before Anor rose high in the sky. They sat by the riverbank, Tórasin singing to the water. She rested her head against his shoulder, and Thranduil felt the vibrations of her voice where his sensitive ear touched the top of her head. He decided that he had best give his love her gift before the base instinct of lust took the lead.
Tórasin drew the necklace from its velvet purse and let out her breath slowly. Here in the sunlight it gleamed with its liquid fire, a beautiful piece of which she hardly felt worthy. Reluctantly, she replaced it in its purse and looked away, not wishing to see the hurt in her lover's eyes. "I cannot accept this," she said quietly.
"Why?"
Tórasin winced at the raw emotion in Thranduil's voice. She forced herself to look at the crestfallen King. "If I take it, it would be a promise of more than I am willing to give. Do not mistake me," she added hastily. "My heart would accept the necklace and its giver without reservation. But better counsel warns me against this.
"I belong in my village, not a king's palace," she continued, brushing her hand nervously through the strands of hair that had escaped their clip. She turned away, unable to hold his eyes longer. "I am sorry - I cannot give you more than I do." She felt as torn as she had when Thranduil had come to Dunnadór and charmed her into his life. 'He does not know what he asks of me!' she thought, anguished.
"You read too much into my gift," Thranduil interrupted her thoughts. "It is freely given, without expectation of return." He placed a hand on her cheek. "I cannot deny that my heart's desire is to have you at my side when I wake, to hear your voice sing to the trees when I walk and watch you fall into your dreamscapes when I retire. Yet I would not make you a prisoner of my affection.
"Go home to your village," he concluded, with a regretful smile. "But take my gift, that it may remind you that you have taken my heart also, and it will not find rest until you return to me."
2105 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
His lover raised herself on one elbow, the fire opal accentuating her white skin and the copper light in her hair. Far away in the caverns, Thranduil could hear stirrings as the cook began to prepare for the day. "Will you not stay?" he asked, running his fingers through the silky hair.
"You have had me all night. Now I must greet the trees, lest they feel slighted."
"You greeted them yesterday," Thranduil protested, smiling.
"They have a short memory," Tórasin explained, but of course this was not so. Though younger than the elves, they shared the memories of trees long gone, memories of a time before even the Firstborn had awakened. From such a source Tórasin's people drew their wisdom, in their own way as learned as the loremasters of the Eldar.
The elf-maid finally untangled herself from the covers. Her heart and her King's persistence had persuaded her to live in Forod'lad, but her sense of duty would not desert her vocation. Mitharas had found occupation for her among the guards who watched over the river - work less dangerous, but also less peaceful than the hours of solitude she had enjoyed as a border guard.
Thranduil knew this well, and watched the warrior's lean limbs move gracefully toward the dressing room, half-jealous of the task that must take Tórasin from his side and half-moved by the love that had steadily grown for this strong and passionate elf. He could not complain. He knew the sacrifice she had made for him.
Thranduil, Tórasin worried as she made her way to the river, wished to formalize their bond. The King, she had discovered, had flaws and failings and worries just as any of his subjects, and she had come to love the elf within the regal trappings. Their fëar danced with joy, whether the two elves walked in the woods or joined their bodies. In time, she had come to miss her love more than she missed her village when sundered from one or the other, and thus did she now share a hut in Forod'lad with her old teacher. Yet, much more must she give up should she accept his yet untendered proposal.
The elf she had come to relieve told her briefly of an uneventful night, and Tórasin settled onto the talan with a cheerful greeting to the tree in which it rested. In lieu of a greeting the tree's branches whispered in the wind, their song soothing the tension the tree sensed in the elf. Tórasin sighed - the tension came not from her dilemma, but of a night spent underground, no matter, she recalled with a smile, how pleasurable it had been.
Tórasin could not fail to appreciate the beauty of Thranduil's caverns, and understood his great pride in the place that he could at last call home. The dwarves had turned the caves into halls befitting a King, with perhaps more understanding of their customers than the elves might have expected. The stunted craftsfolk had etched various designs, from abstract scrolls to symbols of the Valar, into the highly polished stone floors, and the ceiling of the King's hall bore carvings representing the elenath. The grand entrance hall still held visitors in thrall; even the Wood folk, not disposed to love anything made of stone, spoke reverently of the hall's beauty. Nothing had the dwarves overlooked, from floor to ceiling and every detail between, smoothing the limestone walls so that one could hardly tell this had once been a cave. Still, Tórasin knew. She felt the great weight of the stone above her as though it rested on her heart. She heard not the trees whispering in the night, the chattering of crickets or the call of the nightingale. Her spirit grew restless after a short time in the dark.
Relieved in the afternoon by the next elf to sit watch, she went to the hut she shared nominally with Brónalm, though she spent little time within its walls. 'I might just as well live in the caverns,' she rationalized. She found the old bow-master sharpening arrows in the glow of the afternoon sun. In a few hours, after the song of twilight, they would go to the evening meal at the King's table. Brónalm had lived as a member of the royal family at Amon Lanc and in the Emyn Duir, but since the move to Northern Mirkwood, he had taken a hut by the river. Though he had assumed many customs and the speech of his King, he remained a Wood Elf at heart, and the caverns discomfited him.
Of this he had warned Thranduil, for the King had confided his intention to ask the lady's hand in betrothal. "She is of the Wood folk, Aranen. We are not at ease underground."
"She should have the same freedom to come and go as she does now," Thranduil had insisted, but this answer did not alleviate the ancient elf's worries. Yet, his heart warned him that the matter was quite out of his hands - or the King's hands. Like Phingés, he sensed greater forces at work here. 'What the Bali have set in motion must be seen through to its end, bitter though that end may be for my King and his Lady,' he resigned himself. (25)
Tórasin sat on the ground, watching the Cúcherdir at work. If she might reconcile herself to living in the caverns, other concerns she found less easy to quiet. She did not know how long her heart could deny the wish most dear to Thranduil's heart, yet it would change her forever.
"I would be too diminished, if I had a child," she explained to Brónalm. She was as strong now as any male elf, but that would change with childbearing. Her days as a warrior must end with motherhood. (26)
"Where one door closes, perhaps another may open, herina," the old bow-master counseled. "You are as fine an archer as I have seen in my time, and you will remain so." (27)
Brónalm, she realized, did not truly understand her dilemma, how much of her very essence must be spent in the bearing of children. "Were I a teacher, perhaps it would not matter so. If I had the skill of scrying as my great-grandmother has, it would only grow more powerful. Yet I am a warrior - I do not yearn for battle, but if there is to be one, my place is at the King's side. I may still shoot with accuracy, but if we should again bring our host against Mordor - and that is not unlikely, it seems - I must remain behind, for lack of strength."
"You would remain behind in any case," Brónalm pointed out. "The King would depend upon you to run his kingdom in his absence. Do not be too quick to dismiss such a role," he added, as she again protested. "Those who did not go with us to Mordor revere still the lady Berinaeth for her wise rule during the war. The Eldar may have forgotten her great act of courage, but the Bali know that she gave her life in defiance of the Enemy. Nor should any overlook the quick bow and tireless guard of Nórui."
Tórasin lowered her head. "I did not mean to trivialize such service to our King. Yet so much I do not understand - I am a simple Wood Elf, I was not born to such lofty aspirations."
The bow-master examined the brown feathers she had brought to him, courtesy of the King's cook. "These will make fine flights, and the pheasant a good meal, so that bird's sacrifice goes not unappreciated." He returned to the subject at hand. "It is no secret that our King intends to ask for your hand, or that he wishes for more children. Both would bring great happiness to him." He looked up, fixing the maid with a solemn look. "Do you love him as he loves you?"
Tórasin knew her answer must confirm this, but her old teacher wished for a more thoughtful response. She sat silent for long minutes as she searched her heart. "I do. But love is not always enough," she reluctantly admitted. "One can be very much in love, yet very unhappy in situation."
2106 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood
The sheer cliff above the cavern doors rose quite high above the river, so that the ground above swelled to a great knoll over the entrance hall and King's hall. The knoll dropped sharply to flatter ground, and here were kept the royal gardens. The cook and the King's healer grew their herbs in these gardens and Innolas, with his mother's fondness for flowers, tended his roses and irises. Beyond the flowers and herbs rose the cornfields of the Ivonwin. Between the gardens and fields lay a small glade, a refreshing bit of forest in the middle of the cleared land. Elegant marble benches lined the paths and a stream coursed through the middle of the glade, nourishing the many wildflowers that grew under the trees. (28)
These delicate flowers had captured the attention of Tórasin as she walked with the King on this bright morning. Their walk had become a lesson of sorts for Thranduil, who admittedly knew little of the Silvan tongue, as Tórasin told him the names of the flowers and trees in her language. "And this we call oebana," she told him, pointing to the lovely white flower. (29)
"Ever-fair," Thranduil translated. "A fair name for the fair uilos. But tell me, my lady, can this flower bloom in caverns such as mine?"
"The oebana must have light and stars and green things around it, else it withers."
"And if one brings the flower into the light, can it tolerate the darkness for a time?" Thranduil looked intently at his companion, hardly breathing.
"Ah, that, my lord, it may do, for it is a hardy flower." Dark grey eyes met pale ones. "But we speak not of a flower."
"No, my lady, we do not."
Tórasin clasped her hands behind her back in thought. She turned suddenly, her chin raised in determination. "This is much you ask of me."
"I do not intend to keep you caged, if that is your fear."
"That is not my worry. I come from a different people. We are not so alike as we should be." Tórasin fingered the opal that lay on her breast nervously. Never had the necklace felt so heavy.
"Have I not tried to learn of your folk?"
"You have. Yet we are ever different. You speak for our people. I speak to the trees."
"Then that is good, for the trees are a part of your people, and I have not the right manner of speaking to them. At least, they do not answer me," Thranduil answered playfully. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Your doubts cannot withstand me, for I have more patience than your trees and have lived longer than any of them. I am quite content to continue in my plea until I have a wife who will bring life into my empty rooms."
"I cannot be the wife you want. I would not ask you to give up your throne. It is what you are made to do, and to protect your people is what I am made to do." Tórasin frowned, her sense of the distance between them never more poignant.
"Have I asked you to change that?" Thranduil was genuinely confused.
"You do not think what this title of Dîs-e-guren must entail. I am a breadwinner, not a breadgiver. I am not the wife you need." Tórasin broke away from his grasp and leaned against a nearby tree for support. Her heart ached as she made her objections, and she felt her will ebbing away.
"I married once already to the wife I needed. I do not regret that - it was right for me and for my father's people then. Now, I have the freedom to marry for love."
"I cannot give you children - not now. Do not deny that your heart longs for this above all else."
Thranduil could not. He realized that this concession he must make. Though he perhaps underestimated how her life must change as she assumed the role of his consort, he knew that she had come to the limit of what she could accept. Ask more, and he might lose her. "Then I must be patient. You have my word that we will not speak again of this matter until you choose to do so."
~~~
By the waning candlelight in Thranduil's chambers, Tórasin examined the silver ring that had somehow come to be placed on her finger. She was at a loss as to how her objections had melted away so easily. Love, she knew, partly explained it. She cast her eyes over the King, envying his easy dream-sleep. Her fëa burned to meld with his, though such mingling must be limited to Arda. Tórasin had never given much thought to the Laws of the Eldar. She thought of death strictly in terms of the world she knew. She had seen many warriors die, and she had seen many births. In children were the hopes of the dead reborn; even were she to die without descendants, she had bequeathed some of her spirit unto the many children and grandchildren of her siblings. Thus, it did not matter to her that they could not bind themselves before Eru, and so make a union not even death could cleave. They would have one another until one died, and her mind could not grasp a time beyond that, so alien was the Eldarin concept of death to her Silvan mind.
This thought reminded her that she had but meagre understanding of her lover's culture. A simple elf, she spoke imperfect Sindarin and knew little of the history that had so affected this family's fortunes. Thranduil refused to see that this might come between them, and though she had his pledge that he would not press the issue, he clearly expected that she would give him a child. Too easily had he undone her defenses. Tórasin turned over restlessly, feeling that she was swept away by a tide that centered on her and yet over which she had little control.
2460 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood (Spring)
Tórasin watched anxiously over her great-grandmother's shoulder as Phingés sprinkled jasmine oil over the leaves, crouching near the ground to study them. At last, Phingés straightened up. "You will bear a son," she announced.
A frown furrowed across the younger elf's forehead. "But how - I have taken the herbs faithfully."
"Child, the power of such herbs rests in she who made them. If it be the will of Abanna that you have a child, then no herb can defy her." The wise old elf looked at her great-granddaughter sympathetically.
Tórasin sighed. For many years they had known peace in Northern Mirkwood, but the Wood folk sensed a change in the air. Her heart's tumult warned against the bearing of children in such uncertain days. Indeed, she realized, there had been no births for some time. By custom, mothers would bring a new baby to the caverns, where the King would solemnly welcome the child into his realm, and write the baby's name in a great ledger kept in his Hall. At least two rounds of Anor had passed since the ledger had seen the last birth recorded.
In spite of this, Yavanna had given her this child; in spite of Tórasin's still-deep ambivalence over the diminishing she already felt, Yavanna had given her this child. To lose such an essential part of her being grieved her, but in the glow of Thranduil's eyes she found some comfort, for what this child would cost her would ease the heart of the one she loved. The King, she knew, had lost many he loved - his mother at a young age, and so many in the war. He had come to accept these losses, but his eldest son's death, she knew, remained painful to him. More than anything in Eä, he wanted this child.
The King's healer shared his joy that a new baby would come to the royal House for the first time in this Age. Brúniel had been healer, midwife and nursemaid to the House of Lasgalen since the Elder Days. Wife to Galion, she had escaped with him from Doriath, and after the sack of Arvernien, they had joined themselves to Oropher's people, for they would not live under the rule of the Golodh king on Balar. She had seen the births of Oropher's grandchildren and had cared for them in infancy, and she had followed her King to Mordor and eased him into death. The ancient Sinda had a stern disposition, well suited to care of willful Kings and their stubborn progeny, but Tórasin chafed under her watchful eye. If she had accepted her lot, she had not fully reconciled herself to it, and she found herself continually at odds with Brúniel, who in truth knew more than her charge of such matters.
The paths around the caverns now disappeared under the orange, red and brown harbingers of firith. Though the trees had become sleepy, Tórasin had a favored talan in the beech trees over the river, from which she could observe the changes wrought by autumn. These moments were precious to her. Though she loved Thranduil and their marriage had been a happy one, she relied on this time among the trees to nourish her Silvan heart. She refused to let her condition interfere with her daily habit, and as she grew heavy with child, the King's healer worried for her safety. "Trees," the midwife clucked in disapproval, "are no place for a pregnant elf. (30)
"Wood Elves do not fall out of trees," Tórasin laughed at her concerns.
The Mereth Iau-Grithol came, and ended with the traditional farewell to Yavanna, as her creations entered their winter sleep. All the Wood folk felt sadness come upon them as the trees turned bare and the grass brown, but Tórasin felt the winter more keenly than usual this year, for the longer nights meant more hours in the caverns; snow and cold must keep her indoors, though she would ordinarily have much to do. The fell creatures of the forest did not sleep in winter, and indeed, threatened the elves more than ever in their hunger. In Dunnadór, she imagined, her folk had become doubly vigilant, that here in the interior of the realm they might be reasonably safe. (31)
Tórasin looked pale and tired to Brúniel, but the healer found nothing unnatural in this - the great amount of vitality elven women put into their babies - especially a first - often taxed their health. Ordinarily an expectant elf might pass the final weeks at rest. Until Tórasin came under her care, Brúniel had never had a bess question this time of lying-in. Her lady overestimated her strength, Brúniel thought. The healer had conceded much for this strange elf, but in this matter she would not give way, and soon had the support of the nervous father behind her. Tórasin stubbornly resisted their efforts, escaping the midwife's watchful eye when she could by way of the hidden passage. Though Bilbo in later days found only two exits from the caverns, there existed, in fact, another. Of this only the King's family and his most trusted subjects knew; modeled after the hidden way from Amon Lanc, the passage would serve in the event of a siege. Tórasin soon found, to her despair, that her secret outings only proved the wisdom of Brúniel. Her body would no longer perform as she expected, and after a narrow encounter with a hungry wolf, she admitted defeat. She looked toward the final two months of her pregnancy with great unhappiness; already, the walls of the caverns seemed to close around her. (32, 33)
Thranduil grew increasingly concerned for his lady as these days passed. Listless and seemingly preoccupied, Tórasin took little pleasure in all the King did to cheer her. Her hair grew lank and lost its healthy copper glow and her slate eyes did not smile, even when she coaxed that expression to her lips. Had Brónalm been there, he could have told Thranduil what ailed the lady, but in late winter he had left Northern Mirkwood on one of his periodic walkabouts, desiring to see Gondor, for an old friend resided in Belfalas.
Brónalm might have told him that Tórasin did not dream, that her fëa, trapped by the thick stone walls, withered. He might have told his King that the caverns disturbed the natural rhythms of her mind and body, that the Wood folk lived so close to the stars and green things that their very being was attuned to them. But Brónalm was not there to warn Thranduil of these things, and languishing under this stress, the lady felt the first quickening of her labor - much too soon.
Her handmaid sent for Brúniel at Tórasin's cry of surprised pain, and soon had the help of the healer in restraining the lady, who told them feverishly in her own tongue that she must leave. Brúniel understood none of this. She knew only that she must quiet her patient and do what she could to delay her labors.
Brúniel's considerable skill prevailed. Gravely, she confronted her worried King. "Aranen, I cannot promise that my arts will stay delivery of the child, and it is still too early."
Thranduil looked at her as she hesitated. "There is more," he guessed.
Reluctantly, the midwife continued. "Her mind strays - she calls out, but I confess I do not know her language."
Thranduil understood no better her ravings. The final weeks of her lying-in crept by, Brúniel's efforts delaying the delivery, but the midwife could do nothing for the lady's mind. Tórasin knew not her husband and would take no food. She called in the night for stars she could not see, falling into nightmare and visions of flame and unlight.
2460 Third Age, Northern Mirkwood (Late Winter)
Elven babies, it is said, at last leave the safety of the womb out of desire to see the stars. Though the Eldar had forgotten this, the Wood folk had not. Shortly before the baby's birth, the female kin of the mother would go into the woods to prepare a place. When the mother knew it was time, she would go with them to this place, so that the first thing her child should see would be the stars.
Tórasin had not thought to tell her mate or her midwife of this; she did not know that the Sindarin custom differed. Yet on the night that she again felt the quickening of her womb, her muddled consciousness found its way to the hidden exit, for an instinct as old as Cuivienyarna led her to the forest. Neither she nor her child could be kept any longer from the stars.
Some time after Tilion slipped away from sight, the mother delivered her son. Wrapping him in her cloak, she held the baby up. "Ele!" she whispered, in a tongue even more ancient than her own. "Ele, ondona. El-barda made these lights for the elves, and when you look upon them and call her name, she will always hear your cry and bring you her protection." Indeed, under the stars her mind had cleared, Varda's healing balm of light lifting the shroud over her thoughts. She knew she should take the baby home, but in her exhaustion, and yet unwilling to return to the dark caverns, she laid the baby beside her and passed into a deep slumber beyond the elven dream-sleep. (34, 35)
The baby lay quiet, his eyes open and looking with wonder at the stars that had persuaded him to leave the safety of the womb. As dawn came, however, he knew hunger, and cold. His mother's cloak and her nearness had kept him warm through the final hours of the night, but now an icy frost glistened over the land, and no more warmth came from the elf beside him. Even his infant mind sensed that all was not right, and in reproach, that none tended to his needs, he raised his voice in the universal language of babies.
Relief washed through Mitharas as his sharp ears caught the cry. Tracking a Wood Elf he had found near to impossible, and though they had neared the place where Tórasin had hidden herself, his party had backtracked many times as they lost the trail. Mitharas now followed the sound of his cousin's complaint, at last finding the little hollow in which he lay with his mother. The baby's wails attested to his health, but the elf beside the child left his mouth dry. The lady was still, her expression serene, as though she had been at peace when she drifted into deathly sleep.
He took the baby and sheltered him under his cloak, to warm him, and for the moment his cousin was quieted. At his nod, the other elves of his party gathered the dead elf, and returned to the palace.
2460 Third Age, Halls of Mandos (Late Winter)
"I may choose, in time, to be rehoused in my body, or I may give up that choice, and remain in the Houses of the Dead. Yet by both choices do I lose. Should I remain in the care of Mandos, I will not know my son, when he should pass beyond the Shadowy Seas. Should I be rehoused, I must be sentenced to a life in Aman, and my husband, should he die, must therefore remain unhoused."
"These are the choices given you, yes."
"Yet a third choice I have, that you do not name. I can repudiate this summons, and remain in Arda with those I love."
"You lack understanding."
"I lack understanding? I made not such Laws that would sunder me from those I love until Eä should be remade."
"Yet you shall be sundered the same, for the dead shall have no consort with the living. You shall grow weary of your state, and envious of those who live, and vulnerable to temptations of evil things that would use you as their instrument." (36)
"I am the great-granddaughter of Phingés, whose descendants speak the language of the trees. The very essence of Abanna runs in our blood; to us she gave the charge to heal the hurts of her creations. That we should come under the spell of the Enemy is impossible - we can never but serve Abanna, in death as in life."
~~~
For two nights and two days, he stood over the grave of his beloved, the multitude of tasks that demanded his attention seeming to pale beside his grief. Thranduil had buried the many deaths of those he loved in his work, clinging to the impulse instilled from birth to put the welfare of his people above all else. Yet now, even this failed him. He had reached the limit of sorrow he could endure, and he felt lost.
"I have given him miruvor, híren, but it only quiets him. It cannot replace a mother's milk." Brúniel's worry showed in her strained expression, and she looked expectantly at the King's second son.
Innolas sighed. His father had not yet seen the child, but if Innolas did not intervene, the baby would soon follow his mother in death. He did not know where to turn. "Aiwendil," he said finally, grasping at hope. The Maia they saw but rarely these days - some at Imladris whispered that he had lost sight of his purpose, that his birds occupied his mind more than the charge of the Valar. Still, Innolas could think of no alternative. "Aiwendil will know what to do." Summoning his cousin, he bid Mitharas to make haste to bring the baby to the Maia, and then went to speak to his father.
"Adar?"
The King did not respond, standing still as he had since the grave had been made.
"Adar, you cannot remain thus. Your people need you. They are fearful, they know of Tórasin's madness and fear that you suffer likewise, that a curse is upon you. They know I have sent messages far and wide for the Cúcherdir."
"Then they speak truthfully, for a curse does indeed lay upon me. Brónalm cannot help her now. Perhaps her fate was beyond his help," Thranduil said at last.
His father's words chilled him. Innolas truly began to wonder if his father's many tears had at last driven him to madness. "Speak not thus, Adar."
"The stars," Thranduil said softly. "She asked for the stars, and by my own ignorance she remained in what must have been as a tomb to her."
"You had no fault in it. Do not blame yourself for misunderstanding her." He took his father's arm. "Come away," Innolas pleaded. To his surprise, Thranduil allowed him to lead him away from the grave, docile in his son's lead. This perplexed and worried the younger elf all the more.
A fortnight passed. Innolas struggled to soothe the worried populace and keep his father busy. Simple tasks brought the King out of his stupor, but his heart remained in his lady's grave.
"Mitharas has returned, híren."
Innolas rose from his desk. "At last!"
Mitharas followed on the heels of Galion. "Well, I did not find Aiwendil at Rhosgobel. He had gone just the day before to a little village near the Gladden, whence a fever taken hold had summoned him. I saw no choice but to follow, though it was a longer ride than I wished. Yet the Lady must have heard my prayers, for just as I thought the little one must perish, we found succor in Folcagard." A woman who had lost her own baby to fever proved willing to nurse the tiny elf, even to return with Mitharas to Northern Mirkwood.
Innolas considered this. "I had not thought of a mortal," he said doubtfully.
"Aiwendil believes the child will thrive. He seems well enough now that he is fed." Mitharas threw himself into a sofa in his cousin's library. "Ai, it has been a long journey. I fear the forest grows more dark; the Silvan folk are uneasy."
"It has been a long wait here, too," Innolas said quietly.
"How fares your father?" Mitharas asked, sitting up.
"Not well. Not worse, but not well." He stood, rubbing his temples. "I know not what to do."
"Oh, I nearly forgot - our Brónalm had passed through Folcagard not four days before we came there. Aiwendil has sent Rovalthór, the eagle, to seek him."
Brónalm's long sojourn had taken him to Belfalas, where he found not his friend, nor any elf, but heard the sad end of Amroth. As he passed north again, a foreboding took hold of his heart. Dol Guldur, he thought, was still unoccupied, but the air seemed on edge. Something would soon happen to jar the moderate peace they had enjoyed since the ithron Mithrandir had forced Sauron from the ancient citadel. Brónalm had therefore gone north to the Beornings, knowing that among men, they possessed greater senses of the unseen, and they, too, told of foreboding and dread. There, Rovalthór found him, and Brónalm made haste to depart, greatly disturbed by Mitharas' message and its tidings. (37)
He had left Northern Mirkwood before Tórasin had conceived - indeed, he would not have gone had he known of this. Nonetheless, he sensed still that he could not have changed the path of things. On his return, Innolas pressed him to speak to the King, but first, Brónalm had to know what purpose the lady's unhappy end had served. In his hut, he drew a circle and sat within its protection. Lighting a black candle, he sprinkled it with powdered mandrake root and waited.
"Cogatora. You knew I would come."
"I knew you would not leave." The elf-maid he had taught once had become a lady, a mother and now a shade. He could make out her ghostly features, the mist of her hair and the plain burial dress.
"I had little choice. I did not fear death," she asserted, and Brónalm nodded - that was the way of their people. "By their Laws, the Bali have broken the circle of death unto life. I do not have the patience, I suppose, to wait for the end of Eä. But that is not why you have called me here."
"No, herina, it is not," Brónalm answered.
They spoke long into the night. At length, Brónalm sensed the closing of the stars. He must bring this, too, to a close. "Your words, I think, will bring some comfort to our King," he assured the shade.
"He will never leave these woods. His children will leave him, but he will remain, to fade into one of the tawri like our people. Spirits of the wood, he and I shall both be then, and perhaps reunited." (38)
Brónalm nodded, feeling tears spring to his eyes. How long must the time seem to her! What sins had the elf committed that Mandos must heal her? What joys could await her in Aman, among strangers? Yet here, unhoused, she would see Anor rise countless times, able to do naught but watch and wait. He hoped that just to be near her infant son and her beloved husband would be a comfort to her; she would see her child take his first steps, hear him speak his first words.
He, Brónalm, would be certain that the child would know his mother's Silvan tongue and the ways of her people, that he would learn to speak to the trees and sing to the stars. This much he could promise her.
"You must speak for me, as I cannot. He must hear what Abanna has made known to me." With these words, the shade melted into the shadows.
Brónalm extinguished the candle and lit a lantern, glad for the light. As morning broke, the river came to life. A group of elves returning from patrol floated by on a raft, softly singing in the Silvan tongue, a lay for the unfortunate Amroth and Nimrodel. Perhaps, Brónalm thought, this tale of faraway tragic love, but a fairy tale to the elves of Northern Mirkwood, distracted them from the pall cast over their own kingdom.
The bow-master knew he should seek out his King, but the events of the night had wearied him. Great effort had he expended to maintain the circle of protection around him, to ward off other spirits. Tórasin, he was certain, had no malice, but other spirits would have a body. For this reason the Valar forbade such contact with shades. Yet he thought they would forgive him for this, for he served their interest. (39)
Having considered his words carefully, he at last made his way to the caverns the next day. He found the King in his library, the household accounts before him, but his mind elsewhere. He knocked at the open door; failing to rouse Thranduil, he knocked again.
"My apologies, Cúcherdir," Thranduil greeted the ancient elf, bowing his head in respect even as the other bowed to his King. "I fear I was distracted."
Brónalm sat. "Your loss is felt by us all," he said simply.
Thranduil nodded. "She was well-loved by the people."
"As you are. The Silvan folk know you have lost and endured much on our behalf, Aranen, and we grieve for you. Nor are the Valar blind to all that you have given. Though your father's house had no part in the making of the Rings, you fought valiantly to free Arda once of Sauron and your realm now suffers of the Dark Lord more than any other among our kindred. This, too, the Valar do not forget."
"And they have remembered me how? By sundering me from the lady who will nonetheless remain a part of me until the end of Eä?"
"You were bound to two wives - by Námo's doom that could not be. Yet Yavanna allowed this to happen, that your father's promise to you might be fulfilled."
"More sorrow awaits you, I fear. Yet from your sorrows shall come one among the Silvan folk, a child of your heart who will bring joy to the dark days you have yet to endure."
'Adar vuin, I fear the sorrow is more than I can bear,' Thranduil thought as he remembered his father's words. (40)
"The child is a gift of the Valar. They dearly wished that he be given to you, to ease the troubles yet to come. More Silvan than Sindarin will he be, for Yavanna's spirit breeds true from mother to son. The lady Tórasin lives in this child, Aranen.
"And," he added with a secretive smile, "you are not so sundered as you think, Aranen. There are other fates for the elves; fates over which even Námo cannot speak."
Thranduil sat long in contemplation of the ancient elf's words. Yavanna herself had defied her fellow Vala and his stern Law, and he saw that somehow, Tórasin had cheated Námo of his righteous retribution. He smiled for the first time in weeks, remembering his wife's stubborn spirit. It felt good to think of her without sorrow for a moment.
He had feared that her son would too painfully remind him of her, and saw he had failed her - she would want him to find joy in their child, not regret. "Galion," he called, seeing the elf's shadow by his door, waiting for his request.
The butler appeared in the doorway. "Aranen?"
"I wish to see my son."
Galion smiled with relief. "I will tell Brúniel." He left, but returned a moment later. "Aranen?" he asked again.
"Yes? What now?" Thranduil asked, impatient.
"I am glad you are back." The elf did not wait to see the effect of his words, but disappeared, leaving the King to shake his head at the sometimes-childlike heart of the ancient elf.
Brúniel took so long in coming that Thranduil thought that perhaps Galion's message had been mislaid. "What kept you?" he asked.
"The baby was napping. You have waited a month to see your child - I saw no reason to disturb his dreams." Her face sharp with disapproval of her King, she laid the tiny elf in his father's arms. The baby gave a squeak of protest and began to work himself into a more indignant state at separation from his nurse.
"This little one must have the care of a father, Aranen. The mortal Viduwyn cares for him most attentively, and he has my love and that of your sons. But he is motherless already, and fearful of abandonment; he cries if left alone at night. He does not like the dark." Brúniel kept her voice soft, less to soften her disapproval than to avoid upsetting the baby.
The King hardly heard her. This child, for whom he had sacrificed so much - this child, Oropher's dying promise...this child wrapped his little hand around his heart. "Man amarth al le dhartha, ionen bigen? Even the Valar have quarreled to bring you into the world," Thranduil wondered, stroking the soft white-gold down on his head. In this alone would he resemble his brothers, for his slate grey eyes and delicate features came of his mother. The baby grasped his finger, his eyes looking about him with great curiosity. (41)
Innolas entered the library, smiling at the sight of his majestic father, clearly reduced to jelly by his tiny brother. His father, he thought, would overcome his sorrow and his realm would remain strong, even as the shadow lengthened in the days to come. Edhellendor-Vedui, Oropher had named his son, and his words proved true. No Ring of Power protected them, and no Maia encircled their lands with an enchanted girdle, nor did the legendary flame of the Calaquendi keep evil at bay in Northern Mirkwood. The resilience of the House of Lasgalen rested in what neither the Noldor nor Thingol had in abundance. 'We have loved and trusted in one another. By our unity we have endured where petty jealousies and quarrels have undone great kings,' he realized. (42)
"You will be much loved, muindor dithen," Innolas informed the baby. The child looked up at him with wide eyes. "He will be a beautiful elf, Adar." (43)
Thranduil thought of his youngest child's improbable beginnings. He could not then know that his son would avenge the kin of Thranduil's mother and the death of Oropher, or that this Sindarin child with a Silvan heart would be the most renowned of all the Wood folk. Destiny lay heavy on this baby, but Thranduil thought only of his father's promise. "He will do great things, this little one. Yet more precious than all he might do is the joy he will bring to our house. He is truly a gift." (44)
- (1)Aran Eryn Forodren
- King of the Northern Forest - Thranduil is called "King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood" in Westron (ref. LOTR p 234, pub. Houghton Mifflin), but it seems unlikely to me that his Elvish title would use the Sindarin name for the forest - he probably would not want to be called 'King of the Forest of Great Fear'.
- (2)Hadhodrond
- Khazad-dûm
- (3)Morag
- Moria - lit. black gulf (Silvan). Eldarin mori would become mor in Nandorin (see lygn for the disappearance of final short -i), while jagu would become ag, through the loss of j (see spenna) and final short -u (see Utum).
- (4)'The dwarf-king perished with his hardiest warriors, and those who survived fled the mines, but the Balrog had wasted his powers. The elf-lands to the east must wait.'
- The Balrog running amok in the 1900s is a bit of a problem - he could not have been the cause of Amroth and Nimrodel's flight from Lórinand, unless every elf who saw him either died or fled. Even if those who remained could not identify the creature (and perhaps Legolas was uniquely perceptive in recognizing the Balrog), Galadriel and Celeborn most certainly would have known it from their descriptions. It is clear that a thousand years later, no one knows or remembers what drove the dwarves from Moria - certainly, men might forget in such a span of time, and even dwarves, but most of the elves of Lórien would have been alive in 1981. The other problem lies in the Balrog's return to Moria - why wouldn't he continue his rampage? This leads me to believe that he never could have left the mines, and that orcs, taking over as the dwarves fled, must have overwhelmed Lórien - the elves' defense would be weak in that northern corner, as they had then no fear of attack from Moria.
- (5)Forod'lad
- There must have been a village near Thranduil's caverns, though it is never mentioned. I decided to give it a name.
- (6)Gran
- King (Silvan). The Eldarin word is not attested, but given the Quenya derivative, it seems likely that it was 3aran (probably the first-person aorist of the verb 'to hold'). The back-spirant 3 became g in Nandorin (see cogn), and two identical vowels in adjacent syllables would cause syncope of the unaccented vowel (see Golda). Properly, such syncope would develop Garn, but as this is the same as an Orkish word, I chose Gran instead.
- (7)Tinweg, Golphinweg and Inweg
- Tinweg comes directly from The Book of Lost Tales I. Golphinweg is also found there, with the spelling Golfinweg; the ph » f shift must have occurred relatively late, as it is not found in Old Sindarin (it probably spread from Quenya to Telerin in Aman, and came to Sindarin via the Exiles). Inwë is found in Lost Tales and doesn't quite fit with Tolkien's later etymology, but Ingweg would likely give Inbeg in Nandorin, if the consonant cluster gw follows the lead of kw. weg is attested by Denweg (The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar').
- (8)El-barda
- Varda (Silvan). From Eldarin Baradá (which becomes Barda by syncope of the second a [see Golda], and the -á » -a (see dunna).
- (9)Granna
- my King (Silvan). -na comes from Ryszard Derdzinski's reconstructions of Eldarin pronouns; Eldarin -njá would likely become -na in Nandorin (see spenna).
- (10)lindalë
- music (Q)
- (11)'the Valar who most loved the Third Clan'
- Tolkien implies that Ulmo was not the only Vala who opposed the decision to bring the elves to Aman (ref. Morgoth's Ring pp 161-2 pub. Houghton Mifflin). He does not identify Ulmo's allies, but Yavanna was likely one of them, as she would want the elves - especially the Nelyar - to help her to heal her creations.
- (12)iavas
- Autumn
- (13)Mereth Perethuil
- lit. Feast of Mid-Spring (this corresponds approximately to Beltane, aka May Day)
- (14)Dîs-e-guren
- Bride of my heart
- (15)Abanna
- Yavanna (Silvan). The Eldarin is not given, but it was probably something like Jábantané (Fruit-giver). j seems to have disappeared in Nandorin (see spenna). á became a, and syncope of the third a would give abantné. t seems to have dropped out before another consonant (see snoe^s), and final -é became -a (see hrassa).
- (16)Denweg
- Lenwë (Nandorin). (ref. The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar' p 412 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- (17)Cogatora
- Bow-master (Silvan). The ancient Eldarin is actually kuw, but the adjective - 'bowed, bent' - came from a later addition to Etymologies. This word, ku3na, was closer to the original stem (ku3), so I would guess that something like ku3 or ku3á for 'bow' also existed in Eldarin. ku3á would become coga, as attested by the adjective cogn. The second part of the word comes from túrá. t and other unvoiced spirants seem to be viable at the beginning or middle of Nandorin words (except when followed by another consonant) - see Utum. ú would likely follow the lead of other long vowels and become u, and then umlaut, like the first u, to o, due to a-umlaut (attested by cogn and probably meord; also seen in Doriathrin). The final -á probably becomes -a and does not drop off in Nandorin.
- (18)Denthar
- Denethor (Silvan). In the same paragraph in which Tolkien gives Denweg as the Nandorin word for Lenwë, he also offers a new etymology for Denethor. However, he does not explicitly state that this is the Nandorin form of the name, and it seems impossible to reconcile Denethor from dene + thara with Denweg from dene + wego. If a final short -e does not drop off in Nandorin (which seems unlikely, as all other short vowels do), syncope in the compound form would eliminate the second e - otherwise, Denweg would be Deneweg. As for thor from thara, this sounds more like a Sindarinized version of the word; Nandorin a may become o in a few cases involving diphthongs or consecutive vowels (meord, snoe^s), but ordinarily, it remains a.
- (19)'Nurwë, leader of the Nelyarin Avari, had led her clan south'
- Tolkien didn't specify the gender of Morwë and Nurwë - who make their only (to my knowledge) appearance in Morgoth's Ring. Given that Sindarin females seem to hold more status than their Noldorin counterparts, it seems fitting that one of the early leaders of the Nelyar might be female.
- (20)Eöl
- One of Tolkien's late ideas about Eöl made him one of the Avari (of Nelyarin, not Tatyarin origins), but this was rejected in favor of keeping his relationship to Thingol intact (ref. The War of the Jewels, 'Maeglin'). I rather liked the idea, and since nothing prohibits the idea that Thingol had sisters (indeed, given all the elves somehow related to him and to Círdan, it seems likely), this interpretation seems to fit all the requirements. The Tatyarin Avari hated the Noldor, and such ancestry would explain Eöl's talent as a smith, yet as nephew to Thingol, he would be in a position to ask leave to live away from Doriath (such origins would also explain his discomfort in Doriath).
- (21)Penni
- Silvan Elves (Silvan). (ref. The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar')
- (22)'After the war in Mordor, many elves found themselves widowed, and the Laws at last began to break down among the Eldar, as the widowed pledged their love to one another.'
- This, of course, is completely out of canon, but Tolkien never did consider the Avari in the 'Laws and Customs of the Eldar'.
- (23)Laegel
- Green Elf
- (24)Laegrim
- Green Elves
- (25)Bali
- Valar (Silvan). From balá, which would become bala in Nandorin (see dunna). The final -a appears to drop off when the plural ending -i is added (see Lindi).
- (26)"I would be too diminished, if I had a child"
- From Morgoth's Ring, 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar', in which Tolkien notes that female elves had nearly the strength of male elves until they bore children. (ref. p 213 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- (27)herina
- my lady (Silvan). kherí is the likely feminine equivalent of kherú, the attested Eldarin for lord. Eldarin kh became h (see hrassa). Short -i, like other final short vowels, would drop off (see lygn), but the fate of long -í is not attested - I would guess that it would become -i, though this would cause some confusion with the plural. As for the ending -na, see Granna, above.
- (28)Ivonwin
- Maidens of Yavanna - they were the only elves allowed to handle the corn until it was made into lembas. (ref. The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'Of Lembas').
- (29)oebana
- Simbelmynë (Silvan). From Eldarin oio, ever + bánjá, fair. oi becomes oe due to a-umlaut of the i (see meord) and the final -o drops off (see Denweg). j seems to disappear in Nandorin (see spenna), while long á becomes short a (see dunna).
- (30)firith
- late autumn (lit. 'fading').
- (31)Mereth Iau-Grithol
- lit. 'festival of corn-reaping'. Grithol is the participle of the verb critho, lenited to g- as an adjective following its noun.
- (32)'the great amount of vitality elven women put into their babies'
- This is more from Morgoth's Ring, 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar', in which Tolkien states that both the begetting and bearing of children demanded more of elves than of humans. (ref. p 212 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- (33)bess
- woman
- (34)"Ele!"
- Lo! (PQ) (ref. The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar' p 360 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- (35)ondona
- my son (Silvan). Eldarin jondo loses the initial j (see spenna); the final short -o, normally lost, reappears due to the addition of the pronominal suffix -na - this occurs in Sindarin when the suffix -n is added to a noun ending in a consonant (guren, my heart, for example, from gûr).
- (36)"You shall grow weary of your state, and envious of those who live, and vulnerable to temptations of evil things that would use you as their instrument."
- This is based on Tolkien's discussion of fëar who refused the call of Mandos. (ref. Morgoth's Ring, 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar' pp 223-224 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- (37)ithron
- wizard
- (38)tawri
- fays of the wood (Silvan). This is constructed from tawaró/tawaré. w seems to be a valid sound in Silvan Elvish, as attested by Denweg (see above) - though it disappeared in the consonant cluster kw and probably gw. The syncope of tawar » tawr is attested by Golodó » Golda. -ó/-é are masculine and feminine endings; both would become -a in Nandorin, but it appears that in plurals a final vowel drops off (see Linda/Lindi).
- (39)'For this reason the Valar forbade such contact with shades.'
- More from Tolkien's discussion of shades. (ref. Morgoth's Ring, 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar' pp 223-224 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- (40)Adar vuin
- Dear Father
- (41)"Man amarth al le dhartha, ionen bigen?"
- "What fate waits for you, my tiny son?"
- (42)Edhellendor-Vedui
- Last Elvenking - Edhellendor-Vedui from edhellen, 'elven' + -dor (-tor if it were not lenited), 'king'; vedui (lenited from medui), 'last'. Obviously, I invented this name, but it is canonically accurate - after the death of Amroth, Thranduil was the last king of elves in Middle-Earth.
- (43)muindor dithen
- little brother
- (44)'his son would avenge the kin of Thranduil's mother'
- This is an idea inspired by Finch, who noted that one reason Tolkien may have moved Gil-galad to Finarfin's house relates to Sauron's involvement with that house - of all the Noldor, the Finarfians lost the most to Sauron. That Thranduil also descended from Angrod is entirely my own interpretation, and relates to his golden hair, but it would be rather fitting for a descendant of Finarfin to be part of Sauron's final defeat. (No, I'm not forgetting the Peredhil, grandchildren of Galadriel - I just couldn't work them into that last sentence [;p].)