Disclaimer: All of this belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.
A/N: As always, a big-thank you to my lovely beta, Claudia.
Lórien, Year 3389, of the Second Age:
Amroth winced in sympathy as Haldir came limping back to join him. Celeborn and Galadriel were visting his father in Lórien again, and, as usual, Amdír and Celeborn were using the occasion to show up the young border guards.
"Amroth, your turn. Show yourself worthy of your title, my son."
Haldir didn't even spare him a glance as he sat back down. The eldest son of the First Marchwarden was a good friend, and a better archer, but that polished arrogance that he and his brothers all shared too often became petulance when they were bested.
That might have had something to do, Amroth thought, with the fact that his mother was holding court with Galadriel and her daughter Celebrían near the practice grounds, with what looked like half the female population of Lórien gathered round.
It was apparently Celeborn's turn to embarrass the 'young ones', and with an overly elaborate bow to his smiling wife he hefted his sword, one silver eyebrow arched in challenge. And proceeded to grind Amroth into little pieces.
About an hour later, after finding himself face-down in the dirt for what seemed like the hundredth time, Amroth finally managed to excuse himself. Red faced (for the scores of maidens surrounding his mother and her friends were giggling again), he decided it would probably be wise to wash before dinner.
The main bathing areas were close, but would be crowded – too crowded. Amroth stretched out his aching muscles, one foot tapping absentmindedly. There were some smaller pools a little south – a fair walk, but a little time to lick his wounds would be welcome.
As he got closer to his destination, however, he could hear that his favourite spot was already occupied. Voices were raised in song, accompanied by chatter and laughter. As he entered the clearing, all the voices stopped, as the occupants turned almost as one to glare at Amroth, making him feel like an invader in his own (well, his father's, at least) kingdom. All except one, that was. Perched on the very highest rock, a barefoot maiden sat, eyes closed, feet swinging, singing with apparent disregard for his presence.
"I apologise for my intrusion," Amroth said, using the same Silvan dialect they'd been singing in. Not all in Lórien spoke Sindarin, and a little politeness went a long way, or so his mother always said. "I merely came here to bathe; I meant no harm."
The singer opened her eyes, and leapt from rock to rock until she stood before him. "I am sure you did not. We do not often travel to this part of the Golden Wood." She tilted her head to the side, wide brown eyes examining him. "You are of the Sindar." It was not a question. "What is your name?"
"I am Amroth."
"Nimrodel," she said, turning away.
"That is a river, not a name." Amroth told her, frowning.
"I am surprised you know what a river is, with the state of you," Nimrodel replied, peering back over her shoulder at him. "But it is a name, and a river, and a waterfall, and my home. Farewell, then. We shall leave you to your bathing."
Laughing, Nimrodel and her companions fled the glade. Only one paused, younger than the others and dressed all in grey.
"She lives by the falls from which she takes her name; follow the sound of her song and you will find her."
"Mithrellas!" a voice called from among the mallorn. "Mithrellas, we shall leave without you!"
With a nod at Amroth, Mithrellas, too, disappeared into the trees, leaving Amroth behind, most puzzled. With a sigh, he began to undo his braids, frowning at the amount of dirt in his hair.
-----
He was a little late to dinner, but that was of no matter. The guests were still milling about; Celebrían smiled at him, but was occupied in the company of a dark-haired Elf that Amroth couldn't place. One of the Noldor, obviously, and therefore probably from Imladris; Galadriel and Celeborn visited there almost as often as they did Lórien.
Soon he was pulled into his usual circle of friends, and good-natured teasing and such conversation ensued.
"You missed the archery competition this afternoon," noted Rumil, settling down beside Amroth. The most scholarly of the three brothers, he was also the most even-tempered. He indicated a fuming Haldir. "Tathar beat him. I think we shall not hear the end of this one any time soon."
Amroth grinned. Tathariel was a Silvan girl, of an age with them, and as serious and arrogant as Haldir where archery was concerned. "Really? I wish I had been there."
Rumil nodded. "It was rather entertaining." He looked across the great clearing, frowning when he saw Celebrían's companion. "Do you know why Elrond is here?"
"Elrond? Ai, is that him? I have no idea, Rumil. We have guests from Imladris often enough."
"I think there is more to it than that." Rumil said, looking worried. "I have spoken with messengers from both Imladris and Greenwood – there are rumours, Amroth. Rumours that The Sorcerer was not destroyed when Númenor fell. Black smoke belches from Barad-dûr, and I fear war is coming."
He was interrupted by Orophin, who had taken it upon himself to listen in upon the conversation.
"Rumil, be at peace! You do not have the Sight, brother, so stop worrying Amroth with your dark talk. Instead, let us be merry, for I think our brother may have found himself a wife. If either of them might learn to keep mum for more than a second, it could work out very well."
Amroth had to laugh, for Haldir and Tathariel were arguing again, their voices probably carrying halfway across Lórien. Rumil, however, did not look happy.
"I do not need foresight, little brother, to see a pattern in this darkness."
Orophin shrugged. "Whatever you say, Rumil," he said and waltzed away, probably to irritate Haldir some more.
"Child," muttered Rumil.
"He is not that much younger than you and you know it, Rumil. It is only that he insists on acting half his age – and you insist on acting twice yours." Amroth sipped at a glass of wine he'd managed to acquire in the interlude – how nice it was when other people were the centre of attention.
"I think I will go. I am not hungry."
"Oh, no." Amroth grabbed at Rumil's sleeve. "Do not abandon me to the tender mercies of your brothers. Besides, there is someone I wanted to ask you about."
That made Rumil pause. "Oh? And what is her name?"
"Do not smirk; it is unbecoming. Her name is Nimrodel."
"Ah." Rumil looked thoughtful – always a worrying sign. "Not someone I am familiar with – Silvan, I would think, and from West Lórien, obviously. You know no more?"
"She had a friend… Mithrellas?"
"Ai! Yes, I know. They are from the Westernmost boundaries – Mithrellas is young, maybe two hundred or so, I think. She is always sneaking around watching the archers, although the Silvan Elves of that region do not hunt, and thus think they have no need for bows. I should think you have a lot to do, to win that maiden's heart. Not all of the Silvan care for the rule of the Sindar."
"And who says I wish to win her heart?" asked Amroth, pretending indifference and failing utterly.
"Your eyes betray you, friend. Should I write the epic poem now, or afterwards?"
"You should be silent. Have some respect for your Prince, Rumil," said Amroth, good-naturedly. "Besides," he continued, waving a hand in the general direction of the dinner tables. "I think it's time to eat."
"I must refuse; I shall go wallow in my gloom, as my brother puts it." Rumil clapped one hand on Amroth's shoulder. "And write you your poem, of course. Her hair is long, her limbs are white, and fair she is, and free, and through the wind she goes as light as leaf of linden-tree!"
By the last line, Rumil was at the edge of the clearing – that was to say, out of reach. Shaking his head, Amroth took his place at his father's side for dinner, smiling vaguely at the honoured guests. Amdir insisted on mentioning – every one of them – by name.
All of a sudden, he wasn't hungry either.
A/N: Rumil's 'poem' is part of the Song of Nimrodel, which belongs to Tolkien (much like everything else). I changed it into present tense, but otherwise it's pretty much the same.