The Fourth Son, A kind spring sun was shining down on the valley of Rivendell. A fine mist sparkling like diamonds hung in the air around the layered waterfalls and many pools spread about their bases. Shaded paths, landscaped with many varieties of trees and bordered by a profusion of flowers of all colors lined the valley floor and followed the paths as they wound their way up both sides of the valley. Valandil, young Prince of Arnor, fourth and only surviving son of Isildur, accounted second King of Arnor, stepped from a pool. His dark hair worn loose over his shoulders, was dripping water over his tanned body. From the breadth of shoulder, solid, rippled torso and developed arms it was easy to see the result of daily weapons drill and other strenuous labours. As he dried and dressed in clean white linens, he glanced to the sun. Right on time, he thought to himself. He prepared mentally for lessons with his friend and instructor of lore, Dournil of the Elves. He picked up his towels and weapons and turned down the right hand path as he did most days, and made his way towards the pavilion where he usually took his lessons. On his way he passed a spot in the trail that brought back a memory from some tender age. He had been playing and had fallen, skinning his knee. His father had been here at the time, on one of the many balconies above, out of sight but not hearing.
His startled cry had caused all sorts of mayhem. The sight of his father coming downhill in great leaps at top speed, cross country and causing great damage to flowers, trees and lawns was almost as frightening to him as the initial injury. He'd scooped him up assessing his injuries at a glance and with a great hug, tossed him into the air (causing both of them to laugh) then hugged and made over him until he'd forgotten his pain and fear. Then they'd even had fun repairing the damaged landscaping, playing at swords with sticks and throwing mud balls at his brothers, come to see to his welfare. As he came nearer the pavilion, another spot struck a familiar warm memory. A lawn where he and his brothers had played at 'Wild Mearas Stallion', (greatest horses of Middle Earth, whose speed, intelligence and endurance far surpassed any other horses in all memory or time). He remembered his other two brothers, Ciryon, second in line and Elendur, first, both already full grown, getting in on the play, saying they also were stallions fighting for the mastership of the herd and all on hands and knees bucking, rolling, striking and biting while Aratan, third in line of succession, his next older brother, had been on his knees also, with he, Valandil on his back, and had bucked, jumped and twisted so that Valandil had been obliged to hold on with both arms and legs, laying flat on his back until they'd all laughed so hard he'd fallen off, at which made them all laugh the harder, and the wrestling that had followed, with young Valandil sitting atop the pile. And Master Elrond coming upon them in their mirth, scowling at the damage to lawn and clothes, and a heap of laughing boys and young men. "Future great leaders of men!" he'd snorted, then turned quickly and went on his way, trying to keep a straight face and not well succeeding. Come to think of it, the younger boys, he and Aratan mostly, had been hard on the landscaping and had learned early to fix what they'd broken. Elendur and Ciryon had been quite a bit older, having been born in the fallen land of Numenor. All that had been many years before he was born. With war and the age differences between brothers, times of peace and enjoyment had seemed few and far between making these and some few other memories all the fonder. Gone now, all gone, three brothers along with their father, gone to the bosom of Iluvatar, The One, Creator of the Earth. Rivendell abounded in such memories seemingly everywhere he looked. It more than hurt. Their absence left a hole seemingly the size of a mountain peak in his very soul. He missed them so much. His mother and friends became so much more dear to him. Knowing where indulgence in the down side of his memories led he dropped that line of thought like a hot brazier. He cleared his mind as he came upon the pavilion he saw that Dournil was strangely absent, usually he waited with books, slates and maps. Valandil enjoyed his lessons, partly because of Dournil's love of teaching, which showed in his presentation and manner. Also, Valandil enjoyed exercising his mind.
"Prince Valandil", Dournil was approaching from behind, likely he'd been at the entrance gate area. (Prince Valandil?), Valandil wondered why Dournil was being so formal. "We have visitors from Gondor. Two messengers have arrived asking to deliver a message to you in person." (Visitors, I might have guessed from his manner), thought Valandil to himself. Dournil, like many Silvan elves, was tall and fair. With the innate grace, common to all elves, a sweeping arm, and slight bow was meant to shepherd Valandil ahead of him. Valindil tossed his towels on the railing surrounding the pavilion, and changed his weapons to his right hand. "Prince Valandil," Dournil's pointed glance indicated the weapons. With a dead panned glance that spoke volumes between the two, Valandil unrolled the baldric in his right hand, settling the straps around neck and body and adjusting sword hilts. Eket or short sword, low at his left hip and long sword pommel sticking up from behind his right shoulder. From long habit Valandil loosened first the swords then the knife hilts across the front settling the baldric into place. With a straight back and firm jaw, Valandil looked like a Prince. A responsible, competent leader. With a nod of thanks, he started down the path. Having learned long ago from the examples of poor leadership, recorded in the texts that Dournil had provided as reference, and from his teaching stories, Valandil had learned to be humble without being craven. Respect for all regardless of station and taking nothing and no one for granted were said to be the basics of good leadership. Dournil, following behind Valandil, noticed the way Valandil's body accepted comfortably, his weapons . It was always so with great warriors, he reflected to himself. Though the young man before him had not been tested by battle, he'd had the best of training and Dournil knew him to be sharp of wit with good instincts. (Only time and experience will tell and perhaps sooner than he thinks)" but Dournil kept his thoughts to himself. Heading for the gate, Valandil's thoughts were running quickly, assimilating what his eyes and senses told him. Dournil didn't have a good feeling about these messengers. Whether Dournil was conscious of it or not, his posture and slightly cold demeanor told Valandil something was amiss. Dournil lengthened his strides to catch up and walk beside Valandil. "Young Prince" that was more like the expression of their private relationship, Valandil thought. I don't know why, but something is odd about these messengers. I can't mark it out but it's strong enough that I thought I'd mention it," Dournil said. "I had noticed something." Valandil said simply, and turning to look at his mentor added, with a small smile "We shall see." The boy is sharp , Dournil smiled to himself as they walked along. As they neared the "gate" Valandil cleared his mind once again and prepared for whatever was to come. The area called the gate wasn't really a gate at all. The main entrance to the valley of Rivendell, called 'Imladris' in the elven tongue, wound through dense woods and along a dry streambed before climbing to a tall wall of rock. A narrow rift or defile passed through this wall, only wide enough to admit one rider at a time, then one found a small level clearing before the path leading in narrowed up once again. At this point a considerable drop to the front made a sharp left turn necessary. The path then led across the eastern end, and another larger clearing was encountered, from here several paths split off leading to different areas. From the trail at the eastern end, one could look up the whole of the valley, seeing the falls, landscaping and layered paths and balconies climbing both sides of the valley walls. Doorways dotted the walls behind the paths and balconies, most with porch roofs supported by fluted columns wound about by ivy and other climbing flora As Valandil approached the larger of the two clearings he recognized, by long familiarity, Master Elrond, founder and builder of Rivendell, warrior, leader, elder. By his side stood a lady, fair of skin also tall of stature and dark-haired but with green eyes , Lady Cathirwyn, Valandil's Mother. There were no sentries or other guards in sight, but Valandil wouldn't have wagered against there not being any around. After all, this valley of Rivendell was called the 'Last Homely House' by the people of the land. Though long age had taught Elrond wisdom and caution, this was his home not a citadel of men! Guard Captain Gandemere, Valandil's weapons master, served as footman and escort to the messengers. As he laid eyes on the messengers, and they on him, the hair on back of Valandil's neck rose, winding his curiosity and wariness another notch tighter. All turned to he and Dournil as they stopped in front of the small assembly. "Prince Valandil and Elder Dournil," Captain Gandemere said, as he swept his arm before him, taking a small step forward from the messenger's side to indicate the new arrivals. The two men bowed low before Valandil. People bowing to him like this always made him feel slightly silly and a mite embarrassed, as if he didn't deserve it, but part of a rulers requirements were that he or she accept fealty and recognition. Valandil thought being a ruler and leader meant service and responsibility to those whose lives were affected by his decisions rather than plain exalted rank. Being the fourth son of a King, his attitude was a little different from say, a first son. It wasn't, he reflected, that he didn't want to take up the crown of Arnor, or that he knew that he wasn't able, he just wasn't all that used to being bowed to by strangers.