"Eldaaaaarion!"
At the sound of his name, Eldarion, a young man with a cloth covering his eyes, turned his head in the direction of the sing-song voice. His arms extended, searching for the source of the sound.
The child's laughter filled the air as her small, nimble form darted away from him. "I am too swift, you will not catch me!"
Peering out from beneath the blindfold, Eldarion quickened his pace, closing in on his sister. With a graceful motion, he caught her in his arms, causing her laughter to intensify. They tumbled onto the soft grass of the beautiful garden, their shared laughter mingling with the joyous melody of nature.
Lying side by side, they gazed up at the vast expanse of the blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds drifting lazily in the warm breeze.
"Brother?" the little girl's eyes, bright and filled with curiosity, turned towards Eldarion. "If I was born before you, why is it that you look much older than I?"
Eldarion's brow furrowed, and he shifted to face his sister. "Because, Tinú, you are elven, and I am of the Dúnedain."
A moment of silence passed as the young girl absorbed this information, her expression thoughtful. Then, a mischievous smile spread across her face. "That's unfair, brother! I wish I was Dúnedain too."
Eldarion chuckled, his eyes filled with warmth. "Oh, my dear sister, let me tell you a secret. Being elven brings its own magic and beauty. It grants you an eternity of wonder and grace, like the stars that twinkle in the night sky. You have the gift of immortality, and that is something truly special."
The child twirled a lock of her hair around her index finger, her lips forming a pout. "You should stop calling me Tinú! Everyone is taller than me and treats me like a child! If I were Dúnedain, I would be treated with respect like a grown-up."
With a sigh, Eldarion rose to his knees, now at perfect eye level with his sulking sister. He gently brushed away a few strands of grass from her light-blue gown and crossed his arms, mirroring her stance.
"But look, oh Tinú," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "You are mistaken, for we are the same height!" Meeting her gaze, he flashed one of his trademark smoldering, lopsided grins, causing her to burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
He observed her quietly for a moment and then added, his tone turning serious, "You are lucky, Tinú. Even though the Dúnedain live longer lives compared to men, you will most likely outlive me and everyone else."
The words slipped out without forethought, and Eldarion instantly regretted them as he saw the horror fill his sister's delicate features. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran off, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry, Tinú, I take it back!" Eldarion yelled in his sister's direction, his voice filled with regret. He sighed heavily, knowing that his father would undoubtedly have another discussion with him about his actions. Kicking at the grass in frustration, he ran his hand through his short hair, feeling the weight of his mistakes.
"The concept of immortality is not one easy to understand, especially for one as young as she."
Lost in his thoughts, Eldarion was startled when a tall elf dressed in greens and browns approached him, wearing a sad smile upon his fair elven face. "Lord Legolas!" he exclaimed in joyful surprise. "You have arrived!"
"'Tis a pleasure to see you again, young prince," Legolas greeted him with warmth.
Eldarion couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at Legolas' presence. "I'm supposed to have matured, and yet here I am, acting like a complete fool."
Legolas placed a hand on Eldarion's shoulder, his touch offering solace. "Do not fret, young prince of Gondor. I will go and speak with your sister."
A wave of gratitude washed over Eldarion. "You won't tell father?" he asked, a tinge of worry in his voice.
Legolas shook his head reassuringly. "No, my young friend. This will remain between us."
"Thank you, Lord Legolas. I am forever in your debt," Eldarion said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.
Legolas smiled, his eyes filled with understanding. "Nothing is more painful than outliving one's loved ones... it is yet the hardest pain the Firstborn has to bear," he said softly, without a hint of reprimand.
The young man tensed up, the weight of the elven warrior's words pressing upon him.
Knowing that his message had struck a chord, Legolas turned and made his way deeper into the beautiful palace garden. He walked with purpose, his steps steady and measured.
Legolas easily tracked down the young elf, following the subtle signs of flattened grass and broken twigs. He was glad to be back in the majestic city of Minas Tirith, where he could reunite with his good friend King Elessar. It had been ten years since his last visit to Gondor, and seeing Eldarion, now a grown man, reminded him once again of the brevity of mortal life. A pang of sadness squeezed his heart, for he knew that one day he would have to say goodbye to his closest friends-a feeling he would never grow accustomed to, even with over two millennia of experience.
He halted in front of a tree, the sound of quiet sobbing emanating from its leaves. Looking up, he spotted a white slipper and the hem of a blue dress. The last time he had seen Tuilindil, she had been but a small toddler. Like all children of the Eldar, she had been joyful, fair, and full of happiness. Her laughter had been contagious, and both Elessar and Arwen had loved her as if she were their own.
"Greetings, friend!" Legolas said cheerfully in Sindarin. "I seem to be lost. Could you aid me?"
A small heart-shaped face framed by long waves of dark hair peeked at him over the branch. The young girl cocked her head to the side. "Do I know you?"
"Perhaps. My name is Legolas. I am a close friend of your father, King Elessar," he replied.
"The Legolas of Mirkwood, who walked with the Fellowship of the Ring and helped destroy Sauron?!" The sniffles had ceased, replaced by curiosity.
Legolas chuckled. "The one and very same!"
With nimble grace, the elven girl made her way down the tree. Hanging from a low branch, she let herself freefall, and Legolas deftly caught her around the waist.
"You are an elf, like I am!" the child exclaimed, her face just inches from his, her gray eyes examining him closely. "What beautiful, soft hair. It shines like the sun!"
Her tiny fingers traced his jawline, eventually reaching his right ear, where she inspected the pointed tip with fascination.
Legolas smiled warmly at her curiosity. "Indeed, dear one. We share the same elven heritage, and our ears are shaped as a mark of our people."
"And you have hair that would rival Tinúviel's," Legolas grinned, brushing a dark strand that was obscuring her vision.
She scrunched up her nose in distaste. "I do not like her... She's an elf."
Legolas frowned, feigning hurt. "It saddens me greatly that you dislike our kin so. I thought you and I were friends."
Tuilindil stared at him, shocked, her eyes wide. Suddenly, she wrapped her small arms around his neck and embraced him tightly. "We are friends!" she exclaimed, her voice muffled against his shoulder. The sniffles returned, tears streaming.
"Dry your tears, Lirimaer. Your face is too sweet for such sadness. We have no control over what we are born as. You were born an elf, just as Arwen Undómiel was born an elf. Your brother and sisters were born as the restored Dúnedain. But that does not diminish the love you share for each other," Legolas reassured her, his voice gentle and soothing.
"Eldarion said that I would outlive everyone! I do not want that!" Tuilindil sobbed, her voice filled with fear.
Legolas cupped her tear-streaked face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Smile, Tuilindil, for your loved ones are alive and well- they are with you now," he said, catching a teardrop from her skin with the back of his finger. "Treasure every moment and never resent who you are. We are all children of Eru, and we each have a destiny traced among the stars."
"Your loved ones shall forever remain here..." The elven prince placed his open palm over her beating heart, emphasizing his words.
The child stared at him, absorbing his every word. An adorable smile slowly lit up her face. "Yes, you are right, friend Legolas. Thank you!" She pecked him on the cheek and freed herself from his hold. "Would you like to see my favorite hiding spot?"
"I would like nothing more, friend...?" Legolas trailed off, prompting her to share her name.
"Tinú," she replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Lead the way, friend Tinú," Legolas said, his heart warmed by her trust.
Hand in hand, they ventured through the palace gardens, Tinú leading the way to her secret hiding spot. As they arrived at a secluded grove, Tuilindil unveiled her hidden sanctuary-a small nook nestled among the trees. It was adorned with flowers, blankets, and a collection of her favorite trinkets.
"Here it is, Legolas! This is my special place," she announced proudly.
Legolas looked around with genuine admiration. "It is a magnificent hideaway indeed, Tinú. A haven for an elven princess like yourself."
Tuilindil beamed at the compliment. "I come here to dream and imagine grand adventures. Sometimes, I pretend I am a warrior like my brother or a wise queen like my mother."
Legolas chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
The elven prince listened intently as Tinú shared stories of her adventures and dreams, her eyes sparkling with youthful wonder.
The years trailed by, and the world had entered its Fourth Age. Minas Tirith, the magnificent city of Gondor, bustled with life and activity. The ground level was a symphony of sounds-a vibrant tapestry woven by the voices of the people. Chickens scattered, their wings flapping in haste. Hooves echoed against the stone pavement, signaling the arrival of horse-drawn carriages. The clang of metal against metal resounded from the blacksmith's forge, and the sweet melody of birdsong floated through the air. Laughter erupted from children playing in the nearby alleyways. In the midst of this bustling scene, there was one who sat unnoticed on the rooftop of a flower shop.
Tuilindil, concealed by an elven cloak, blended into the background. She was like a whisper carried on the wind, a fleeting presence in the eyes of the city. To the people of Minas Tirith, she was practically invisible. She sat perched on the rooftop, her legs swinging lazily over the edge. Passers-by would glance in her direction, registering her existence for a brief moment before their attention moved on to the next distraction. But Tuilindil reveled in her hidden vantage point, observing the world from her secret perch.
She inhaled deeply, the aroma of flowers from the shop below filling her senses. She hugged her shoulders, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. Life in the city was noisy and chaotic, but it was her home, her sanctuary. In this moment, everything felt perfect.
As she lay back on the rooftop, strands of hay intertwined with her dark locks, her gaze fixed upon the expanse above. The summer sky stretched out before her in a vast canvas of the purest blue. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily, casting ever-changing shadows over the rooftops and streets below. The sun bathed her face in its warm golden glow, bringing a gentle radiance to her youthful features.
Tuilindil lost herself in the beauty of the sky, her mind wandering through the realms of imagination. She imagined riding those fluffy clouds, soaring through the endless expanse, free from burdens and worries. In this fleeting moment of tranquility, the worries of the world seemed distant, replaced by a sense of wonder and awe.
At the edge of her conscience, Tuilindil's keen elven hearing caught a peculiar sound. It was faint at first, but as she focused her attention, the noise grew louder and more distinct. It was the clanging of armor, accompanied by angry shouts that pierced through the bustling sounds of the marketplace.
Her heart quickened, and she shot up from her reclined position on the rooftop. Suddenly, she was fully present, her senses sharpened by the urgency of the situation. A commotion had erupted, disrupting the usual rhythm of the bustling city.
Her gaze fixed upon a blond-haired child, who darted through the chaotic street.
The young elf girl, hidden in plain sight on the rooftop, watched the unfolding scene with growing concern. She was no stranger to the occasional disputes that occurred in the busy streets of Minas Tirith, but something about this encounter felt different. Her heart went out to the curly blond-haired child. His innocent face was streaked with tears, and he stumbled in his haste to escape his was clear that he was in distress, his breath labored and his eyes wide. But what struck Tuilindil even more was the figure pursuing him-a man whose face was twisted with anger and hostility. The man's clenched fist threatened violence, his cheeks flushed red with rage.
Tuilindil observed the unfolding scene from a safe distance, her mind racing to comprehend the situation. She didn't recognize the man, a stranger to her, yet she couldn't help but assign a name to his features-a game she had played since she was a child. In her mind, she settled on Naruthir, a Sindarin rendition meaning "red face."
But her attention swiftly returned to the fleeing child, her heart surging with empathy and a surge of protective instincts. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, sharpening her mind and fueling her will to help. She couldn't stand idly by while someone was in distress.
"What happened?" Tuilindil whispered to herself, her voice laced with a mix of concern and curiosity. Who were they? What had transpired to ignite such anger? Questions flooded her thoughts, but the urgency of the situation demanded her attention.
Without a second thought, Tuilindil jumped to her feet and swiftly moved along the rooftops. She weaved through the intricate architecture, her elven grace allowing her to navigate the city with ease. Her elven cloak made her practically invisible to the onlookers below, providing her with the perfect advantage to aid the young boy without drawing unwanted attention.
Leaping from a rooftop, she gracefully caught hold of a chimney, her slender form descending the stone wall until her silk-clad feet touched the ground and wove her way through the bustling crowd. Dodging people and obstacles, she closed the distance between herself and the troubled child.
Could it have been theft? Tuilindil's mind raced with possibilities, conjuring up images of a desperate family driven to crime by poverty and hunger. The vivid scene played out in her imagination, portraying the boy's tear-streaked face as he watched his siblings waste away from famine.
The weight of such tragedy weighed heavily on the elf's heart.
The child stumbled clumsily, tripping over a cart. Fresh fruit spilled onto the pavement, rolling away in all directions. She pushed herself to move even faster, racing ahead.
Meanwhile, the pursuing man closed in on the child. His towering height gave him an advantage, increasing his strides with every passing moment. Time was running out, and Tuilindil knew she had to act swiftly to protect the young boy from harm.
Unfastening the brooch that held her enchanted cloak together, the elf's arms outstretched, ready for action. In a bold and daring move, she launched herself towards the child, colliding with him forcefully. The impact sent them both tumbling across the road, pain searing through their bodies. The blond-haired child, caught in the midst of their collision, struggled to free himself from the tangle.
With a raised index finger pressed against her lips, she signaled for silence. "Shh," she whispered, her voice barely audible. The child beside her stilled.
Her mind whirled with thoughts and assumptions as she listened to the loud breathing of the child beneath the cloak. In her mind, she had given him the name "Bruinir," a word that meant a loud and boisterous young man. The chaotic scene continued as Naruthir hurried past, stumbling, muttering unintelligibly, his face still flushed with anger.
Bewildered and disoriented, he searched for his young quarry. Confusion clouded his eyes as he scanned the surroundings, unable to discern the child's whereabouts. Frustrated he eventually gave up, his anger transforming into a defeated scowl.
The young elf maintained her position, watching the man closely until he turned away and disappeared into the distance. Only then did she breathe a sigh of relief and release the boy from the sanctuary of her cloak, allowing him to emerge.
"Uh.. thank you," his voice, deeper than expected for a child, carried a weight of seriousness as he thanked her. Perhaps he was nearing adulthood.
With a slight wince, she pushed herself up from the ground, feeling the ache in her left knee and the stinging sensation in her palms. Her heart sank when she noticed the damage to her beloved embroidered skirt, now soiled and torn from their tumble.
Bruinir's eyes met hers, gratitude and something else flickering within his gaze.
"No need to thank me, Bruinir," she replied, her voice gentle yet resolute. "You were in obvious distress, and it is the duty of the Eldar to aid those in need."
With a thoughtful expression, Tuilindil reached into a pocket hidden within her garments and retrieved a small parcel wrapped in a leaf. She handed it to Bruinir, her eyes filled with concern. "Here," she said, her voice tinged with kindness. "Eat some lembas, child. You must be famished."
Tuilindil longed to offer more to Bruinir, to alleviate the suffering that burdened his young shoulders. It pained her to imagine his siblings, Galasdir and Dillothell, eagerly awaiting his return with empty stomachs and bodies weakened by hunger.
The realization that he wore no shoes had not escaped Tuilindil's observant gaze. The absence of such a basic necessity spoke volumes about the dire circumstances Bruinir and his family endured. Her heart ached with compassion as she imagined them, huddled together in a meager dwelling, their bodies weakened by hunger and the harshness of winter's grip.
The weight of their plight settled heavily upon her heart, and she reached out to place a comforting hand on Bruinir's shoulder. Her voice, filled with sorrow, resonated through the air.
"I wish I had more to share with your starving siblings, dear Bruinir," she whispered softly. "It is a sorrowful reality that forces one to resort to thievery, risking oneself in order to sustain their family. Perhaps little Galasdir or Dillothell eagerly await your return, their empty stomachs rumbling, and their fragile bodies weakened by famine. Tell them that they are in my thoughts, and I send them my blessings and well wishes."
A tear glistened in the corner of her eye, which she swiftly wiped away. The pain of witnessing such hardship touched her deeply, reinforcing her resolve to bring about change in this world.
As they continued walking together along the street, Bruinir abruptly stopped, bringing his handkerchief to his nose with a resounding blow. Tuilindil watched him attentively, her eyes filled with empathy and concern.
Bruinir cleared his throat, "You must have confused me with another, miss," he managed to say, his voice strained. He sniffled and used the handkerchief to wipe away his tears. "I find myself deeply moved by your friend's tale of sorrow. It is rare that someone has touched me in such a way."
He stopped abruptly, his hand fumbling for something within his pockets. He retrieved the lembas and a small pouch heavy with coins, offering them to Tuilindil.
"My lady, please take this purse and give it to Master Bruinir and his family," he implored. "Convey my blessings and tell him Porto Bracegirdle of Hardbottle is deeply moved by his plight. He's welcome to enter my shop. My items for him are free of charge."
Tuilindil's world seemed to crumble around her as the truth unfolded before her eyes. The realization hit her like a sharp blow to the face. She stood frozen in place, feeling utterly foolish and for allowing her imagination to run wild once again, weaving a tragic tale where there was none. How could she have misunderstood the situation so gravely? Embarrassment flushed her cheeks, and she felt the weight of curious stares from the gathering crowd.
"Porto, the hobbit? Owner of Porto's Supplies?"
"Why yes!" he exclaimed, shaking her hand with amiability. "I apologize for earlier, my lady. I'm afraid I mistakenly delivered one of my customers the wrong order. As you could see for yourself, he was quite furious. My! Where are my manners?! I forgot to ask you your name..."
Tuilindil's cheeks burned crimson, mortified by the curious stares of the gathering crowd. She could no longer bear the weight of their scrutiny, nor her own wounded pride. Ignoring her aching knee and her bruised ego, she swiftly retreated into the sanctuary of her cloak, finding solace within its folds. The desire to escape the prying eyes and the shame that engulfed her propelled her through the bustling street, her shrouded form disappearing into the winding alleyways of the city.
Back in the comfort and safety of her own room, Tuilindil sank onto the plush bench beside her elegant floor loom. Its delicate frame held a work-in-progress, a long thin strip adorned with an intricate design woven with brilliant colors of the finest silk. Normally, the fervor of her passion for weaving would have propelled her to continue her meticulous work, but at this moment, her mind was consumed by a heavy cloud of distracting emotions.
The room, usually a haven of creativity and solace, now seemed shrouded in a heavy fog of guilt. Her fingers idly traced the intricate patterns of the long, thin strip of woven fabric before her, its vibrant colors whispering tales of distant lands and ancient tales.
But her passion for weaving, which typically consumed her thoughts and guided her hands with grace, held no power over her now. Her mind was plagued by a weight she couldn't shake off-a burden of remorse that clung to her like a shadow.
Seeking a respite, she lifted her torn skirt, uncovering the injured knee that had suffered in her hasty flight. The raw skin throbbed with a dull ache, but the slight bleeding had ceased, the crimson rivulets congealing into a hardened scab. A deep breath hissed through her clenched teeth as she gingerly dabbed at the wounded flesh, inspecting it for signs of more grievous harm. Relieved to find no further damage, she rose to her feet, her movements heavy with the weight of her transgressions.
On her way to the dresser, where she hoped to find a bandage to soothe her scrape, a quick glance in the ornate mirror halted her in her tracks. There, reflected before her, was an image that mirrored the disarray within her soul. Her once-neat waves of ebony hair were now tangled and matted, entwined with strands of hay and dirt as if she had endured a tumultuous encounter with a stampede of Mûmakil. Her face bore smudges and streaks of grime.
The hot shame that had consumed Tuilindil earlier had now transformed into a gnawing guilt, sinking its teeth into her conscience. She berated herself inwardly, chastising her own impulsive nature. Her sister's words echoed in her mind, reminding her of her brashness and recklessness. Lennel had been right all along.
A vivid image flashed before her eyes-the kind face of Porto the hobbit, his eyes wide with surprise and concern. Tuilindil had intruded upon his life with her misguided intentions, convinced she knew what was best for him. But her imagination had once again led her astray, blinding her to the consequences of her actions. In her haste to escape the situation, she had inadvertently taken someone else's purse, only to lose it in the chaotic streets.
Her heart sank as she realized the gravity of her misdeed. Was she now a thief? Had she cunningly deceived a poor hobbit into surrendering his hard-earned coins? The weight of her guilt settled upon her like a leaden shroud, squeezing her chest and tightening her breath.
Rubbing her hands together in worry, Tuilindil paced restlessly around her room before gingerly settling on the edge of her bed. The thought of being an Eldar thief was practically unheard of. What would her parents think? What had she become?
Unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotions churned within her, causing her stomach to knot, her skin to perspire, and her heart to constrict. She had never been accustomed to such inner turmoil. Her parents had taught her to be sensible and just, to think before acting upon her impulses. But in this moment, she had failed them and herself.
Biting nervously at her fingernails, the elven princess resumed her frantic pacing. The room that had once been a sanctuary now felt suffocating, the weight of her guilt pressing upon her from all sides.
A slight knock sounded at the door, breaking the rhythm of Tuilindil's frantic pacing. Startled, she whirled around with a resounding cry, her heart pounding against her chest. The unexpected interruption jolted her from the depths of her guilt-ridden thoughts.
She composed herself, taking a deep breath to steady her racing heartbeat. As the door slowly creaked open, a servant's voice drifted into the room, breaking the silence that had enveloped her.
"My lady, you are summoned to the dining hall," the servant announced respectfully, standing at the threshold.
"Thank you," she managed to utter, her voice wavering slightly. "I shall make my way to the dining hall."
The stone surface was cool against Tuilindil's back as she leaned against the wall, her eyes tightly shut. In the depths of her mind, she desperately sought a solution. Time was of the essence; she needed to act swiftly. But how? How could she possibly rectify the loss of Porto's purse? The weight of her guilt bore heavily upon her.
A sigh escaped her lips as she considered the likelihood of recovering Porto's purse. In a bustling city such as this, teeming with hundreds of men coming and going, the chances of the purse remaining unclaimed were slim. Her heart sank at the thought that someone, driven by their own greed, may have snatched the fat purse for themselves. It was a harsh reality, one that reminded her of the stark differences between this human-dominated realm and the world of the elves. If only elves populated this city, perhaps things would be different. Alas, it was not so.
She gingerly removed the tattered dress, folding it with care before concealing it beneath the expanse of her large bed.
In a flurry of movement, the young elf selected a vibrant red gown from her wardrobe. Hurrying to the basin, she then splashed water onto her face, washing away the dirt and grime that had marred her features. She snatched the hairbrush from its place on the dresser and with quick, fervent strokes, she tamed the tangles that had formed during her misadventure.
As the meal progressed, King Elessar's gaze wandered from one daughter to another, taking in their presence at the table. Lennel, with her spirited nature and striking beauty, was engaged in an animated conversation with Arwen.
A sense of nostalgia washed over Elessar as he reflected on the changes that time had brought. Most of his daughters had flown the nest, pursuing their own lives and forming families of their own. Peldes, Araswen, and Glándis had found their happiness, their laughter now echoing in distant lands far from Minas Tirith. Even Prince Eldarion, his heir, was preoccupied with his diplomatic duties, forging alliances and upholding the realm's stability.
While he understood the importance of their pursuits, a part of Elessar longed for the days when all his children were gathered around him, their laughter and chatter filling the halls of their home. He missed the lively debates, the shared meals, and the simple joys of their presence. The weight of responsibility weighed heavily on his aging heart, and the memories of their collective presence offered solace.
As the jovial atmosphere filled the grand hall, King Elessar's thoughts momentarily settled on Tuilindil, his elven adopted daughter. His young elven daughter, a soothing presence in his life, had become a cherished soul, weaving her own unique thread into the tapestry of his existence.
In her, he found a constancy that brought him solace. Bright and energetic, Tuilindil had slowly blossomed into a stunning and delicate elf, her ethereal beauty captivating all who beheld her. Yet, her interests remained rooted in the familiar, finding comfort in her established hobbies and routines. Weaving and embroidery were her passions, and she poured her heart and soul into each delicate stitch.
But there was another side to Tuilindil, one that he observed with tender understanding. Often, he would find her lost in her daydreams, her mind wandering amidst the vast corridors of the palace. Her growth, both physical and emotional, seemed to have stilled, as if time itself had conspired to shield her innocence and preserve her youthful spirit.
In moments of contemplation, Elessar would discuss her unique nature with Arwen, his beloved wife. Arwen, with her deep understanding of the Elven kind, had once remarked that Tuilindil was, in the eyes of the Eldar, but an elfling. Though she appeared to have matured physically, her mind was still budding, much like a human youth.
Interrupting him from his thoughts, a disheveled Tuilindil rushed towards the table, her movements slightly clumsy. Elessar watched with a fond smile. She nearly tripped but managed to regain her composure just in time, bowing respectfully before taking her seat. The air was tense, for Lennel's disapproving gaze fell upon her sister.
"Greetings, father, mother... sister," Tuilindil said with a hint of breathlessness as she joined them at the table.
Before anyone could respond, Lennel's voice cut through the air, filled with exasperation and a hint of disdain. "Sister, have you been caught sleeping in the stables again? You have no manners!"
Elessar felt a pang of concern, his brows furrowing slightly.
His attention turned towards Lennel, who had blossomed into a striking woman, possessing a blend of his quick wit and Arwen's delicate features. He couldn't help but feel a surge of paternal pride, albeit tinged with a touch of concern. Lennel had always been headstrong and opinionated, traits that had grown more pronounced over the years.
"You will never find a suitor with this impropriety," Lennel reproached, her tone filled with disapproval.
Her response was immediate, her voice filled with disbelief. "Why in Arda would I waste my time finding a suitor? I am perfectly happy with my life."
Lennel's fingers delicately fiddled with her slender gold chains, a nervous habit she had developed over the years. Her intense grey eyes remained fixed on Tuilindil.
Lennel's cheeks flushed with anger, her voice rising in both volume and intensity. "I cannot, for the life of me, understand how weaving and embroidering like an old maid brings you satisfaction. Where is your sense of adventure, of new thrills and love?!"
Tuilindil's demeanor remained composed, her gaze meeting Lennel's. "If you opened your eyes to the world around you, Lennel, you would find that adventure, love, and thrills reside in everything - even seemingly small deeds, like embroidery."
Lennel rolled her eyes in exasperation, releasing a frustrated sigh. "Oh, Eru! You are infuriating!"
"Children, please be cordial," Arwen chimed in, her voice gentle but firm, her eyes holding a touch of amusement as they met Elessar's.
Lennel, still visibly irritated, redirected her attention to their parents, her tone less confrontational. "Mother, I wish to take part in decorating the main hall for this year's Yule ball. I plan on impressing every eligible lord in the kingdom."
Arwen chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You are welcome to, Lennel. I am certain you will provide splendid work."
Turning her gaze to Tuilindil, she extended an invitation. "Would you be interested in joining your sister in the preparations, Tuilindil?"
Tuilindil's response was polite yet resolute. "The offer is appreciated, Mother, but I must respectfully decline."
"The elves of Ithilien will be joining our merry-making this year," King Elessar announced, smiling. "Namely, Legolas Thranduilion accompanied by Gimli, son of Glóin."
Tuilindil leaped to her feet, causing her chair to topple over, her excitement was palpable. "Oh, father! How wonderful!"
Lennel, equally thrilled, clasped her hands together and squirmed in her seat, unable to contain her excitement. "Prince Legolas Thranduilion?! He is so very dashing... and eligible!"
"Oh, Tuilindil, can you imagine? The elven prince, utterly smitten by my presence," Lennel continued with a dreamy tone and a sly smile. "Perhaps he will be so enamored by my radiant beauty that he won't be able to resist the urge to court me."
Tuilindil's gasp of horror echoed through the room as she brought her hand to her mouth. "He's not that kind of elf, Lennel! How dare you hold such scandalous and indecent thoughts! He is practically family!"
"He is not family!" Lennel retorted, her voice rising with indignation.
As the heated exchange between Lennel and Tuilindil unfolded, Elessar's eyebrows climbed high upon his forehead. Lennel's excitement radiated from her, her cheeks flushed with anticipation, while Tuilindil stood there, visibly taken aback by her sister's words. The tension in the room was palpable, and he found himself torn between amusement and irritation.
Taken aback by the sudden intensity of the conversation, he quickly rose from his seat, hoping to defuse the tension, his voice carrying the weight of his authority. "Daughters, do not let this discussion spiral into animosity."
Lennel huffed, crossing her arms defiantly. "I'm only speaking the truth, Father. Legolas is a prince, and many eligible maidens would vie for his attention. It's only natural to think of him in that way."
Tuilindil's eyes widened with disbelief, and she turned to Elessar, her voice filled with indignation. "Father, surely you can see how inappropriate Lennel's thoughts are! Legolas is a dear friend, practically family to us. To suggest such scandalous notions... it's unthinkable!"
Elessar raised his hand to silence them both, his tone firm but gentle.
"Enough, both of you. Yuletide is not celebrated for another eight months. I would caution against building grand fantasies in your mind. Legolas is an honorable elf, and he and his company are coming to celebrate Yuletide as friends, not for courtship."
"Let us welcome him with warmth and hospitality, treating him as we would any honored guest."
Lennel pouted, lowering her gaze. Tuilindil, too, appeared to relax slightly.
Sighing, the king felt a slight urge to burst into laughter at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. Poor Legolas would undoubtedly have much on his plate this coming winter.
(S) Lirimaer - Lovely one
(Q) Tuilindil - small swallow / spring-singer
(S) Tinu - small star
(S) Bruinir - loud young man
(S) Naruthir - red face