Chapter Forty-Two
It was done. There was nothing they could do about it, save to prepare for war. The impassioned speech she had given him had been given in bitterness, but had been a slap on the faces on everyone, forcing to open their eyes to reality and common sense. Everyone barely survived Sauron, if ever.
Estela had been spending as much time as she could steal with Vanimelda. The little girl's mind was sharp and growing at a speeding rate, even for an elf's mind. Her body, of course, remained as small as ever- a baby really.
Again she thought about both her children and what this would mean for them. She just prayed they would succeed before her daughter was doomed to grow up beneath the darkness.
Or worse. Dead. Like Eleniel. Or consumed. Like her brother.
The Wood-Elves came to Lindon soon enough.
And it was the first time many of them had heard that Gil-Galad had a daughter.
Estela had been teaching the girl to weave. Vanimelda picked it up so speedily that her mother was both impressed and proud. She was using a miniature hand-loom that she held upon her lap. Vanimelda was also learning to read and write in Quenya, Sindarin, Adûnaic and Westron. She preferred Quenya, and so did Estela, but she was also fluent in Sindarin and Westron. Adûnaic she was quickly absorbing like water into a sponge, and she was eager to start learning more languages- the Telerin Dialect, and more. She had mastered the Tengwar which her forefather had invented. She wanted to learn Khuzdul. Estela smiled sadly at the eager innocence and hunger for knowledge that children had.
Music lessons also took place. The harp was favoured by her, and Estela had to wince inwardly at the memory it invoked of her lost uncle, whom she had given up for dead.
Perhaps she would see him again.
Vanimelda smiled as she walked by her mother's side. Estela paused as she noted the Wood-Elves talking in front of the fountain in the courtyard.
She noticed Thranduil talking with his companions. So, it appeared that Vanimelda wasn't going to be as secret as she would have liked to have kept her.
But surely such a thing would be considered futile by others. Except that her father and mother had successfully managed it for roughly an Age, her uncles too.
Thranduil's companion caught sight of the Noldorin Queen, and nudged the prince. Startled, he turned. Vanimelda was hiding behind her mother's skirts.
"Prince Thranduil," Estela said in Sindarin. "Welcome. I must say, I did not expect this."
He smiled. "My lady. Neither did I, but my father insisted." His brow furrowed, as he caught sight of the movement behind her skirts. "But, forgive me, if I may ask…"
Estela sighed. She should trust her allies more. It was something her husband had said to her. She looked down. "Come out, penneth." She said in Sindarin.
Slowly, shyly, Vanimelda came out from behind her mother's skirts. Thranduil's eyes widened in shock when he caught sight of the child, and his companions gasped.
Estela couldn't blame them. Vanimelda was breath-taking- impossibly beautiful, truly lovely to behold. In twilight she seemed to shine and glitter with the light of the stars.
It was the Maia blood, but she certainly would not blabber such a thing around.
"Prince Thranduil, my daughter, Vanimelda. Melda, meet Prince Thranduil of Greenwood.
Thranduil stared. "I did not know you had a daughter."
Estela knew he would have said 'we'. "It is best in such perilous times with the Enemy rampant to keep such an information as safe as possible. Bu we are allies, are we not?"
Prince Thranduil knelt in front of the child. She stared at him with her eyes, more luminous than gems. He extended a hand out in greetings. She blushed and shyly took it.
"Vanimelda Aranel," Thranduil said, surprising everyone with his fluent command of Quenya. "Greetings and blessings. Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."
A star shines in the hour of our meeting. The old greeting.
Melda blushed adorably, her eyes as large as saucers. She performed a curtsy to Thranduil who chuckled softly.
He rose. "Quite a surprise," he said. "She is like no other child that ever was. I pray she will flourish in the absence of darkness." He rose.
"I pray so too," Estela said quietly. "Do you have any children?" She asked by way of changing conversation.
He nodded. "A son. Hopefully more someday. He is around the same age as your daughter here."
Estela smiled. She had good feelings for the boy. Hopefully, he was as strong and brave as his father was. A special child, he must have been.
"I've never seen eyes like hers," he remarked. "They're quite extraordinary."
Estela paused. "Yes. My mother had eyes like those."
"Ah." No more was said. "Forgive me, I had no intention of-" but she shook her head. "No need for forgiveness." She smiled. "We are friends and allies. But my husband is currently occupied- unless you have already seen him?" She enquired.
"Soon, we are told. I do not blame him. Being a king is never easy, and these are darker times than most." Thranduil's face darkened.
Just then they spotted Círdan coming out. Estela raised an eyebrow. Apparently he was seeking Thranduil out. Though he didn't expect Estela and her daughter to be there.
"Ah," Estela said, not wishing to impose her presence simply because she was a queen. "Now I must take my leave. Pray excuse me, Prince Thranduil, but there are other things to do."
She left with Vanimelda.
"So, what did you think of the Greenwood Prince?" She asked her daughter.
"He's nice," she said shyly. "And kind. He also feels…"
"Feels?" Estela asked puzzled. "Well… he doesn't feel nothing when people say something really nice, or something really mean. He feels something. He's not icy, Amil."
"You mean he's sensitive?" Estela asked. "That's the word for it."
"Yes."
Estela paused. "Well, I suppose it's true. He cares for his people and loved ones very much, Prince Thranduil."
"Is there such a thing as too much?" Melda asked, wide eyes inquisitive.
Estela thought for a moment, haunted by the pain and loss she felt throughout her life. And of the Oath her father and uncles took to avenge their grandfather at the behest of their maddened, grief-stricken father.
"Perhaps. You shall have to figure that out yourself. It is not something to be taken lightly, however."
Melda looked into the distance.
"I feel like he's amazing and special," she admitted. "I also feel that there's something that's going to happen to us all- and we don't have a lot of time. Do you?"
Isildur sighed, and rubbed his forehead.
Things were going even worse than planned.
He glanced at his father, talking to Gil-Galad, a distance away on the beach.
"Something troubles you, Prince Isildur?" He heard a feminine voice say and turned to see Queen Estela, looking curiously at him.
"Not too much," he replied, turning back to the view. He made room, as she came and stood beside him.
There was silence. Isildur didn't think he could speak, even to fill the silence, for the loss that she felt, that still plagued her. The numb, horrible emptiness that came after the pain. He knew loss well enough. He'd lost his birthplace and first home, he'd lost many family-members and friends, to shame and dishonour, and death. And he had the awful, horrible, sickening feeling that it wasn't the end.
He exhaled. "What happens in the next few months… or years…" He couldn't continue.
Estela was silent. "Ereinion wants it to be over quicker than the War of Wrath. There is a chance that with so many allies, willing to put an end to this, rather than standing idle, means that there is a chance."
"And what do you believe?" He asked quietly. His grey eyes looked at her sombrely.
"That we are all foolish if we are to believe that this war will be over before we know it. And that Sauron is less strong and formidable than he is. He is not to be underestimated. One can never be too prepared. For anything."
Isildur's shoulders slumped. He knew she was telling the truth. She even had had more battle experience than him. Still, it was not something he liked to admit or hear to say out loud.
"Your wife is in Imladris?" Estela asked. Isildur nodded.
"She is expecting our youngest child." He replied. "My father believed that with the invasion of Minas Ithil, and the attack on Minas Anor, means that the next time we might not be so lucky. If we are cut off, with little chance to escape or gain supplies…" he trailed off. "At Rivendell, at least all the children would be safe."
Estela nodded sagely. "It's quiet." She said. "Like a diver, taking a deep breath. Or a predator lying in wait. Even a sword or an arrow flying through the air, before finding its target. It makes many feel a strange mixture of both calm serenity and fearful tension."
"Indeed." Isildur replied. "I know it all too well."
"Your brother will remain in Gondor," Estela inquired, looking at him. "I heard that your father has asked him to look to the defending of Osgiliath and Minas Anor."
Isildur nodded. "Anárion will be more than capable. As will we all."
Estela went silent again, pressing her lips together before asking, "Have you heard of any rumours about human leaders acting strangely lately, or accumulating great wealth or gaining success in the battlefield, that have not joined the Alliance?" She asked him.
He stared at her. "No, why?"
Estela pressed her lips together again. "The Rings," Isildur realised. "You wonder whom Sauron has given the Nine Rings to."
"They were taken by him when Eregion fell,' Estela said. "That is our belief. We could find no such thing amongst the smouldering remains of buildings and he dead."
Isildur went quiet. "Could they have possibly come to his side, without us knowing?" He asked.
"I do not know." Estela said quietly. "I was hoping you would tell me. They are your people, Isildur, no matter how different they are. If you are a powerful human leader and a fair and shining stranger comes at your doorstep, and offers you gifts that might save your people and offer them and your family protection, wealth and power, what would you do?"
Isildur swallowed. "If I were desperate enough I would take them. I might also take them if I were a greedier, cowardly and desperate individual."
Estela closed her eyes.
"Sauron would take them. He would bind them to him. Their bodies would wither and eventually fade, until all their lifeblood is leeched out of them, and disappears, like acid burning through metal. Their very identities would disappear into nothing, even within their memories. Their names, their feelings for others, the traits that make them who they are, likes and dislikes, temperament, all their memories, until what is left- something less than the mere shadow of a fëa- is leached solely to him. They feed on his emotions, his strength and desire to destroy and annihilate. They feel his rage, his hate, his malice and his desire for power and dominion over all and do as he instructs. They feel the need, the want- the power, to do as Sauron wills. That is what I have been told. They will no longer be themselves. They will not even be human- or any being under the sun, which they will shun worse than death."
Isildur swallowed again. He was unable to speak. Thankfully he was spared that when a soldier came to them.
"What is it?" He frowned. Estela did not even flicker and eyelid.
Everything seemed much too cold for Isildur, though.
"Forgive me, my lady, my lord, but the King requests your presence, sir, in the throne room." Isildur frowned. "He has an important mission for you, my lord."
Isildur frowned and Estela nodded. "Good fortune," she said.
"My lady," The soldier bowed. Estela nodded and turned back to the horizon.
Her green eyes narrowed as she looked out. There, just over the mountains, that served as a fence, a barrier of great promise but now seemed to lack fallibility, was the land of Mordor. The Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow, they were called. They were less like mountains and more like the most solid and towering of walls, letting not the tiniest beam of light through, nor the slightest thing happening on the other side show. Yet, always did the shadow hover over them, the sun did not shine there, Estela realised. Of course not. Orcs hated the sun, they found it painful, impossible, or at least unbearably difficult, to see through. And so would the Nine.
It wasn't the dark that people feared, but what hid inside the dark. And the forces of evil hated being laid bare for all to see.
The wall of mountains would not keep Sauron's armies in, nor would they keep Gondor's people safe.
Estela's beautiful, delicate face hardened. It was as if her son's loss and fear for her daughter had crumbled and shattered her from within, inside out, tearing out the anchors that held her steady, ripping out everything that made her what she is and kept her safe and going inside for so long. But now Celebrimbor's death shamed Estela, and served to steel her and remind her who she once was. The person that everyone needed to deal the death-blow to Sauron, hopefully, when the time came.
She would love it so. And she was ashamed and embarrassed for letting herself go like that. Never again, she vowed. Never!
She would be tortured like her cousin and burnt alive in the fires of Mount Doom before that happened again!
Isildur's wife glowed and gazed in awe, wonder and complete love at her new-born son, handed to her by Lord Elrond. Isildur himself was next to her, holding them close and kissing and blessing the child with tears of joy and pride in his eyes.
And then, according to Dúnedain tradition, the boy was handed to his father.
"His name is Valandil," Isildur announced, with quiet, shining pride. The glowing father held him up and said the ritual words he forgot to speak. "And I call him my own."
Of course he accepted the boy. Only the most heartless never would. But it was tradition, since in Númenor of late, the King's Men had taken to keeping concubines and mistresses- women for their own pleasure, whilst officially marrying multiple wives. Some even committed unspeakable acts with their own kin, like Ar-Pharazôn, for example, and as a result their offspring were born stunted, in body, mind or both. Women even had affairs.
The boy was sprinkled with water on his father's knee using a twig of the White Tree, with a few leaves. The father blessed the boy. After sprinkling him water- they really should have done this one month later in a proper ceremony, but this was wartime- he was wrapped up and his father took him to present him to the outside world whereupon a chosen herald announced him to be Valandil son of Isildur of the House of Elendil. "Hail Valandil!" He shouted. "Hail Valandil!" the crowd responded in turn, cheering and clapping loudly.
Estela observed this nearby and smiled sadly.
Her son was never received so joyously, she thought with pain and guilt. And how she missed him! And her daughter! How she wished they could be together, but she would not lament on that. Her son never even received an Essecarmë.
Elrond came and stood next to her.
"So," he said.
Estela was silent. "I do not know why I say this," she said. "But it bears upon me that this son of Isildur has a future and a strong and mighty line will arise- but the strength shall fail, and is in danger of being put out, like a flame of a candle."
Elrond was very quiet. "I thought so too." He stared at her. "You have a marvellous ability for one who is not a seer."
Estela's lips quirked and she moved to congratulate the new parents, the older brothers and to bless the infant herself.
Estela was dressed in a gown of pale green, which complimented the clearness and brightness of her eyes. Her throat was adorned with a massive sapphire the size of a chicken egg, on a mithril chain and she had a matching circlet-diadem. The gown had a pearl trim on the hem and adorning the elbows of her sleeves, a sapphire and jade girdle graced her waist. Estela sighed, as she felt the luxury and quality of the silk. She should be in armour. She should have two swords at her hip, or on her hands, not dressed like this in such times.
It doesn't feel right, she thought. But now Ereinion needed her to play the part of a queen, not a shieldmaiden.
Estela scowled when no one was looking. She wanted a sword. She wanted to kill orcs.
She wanted to avenge her son.
The thought froze her cold.
She couldn't. She didn't want to. She can't. She wanted to cure him. She wanted justice. She didn't want vengeance.
Always had she had prevented such thoughts and feelings from taking root within her mind, heart and fëa. Or in the very least squashed it.
Her grandfather wanted vengeance, and looked what happened next. He might have had good reason to do so, but what happened afterwards….
She wanted to defeat Sauron. And all evil. She would not go mad the way her grandfather did. She never would.
"My lady, are you alright?" A concerned voice called out. She blinked and registered the arrival of an elf with brown hair, and fine-chiselled features.
"Yes, perfectly alright…" She looked inquiringly at the unfamiliar elf. "Lindir, my Queen."
"Lindir." She affirmed, and gave a brief smile before continuing on.
"Thank you." She kept going.
The Great Hall in Imladris was large, but nowhere near as large as Lindon's. Ereinion smiled and nodded to her, taking her hand.
"I hope this business will be short," he admitted. "I'm not eager for long hours of feasting."
"To say the least," Estela muttered. "Remind me, why are we celebrating so much? Is it Valandil's naming feast?"
"Yes, and no." Ereinion responded. "There are more people to meet, more alliances to be made." She stared at him?
"Who?"
"You'll see," was all he said before she settled her hand on his arm, they both faced forwards and the doors flew open.
Everyone stood for their entrance, something Estela secretly disliked. But she bore it well enough.
Something was up with Ereinion however. As the King and Queen of the Noldor greeted and congratulated Isildur and his family again, Estela stole a glance at her husband.
It was good of Isildur and his family to share their son's naming feast with such an important event as the hopeful forging of new alliances.
Estela sat and food was brought out, but she barely ate. Wine in her goblet went untouched save for a few sips. Her emerald eyes scanned the hall for any newcomers.
There were Dwarves, alright. Many of them presenting their gifts to Valandil's parents. A stab of pain went through her at the thought of Telpe. He would have loved to have been there. Since when was she at a feast without him, especially a joyous feast where people gave away gifts like this? She forced the thought aside.
"Firebeards," Her husband said when she looked their way. "And Broadbeams. Stiffbeards and Ironfists have come as well. They come to offer an alliance."
She nodded solemnly. "Then we must work quickly least it all be for naught." She turned her eyes to the crowds of humans. "Any others?"
"We have sent messages to the Easterling tribes," he responded shifting to Quenya. "And some of the Haradrim. But it appears that the ones who are sympathetic to our cause and wary of Sauron are being supressed and invaded, if not enslaved by other tribes of the same area. And those that survive do not believe we can help them and want nothing to do with us, anymore."
"Oh dear," Estela groaned.
"It does not help matters that the Númenóreans of the past have treated them with disdain, almost as much as the Drúedain. I suppose some of them remembered that we, including you, have treated them kindly in the past, even saved some of their people, but the fact that we have allied ourselves with any surviving Númenóreans does not endear us in their eyes. They don't trust the Men of Gondor and Arnor."
"But they were treated even worse by the King's Men," Estela remarked. "And the Dark Númenóreans, their kin and those that follow the same way of thinking are aligned with Sauron."
"Perhaps," Ereinion said. "But Sauron is tricky and manipulative. He's convinced them that they will gain their rights and freedom, even vengeance if they ally themselves with him. I suppose he's keeping the Dark Númenóreans and the Easterlings and Haradrim separate. The armies are large enough."
"That is indeed grim news," Estela moaned quietly.
"Yes," he admitted. "But do not lose hope."
Estela grimaced and shook her head. She continued eating and drinking, though she had to force herself to swallow. She felt sick to the bone.
She blessed Valandil with all her heart, but she was not in a celebratory mood.
The next day saw an audience with the Dwarves.
"What?" She hissed at Ereinion.
He sighed. "We are going to plan an assault."
Estela cursed inwardly. "And I suppose we need the Dwarves for this?"
"Not yet. We don't ask them to go to battle straight away, you know this," he chided. "We just need to make sure they're on our side, and firmly too." He looked grim. "I will join you for a while, but I have to excuse myself and be late for there are still some things to plan." And with that he left the room.
Estela scowled and looked at the mirror. Once again, here she was. She didn't mind. She liked making friends. And she knew this was necessary. So why was she so strained?
Estela smoothed out her hair. Her dress was in a very dark blue, almost black, and sleeveless- a sight that would have raised some eyebrows, but so what? It was more practical than those long and draping sleeves. But the material was draped regally and had a pattern of adamants like a shower of falling stars from her shoulder downwards, and at her waist. Her shoes were studded with crystal and her jewellery were sapphires set in silver. The dark colour scheme contrasted elegantly with her white skin and it seemed to mute her hair stylishly
I find myself dressed like a queen, and yet I feel tired…so tired. And angry. And hurt, and pained. I never had much time to grieve properly.
That wasn't her husband's fault, though. She insisted on taking duties to distract her, and to do something meaningful and useful.
But she wondered if she was ready, as an afterthought.
But if she wasn't ready now, when will she be ready?
Estela swept from the room and met with the Dwarves of the Firebeard clan, the Broadbeam clan, the Stiffbeard and Ironfist clans.
"Welcome friends," she curtsied low to them, lower than an elven queen normally would when greeting dwarves. They were surprised at that. She even summoned her most brilliant smile, which really seemed to shine and sparkle.
"I give you my most heartfelt greetings," she said with sincerity that astonished them. Dwarves always identified elves as being prissy, prim and proper, even cold as ice, not showing what they really felt, which gave them cause for scorn. Estela could tell she really took them aback.
"Please," she indicated ornate seats for their level but thickly cushioned and embroidered richly as to honour them.
They sat. She poured them mead, their preferred drink.
"It was good of you to invite us here," One of them piped up.
Estela smiled. "I am truly glad you could come. Although I wish we could have met in better circumstances." Her face clouded with shadow.
"We offer our condolences on the death of your cousin, a truly great elf." One of them said quietly.
Estela's face shadowed in pain, but she sighed and nodded. "And I give my thanks for your kindness. But there is only one thing to do: To make sure cousin's sacrifice is not in vain."
They nodded fire-sparks in their eyes.
And now to business. Estela was to use everything she had to make them see reason and want to fight against the Dark Lord- she had to make them see, that sooner or later, if they did not come to his doorstep, he would come to theirs.
"Sauron has killed my cousin, his wife and child, and many of their people- and he has slain your kin, or rather, Durin's kin of the Longbeard clan, I've been told." Her shoulders slumped and her mournful, sorrowing eyes met theirs. "He came to us bearing gifts- to Men, Dwarves and Elves alike. And then he treacherously reared and bit us, like a snake in the shadows, waiting to jump to its prey." Her voice shook with rage.
Her grief and anger was apparent to the dwarves and they were filled with pity. "Take heart my lady," one of them said softly. "He will not win."
Estela smiled at him. "Alas, forgive me for disturbing you with such feelings when you yourselves I heard, are threatened."
"Aye," The Firebeard King rumbled. "That accursed Sauron…. His power and treachery knows no bounds."
"None indeed." The Ironfist King looked disgusted at the mention of him.
"That lackey of Morgoth will never gain all of Middle-Earth," Estela said, a hard strength and anger entering her voice and eyes, steeling her frame. "Which is exactly what he intends. He will not stop until every corner, every forest and garden, every mountain, every patch of land is reduced to ash where only orcs can grow and thrive. King Durin has told me that he has already taken Gundabad."
The Firebeard growled deep in his throat, and the others looked equally venomous and enraged. "Aye," he growled. "He has. That filthy, accursed, abhorred spawn of evil! That mountain was the sacred mountain in which Mahal created us, before placing us in different mountains! And that treacherous dog has taken it for his own… to breed… to breed… Filth!" He spat out the last word.
"Indeed," Estela's voice darkened. "I can imagine if Sauron were to take Cuiviénen, where my forefathers awoke." Her eyes flashed. "He will not stop there. He has made it quite clear he wants more. Minas Ithil, he now calls Minas Morgul, the Tower of the Moon becomes the Tower of Sorcery. And instead of glowing silver at night, it now grows a sickly corpse-pale light of green. And unspeakable acts, treacherous dark magic is being concocted there, undisputedly which Sauron uses to plan and extend his power over Middle-Earth." The Dwarves growled.
"Already he has killed so many of our kin." Estela said quietly. "I heard he has taken one of your mountains again, in the North."
Arghh!" The King of the Stiffbeards groaned. "He has taken one of our most populous dwellings! How many innocent dwarrowdams and children, have to die along with many of our best warriors?"
The Firebeard King's eyes flashed. "He has attacked us without provocation, stole our gold to fund mercenaries for his filthy armies, slaughtered our innocents like they were dogs gnawing on the corpses of warriors, and even denies them a decent burial."
Estela's eyes widened. "You mean they-"
"Yes!" The Firebeard threw his hands into the air. "They feasted on the flesh and gnawed the bones and marrows of our fallen dead! For centuries we have observed the sacred rituals for peace! From stone our creator made us, from stone we were born, and from stone we shall and must return in order to find peace with our forefathers in their halls! Yet Sauron knows this and he laughs mockingly in his fortress whilst his armies feast and desecrate our sacred halls and on our fallen!"
"I am sure they will find peace," Estela moved instantly to console them. "The Lord Aulë does not abandon his children and Eru-Ilúvatar sees all and loves all his children- Eruhíni we all are, even though it was Aulë who first forged you from stone." She smiled warmly and gladly. "He made you well, I see. Strong and hardy, enduring and persistent, though some see you as stubborn," she said fondly and they chuckled. "Skilled in shaping and hearty. For that I see no faults, even though our race is different."
They beamed at her.
"Speaking of which," Estela reached out with her hand. "You know I came from Valinor?"
The Stiffbeard's eyes widened. "So you must have…"
"Yes." Estela said. "I knew him." She extended out her hand. On one was a chain with a fiery opal stone, like a sun, dangling from a perfectly-wrought chain. It seemed to burn brightly and drank in the light of the morning. She extended the necklace with its pendant to the Firebeard King. How it shone! How it drank in the light and shone out infinitely bright as to make other gemstones seem poor and shabby. It was like no jewel they had ever seen- the most beautiful and the most brilliant-shining. "The Lord Aulë gave me this," she said quietly. "He did not make the chain- that was my cousin's doing- but the stone was made by his hands as were your fathers. And now, I freely give to you, as a sign of our friendship and that the Lord Aulë remembers and is with you every step of the way. And I know he must be proud, for he will never abandon you."
Needless to say they were speechless beyond belief. Tears shimmered in their eyes, as Estela draped the chain over the Firebeard's head, and he grasped the stone with so much awe and tears in his eyes, like a father beholding the first of his children, or someone being reunited with their long-dead parents. She gave similar gifts made by Aulë to the others. She had something for Durin too, though she had yet to meet him. She knew they would treasure this more than anything, and that they would not forget.
"And I must give Durin's gift as well when I next see him."
There was a long silence.
"My lady," The Broadbeam King sounded hoarse with tears. "We shall never forget this. And we shall not let you stand alone in the fight against evil. I cannot speak for all my kin, but the Broadbeams stand with you in this fight against the Evil One."
"Aye." The Firebeard was quick to echo, tears in his eyes. "And we as well," the Ironfist announced valiantly, pressing his fist to his heart in a salute, bowing from the neck. "We as well." Declared the Stiffbeard, rising. He beamed at the Elven Queen. "This say we all. We shall never forget, and we shall never allow evil to flourish and our friends and kin to be forsaken in the dark of Mordor."
Just then Gil-Galad entered the hall. His eyebrows rose as he beheld the sight. Estela clasped each of the dwarven kings' hands in friendship and curtsied low to them.
"What happened?" He asked her. She looked amused, but happier than he had seen her since Celebrimbor and his family's fall.
Durin too had entered the hall with Gil-Galad and he looked surprised. The other dwarven kings nodded their heads and acknowledged him and Gil-Galad as they went out, but their deepest bows of respect went to Estela.
She sighed, once they left. "It appears the other Dwarven Clans will stand with us. In the meantime, King Durin, I have a gift that will restore the hopes of your race."
The Híni Ilúvataro were united in the fight against Sauron. They will not go alone.
"You are a wonder," mused Ereinion seemingly reverently.
"I had something to do," Estela said. "And I knew I should."
They stood in the balconies overlooking Imladris' beauty and those of the stars. They weren't the brightest tonight but they shone strong and true, it seemed.
He held her close and she leaned onto him. They kissed.
"We don't have long it seems," Ereinion said regrettably. "But I cherish and savour every moment with you as long as I can. They kissed again, and embraced.
"I feel as if we have too little time, even for now," she said. "Please let us be together and shine in whatever moments we can steal."
"I love you, my darling," he whispered. "I pray we will always be together." "And I love you. It will never end." She swore.
Silver-Hand!... you will fail. Your spirit will never see the Halls of Mandos!
You cannot resist my power, Silver-Hand. I can feel your rage. Your hate. Your pride. Your flames feed nothing but evil.
You fall to the ways of your grandfather and father. Like them you shall fail.
"You know nothing of true power, Sauron! The light will always prevail! All who resist will be burnt by it!"
That voice! She knew that voice! She wanted to scream, to cry out, to run to him! It was Telperinquar- her cousin!
Estela awoke all of a sudden. It was a dream. Just a dream. Just a foolish hopeful dream. A foolish, hopeful dream, for a foolish, hopeful creature who should have known better!
"My love is something wrong?" Ereinion asked beside her.
"Nothing." She lay back down. "Nothing at all."
The preparations to march continued. Eastwards they will go.
Círdan will join them. And then Elendil will meet them. Soon after, they will be joined by Elrond from Imladris. They will then have to plan carefully for the next phase. Sauron would not back down so easily. But a show of strength may surprise him and spur the need to throw something back at them tenfold.
Estela oversaw the preparations. And all the while she could not stop her mind and kept thinking about her priceless, irreplaceable baby daughter, her lost precious son, her truest love and husband…
And her cousin.
Was he truly alive?
Sorry for the long wait.
I read a little about Dúnedain naming ceremonies. The father formally accepts the child, with very little exceptions, such as if the child was not his, or he was heartless, or if it was marked by evil- due to the unspeakable acts the King's Men committed when their island still existed. But there is bound to be a blessing for sure, and I wrote here that the child was sprinkled with water, like Vikings would do for their babies' naming ceremonies. In the movie Born of Hope, Aragorn comes out in his father's arms and someone cries out, "Behold Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain! Scion of Elendil of Númenor! The heir of Isildur! Hail Aragorn!" And everyone responds the same way. In the writings, it says that they usually wait a month before arranging a feast, but I think in war, there is little time to spare.
The Drúedain, a.k.a Woses, are a race of humans, shorter and considered ugly-looking by other men, as well as mostly keeping to the forests, being very secluded. Because of their looks, and despite of their good nature, other humans look down upon them and see them as evil, often slaughtering them for sport, until Aragorn became king and placed laws for their protection. I assume they must have had similar treatments to Easterlings, Dunlendings and Haradrim, based on such information and the fact that Aragorn-Elessar King of Gondor and Arnor and Éomer King of Rohan, made peace with them and trade after the war.
Eruhíni and Híni Ilúvataro means 'Children of Eru-All-Father'.
The Longbeards, Firebeards and Broadbeams, the Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots (latter two not seen here), are the clans of Dwarves. Thorin Oakenshield, his family and Company and cousin Dáin Ironfoot are Longbeards.