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Chapter Text

The region of Ithilien was quiet. The sun was setting and its reddish tint colored the vast landscapes extending for miles and miles. It was a pretty sight in spite of all the devastation the war had brought. Its capital, Emyn Arnen, stood tall and proud once again. It had been recently rebuilt to host the new prince's home and military headquarters. The arrival of the new prince had restored hope in the hearts of Men in a way that even the hills surrounding the city seemed livelier than they'd ever been. It was on the top of one of those hills that stood, pensive, a lonely figure.

A young maiden with long ebony hair. She was still so very young, yet her features revealed poise and wisdom beyond her years. Elenna was her name but the people of Ithilien also called her Tindómiel, morning star in the old Elven language. Tindómiel she was, for she radiated a special light and bright as stars were also her pale gray eyes. Inquisitive, soulful eyes which seemed to hold all the knowledge since the breaking of the world, eyes which so closely resembled her late grandmother's. Persistent rumors had spread within and beyond Ithilien, rumors claiming that Elenna Tindómiel was no other than the re-incarnation of Finduilas, Princess of Dol Amroth and Lady of Minas Tirith. Silly rumors that the young maiden was blissfully unaware of. Others claimed her to be a direct descendant of Lúthien the Fair, the Elf-maiden who had given up her immortality to be with her Edain lover back in the Elder Days. The tale of Beren and Lúthien had been recounted countless times over the centuries and there was no one in the realm of Men who didn't know of their love. It happened to be Elenna's favorite piece of Middle-Earth lore and she could sing every verse of the poems in the Lai of Leithian, the first ever written transposition of their epic story. The young maiden loved to read, a trait she'd inherited from her father.

Her darling father whom she hadn't seen in several long weeks. He'd been summoned to Minas Tirith at once and he'd left at dawn while she was fast asleep. She hadn't had a chance to bid him farewell and it pained her. He was often away on business and she never knew when she would see him again. The road to Minas Tirith could be impervious and, even though the Great Enemy had been defeated, its spies still wandered about. She worried about him and couldn't wait for him to come back. Her papa, her ada. He had the sweetest, most melodious voice and told bedtime stories like no other. Sometimes she envied her little bother, who was still a toddler and was allowed to enjoy the tales as told by the lore master that was their father. He had a unique way with words; he knew exactly what to say in any occasion and, most importantly, he knew how to say it. He was a most excellent diplomat and a competent strategist, which she supposed was why the King seemed to need his counsel at all times. She sighed and closed her eyes. She wished he wasn't so indispensable to the King. She was sure he could do without him for a while. He had other councilmen he could rely on and her father had his lands to oversee as well.
Elenna tried to help as much as she could but she wasn't versed in accounting and government matters. Her mother had been.

Her mother. She had many fond memories of her.

A shieldmaiden from the North, she'd gone to battle disguised as a knight and had become a heroine to all the free people of Middle-earth. She'd come to embody courage and hope and, following the defeat of the Great Enemy, she'd let down many suitors in her homeland by marrying her father, a foreigner, a man of the South.

They'd met in the Houses of Healing, where they'd both been treated and they'd fallen madly in love. They'd announced their betrothal shortly after the king's coronation and they'd waited a whole year before they were officially wedded. Theirs had been a love-filled marriage and Elenna knew her father was forever grateful to the Valar for the time he'd been allowed to spend with his beloved, however short it might have been. Though it was unmistakably obvious, to strangers and kin alike, that he missed her tremendously.

Three years had passed since her untimely demise and he still couldn't make sense of it. Other people too couldn't still quite believe their beloved lady, the Lady Éowyn of the Shield-Arm, the one who'd struck down the Witch-king of Agmar, had perished in childbirth. She'd last drawn breath three years prior succumbing to puerperal fever. She'd died nearly a week after birthing the heir to the House of Stewards. Her father-who'd been traveling on business for the past three months-had hastily come back to Ithilien only to find his wife lying limp in his Elenna's arms. The nine-year-old girl hadn't neither flinched not cried and had handled the tragic occurrence with the utmost decorum, a textbook display of Gondorian propriety. She was the lady of the house now, the highest-ranking female in Ithilien and the second highest-ranking female in the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor-of which Ithilien was a fiefdom- after the Queen herself. All of her mother's titles had been bestowed upon her and the young maiden seemed to realize the significance of it. She ran the household, hired and occasionally fired servants, and oversaw her little brother's education, often filling in when his tutors were ill or unavailable. As expected from a Gondorian noblewoman, she was well versed in feminine crafts- she could paint, draw and sew excellently and, despite her young age, she could carry a conversation with dignitaries and farmers alike. She was a fine dancer and mastered etiquette to a t.

She knew how to smile, talk and curtsy, she'd learned how to convincingly fake an interest in the most trivial pursuits-a matter of survival in the often frivolous Gondorian society-and mastered the art of diplomacy; a trait she'd undoubtedly inherited from her father. In addition to Westron, the common tongue, she was fluent in Sindarin, the language of the Elves, and Rohirric, her mother's. She also knew the basics of Quenya, the Elven language of old. It was not strictly required of a noblewoman to learn it but she'd taken it up in order to better understand the old poems her father used to read. The Lai of Leithian, for instance, was written in Quenya and, although she had enjoyed several modern translations of the tale, she found the poems in the original High-Elven language much more captivating. They had a different flavor to them, they sounded mystical. She was also into music- she played the harp and the flute and was a competent singer, even though she had misgivings about it. Being very shy, she often found it difficult to speak up even though she could do so when the situation required it. She was a gentle, retiring young girl, but she was also dutiful and knew full well what was expected of her and her position. She would go to any lengths to help her land and ensure her people's safety. That was to be her primary concern. The people. Her father had stressed it for as long as she could remember and she would always heed his words. Her father. Her ada.

Words couldn't describe how much she missed him. How much she missed his tender smile, his gentle touch and the wisdom he was kind enough to impart. She sighed as the evening breeze caused her cloak to fall off her shoulders down the hill. She ran after it at once. She couldn't lose it. Out of all her possessions, the starry cloak of Dol Amroth was the one she cherished most. It had once belonged to her grandmother Finduilas and she'd given it to her then- five-year-old ada on her deathbed. He'd sworn he'd one day gift it to the lady that were to become his wife and thus it'd been inherited by the Lady of the Shield-Arm. With her mother now gone, it had been given to Elenna. It was an invaluable family heirloom and she would have rather have her head chopped off than losing it to the wind. She grabbed it by the hem and wrapped it around her body. She smiled. It felt like a warm embrace. It felt like having both her mother and grandmother by her side. She rubbed her arms and looked up. The sun had almost completely disappeared and she'd better go back before dusk. The servants and her brother might worry, after all. She ran down as fast as her legs allowed. In doing so, she ended up tripping in the cloak and tumbled down the hill face-planting on the grass. A muffled groan escaped her lips.

"My lady?"

A strong pair of arms helped her up to her feet. Elenna opened her eyes and immediately looked down in shame.

"Ioreth. I'm sorry."

Ioreth was her nursemaid, the woman who'd delivered her and looked after her. She was quite elderly, having served as handmaiden to her grandmother in her youth and having known her father since birth. After the death of her mistress, she'd started working in the Houses of Healing and that had been her occupation until she'd surrendered her office to be a part of her father's newly-established household in Ithilien. She loved Elenna and her brother as if they were her own children and she was often harsh with them. There was no malice in her intent, but she took her role as guardian seriously and nothing got past her. She always spoke her mind and was extremely blunt in her judgement, much to the other servants' horror and dismay. She was now looking at Elenna with stern eyes, her arms folded. The young girl gulped.

"What were you doing, my lady?" Ioreth asked.

"I had lost my cloak," Elenna explained, "I wanted to get it back and I tripped."

"Look at you, your dress is covered in mud. You ought to change before your Lord Father comes back."

Elenna's eyes widened.

"He's coming back!? When will that be?"

"He's expected to be back tonight, my lady. A messenger from Minas Tirith visited and he informed me that your Lord Father and the White Company have left at dawn in a hurry. Captain Beregond was worried because he opined your Lord Father hadn't rested properly and they should postpone the journey. They even quarreled until the Captain finally relented. The messenger thought this last bit would amuse you, my lady."

"It indeed sounds like Beregond." Elenna chuckled.

Beregond had been Captain of the White Company, her father's personal guard, for as long as she could remember. His devotion to his lord knew no bounds and Elenna was deeply grateful he was someone who could be trusted. Beregond was generous, kind and loyal; so loyal he'd barely avoided being sentenced to death to save his liege from certain death at the hands of a madman. It had happened long ago, before the end of the war of the Ring, as it was was also called. Elenna had begged Ioreth to tell her more about it, but the nursemaid had politely declined several times. She'd only told her her Lord Father had been in grave danger but she'd been quick to admit he owed his life to both his Captain and King Elessar. 'Remember, child', she'd once said, 'the hands of a king are hands of a healer'.

She, being a healer as well at the time, had tended to his physical wounds but it had been the king who had tended to the wounds of the soul, bringing him back to the light. She wasn't sure she'd understood then and she wasn't quite certain she did now but, heeding her nursemaid's request, she'd not inquired further.

"I'll draw you a bath, my lady. You need scrubbing and your hair needs fixing."

"While I concur about the first half of your statement I fail to see what's wrong with my hair. It's how my mother wore it."

Ioreth sighed and caressed the child's face. "I understand, my lady. She's sorely missed by everyone who's ever met her, for her kindness and valor showed through her many deeds and still our people feel that very same kindness in their daily lives. She never truly left these lands. I understand your desire to honor her through tiny details, my lady, but I must remind you that you bear no ties to to her birth home for she renounced it when she plighted her troth to your Lord Father. She forsook Rohan and became a woman of the South, the Princess of Ithilien and lady of the Kingdom of Gondor. You are not obliged to follow her old customs and you shouldn't either, for you are the Lady of the House of Ithilien. You must act according to what Gondor commands and requires of you. Wearing your hair loose is not considered proper for an unmarried lady, you know it well. You should thus allow me to comb it and style it as dictated by Southern protocol, so that you may receive your Lord Father in accordingly fashion when he returns."

"I don't remember my father ever fussing about the way my mother wore her hair or the way she conducted herself."

"Your Lord Father is the most righteous, pure-hearted man this land will ever know, madam. Perhaps he feared your mother would hurt and I know it in my heart he would never wish to hurt anyone, either physically or verbally. And it was not in my power to question the Princess of Ithilien or her choices. But I am allowed to advise you, my lady, and I wish you to grow up to be a proper woman, as your rank befits."

"Are you suggesting my mother wasn't a proper lady, Ioreth? Do you think she was a savage from the North, as so many Gondorians are still so inclined to believe? You know as well as I do that she was a hero. We all enjoy our freedom because she slayed that foul creature that would've brought nothing but death and destruction to the whole of Middle-earth. And yet, you have the nerve to insult her, to ridicule her even now that she lies asleep beneath the ground in the homeland she so loved? You might think she forsook Rohan, but, let me tell you, her devotion and love toward her people never faltered. She left her childhood home to marry my father, that is true. And she did it happily, for she dearly loved him. But at heart she was, and still is, a proud daughter of Rohan, Lady of the Riddermark and beloved sister of Éomer King, my uncle."

She stared at her nursemaid, her chin up high and her eyes fierce. Ioreth bowed her head, silently.

"I apologize, my lady. Forgive me, I beg you. I had the utmost respect for your mother and I never once thought of her as a savage. I admired her courage and her strength, which you clearly have inherited. Please forgive my careless words and I promise I shall not speak of the Princess of Ithilien unless I'm commanded to either by you or your gracious Lord Father."

Elenna nodded. "I forgive you, Ioreth. The love I bear you is greater than any disappointment I might feel." Her lips curved into a smile, "come now, I certainly need some scrubbing before father returns or else he might think I'm the savage!"

Ioreth chuckled. "Well said, my lady, well said."

-

Elenna sat in front of her mirror as Ioreth braided her hair. Two little braids that were to be joined together with an elaborate silver hair clip that was supposed to be an ornament for her dark mane, loose and shiny on the girl's back.

"You have beautiful locks, my lady, much like your grandmother. In fact, you look exactly like her. Have you ever been told that?"

"You already know the answer, Ioreth. That's all I ever heard growing up," she sighed loudly, "how was she? Can you tell me something about her?"

The nursemaid nodded as she grabbed a brush. "The lady Finduilas was the fairest lady of the South. Mortals have rarely come across such a beautiful woman, of that I'm certain. She was lively and cheerful, she enjoyed singing and dancing as much as you do. She was reared in Dol Amroth and spent most of her time by the sea when relieved of her princessly duties. She was a language prodigy and would've made a wonderful ruler in her own right. That was not to be, sadly. Everything changed for her when she got married. And not for the best, I'm afraid."

Elenna frowned. "What do you mean?"

"She was not cut out for life in Minas Tirith. The harsh climate didn't agree with her and she grew weaker. I don't wish to speak ill of the dead but I believe your grandfather also played a significant role in her decline."

"How so? Was he not in love with her? If she truly was a lady of such beauty and modesty, I find it hard to fathom how any man could not at least feel affection for her."

"Was he in love with her? Of course he was, my lady! But his love was ultimately what killed her. He loved her too much and was utterly displeased when they were apart."

"How romantic!"

"Hush, my lady, let me finish. He forbade her to visit her parents and her siblings. He couldn't stand it when she was away from him so he never even let her out of the palace. Your grandmother so wished to return to Dol Amroth but was never permitted to do so. And even when she fell ill and the warmer climate of her homeland was deemed as her last resort to ever possibly get her health back, she still wasn't allowed to go."

"Couldn't she run away? A weird concept of love my grandfather had, that is, if your words are true." Elenna stared at her nursemaid, "but I can see no lie in your eyes. Please continue. Did she ever try to flee back to Dol Amroth?"

Ioreth scoffed.

"Run away? Oh no, madam. She would've never dared. It's not proper behavior to run away from one's husband and your grandmother understood propriety better than anyone else. Leaving was never an option."

Elenna bit her lip. "What happened to her? How did she die?"

Ioreth hesitated as she looked at the mirror reflecting the image of her young mistress. "She withered away, my lady. Her children, her precious boys, they were her only source of happiness and comfort in this world. Her already poor health worsened dramatically after your Lord Father was born and she died on a spring day not long after your father's fifth birthday."

The young girl didn't answer, pondering her nursemaid's words. When she finally spoke, she sounded tired. "You said, her children?"

"Yes, my lady. Of course. Does it come as a surprise?"

Elenna blinked. "Yes, well...does my father have any siblings? He never mentioned them. Are you sure you're not mistaken?"

"Of course he does, my lady," she paused as her eyes filled with tears. She held her breath as she fixed the back of Elenna's gown. "There you are, madam. You look beautiful."

"Are you alright, Ioreth? Have I...have I upset you? If that's the case, I'm deeply sorry. Please let me make it up to you. I had no idea..."

"Nonsense, my lady. It's just that...your uncle was a remarkable soldier and such a caring man. This realm truly lost its brightest star when he fell. A shining beacon of hope he was. A wonderful comrade, brother and son. He was loved wherever he went. How could they not love him? So valiant a warrior, so fearless he was...he's now gone beyond the circles of the world, where the living cannot venture. But worry not, my lady, we shall see him again and you'll meet him."

Elenna was shocked. "Father never...did my mother know him?"

"I know not, madam. She might have met him but it sure was years prior to her marriage to your Lord Father. She probably didn't even know they were related. How sad, really."

"How did he..."

Ioreth understood what she was about to ask and cut her off.

"I cannot answer your question, my lady, and I'm sorry. I know not how the Lord Boromir met his tragic death but I have no doubt in my heart he fought bravely. That's all I know, my lady."

Elenna sighed once again. Boromir. Her uncle. She was glad Ioreth had told her about him. She assumed he'd died during the war, perhaps on a scouting mission or during a siege. She was about to prod her elderly nursemaid for more information but changed her mind as she was how shaken the woman looked.

"Thank you for sharing your memories with me," she smiled, hugging her, "I wish I knew how to comfort you. You must have loved him dearly. I can guess now why my father never uttered a word about him in all these years. Perhaps his grief is still too near."

"I imagine so, my lady. Thank you for your thoughtful words, they mean a lot to me. And you needn't worry, I'm just a servant."

"Don't say that. And even if I regarded you as a mere servant, I'd still try and comfort you. Every individual deserves respect and validation, Ioreth, no matter what their social position might be. Father taught me so and I believe him to be right."

"Your father is a wise man, my lady. He was always wise beyond his years. I suppose having Mithrandir as mentor greatly helped him and shaped him into the mighty man he is today."

"Mithrandir?"

"Yes, my lady," Ioreth raised an eyebrow, "you surely know who he is, right? You do know of him, don't you?"

She nodded, albeit hesitantly. "I think I do. I've heard stories when I accompanied father to Minas Tirith last summer. Tales which boys in the city were whispering to one another. They were talking about an old wizard who had saved them. Some of them called him Gandalf, some referred to him as the White Rider and many others claimed his name was Mithrandir, which is a Sindarin name and it means Gray wanderer. But that doesn't make much sense to me, Ioreth. It cannot be the same person, can it?"

"I've always called him Mithrandir, my lady. That's what the people of Gondor called him. Perhaps the other names you mentioned were his other aliases. Many people used different names during the war, you know, it was a way to elude the Dark Lord. The king himself was known as Strider for a time. He used to be a ranger."

"The King? King Elessar? A ranger? Why?"

"You certainly ask a lot of questions, my lady!" Ioreth giggled, "You truly are your father's daughter! He too talked incessantly when he was your age." She paused for an instant before she continued, "I know not our gracious liege's whole story, I only know he's a Dúnadan, you know, the people in the North. The people who dwelled in the territories that once belonged to the lost kingdom of Arnor, which has only recently been restored. I suppose he chose to be a ranger to make sure the Dark Lord couldn't find out about him."

Elenna nodded and thanked her nursemaid for her endless patience. She was about to ask something else when the door opened and a curious head peeked in.

"Enna!!!"

The girl's eyes lit up.

"Elboron!"

She momentarily forgot about her hair and her dress and ran up to him, picking him up. "Hello, little brother. Are you all excited papa's coming home?"

Three-year-old Elboron wrapped his arms around her neck. "Where papa."

"He'll be here soon, little one. Look at you, isn't it a gorgeous uniform that you're wearing? You look so dashing."

The child giggled and Elenna put him down. His governess, a young maiden named Fíriel barged into the room with a panicked look on her face.

"My lady, I'm sorry! It's so hard to keep track of his whereabouts, I'm terribly sorry he interrupted you...dame Ioreth, forgive me! It shall not happen again, you have my word! Come, my lord, please!"

The governess dropped into a low curtsy as Elenna addressed her. "Rise, Fíriel, you needn't bother with such formalities. And you're quite right, my brother is a handful indeed!", she smiled at her servant and turned to Elboron, "Will you go with her now, brother? Be nice to her and make sure you're well groomed or papa will be disappointed."

"Papa no disappointed, Enna. Me good for papa."

She kissed the top of his blond head, so reminiscent of their mother's.

"You should be, dear one. Thank you Fíriel, you may leave us."

"With your permission, my lady, I will take my leave. May the Valar bless you. Good day, dame Ioreth. Come, my lord."

Elboron reluctantly let go of his sister's hand and followed the governess into his own room. She turned to Ioreth.

"He's a sweet child, isn't he? She reminds me of her, oh, so much."

Ioreth nodded."The blood of Rohan flows strong in his veins. He's his mother's son."

"Yes...yes, I agree."

She fell back on her chair as if her breath had been suddenly knocked out of her. Ioreth, alarmed, dropped the jewelry box she was trying to open and quickly rushed to her side.

"My lady? What is it?"

Elenna winced. "N-nothing."

She took a deep breath. "It just seems I've been grieving ever since my mother passed. But I shouldn't be troubling you with such matters. All is well."

"It's my duty to tend to you, madam. I'll do whatever it is in my power to make you happy. And I can see you're not happy now, my lady. Is there anything I can do to relieve you of your burdens?"

"Stay with me. Please."

"Aye, that I can do."

The nursemaid caressed her mistress' head and picked up the jewelry box. A golden necklace with a pendant lay on the floor and Elenna took it, inspecting it. She'd never seen it before. She suspected it had belonged to her mother and held onto it long enough to realize it was a locket. She opened it and saw it contained a miniature depicting a woman with blonde locks and fierce blue eyes. Her mother.

"My lady, I think you should wear...", Ioreth stopped in her tracks as she saw her young mistress kissing the miniature.

"Put all the jewelry away, I'm wearing this and I'm not talking it off. I think father will be pleased."

"He will be, madam."

"I wish he would speak to me more. I hardly know of his past. I love him to death, yet there's so much of him I don't know."

"You can ask him as soon as he returns. I doubt he will refuse you anything."

"I have tried and he never disclosed anything, " she sighed, "I do not think it will that easy, Ioreth."

"Perhaps he deemed you too young to understand. You'll never know if you don't try, my lady."

"I guess...your assumptions might be correct. He's my father after all, there's no harm."

"Of course, my lady, and if I may..."

The nursemaid was brusquely interrupted by the sound of hooves approaching. Hooves and voices coming from downstairs. A servant, one of the stableboys, ran to the room, his forehead covered in sweat.

"My lady..."

Elenna glanced at him briefly and it dawned on her. "He's back, at last!"

"Yes, my lady. Dame Ioreth, please escort the lady Elenna downstairs so that her father may greet her. I'll send word to the Lord Elboron's governess to do the same."

"Of course. Shall we, my lady?"

Elenna though wasn't listening. To hell with etiquette and propriety. She sprinted out of her room, much to Ioreth's dismay, and ran through the long corridor leading to the stairs. It was there that she bumped into someone and nearly fell backwards.

"Forgive me, I did not see..."

She gasped. "Father..."

She quickly fixed her gown and curtsied, head down. He bowed his head before pulling her into a hug.

" Come here, vanimelda, my child."

She crumbled into his arms and broke into sobs. "I missed you so much, ada. So much."

He gently rocked her back and forth, caressing her head. He was talking in a whisper.

"Hush, vanimelda, hush. I'm here now, ada's here. Oh, my daughter, I so wish I didn't have to leave so often."

He kissed her hair.
"My darling, my beautiful, stunning star, don't weep. Hush, now."

She gulped and held onto him, tightening her grip around his waist.
"Take me with you next time. Elboron too. It's unbearable to be parted for so long; Ioreth does the best she can and I thank the Valar every day for her but...I need my father. I need you here. Please, ada. Please don't go. Please don't leave us. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere, vanimelda. I'm not leaving."
He cupped her face.
"You've grown so beautiful, my daughter. Such a pretty little flower...oh, how I missed you!"

Ioreth suddently appeared, confused as to why there seemed to be so much commotion.

"My lady, I heard you crying, are you...My Lord Prince! My Lord Faramir!" she exclaimed, bowing.

Faramir, the twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor and first Prince of Ithilien, lifted his head and nodded. "My dame Ioreth, please rise."

"My lord, had I known, I would've..."

"You didn't. It's fine. Where is my son?"

"He was with his governess just moments ago, my lord. Mistress Fíriel, the young maiden. I shall tell her to bring him to you at once and..."

She was interrupted by happy shrieks.

"Papa!"

Elboron ran up to his father and found himself spinning around, his sister watching merrily. She felt tears prick her eyes as she witnessed their sweet interaction, the both of them giggling and laughing. Faramir turned to his daughter.

"Have you had supper already?"

"No, Father. Even though I must confess I'm not particularly hungry at this time. I'm way too happy to eat."

Faramir scoffed. "Now, vanimelda, that doesn't make the least bit of sense to me. But I trust your judgement, dear one. What about you, young man?"
He delicately pressed his lips on Elboron's rosey cheek. "Is my little boy hungry?"

Elboron frowned, his lips pursed. He then cuddled up to his father, resting his head on his shoulder, and let out a yawn.

"You're tired, aren't you, my little warrior? Perhaps you should go to bed."

The Prince of Ithilien motioned for Ioreth to get closer. "Would you see him to his chambers?"

"I will, my lord. Give him to me."

Faramir handed her the sleepy child. Elboron flinched and his blue eyes widened in fear as the elderly nursemaid gently held him. He turned back to his father and stretched his little arms towards him.

"Papa?"

"You're alright, ion-nín, I'm here."

The child looked terrified. "No..."

Elenna, who couldn't bear to see her brother in distress, persuaded Ioreth to put him down. She then took his little hand and knelt before him so that she could look him in the eyes. "Elboron, my sunshine, would you like papa to tuck you in?"

The child nodded and clung to Elenna until Faramir took him to his bedroom. Elenna bid Ioreth goodnight and walked steadily into her own room. He shut the heavy oak door behind her and neatly folded her gown before putting it into her clothing trunk. She wore her night tunic and got into bed, neglecting to untie her hair. It didn't matter now. She took a deep breath and smiled, happily. Her ada was back. All would be well. All was mended. If only her mother could've been there...

She found herself playing with the locket around her neck. It was so comforting to hold something which had belonged to her mother, something she could remember her by. She'd been buried along with most of the possessions, as dictated by Rohirric tradition. Her father had only kept her sword, which Elenna had been forbidden to touch until she was of age, and a silk dress the young girl couldn't wear yet. She had never seen the locket before and swore to the Valar she would never take it off. She had two most valuable, treasured items now: her grandmother's cloak and her mother's locket.

She cast a glance at the latter's miniature before kissing it softly. Such a beautiful, tiny portrait of a wonderful woman who should've lived to see her children grow up and accomplish great things. She should've been able to get to know Elboron and play with him, she should've been there to tell her tales of Rohan, she should've been there to teach her how to handle a sword and defend herself. Yet she wasn't there. Childbed fever had taken her away from her land, from her people, from her beloved husband, from her children, from her friends. Elenna closed her locket and gripped it tight as tears streamed down her pale face.

She buried her face into her fluffy pillow and hugged the old stuffed horse she'd been given by her uncle Éomer. It was somewhat of a family heirloom, a symbol of the Riddermark and the House of Eorl. Her mother and all the royal ladies of Rohan before her had played with it. She believed she was too old to behave childishly and being the lady of Ithilien left no time for playing. But, as time went by and especially after her mother's passing, she'd found solace in petting it and she held it close to her heart in her sleep. It made her feel safe; as if her mother was watching over her.

She was half-asleep and barely able to keep her bloodshot eyes open when she heard her door creaking. Normally she would've leapt to her feet and perhaps yelled at the intruder but she was simply too tired. Practically exhausted. She sighed quietly as she felt a hand caress her head. Someone was sitting on the edge of her bed. She groaned and turned around, her eyes shut.

"Vanimelda?"

Her eyes were still closed, but her happiness was apparent by the way she smiled. "Ada."

He caressed her cheek. "I'm sorry I woke you. I just longed to see you."

He opened her eyes weakly and blinked. She was about to cry and she'd sworn to herself she wouldn't. Not in front of her father. She let out a shaky breath and covered her face.

"My own heart, what's troubling you? What's upsetting you so?" Faramir was on the brink of tears himself. "Look at me, darling. Please, tell me what's wrong. Would you like me to leave?"

"No!" she screamed and grabbed his arm with both hands. "Not you too. Please don't. Don't go, ada."

"I'm not leaving, vanimelda, I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me."

He lay next to her and she instinctively cuddled up to him, much like Elboron had done. She assumed it to be childish on her part- or at least very unladylike- but she needed her father and, most of all, she needed reassurance.
He'd been away too long, he might yet leave again, and she intended not to part from him unless it were strictly necessary. Unless either her or his life depended on it.

"I was thinking of mother," she mumbled, "I still can't believe she's not here. She should be. Elboron misses her so, father. He couldn't stop asking of her and it was so hard for me to tell him that...I couldn't bring myself to do it and I wanted to lie to him...I didn't know what to do, I tried my best but...oh, ada, why did she have to die!? Why!?" she cried out.

The Prince of Ithilien stared at his daughter and said nothing, knowing no words would ever be enough to ease her pain. A tear trickled down his cheek as he noticed the locket. "I had this made for her, shortly after we married. She was so beautiful. No portrait could ever do her justice. I've never encountered such beauty, such grace in any other woman. Not even the Elvish tongue could describe how fair the White Lady of Rohan was. My Éowyn."

"Even in death she was fair," Elenna chimed in, "she looked so content, so peaceful. She so desperately wished to see you one last time, to hold you and to bid you farewell...she loved you, ada, she truly did. She told me so. All she could think of, in her final moments..."

"I beg you, vanimelda...," he whispered, "let us not speak of this. I'd rather not speak of my beloved unless it brings you comfort. For that I'm glad to sacrifice my own happiness and my own peace of mind. But I'd rather not recount such painful memories, for I fear I might as well give up on life. Her sweet memory haunts me every day and it is too great a burden to bear. Oh, my beloved..."

" I didn't mean to cause you pain, father. I merely felt the need to talk to you about it. Forgive me. It breaks my heart to think I'm the cause of your suffering when I could've kept my own worries and thoughts to myself while sparing you this ordeal. It's most unfair and I'm aware of it, but I hope you won't judge me hardly and, most of all, I hope you understand my motives, for you're the only person on this good Earth to whom I can speak as freely."

"There's nothing to forgive, my daughter. I'm delighted you can talk to me as freely as you say, for my sorrow would be even greater if you felt otherwise."

Elenna sighed. "Will you ever take a new wife?"

Faramir shuddered. "While I won't deny my liege-lord and I have discussed it, I don't think I will. I shall not wed again unless I were commanded to do so."

"Is it appropriate for a man of your station to remain unmarried?"

"I care not about propriety when it comes to love, vanimelda. Marriage should be a matter of the heart. My heart does not desire to wed again, for it forever belongs to your Lady Mother. But I will take a wife, should circumstances force me to do so or should my liege Elessar command it. Even then, love would not come into play for I have loved one woman only and so it shall be until my time comes."

He kissed the locket and caressed Elenna's face once more. "You are weary, vanimelda, you should rest."

"I'm not."

"Your pretty eyes tell me a different story." he retorted feebly, "sleep, light of my life. Sleep."

"Father...why have you never told me about my uncle?
Why do you refuse to speak to me about your past? Do you perhaps still think of me as a clueless child who cannot understand the implications of a war? Why have you never spoken about your family? We have a right to know. My grandmother and my uncle surely were both worth mentioning."

The Prince of Ithilien gulped and his breath stilled for a second. "Who told you about your uncle."

Elenna had never seen her father so upset.

"Ioreth did, father."

"Ioreth...I'd instructed her not to speak of him."

His jaw was incredibly tight. Elenna suddenly feared for her nursemaid and grabbed her father's hand hastily.

"Please, don't punish her." she pleaded, "she spoke because I asked her to. Punish me, if you must. She just complied. She's not guilty. Please, show mercy. She's so loyal and she's been such a good friend to me while you were gone. She's always looked after me, she deserves nothing but love and respect. Please, ada."

"I've known Dame Ioreth ever since I was a child, I would never harm her. I will just reminder not to mention my brother again."

"But why, father? Was he not a man of honor? Did he offend you in any way?"

"Was he a man of honor, you ask? My child, he was the embodiment of honor. Gondor's finest, bravest soldier he was. "

"Why are we not allowed to talk about him, then? I don't understand. Surely, you must be pleased that..."

"It hurts, vanimelda. He died because of me."

"I don't believe you."

"I was supposed to go on the quest. He volunteered to keep me safe and..."

"What quest? And why have you never told me about grandmother?"

"I promise I will tell you everything in due time. Trust in me, vanimelda."

She wanted to insist but ultimately decided against it. Her father's eyes told her he was still too engulfed in grief, just like Ioreth had guessed. She lowered her head.

Faramir kissed her brow in proper Gondorian fashion,
then got up and walked to the door. "Tindómiel, vanimelda, namárië."

She knew what to say. She had learned her Quenya, after all.

"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."

Faramir's lips curved into a shy smile, his sad eyes looking at her in sheer adoration. He bowed his head and left. The young girl stared at her locket once more.

"Westu mōdor Hal." she whispered, before closing it and drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

“Come.”

She turned and looked at him. A smirk had crept up on his handsome face and a twinkle had appeared in his golden eyes, which were now alight with a vague trace of what seemed to be malice. It was so understated to be barely noticeable but Elenna—who’d known him for several long months, who’d befriended him and oftentimes confided in him—had immediately recognized a change in the way he carried himself. A subtle yet unmistakable shift. Her heart filled with fear, her inner voice telling her to flee. 

“Mairon?”

He stepped forward as gracefully as ever, maintaining his unperturbed Elven gaze on her. It was magnetic; hypnotic even, and Elenna cursed herself for being a fool. There was no malice, no treachery in Mairon’s shiny, glistening eyes. How could such beauty be of harm? Wasn’t it widely acknowledged that foul things only presented themselves they way they were, deformed, corrupted and ugly to behold? Foul beings were incapable of taking fair forms because it wasn’t in their power to do so, having lost that ability the moment temptation entered their bodies and took a hold of their souls, condemning them to the void. Elenna was able to persuade the rational part of her brain that her reasoning made perfect sense. It was a rather quick, nearly immediate process, and, as soon as she was finished dealing with it, she felt at ease once more. She smiled at her friend, proud of having finally learned to dismiss her intrusive thoughts. She now saw what they really were: pure nonsense. They were utter tripe and she would from now on regard them as such. 

“Will you come? I trust you’ve never seen the Great Hall of Minas Tirith.”

Mairon offered a meek smile and shook his head, his blond locks falling loose on his shoulders. 

“I have not. And while I do not doubt it to be grand and majestic, I can confidently say the most marvelous sight lies right before my eyes.”

Elenna lowered her head in embarrassment.
“You flatter me.”

“Your beauty needs to be praised, my lady. You truly are Tinúviel's kin. I might say you’re even fairer and, believe me madam, I should know.”

"You speak as if you met her.”

"I have indeed, my lady. She was the most beautiful of all the children of Eru Ilúvatar, widely beloved by all. I was devastated to hear of her passing and my heart still aches at the thought of it. She visited my lands once and it seemed the stars shone brighter after her coming. You remind me of her. You possess a special kind of beauty, almost as if you had been graced by the One himself. I dare say you’re even more beautiful than Varda, the Star-Queen.”

He moved closer to her, his handsome face mere inches away from hers. His elven features were incredibly stunning. A myriad of emotions went through her brain. She was attracted to him but the inexplicable, nonsensical wariness she’d felt moments before had returned. It seemed to her than Mairon’s eyes had turned a shade darker, their previously undimmed golden color now tinged with specks of blackness. They also appeared to have a flaming red sheen to them, which alarmed her. There was such fire in his eyes. Fire…

He gently ran a hand through her luscious mane of hair. He had such a delicate, comforting touch. His hands too were beautiful, white and soft. Softer than hers. His fingers trailed down to her jawline and traced it repeatedly before they grazed her neck down to her collarbone. 

“So beautiful…So incredibly beautiful…a queen of the stars…a queen of the Valar…”

Elenna stared at him, entranced. His voice was so deep and soothing, more so than she remembered. Had it changed? The young girl frowned for a moment but her mind soon forgot about it. Her thoughts had seemed so fleeting of late…she couldn’t hold onto them for more than mere seconds. All she was able to focus on was Mairon’s rich, calming voice. It didn’t have the bell-like quality most elven voices had, but it was music to her ears nonetheless. A sweet lullaby. She listened to the sound of his words, transfixed.

“I…” 

She wanted to speak but her throat failed her. Mairon’s fingers trailed back up onto her face and rested on her slightly parted lips. 

"Hush, madam, you needn’t say anything. Your eyes made your intentions plain to me. And I know you’ll rejoice in learning my feelings are wholly and utterly reciprocated. If I may speak freely, my lady, my heart has been yours since the very first moment our paths collided. That day is etched in my memory and it so shall remain until the end of Arda.”

Elenna blinked. “I’m not quite sure I understand.”

She turned and signaled the guardsmen to open the doors which led to the Great Hall. She then walked in, closely followed by the blond elf. The hall was devoid of people, save the occasional servants sweeping floors and polishing silverware. The lady of Ithilien glanced at the imposing marble statues of the kings of old on both sides of the room and once again turned to  Mairon, who bore an unimpressed look on his face. 

"Is it not to your liking?” she asked, bewildered. Most people gaped at the sheer opulence of the architecture and were left speechless by the beauty of the sculptures; reminiscent of the blessed, bygone age of Númenor. Mairon appeared to be cold and detached, his sulking ways denoting impatience and annoyance.

"You pretend.”

"Pretend? I…”

“Hold your tongue, mortal!”

Elenna stumbled back, shocked at the elf's outburst.  Her calm, serene facial expression remained unchanged though.

"I’m sorry I have upset you. I do admire you greatly and you are a friend to me. A dear friend. But It would be disrespectful to blatantly lie about my feelings and believe me when I say I wish they were different. You never spoke of them before and perhaps I have been foolish not to realize what you wished for me to understand. I had no idea you felt that way about me, Mairon. My heart breaks for you, for I cannot bear to imagine the pain you must be experiencing. I have never loved anyone that way and it grieves me to see you so distraught. Please, tell me if there’s something I can do as it is not in my nature to sit idle while others suffer. Anything I can do to help you, I will. Talk to me."

"You deceived me. Your silver tongue can no longer fool me. I now  see what you are. You’re no lady. You might be fair in appearance but certainly such statement doesn’t apply to your soul. No, your soul is dark and foul.”

"Do no let anger cloud your judgement,” she sighed as tears fell down her cheeks, “surely…surely you don’t mean that.”

“But I do…madam.” 
He sneered, the last word uttered in mockery. Elenna gulped and breathed in.

"Is that how you feel about me?” she asked, “Eru knows I have done wrong and I’m aware of it also. I reckon it is impossible to be completely faultless even though I suppose it’s what we, as his Children, strive for. The Children of Ilúvatar are bound to be imperfect and are bound to make mistakes. But I strongly believe we can right our wrongs and redeem ourselves. I respect you greatly and I would never purposely cause you harm, may the Valar curse me if I ever did. It is my intention to help you if you let me. You call me a deceiver but I do not understand on what basis you make such a claim. Had l lied to you or falsely admitted to loving you romantically, then I’d agree with you. I do love you Mairon but the affection I feel for you is platonic. I love you as a friend and I highly value our friendship. I do not feel I ever deceived you but I beg your pardon if you felt that way.”

Mairon looked at her intensely, the resentment in his golden eyes seemingly gone. 

“I’ll gladly pardon you. You are quite young after all.”

Elenna lit up. “Oh, meldonya, you know how I…”

“On one condition.”

Her face fell and her gray eyes widened. “Oh…” she quickly regained her composure and offered a shy, conciliatory smile. “Of course. I should have…” she paused, “forgive me. It was rather arrogant of me to assume I would receive a full pardon without having to atone somehow. I’m sorry. Please continue.”

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I will not dwell on it. That is, if you come with me.”

"Where would you take me?”

"I have plans,” he muttered under his breath, “plans to retrieve the lands that were taken from me. My land, the land of my people. A merry place where thousands of elves prospered for centuries until a foreign army came and pillaged it, ravaged it, destroyed it. An army commanded, among others, by your precious Lord Father.”

Elenna shook her head in disbelief. “It cannot be. My father would never…”

"I imagine it is hard for you to believe, but surely you would not dare suggesting I’m lying," his eyes narrowed, "would you?"

"I would never do such a thing, but…” her voice cracked, “I know my father, he’s a good man. A man of integrity. He would never harm anyone unless it were to protect and defend others. You don’t know him nearly as well as I do. In fact, I dare say you do not know him at all."

"He has never told you about his past, has he?”

"The lady of Ithilien froze. “What are you implying.”

“I simply asked you a question, my lady.”

She instinctively wrapped her hand around the hilt of the dagger she carried beneath her shirt.

"He did not but I fail to see how…”

"It is odd, is it not?”

Elenna’s chest tightened. “I am beyond sure he had his reasons. What would you know about his past anyway? Please refrain from spewing obscenities about the Steward of Gondor. I would like to inform you such hateful remarks are punishable by death. I would not speak so carelessly, especially not in public. Though it might seem like we are now, we can never fully trust in the certainty of being alone, for there is none. Ever. Nearby servants could hear you and servants, as my lord probably already knows, do very much enjoy their fair share of idle gossip."

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Are you threatening me, my lady?”

“I’m warning you. While our liege is merciful, our laws often are not. I do not mean to scare you. I am merely advising you on how to conduct yourself, though that is ultimately for you to decide.”

"Oh, lady,” he smirked, “ do you really believe you can scare me? You, a young Edain girl of no account? Did your silly little heart truly lead you to believe that you would be able to instill even the slightest bit of fear in me? Me, Mairon the Admirable, a mighty lord of the Noldor?”

"I doubt I would succeed,” she replied, “and I wouldn’t want to do so. I’m only asking you not to disrespect my father.”

He gripped her wrist. “You have the nerve to speak of respect…I thought you more considerate, my lady. I believed you to be different.  But I see now you’re just like the rest of them. Your desperate efforts at making yourself look gracious and innocent, although admittedly commendable, are in vain, for I looked into the depths of your soul. You deceived me but I’ve now understood you are not what you first seemed.”

Elenna didn’t answer. He let abruptly let go of her wrist, seemingly realizing the inappropriateness in his actions. He now stared at her imperiously, his lips curved in a frown, his golden eyes steely. 

“I willing to forgive you, madam,” he stated, “if you help me heal the people who have been so mightily wronged by your kin. Only then will I be able to trust you.”

Elenna lowered her head. “I have no objections to your proposal. I believe my heart is in a good place and I will prove it to you…my lord.”

Mairon lifted her chin up. “That is not all I ask of you. I desire for us to be joined before Eru Allfather. Our re-established realm shall be my gift to you, the glorious token of our undimmed love. You shall be my lady and Queen of a land beautiful beyond reckoning, fairer than even the Blessed Realm. I shall be its undisputed lord and you will be my consort. My Elentári.”

He moved even closer and grabbed the back of her neck in a swift motion, forcing his lips onto hers. Elenna’s eyes widened as she fought to break free from his grasp. She pushed him away and ran toward the main gates, giving a worried look to a servant who happened to be passing by. She saw her flee from a tiny passage behind Elessar’s throne as she kept running. She came to a halt when he realized Mairon was suddenly standing in front of her. Confused and scared, she glanced back. 

"How…”

Her whole body was wrecked with terror, her emotions unbridled. The mask of coolness she had been wearing had vanished and all she could now do was tremble and quiver. She had never felt more powerless, more insignificant, smaller. Mairon was glancing at her, his formerly golden eyes now fiery as flames. 

"Are you perhaps in a hurry, my lady?” he mocked her, a dark laugh coming from his throat, “fret not. No one will hear your screams anyway. Not your father, not your liege, not the accursed Valar. You are mine to dispose of as I please. But not before I give you, in my mercy, one last chance to repent and reconsider my offer. Will you join me?”

Mairon was glowing. He had a golden aura about him; he radiated a light that shone so bright Elenna had to shield her face with both hands to stand before him. It was the purest light she’d ever come across, a beacon of hope in evil times. She peeked at him through her fingers and saw him. She once again witnessed his beauty and was engulfed in his goodness. She needn’t fear him. He had been a dear friend to her and still was. Of course he was. A beautiful soul. An immaculate, candid, pure soul; a lord of the Noldor, a child of Ilúvatar who had been robbed of his home. She had to help him and she would bind herself to him. It was Eru’s will. She would be an exemplary wife, she would obey his every command and bear his children…Mairon, Mairon, Mairon.

Mairon. 

Mairon. A Quenya name. Mairon. An unusual name. Mairon. A name which rang several bells even though she couldn't, for the life for her, remember where she might have encountered it beforehand. It was a beautiful, meaningful name. Surely not an uncommon name among the Eldar of old. Why was she fretting over a name? Why was she so uncomfortable? Was it because she couldn't recall who else had borne said name throughout history? She couldn't think of a plausible reason why she should feel so intimidated. Mairon had probably been named after great hero of the Elder Days—a contemporary of his parents perhaps—and certainly wasn't the only Mairon among the Noldor. There was virtually nothing to be scared of, nothing to be worried about. She should've known better. 

She held her forehead and let out a distressed sigh. In spite of her flawless reasoning, her heart was pounding so hard it could've easily been mistaken for a hammer being mercilessly flung against her ribcage and her mind felt more and more clouded, as if a thick, impenetrable mist were slowly enveloping her brain. 

She was tired, weak, exhausted. She longed for her father. 
Her father. Her ada. The most honorable man in Middle-earth. He was no tyrant, no traitor. She loved him with her whole heart. 

As Mairon's light waned, she stood straighter and let her arms fall. They felt so heavy. 

“No. I will not join you.” 

He once again moved closer, his movements slow and calculated. He seemed unfazed as he brought his right hand to her face, as he caressed her in the same spots he’d touched before, as if he were following a specific pattern unknown to her. His fiery attitude appeared to be much more restrained now, he had mellowed significantly and seemed back to his old sweet, charming self. He bent down slightly and Elenna shivered as she felt his breath on her skin.

“Very well then."

His fingers tickled her as they steadily moved down to her neck. He then wrapped them around it as he kissed it. 

“So…exquisite.”

He kissed it once more—his thin lips cold and wet— before tracing her collarbone with his thumb, his eyes brimming with a dark lust. 

“We could have this…and more,” he whispered softly in her ear, “but you need not follow me. You have already made your choice. It is a pity that you foolishly appear to have chosen...death."

He grinned as he slapped her across the face, his stroke so mighty that she ended up being hurled several inches away. She clumsily landed on her back, hissing loudly as her head hit the smooth marble floor of the throne room. Her surroundings went dark for a split second as she unsuccessfully tried to get back on her feet. She frantically searched for her dagger, carefully hidden under her shirt— King Elessar had advised her to always carry one and she, ever a dutiful and loyal lady, had at once heeded his counsel— and grabbed its hilt as Mairon approached.

He walked slowly, each and every one of his steps echoing through the hall. Elenna tried once more to stand but he stopped her by placing his foot on her aching kneecap and mercilessly applying pressure on it. The girl groaned and struggled as Mairon wheezed. Elenna noticed it wasn’t his usual laughter: it was much throatier, lower in tone and thoroughly chilling. Her grip on her dagger tightened as she squirmed, twitched and wailed.

“Why would you do such a thing?” she cried, “what have I done to deserve such cruelty? Please, have mercy. Please, Mairon. Meldonya. Please…”

“You repeatedly tested my boundless mercy, herinya. You expressed a wish, you made a choice. Thus allow me to fulfill it in a fashion that may be well received by your ladyship.”

The young lady let out a deafening scream as a fit of searing pain spread through her leg. Her knee was broken. She whimpered loudly as her vision blurred once more, hindered by tears of anguish. Mairon then grabbed her by the neck and lifted her up, her untouched leg dangling aimlessly. Elenna couldn’t breathe and was about to faint from distress and exhaustion.

“I seem to have developed a fondness for your neck, herinya,” he smirked, “a wonderful little thing."

He paused and stared in contemplation for a short while, baring his pearly-white teeth in satisfaction. "Oh well…innumerable mortals have endured worse tribulations at my hands…and, while I admit it is a terrible shame to inflict even the tiniest  torture on such a splendid specimen of a Secondborn, it is also an acknowledged truth that sacrifices must be made. Yes…” his smirk grew larger, “sacrifices must be made.”

Feeling his relentless clench on her throat, Elenna let her senses guide her, acting surprisingly quickly. She raised her blade and stabbed him in the shoulder. He growled and dropped her, her head bouncing. Ignoring the persistent throbbing, she forced herself to open her eyes and glanced upon him. He looked surprised, confused, maybe even pleased, his brows united in a frown. Blood was running down his arm staining his robes but he seemed unbothered. He was gazing at her with a neutral expression and Elenna felt a pang of anxiety rush from head to toe. She flinched as he grazed his injured shoulder and curiously stared at the thick, reddish liquid tainting his flesh. He stood still for several minutes examining his blood-soaked arm. He then suddenly turned to her, his features twisted with rage. It was then that his appearance changed. His skin blackened, his eyes darkened. His garments vanished, replaced by rock-solid armor. His hand, covered in metal, clenched her neck again and he held her high, his grip even tighter than before.

Elenna gasped and let out a muted scream as his touch — strong but only mildly warm at first — quickly became scolding hot. It felt as if her very flesh was being corroded by an inextinguishable fire, her skin flailing off. Mustering every bit of strength left in her, she attempted to lift her dagger arm only to realize in horror that it had gone completely limp, the blade lying on the ground beneath her.

The hard cold ground soothed the burns on her neck only slightly, but the relief it provided was sufficient for her to regain some clarity of mind and hold onto it. It was then that she realized she was not completely helpless. She had another arm to spare, one which was still intact and fully functioning. Her newfound determination swiftly abandoned her when it occurred to her she had no weapon to wield except her hand. Hopeless and delirious, she punched her opponent in the face. She yelped as her bones cracked, her hand bouncing back as it hit Mairon’s helm. How utterly foolish of her.  He cackled, his laughter terrifying, and tossed her a second time. She flew across the room and fell on the stairs leading up to Elessar’s throne. She tried to get up but it was an useless effort. She leaned back as Mairon steadily walked up to her, a dark shadow surrounding him. He was holding something but she couldn’t quite see what it was yet. She allowed herself some small moments of respite as her enemy’s loud steps echoed in her ears, foreshadowing her doom. She sighed as her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t even said her goodbyes. To her father, to Elboron, to Eldarion, to anyone she’d ever loved. She would die alone, succumbing to injuries, no one around to make her passing easier. It was a fitting end for a shieldmaiden’s daughter and she was glad she could take comfort in such thought. She hoped her mother would be proud. Her mother…

She groaned as she attempted to prop herself up. Even the most trivial movement required strength beyond reckoning and knocked the wind out of her. She was tired, so very tired. For a brief moment, she considered giving up. She would die anyway, she reasoned. What was the purpose of putting up a fight? She could just as well surrender. The idea seemed to agree with her. Her lips curved into a smile as she toyed with it. She’d always been rather eager to know the secret behind the fate of Men. The souls of both Elves and Men, the Children of Ilúvatar, journeyed to the Blessed Realm and were bound to wait in the Halls of Mandos for an undisclosed amount of time. Elves were to be reincarnated and then doomed to spend the remainder of their immortal existence among their kin and the Valar. Men were on a different, hidden, mysterious path. A path known only to Manwë, the High King of Arda, and  Eru himself. That was his gift to the race of Men, the gift of Ilúvatar as it was called. Elenna had often wondered what it entailed. She supposed its meaning encompassed a greater concept than just death and the decaying of the flesh. She didn’t understand how death could be viewed as a gift, something one could aspire to long for, to look forward to. She had tried to wrap her head around it but she had failed. Death itself wasn’t a blessing and certainly wasn’t a gift. But maybe, just maybe, the term gift was applied to whatever happened after one’s demise. A prize of some sort perhaps. Her curiosity would undoubtedly be satisfied, her thirst for knowledge soon quenched. 
Mairon had reached her. Elenna now realized he’d been holding a sword, the blade black as a starless night. Stars…she mentally prayed to Varda—or Elbereth as she usually referred to her— the very same Star-Queen Mairon had hazardously compared her to.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel, o menel palan-díriel...

Mairon took off his helmet and nonchalantly tossed it aside, his face as beautiful and innocent as ever, his eyes back to a pool of liquid gold. 
“I so admire your courage, herinya,” he knelt beside her and grazed her hair. He stared at her and Elenna jolted in pain as his growling voice boomed in her head, forcefully interrupting her mental plea to the High Queen of the Valar. 

'So beautiful…such a waste…a proud shieldmaiden of Men…you cannot hide…I can see you…I can see your every desire…you crave information…answers…I shall give them to you…I will show things that were…things that will come to pass…in loving memory of what we were…of what we could have been…a parting gift from Mairon the Admirable…Lord of the Earth…’

He touched her forehead and her mind was wrecked with unimaginable, unspeakable horrors. She could see places that were dear to her heart. Places she’d seen, places she’d dwelled in, places she’d vowed to return to. Places who were being ravaged by foul creatures, some of them she couldn’t even name. She saw the White Tree of Gondor— the symbol of the mightiest kingdom of Men, every bit as great as the legendary Westernesse—flowerless and burned to ashes. She saw Elessar, clad in armor, being crushed to death by a troll; his son and heir held captive and mercilessly tortured in a damp underground prison cell. Minas Tirith had been taken. She witnessed Emyn Arnen’s fall, her home desecrated. Beregond and Bergil's lifeless bodies lay on the main staircase leading to her father’s chambers, Fíriel crawling her way out of what was left of Elenna’s childhood home, her cerulean dress soaked in blood. She saw Elboron—her sweet, darling Elboron—brandishing a knife in a doomed attempt to defend Ioreth who stood behind him, transfixed and bewildered. She watched in horror as the scene unfolded, yelling at them both to flee but they weren’t listening. They didn’t know she was there by their side, they couldn’t see her. She plunged a knife into an orc’s chest only to realize she couldn’t kill them. She didn’t exist. She wasn’t there to fight, only to witness the brutal massacre of everyone she’d ever held dear. Unable to cope with her grief, she ran away. 

Trees were being torn down and terrible fires spread at an alarming rate, the stars veiled by a thick, impenetrable  blanket of smoke and despair. Elenna wandered through what once had been the fairest country in all of the westlands and wept as she allowed sadness to consume her. All things good and beautiful had been devoured by flames. Ithilien was no more. Orcs bearing black banners roamed freely scouring and pillaging at will whilst winged creatures similar to dragons killed the last soldiers who were still willing to stand and fight. They resisted because they were loyal to their lord, to her father. Her father. Elenna’s throat closed. He was nowhere to be found. Where was he? Was he safe? Had he escaped that carnage? She had to find him. She had to find him and bring Elboron as well as everybody else to safety. Those were her people and she had sworn to protect them. She ran back to Emyn Arnen at once, sobbing violently. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but the whole city was now empty and in ruins, black flags flying high. Thousands of mutilated bodies lay on the ground, some of them decapitated, the reek of rotting flesh hitting her nostrils as hard as the reality she was being forced to accept. Her bloodshot eyes darted around looking for her family, as it was clear she was the only living human under the dim light of a sun that appeared to be just as dead as everything around her.

She came across a fallen soldier still holding onto his sword; his throat slit and his armor drenched in dried blood, his vacant eyes toward the skies. She paid her respects and bowed to him as she took the sword. She then ran back to the main gate leading to her home, faintly hoping to find her father and brother unharmed.

That very same hope was crushed as she approached the gates. Right before her, in front of the obsidian gates, stood five spikes adorned with five heads. Beregond and his two sons, Borlas and Bergil, whose bodies had to have been mutilated after she'd fled. Elboron, her darling Sunshine. And lastly, towering on the highest spike, was her father’s head. She fell to her knees and cried out until her lungs gave out. She clenched her chest as her whole body shook uncontrollably and her mind plunged into an abyss of darkness. She fell forward and panted, as the pain increased.

May the Valar forgive me, she mumbled, please, my lords and ladies, have mercy on me. End my suffering, please. Save me.

It all abruptly faded to black and she opened her eyes. She was still in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, Mairon standing a few inches from her, a satisfied grin on his beautiful elven face. 

“Did you like what your most humble servant showed you, herinya? I trust you did as it is often the case with individuals having such emotional reactions. If I may, madam, you particularly seemed to enjoy the grand finale. I have to admit, it was handled incredibly well, all things considered. A very entertaining execution, especially as far as the child was concerned. I'm not going to deny it, it was a bit hard to restrain him, but you know how children are…they don't often do as they're told, do they? Am I correct in my assumption? They seem to have a natural proclivity for misbehavior, which only goes to make matters worse. It is quite the nuisance, don't you agree?"

Elenna shuddered. “What…are…you,” the terror in her tone was palpable, “ why would you do this…the elves I have known…they don’t…they can’t...they can’t...what kind of sorcery...”

“Whoever said I was an elf, my lady?” 

“What…what…”

“It is rather comical," he interjected with a quiet giggle, "I believed you to be well-spoken. Surely a high-born lady like yourself has received an adequate education. It has been many ages since I last interacted with the Seconborn, but your ancestors, the people who dwelled on the island you're named after, were renowned for their prose and the flowery of their tongue. Yet, all I see before me is a stuttering little bird. Is the blood of Númenor all but spent then? It is quite saddening to witness how low the human race has fallen. That is, unless you believe me to be a peasant disguised as a lord. A poor, miserable, contemptible rat you deem fully unfit to have a proper conversation with."

She was shivering. “Mairon, please…I beg you, don’t…you’re scaring me…”

“Oh, how sweet of you, herinya,”he laughed, “many people have begged me to spare them throughout the centuries, but none of them had ever uttered their pleas with such sincerity. It’s music to my eyes. It makes the prospect of killing you even more enticing, even though part of me will always wonder what could’ve happened had you been smart enough to accept my proposal. Alas, we shall never know. How unfortunate."

“Please…do what you will, but…don’t hurt my family…please, Mairon…if you still have some affection in your heart for me…you will do as I ask…please…PLEASE!”

“Oh, yes, your family,” he sneered, “hadn’t you mentioned that information about them was precisely what you desired? Information which was purposely withheld from you by that very same family? By whom exactly, your father and your uncle? It is frustrating, isn't it? To be regarded as a child still...a stupid child..."

“Mairon, please stop it…”

“Why, I thought it was what you longed for, my lady,” he retorted, “If I was ever wrong, then I do forthwith apologize. I simply assumed my history lessons would appeal to such a cultured young girl. Well, what I’ve shown you is actually what will come to pass because of your…inconsiderateness. I hope your newly-acquired knowledge will help you mature into a woman of wits. I normally would consider one's future to be much more important than past events that no longer bear any significance, yet I do understand why you would want to know about your history and lineage, I really do. There’s no shame in that whatsoever. Let me show you.”

He knelt again and extended his hand to her. She cowered in fear.

“N-no…Don’t…d-don’t touch me…”

“Oh, my lady, you are past the age of tantrums and whims,” he snickered, “I am only trying to provide help in understanding who you really are.”

“Please…”

“It will be painless. Take my word for it."

He touched her forehead and she was again plunged into despair. The setting was different, but it was yet again a place she’d visited before. A grassy, pretty lawn called Parth Galen. She’d once been there with Eldarion, the king's son, and they’d enjoyed a picnic on their way back to Minas Tirith after spending a few weeks in the north. It had been a quiet, relaxing affair but it wasn’t the case now. She was in the midst of battle. She didn’t know who was involved in the fight, but she could hear swords clashing and what she assumed were orcs grunting and shrieking. She also heard someone screaming, a voice which sounded simultaneously familiar yet unknown. Then she heard the loud and clear sound of a horn.

A cry for help. She ran towards what she believed to be its source, and jolted as it echoed in her ears a second time, even more powerful and desperate than the first one. She hurried down a hill and halted abruptly. A battalion of Uruk-hai was being tackled by a single opponent, clearly overwhelmed by the sheer size of the enemy. Knowing full well she wasn’t bearing any arms, she hid behind a tree to get a glimpse of who this person might be. Whoever it was, they had slaughtered a great deal of Uruk-hai already. She sighed. She so wanted to help and started collecting a bunch of rocks she thought could be useful in getting rid of a few orcs. There was nothing else she could do and her heart was heavy. She couldn’t imagine facing an entire army on her own and wished she was courageous enough to contribute in a more significant manner, no matter how brazen and reckless it could’ve seemed. But she couldn’t get her feet to move. She could only watch. 

As more Uruk-hai were cut down and the lawn cleared, she finally had a chance to see who the mysterious figure was. A man clad in what looked like a gray Elven cloak, wearing chainmail and a livery that rang more than a few bells. She glanced at his face, partially covered by hair that was so similar to her father’s. He had grayish eyes similar to hers and her father’s nose. She lost her footing and her breath stilled as it dawned on her. 
Her uncle. Her uncle Boromir. The fallen hero of Gondor. The best swordsman of the Third Age, save the king. Tears of happiness started flowing freely down her cheeks and she stood in awe of his skill. Ioreth had spoken the truth, he truly was a magnificent a warrior. Her eyes were fixed on him and she was so entranced by beauty of his routine that she failed to see the Uruk-hai aiming to kill him. Her uncle’s loud gasp brought her back to reality, a huge arrow through his shoulder. She watched him slump and get back up again before her eyes caught sight of the one creature welding the bow which had released the arrow. She lunged at him, trying to smite him but she quickly once again made aware of her powerlessness. The Uruk-hai drew another arrow and she screamed as she saw her uncle fall. He weakly lifted his head, his face ashen, his livery stained with crimson blood. His eyes met hers or so it seemed. Noble, kind, honest eyes which showed every emotion he was feeling: anger, hurt, shame and despair. She ran to him as he charged once more, taking every Uruk-hai in his path down with him. Soon a third arrow hit him and he collapsed against a tree.

Elenna knelt beside him and unsuccessfully tried to pull out the arrows. She was once again hit with the harrowing realization that she didn’t exist in that sort dream, of vision, and he would never know she was there. He would never get to meet her, he would never get to hold her hand, he would never get to speak to her. He would never know she existed. She cradled his head and wiped blood off his mouth. It would serve no real purpose but she was nonetheless convinced that he would feel her presence somehow. Nothing could make her change her mind. She wanted to believe he could sense she was by his side. She glanced at his face and stared at him intently. He was still alive but had little to no time left. She caressed the top of his head, caked in sweat and mud.

“Uncle?” her voice cracked, “uncle, it’s me. It’s me, Elenna. Your…brother’s daughter. Faramir, do you remember him? Your little brother.” 

She sobbed and tried once more to pull the arrows out of him but they had pierced his flesh too deep and they were extremely heavy. She grunted as she pulled and pulled, eventually giving up. 

“Uncle…" she grabbed his hand, “please…please don’t leave me…I’m going to save you…we’ll go home…we shall return to Gondor…I promise I will take you back home…you shall see ada again…he misses you so much…and…”

She looked at him and attempted to ease his breathing by loosening his chainmail. 

“Uncle, you need to come back to Gondor,” she pleaded, “We need you…Father needs you…Elboron needs you…and I do too. Please…you would love Elboron, he’s a very sweet boy…he’s learning to spar, he could use some proper guidance…please…your family needs you.”

She was baring her soul to him but he had already gone beyond the Circles of the World. Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower, had passed. Elenna buried her face into his chest and wept silently.
The sky gradually darkened and it soon went black. Elenna curled up in a ball, holding her knees close to her chest, her head bowed. The ground around her shook and she cried out to Elbereth once more. She prayed the Star-Queen would forgive her and help her, even though she didn’t deserve it. 

Le nallon sí di'ngurothus, a tiro nin Fanuilos...

The sky suddenly brightened. Stars appeared and shone bright, their light so intense Elenna had to cover her face with both her trembling hands. Maybe the Star-Queen had listened to her. Perhaps the nightmare was indeed coming to an end. 

She peeked through her fingers as soon as the light dimmed. She looked around, her shoulders immediately stiffening. She was in the middle of the Rath Dínen, the lonely road through the Hallows of Minas Tirith. She stood up and roamed aimlessly, her mind restless. She heard steps coming her way and abruptly turned. Soldiers wearing uniforms of black robes and matching surcoats embroidered in white. They bore pointed helms. Judging by how they gleamed in the sun, they were most certainly made out of mithril. The soldiers were walking slowly, carrying what looked like a stretcher. Before them, a stern and grave-looking man bearing a lit torch marched slowly. As he moved closer, she noticed he was clad in a heavy fur coat—the kind which her father hated and had always refused to wear, even during the harshest winters—that barely concealed his refined Númenórean armor. An armor of old, unlikely any other she’d ever seen. Her eyes seized his imposing figure. He had an aura of authority to him but she could sense a profound sadness in the way he carried himself. Which was only natural, considering he was walking to the tombs. He must have lost someone, she thought. She took a step forward to offer her sympathies and maybe offer a word of comfort; it was something her ada always did. Her mother too had taught small acts of kindness could go a long way. She’d make them proud. 

She took one more step and cast another glance at the man. He certainly was a high-ranking noble. A high-ranking noble who didn’t acknowledge her. A sad sigh escaped her lips.  He hurried past her, moving his cloak to the side and Elenna couldn’t help but notice the ring he bore. A plain black ring adorned with a miniature sigil depicting the White Tree of Gondor. Elenna’s jaw dropped slightly. She knew that ring all too well for it was not a mere piece of jewelry. It was the ring her father wore, the ring of the Stewards. She lifted her chin up so that she could focus on his face. Her eyes lingered upon him a few moments longer than she’d intended to, as if her brain were processing unexpected information. And then she understood. The prominent nose, the pale blue eyes, the hair. Everything was adding up, her head spinning in contentment and confusion. The man she’d been staring at was her grandfather. The man she’d always wanted to know more about. The man everyone seemed reticent to even mention nowadays, as if his name had been tarnished so that no book, song or living being would ever remember it.

From what Elenna recalled, Ioreth hadn’t been too fond of him in her youth and perhaps she wasn’t even now. Anyone she’d ever discussed it with had either only given her evasive answers or they had downright refused to talk about it. She pondered the matter as the guards passed her by, trying to catch up with their lord. They too seemed to ignore her and Elenna deduced they couldn’t see her, just like her uncle hasn’t been able to know she’d been by his side. It was another dream, another vision. She could do nothing to alter the course of events and it pained her. Her grandfather may not have been the best Steward in Gondorian history, but he’d clearly lost someone dear to him and looked beside himself with grief. 

A sudden thought crossed her mind. Burials in Rath Dínen usually were a royal affair, but the king — or whoever ruled in his stead — could accord such privilege to  members of the nobility or, more sporadically, to people who’d proven themselves during trying times, war heroes and the likes. The rulers of Gondor rarely attended burials, but they were required to preside state funerals. They would of course also attend ceremonies honoring fallen members of the House of Húrin and personally escort the body to the Hallows. Elenna knew all of this and assumed it had to be the burial of her uncle. It explained the sorrow etched on her grandfather’s aged face. She followed the guards into the Hallows and stared as they placed the wooden stretcher on the floor. It was then that she felt all strength leave her.  The deceased wasn’t her uncle. It was…

“Ada!!!” she ran to him and touched his face, “No, no, no, NO!!! Eru please, not my father…no…” 

She screamed and sobbed.

“He was all that I had…how could you take it from me? How could you!?” 

In her despair— her utter, inconsolable despair— she was angry. Her heart and her mind had filled with wrath. A black rage that knew no bounds. She hugged her father’s limp body and gritted her teeth. 

“Curse you…CURSE YOU, ERU! I swear I’ll…I’ll…” 

Words failed her and she helplessly beat the floor with her clenched fist. She screamed in agony and lulled her father, holding him close. She squeezed him tight and kissed his brow.

“You’ll be well. Worry not, you’ll be well,” she mumbled over and over, “please…it’s a nightmare, isn’t it? A horrible nightmare…please, come back…come back to me.”

Faramir jerked feebly. She cupped his face and gasped loudly as delight took over the hopeless emptiness that had been dwelling in her heart for far too long. 

“It’s me, ada, it’s me. It’s me, Enna. I’m right here. You’ll be alright. Yes, you will be alright.”

She was so elated and relieved she paid no attention to her grandfather’s command. “BRING MORE WOOD AND OIL!”

Her eyes widened as the guards hastily grabbed her father and let him slide on a pyre. A pyre!? 

“What are you doing?” she yelled, “he’s not dead! HE’S NOT DEAD!”

She looked her grandfather in the eye. “Why would you do this!? He’s not dead…you know he’s not dead! Please…”

He didn’t know she was there and couldn’t hear her but she tried again nonetheless. 

“Can’t you see he’s breathing? He’s alive! You can’t do this to him! You can’t kill your own son! Please, my lord, don’t! He’s not dead!”

She hasted to the pyre and pulled her father’s arm. He was too heavy for her. She did so several times but his body seemed stuck. She panicked and her feeling of hopelessness was reinforced as she saw one of the guards hesitantly approach the pyre.

“As you commanded, my lord. Wood and oil.”

He carelessly placed all the wood chops around Faramir and handed an oil-filled bucket to the Steward, who poured it all over the pyre. The Steward then motioned for another guard to grab one of the torches that lit the main room of the Hallows. The guard stiffened and gave his lord a puzzled look. 

“The torch! Quickly now!” the Steward snarled. 

Elenna tried to roll her father over but, then again, he was too heavy for her. The soldier took a few steps forward, still holding the torch, his hand slightly shaky. The Steward snatched it from him and tossed it onto the pyre, which ignited at once. Much to the girl’s horror, the Steward lay on the pyre beside his son as the flames quickly rose, burning everything in their stride. Elenna coughed hard as her lungs filled with smoke. She crawled away from the flames towards the door but her legs gave out before she could reach it, as sounds of terror echoed in her head. Shrieks, agonizing screams, gasps, cries. She could see images as well: beasts she couldn’t name, oliphants, dead creatures. Men whose limbs had been cut off, wounded footmen wandering around the battlefield. Men, elves, anyone. The city was lost. Civilians were being slaughtered, their decaying bodies piled up in the streets. It was too much to bear.

She clenched her stomach as a searing pain shot through it. It was nothing like she’d ever felt before. She looked down and spotted a large wound; a murky liquid dripping out of it. She started shaking, jerking and, before she knew it, she was convulsing. The fire had spread all around her burning her skin, lungs and throat. She fought to keep her eyes open but that too was in vain.

As she was about to drift into oblivion, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a white light. A white figure shrouded in a blinding, flesh-piercing light. She blinked and realized everything around her had gone quiet. There was no more fire, no more smoke, no more suffering. She was lying on cold marble. She tilted her head to the side and her tired eyes focused on a statue. Elessar’s statue. She was in the Great Hall. She hissed as she tried to breathe. Her whole body hurt but she felt immediate relief as the shiny figure rested a hand on her cheek. It seemed to have no real corporeal features.

“Elbereth?” 

"She’s with you, child,” a male voice answered. It was deep and soothing, “she knows.”

She gasped as she felt her heartbeat quicken.“

Where’s…”

"He’s dealt with. No more harm will come to you. I promise. I’m here to help you and even more help will come.”

She gulped. “I’m tired...I want to go home…ada…I…n…need him…”

“Be silent, child,” she was gently chided, “rest now. Rest."

The figure caressed her face and Elenna allowed herself to fall asleep. The last thing she heard was the distinct call of an eagle. 

-

The lady of Ithilien stirred and slowly opened her eyes. She frowned as she unsuccessfully tried to sit up. She groaned as she helplessly fell on her back. She glanced around and realized she was lying on a bed in what she knew to be the Houses of Healing. Several people were staring at her with apprehensive eyes, some of them weeping softly. She looked at them multiple times as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room. She let out a shaky breath as she tried to make sense of what had happened. Why was she in the Houses of Healing to begin with? Why was her arm in a sling, why couldn’t she move her leg? Why couldn’t she get up? She couldn’t remember a thing and it frustrated her. It angered her. She tried to smother her whimpers but she soon burst into tears. Tears of fear, bewilderment, anger, regret. She tossed, turned and cried for what seemed like hours before she was pulled into a warm hug. 

“Vanimelda, my sweet girl. It’s over now, you’re safe. You’re safe, sweetheart, you’re safe.”

She took a deep breath. “What happened, ada, what happened!? Why am I here? Can anyone tell me what in Eru’s name happened? I don’t remember, I can’t remember, I…just…I don’t know…Elboron…where’s Elboron? Is he well?”

She gasped. "How long have I been here?"

"Hush, my Elenna,” her father gently admonished her, “you were placed under the Warden's care a little over a week ago. Elboron’s sleeping now. You should too, vanimelda. Worry not, all will be well.”

She frowned.

“Is anything the matter, vanimelda? Are you in pain? What is it?"

"Someone said that to me. Someone told me I should rest. Someone else. That I can recall though I feel my thoughts may tend to elude me."

She swallowed hard. "Light. A white light. Someone came to me. I was spoken to in the most calming tone but…their face was unknown to me, for the brightness around me concealed it."

"You remember correctly, child,” an unknown yet familiar voice chimed in, “that was me.”

Elenna turned her head. The voice belonged to a young man, who — by the looks of it — was only a few years older than her. His wavy golden hair didn’t reach his shoulders and his eyes were as blue as the clear skies of the North. He was clad in the most gorgeous livery, a stunning work of art, its color perfectly matching those glorious eyes. Across his chest was plastered a silver eagle which could also be seen on his vambraces and on the sapphire ring he bore on his right hand. 

Elenna blinked as she stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. “Who are you?” 

The young man glanced at her. “I wouldn’t deem it necessary to disclose such piece of information as of now…my lady,” he bowed his head, “It would be wise for you to solely focus on your healing first.” 

A hint of sadness had appeared on his beautiful face. Elenna glanced downward as she found she couldn't withstand the intensity of the boy's penetrating gaze.

"I should like to know your name so that I might be able to thank you as a proper lady would. I don’t know why you’re here, but…” 

Her eyes shifted to the older man standing behind him. A white-bearded man clad in matching robes which appeared to be leaning on a walking stick. She’d never met him before but his appearance reminded her of something she'd believed she'd forgotten. It was on the tip of her tongue. She recalled the stories whispered by the people in the city which never failed to mention an elderly man on a white stallion. A wizard some called him. A wizard who had befriended men and elves alike, a wizard some referred to as white rider. A wizard some called…

"Mithrandir?” 

The elderly man smiled, his compassionate eyes lingering on her. “At your service, my lady.”

"I…thought you’d left never to return. Ioreth said you’d gone West.”

"And now I’m back.”

She frowned and clung to her father, resting her head on his arm. She was, for lack of a better word,  perplexed. 

"You should rest, my lady,” Mithrandir repeated, “I believe answering your many questions can wait, for the time being. We have urgent matters to speak of.  I promise you that either my lord or I shall make things clear to you, should that be your wish.”

The boy glanced at Mithrandir. “She’s not ready, Olórin, you know that. With your permission and approval, I hope, I would like to wait a while longer before we grieve the lady with ominous news.”

"As you wish, my lord.”

Elenna was now even more confused. She glanced at Faramir. “Olórin? You knew him by Mithrandir, didn’t you, ada? Wasn’t he your tutor once? Is he not the White Rider the people of this city to this day hail as their savior?"

Faramir caressed her forehead and looked at the elderly man fondly. 

"The men of Gondor usually called me Mithrandir. Among the the Shirelings, I was known as Gandalf,” he replied, “but Olórin is the name that was given in my youth when the world was young and unsullied. That is the name I go by in the West, my home.”

The young lady of Ithilien was exhausted. Even so, she decided she would not let her physical limitations infer with what sounded like a promising conversation. Needless to say, she was most intrigued. 

Certainly you don’t mean the West as in Aman... do you?

Mithrandir and the boy exchanged a pensive look. The elderly man sighed. 

"You see, child…”

"You can’t come from the West. All the books I’ve read explicitly state only elves, the order of the Maiar and the Valar can dwell in Aman. Well, save exceptions made by the Valar themselves.”

“That is correct.”

“Of course you fought in the war and there's little doubt that your exploits will be remembered by generations to come. Although I had never met you before, I knew of you, and tales of your courage have not been far from my ears ever since my nursemaid, the Dame Ioreth, first spoke your name. Therefore, it is no wonder the Valar offered you a place on one of the ships sailing to the West. It would have been cruel on their part to do otherwise."

She looked at him in admiration. Mithrandir lowered his eyes. 

“Thank you, my lady, it is very kind of you. I must correct you though. The West has always been my home. From the West here I came to help the free people of Middle-earth and to the West I returned once my work was finished.”

"But if you truly came from the West…and you’re no elf…”

"I belong to the people of Aman, my lady.”

Elenna’s face fell as she stared at him in disbelief. “You are one of the Maiar."

Mithrandir nodded, concerned. “You need to rest.”

He motioned for everybody in the room — the young maiden's liege lord Elessar, Crown Prince Eldarion, Éomer King her uncle, the Master of Buckland and the Thain of the Shire — to leave. Other than himself, only her father and the boy had been allowed to remain in her chamber. 

Elenna was sulking.

“ Please…” she cleared her throat, “if you’re a Maia…” her eyes shifted to the boy, “does that mean he’s a Maia too? My memory may be failing me but I seem to remember you called him your lord.”

The boy nodded silently. Mithrandir spoke for him. “He’s not a mere Maia, my lady, he’s…”

"The eagles on the livery, “she cut him off, Faramir trying to steady her, “the eagles…the eagles of Manwë. But the books say the King of the Valar won’t come to Middle-earth until the ending of the world,” she paused to catch her breath, “that’s his symbol though. And it’s all over the livery. And his ring…he must be someone of importance. A trusted courtier perhaps or..."

“His herald, my lady,” the boy replied, “and banner-bearer. Commander of the armies of the West. You may call me Eönwë, if you so prefer."  

He knelt on one knee. "At your service.”

She was completely flabbergasted, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. “The Herald of Manwë?" she gasped,  "the captain who led the host of the Valar during the War of Wrath? The legendary warrior whose might in arms has never been surpassed since Eä itself was created?”

Eönwë stood back up. “My lady, I understand you might be feeling overwhelmed, but you need to rest."

She ignored the Maia's request. "I too fought once," she proudly remarked, "twice actually."

"My lady, you will collapse if you don’t allow yourself to rest. I didn’t put myself through unwanted pain in a daunting effort to heal you for you to carelessly waste whatever is left of your energy and current good health. However, there will be a suitable time for explanations and questions, stories and anecdotes. I trust it will come soon enough."

"My lord..."

“That’s enough, child!” Eönwë’s voice had gone cold and as sharp as the blades he wielded with such skill. He stumbled backwards, being promptly held by Mithrandir and Elessar, as the others in the room silently watched, alarmed. The Steward would’ve jumped to their aid, but he was far too busy tending to his daughter. 

"Forgive me," the Herald of Manwë apologized. He sighed and resumed his speech, his voice growing weary.  "Your concerns, madam, will be addressed at a later hour. Much time will be given to you to learn about the West and the many things that were before the likes of Men and Elves rose to inhabit the many lands of Endor. It is our advice that you rest now, for you need it and, speaking plainly, so do we. A council meeting will be held and we mustn't let our inner strength waver, for the issues we will be addressing are all the more pressing and require our undivided attention."

He bowed his head before turning to Faramir.

"While I can only imagine the pain that seeing your daughter in such a sorry state must cause you, it would be beneficial to her healing if you too left, my lord."

The Prince of Ithilien gave his vanimelda a peck on her head and nodded to the Herald before exiting the room, at once followed by Mithrandir. The White Rider had been studying the young maiden, his eyes glossy and darker than they had been, their Maiarin shine significantly dimmed by sadness and grief. He wrapped his arm around the Steward's shoulders and led him to the door, whispering words of comfort into his ear. 

Eönwë tarried and looked at the young girl with his peripheral. On her forehead was a frown and her lips had a purple tint to them.  He watched her fall asleep and let out a sight that made his body tremble. Little did she know she would have to sail to Valinor sooner than later. Little did she suspect that her mysterious, cunning elf-friend was actually none other than Sauron Gorthaur, the Dark Lord everyone had believed to be finally vanquished. He’d inexplicably returned in full power—a matter which was to be investigated thoroughly—and it had taken all of Eönwë’s might to defeat him. 

Little did the lady know that the wounds she’d sustained could only be successfully treated by healing arts that were not of Middle-earth. She had yet to regain all her memories, but the Herald dreaded the moment she would. Such a sweet, curious—maybe slightly too inquisitive—child didn’t deserve such fate. He held back tears as he watched her chest rise and fall, her breathing labored. He moved closer to her bed and quietly sat on it, placing his hand on her cheek. He let his power flow through her and her pained expression immediately changed, her face relaxed and seemingly at peace.

“Sleep well, child,” he murmured as he left, shutting the door behind him. 

Chapter Text

“If it please my lord, I should like to speak. While I certainly do agree the lady’s health is among our primary concerns, I believe it is our foremost duty to understand how the Terrible Dread came back and what his ultimate purpose was,” the voice of the Herald rang true and boomed across the Council Hall, “there’s little doubt that he meant to utilize the lady Elenna as a mere pawn, to him a worthless yet pivotal piece in a much larger scheme. It is my opinion that it would be wise to gather as much information as we’re allowed to, but it is also clear that we ought to do so indirectly. The only individual who could provide us with somewhat of an insight into the Gorthaur's plans is the very person he scarred so deeply, meaning the lady herself. Of course we wouldn’t wish to trouble her at such time, but our only hope lies with her and the chance of her swift recovery, as it seems to me there’s no one else who was even aware of the Abhorred One's return to Middle-earth.”

Eönwë glanced at a weary Elessar and bowed his head as he sat back into his chair. The golden-haired Maia tilted his head slightly and his cerulean eyes rested on the ring he’d proudly borne on his finger since the very creation of Arda. The ring of the High King, the ring of Manwë. His lord's ring. The Herald sighed as his gaze wandered upwards and lingered on the Hall’s intricate ceiling. It was majestic, the Herald thought, his lips unknowingly curving into a meek, appreciative smile. The geometric patterns so dutifully carved into the pearly white marble were a fond reminder of the ones adorning his own quarters in Ilmarin, the halls where his Lord resided on the peak of Taniquetil.

Lord Manwë.

He missed his reassuring presence and comforting touch, he missed the peace that filled his heart whenever he was let through his private chambers, his deep voice gently cutting through his fears and doubts. He was imperishable, eternal, his light didn’t waxe or wane. The Herald knew in his heart that he could always go to him for advice, he knew that his Lord would neither reject him. He’d never done so, no matter how futile his worries or questions might be. Eönwë sighed once again and briefly closed his eyes. He called to him, pleading for help and guidance, seeking solace and wisdom. He prayed Lord Manwë would sense his torment and ease it. He longed for his word, for a sign. He needed to speak to him and, even more so, he longed  to be listened to. A mighty, dreadful hatred had arisen in his heart and  it had spread throughout the entirety of his newly-acquired physical form, consuming everything in its stride. It was so strong a feeling the Herald feared the mask of coolness he so stoically wore across his face might crack, revealing the boiling black rage which so perilously threatened to creep out the safe confines of his fëa.

The Herald gripped the arm of his chair, digging his nails into its silky leather, and stiffened as that dark, overwhelming force swept over him like an all-corroding fire. No analogy could’ve been more fitting, he shrugged, as his breathing became labored and uneven. His slowly opened his eyes and he found that his vision to be blurry. He slumped to the side, his spine bending slightly. He ignored the growing worry in his mind and called out to his Lord once again, as he hastily straightened up with an irritated scoff. He knew full well he couldn’t show weakness, his position as representative of the High King didn’t allow it. He kept his chin high and nonchalantly fixed his tabard, eventually lowering his head as his discomfort grew. He ignored Olórin’s troubled glances across the Hall and winced as he felt a sharp pang through his lower abdomen. He was quick to dismiss it. It was nothing that he hadn’t experienced before. He'd scored quite a number of injuries in his long lifetime, most of which would’ve been deemed untreatable had he not been an Ainu. Certainly he could maintain his composure through a Council session. He knew however that his pain wouldn’t go unnoticed if it persisted. Even the Ainur were subjected to the ills and hurts of the world, more so when they chose to take fánar modeled upon the Children of Ilúvatar. Although hardly a prelude to serious illness or death, he knew something wasn’t quite alright. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, his side writhing and his vital organs shrinking.

As the pain intensified, he felt a warm gush seep through the fabric of his undershirt. He did need to see its vibrant crimson color to know it was blood. He stiffened and frowned, smothering a whimper. He felt Olórin’s gaze on him, his voice breaking through the barrier he’d set up in his mind.

My lord?

The Herald ignored him and looked away, his hand clasped to his side. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps his injury was indeed more serious than he’d anticipated. The searing pain was accompanied by a choking sensation, a winter’s chill which seeped into his flesh and tore him apart. His body was slowly shutting down. His lungs were burning, asphyxiated by a relentless, thick mist that cut his breath short and clouded his brain. His eyes were failing him as well, his vision fading rapidly. He could no longer see, a black shadow dimming the light around him. He was surrounded by darkness, barely able to feel anything other than cold and pain. A lacerating pain afflicting every inch of his fána. It had spread alarmingly quickly and it prevented him from thinking, speaking, moving. He could still hear Olórin’s voice in his head, but that too was growing more and more faint, as if the black mist were purposely trying to isolate him, weaken him, destroy him. He was filled with horror and hopelessness.

There was nothing else left within him, the mist having enshrouded his fëa, his very Maiarin essence. It had passed right through it several times, as if it were carefully inspecting it, looking for cracks and imperfections. Eönwë had felt its brutal, freezing coldness and had trembled as he’d plunged more and more into a deep despair. A soul-crushing, unshakable despair. A totalizing feeling which had taken root in his heart and was twisting it. A feeling which—however terrible it may be—wasn’t wholly unknown to him. It was the same horrible, overwhelming, utterly consuming dread which had befallen many Maiar millennia prior, when Gorthaur’s master and his accursed spider servant had taken down beautiful Telperion and Laurelin, the Two Trees of Valinor.

They had stood outside Valmar for centuries rekindling hope after the destruction of the Two Lamps—the first ever source of light in Arda—which had been as well destroyed by the Black Foe of the world. The Herald remembered the desolation which had permeated the Blessed Realm over the following years, the indignation of Eruhini and Maiar alike. It was as if all joy had vanished from the world, replaced by everlasting grief and sadness. It had been then that Eönwë, the mightiest servant of the High King, had finally grasped what the tears of Nienna meant.  The Valië of Pity had a perennially sad look to her gentle face and wept in the attempt at healing the world. Her tears brought comfort and resilience but he had never felt their benefits himself. She cried in sorrow but also in the hopes of re-birth, of a new beginning. Her tears had yet again given the world an occasion to rejoice, a new hope for everyone to take note of. Her tears, coupled with the singing of the lady Yavanna, had salvaged one last fruit from each tree, fruits which would later be turned to what the Children called Sun and Moon. The lady Nienna had played a vital role in restoring happiness in Valinor and in the hearts of all its inhabitants, finally ridding the Blessed Realm of that terrible dread. The very same dread which had now resurfaced, overwhelming one of the most powerful Maia to ever descend into Eä. There was no point in trying to fight it, the Herald concluded. Darkness had come and he was so tired. His Maiarin abilities had been severely hindered, his own mind a tiny prison cell he couldn’t get out of. He was too weak to confront the mist and the pain was too lacerating to even begin to try to resist it. He was fading. He was well-aware of it and had accepted it.  His body had already shut down completely, he just needed to let go. He willed himself to die and felt immediate relief. His mind was clearer too. He felt lighter, unburdened of worldly cares. A long forgotten feeling had resurfaced; the peace he’d long sought after and fought for was no longer a foreign notion. It was no longer foreign, unattainable or abstract. For there it was and he could nearly grab it, as if it were a material object. His spirit was full of it, at last. He’d longed for peace for so long and now he had it. It was his to revel in. Although he had witnessed it in abundance, he had never known death for himself.

The Firstborn he’d befriended in the Halls of Manwë weren’t acquainted with it either. In fact, he was more familiar with concept of mortality than they’d ever been. He had seen the Children die, he’d seen plenty of them. He had tried to help them, to ease their suffering as their fëar left their dead bodies and journeyed to Mandos. He had made a number of attempts at imagining what death felt like and had even tried to enter the Children’s minds to acquire some new, fresh perspective on it. But he had eventually ended up refraining from doing so, for he acknowledged it was morally wrong. Lord Manwë would have at once dismissed his curiosity as a natural inclination, but Eönwë had served his lord long enough to know he would have been disappointed at how he’d robbed the Eruhini of their last moments, which were to be private and personal. Eönwë was aware of it and had pulled back in shame, cursing his curiosity and begging for pardon, which he’d received instantly. He had never mentioned death again until Olórin had talked about it after he had completed his mission in Middle-earth. They had hugged and shared a goblet of Miruvórë before the Herald had noticed a clear hint of sadness on the Istar’s face. He had hoped his fellow Maia would open up to him but he soon realized that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. The Herald had tactfully tried to enter Olórin’s mind but his will had been met with rock-solid barriers; an impenetrable wall he couldn’t—nor wouldn’t—breach. After giving himself a mental tongue-lashing for yet again attempting something he had promised his lord he would never do, he had given Olórin an understanding look and had poured him more Miruvórë.

It hadn’t been until a few days later that the former White Rider had joined him in the Common Hall beneath their lord and lady’s chambers. The sun had set beyond the Pelóri and most of their fellow Maiar had already retired for the night. Some of them still lingered in the gardens; laughing merrily and drinking their fill under the stars. They had never shined so brightly. It was quite the spectacle to behold, the lady Varda’s majesty ever so enchanting. However, the Herald didn’t have it in him to spend yet another evening socializing with his kin. He was lounging on a plushy sofa not far from the roaring fireplace which kept the room warm and cozy. He stared at the flames with a neutral expression, mindful not to let his feelings show in case anyone came into the room. His mental shield was strong; yet, at times, his own eyes betrayed him. The slight twitches on his face, the imperceptible clenching of the jaw, the heavy breathing that took over him more than he should’ve liked to admit. He couldn’t make sense of those strange behaviors- the Children didn’t experience them at all and they certainly weren’t a regular occurrence for a Maia. He had seen quite a few of his fellow Ainur showcase both physical and mental pain, but, to the best of his knowledge and recollection, no one of them had ever had such emotional reactions to their distress. Emotions…not something he would recommend. As far as he was concerned, they were nothing but a burden. A strenuous baggage which all too often interfered with duty.

Overtime, he had mastered the art of concealing his true feelings on any matter he was presented with, and had learned to block intruders from grasping even his silliest thought. He wanted his mind to be his safe haven; he wished to be in control of it and would ensure it would remain fully his. It was pivotal to his sanity and he was keen on fighting in order to protect his inner self. As such, he hadn’t allowed anyone to get to know him on a deeper level. He had earned the respect of his fellow Maiar through sweat and hard work on the training grounds, but respect didn’t necessarily mean that they found his company agreeable or that they were fond of him in any capacity. He wasn’t even sure he had friends. He was friendly with his brethren and they were courteous to him in return, but how much of it was genuine he could hardly guess. Some of his kind were incredibly skilled at feigning amicability he wouldn’t be surprised if many of his so-called friends actually despised him. Concealed under an unshakable layer of politeness and decorum, lingered a constant wariness. He never truly felt comfortable; he never fully lowered his guard because he hardly ever felt safe. Even before his lord, whom he revered and trusted with his life, he was often on edge. And it wasn’t merely because of the majesty and splendor he radiated. Despite still feeling the need to cast his eyes down whenever summoned, he was used to it. It no longer intimidated him. What did scare him; what terrified him was the off-chance that something—or someone—may be lurking in the shadows. Arda was at peace once more after a long time, yet past experiences had taught the Herald that one should beware of uneventful transitions. That’s what they were: transitions, short periods of time enemies used to harness their strength. The notion of peace, as most people thought of it, was utopic. Arda had never been at peace, nor it would ever be. They were once again living in times of truce, or respite. That was the Herald’s firm belief; a belief he hadn’t shared with anyone save a few trusted people, one of them being Olórin.

He was one of the few Maiar in all of Aman Eönwë had formed an authentic connection with. Talking to him came easy and the Herald had found in him a trusted companion. He had come to trust him as much as he did his lord, that being the reason why he’d allowed himself to be slightly more vulnerable around him. He’d let Olórin into his fears and doubts and had let his fellow Maia work his magic. Eönwë had realized early on that his new friend was not like others of their kind; he possessed extraordinary gifts that went well beyond his. He had a way with words; words which provided so much comfort, like a soothing balm on a itchy wound. Incapable of deceit, he offered advice and a helping hand, which the Herald had learned to take, albeit reluctantly. He struggled with the concept of asking for help, shame pouring all over him every time he considered such an option. He was the Herald of the High King of Arda, he should’ve been the one dispensing advice. He was supposed to be wise, confident, imperturbable. Yet he seemed to be looking for constant reassurance, oftentimes weeping for no reason at all.

He was perhaps the only Maia in Valinor who hadn’t rejoiced at the news of the fall of Arda’s greatest enemy. The hearts of his brethren had at once filled with delight while his own had shattered. He dared not speak of it with anyone, but it seemed to him everyone had forsaken the Elder Days when Gorthaur was one of them. Eönwë couldn’t help but mourn what once has been and the unspeakable truth was that he would’ve rather faded into oblivion himself. He would’ve gladly welcomed his demise had it thus been possible for Gorthaur to return home. All of this he had confessed to Olórin and he’d been genuinely surprised when his fellow servant of Manwë had embraced him tightly without a single word of reprimand. They had discussed death and Olórin had shared his own brush with it, the glint of sadness the Herald had seen in his eyes a few days prior suddenly back again. He had told him how painful the separation of his fëa from his fána had been and how he had felt the rest of the Fellowship’s despair as he had plunged into the abyss fighting off Durin’s bane, the last of the Valaraukar in the dwarf-city of Moria. He had not elaborated further, for there was no need. The Maia’s tearful eyes spoke for themselves. But then Olórin’s winter seemed to have passed as he proceeded to recall the utter bliss he had experienced afterwards. He had been briefly taken by darkness, but he had felt the Song stir within him and with it he’d been gifted with a new life by the One himself. A new chance for him to prove himself, a chance to complete his task. Much that he’d lost he’d gained back, his already great wisdom being enhanced tenfold. The Herald had been strongly encouraged not to fear death, for it was just another path. The Herald hadn’t made any comments but Olórin’s words—although rather confusing and at times purely nonsensical—had somehow broadened his view on what he had always considered to a miserable, painful, final affair. Olórin’s words had almost made him wish for it. Maybe death could be beautiful, after all.

-

 Olórin’s words may have been reassuring but, as far as he was concerned, he’d been deceived. Death had at last come, washing all hope away. There was nothing charming, nothing beautiful about it. A sharp tear, a hollow sound.

 He let out a scream. Blinded, deaf and unaware of his surroundings, he shook and thrashed about. Bewildered eyes stared as he fell to the ground. The mist had pierced his fëa, creating gaping holes that stung and bled. His broken core was filling with what felt like a viscous liquid that clang to its essence, causing it to wither. The bright  light of his fëa had burned out. He felt nothing. For a moment, for a split second, he thought he had returned to the Timeless Halls. He wanted to believe so. His fána had perished and his spirit too had been broken. The Herald wandered aimlessly in the dark, looking for the light he so craved, looking for a way out of what seemed to be an endless, bleak tunnel. He crawled slowly trying to find clues as to where he was, but he could see nothing. As he fumbled through the nothingness that were his surroundings, he suddenly heard a fell voice on the air, a voice which he hadn’t heard since the aftermath of the War of Wrath. Eönwë remembered it all too well.

He remembered the horror of battle, the screams, the crimson blood staining beautiful Beleriand. He remembered the anxiety that had stirred within him at the sight of the host of Angband. Despite being  a great leader — or better yet, being considered as such due to his undeniable skills with any kind of weapon known to Elda or Maia–he was not so mighty that he was above fear. He very well recalled the tinge of panic rising in his fëa as he’d given a rousing and hopefully uplifting speech to the troops of the West, to the thousands of Men, Elves and Maiar under his command. He’d enunciated every single word confidently, his booming voice echoing through the desolate land that was the Northern region of Middle-earth. A region which had once been lush and unsullied, untouched by evil. Evil had then ravaged and corrupted the very earth, annihilating flora and fauna, depriving a green land full of life and promise of its very fabric. The air had a reddish sheen to it, smoke and ash being carried by mercilessly cold winds that teared one’s soul apart. The dark, menacing peaks of Thangorodrim stood in the distance, a painful reminder of what the armies of the West were meant to achieve. A reminder of who they were meant to subdue, capture and destroy. Melkor—now better known as Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World—the fallen brother of Eönwë’s lord, and his lieutenant Sauron Gorthaur, formerly known as Mairon the Admirable.

 Mairon.

 Eönwë’s aching, failing heart filled with sadness and regret as he let bittersweet memories sweep all over him. He had loved that stubborn, incredibly talented little brother of his. That cheeky, ingenious troublemaker with a perennial smirk on his pretty face. He’d been one of the most promising students under the tutelage of Aulë, the Smith of the Valar. Smart and ever dedicated to his craft, he’d risen fast and had become Lord Aulë’s head apprentice way before than many of their fellow Maiar had descended into Eä. Disciplined and skilled, he’d always sought perfection. He achieved anything he put his rigorous mind to and his creations were nothing short of impeccable. They were beautiful beyond reckoning, worthy of every praise the Smith could bestow upon him. He was the perfect apprentice, a role-model, the perfect teacher to learn from. He embodied the blueprint for every Maia of Aulë to follow. He was meant to lead, to inspire. He was admirable and he knew it. Everybody did, including Eönwë. The Herald took a lot of pride in his little brother and never missed a chance to remind him of it. He was genuinely elated at the prospect of Mairon being showered with compliments, for it was what he deserved. He worked hard and was so utterly brilliant. The Valar seemed to fully agree, the Smith constantly boasting about his Mairon. Aulë clearly had a soft spot for that curious, fiery, inquisitive young Maia. His best pupil, his most devoted servant, his loving child. His adored son. His sweet boy. His precious, little, ever darling Mairon.

The Lord of the Earth and the young Maia had been brought together by a higher purpose, or so the Smith was inclined to believe. They were so similar, both in appearance and in demeanor that many could’ve easily mistaken the pupil for a younger reimbodiment of his Master, so alike were their mannerisms. Rarely had the Ainur witnessed such a symbiotic relationship, a complete mirroring of fëar and fánar, a bond so strong that only the breaking of the world could sever it. Or perhaps not. Their ties ran so deep nothing could ever come between them. Aulë was sure of it. He wasn’t by any means gullible and one had to prove himself to him before earning his trust, but once that was accomplished, once that small obstacle was overcome, said individual could always count on the Smith’s unwavering support. Vocal and steadfast, he would go to any lengths to defend his children, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge blatant mistakes and sometimes even taking blame for them. It was only natural for him to care for his children, and he’d do anything to shield them from harm. His tender heart was blind to jealousy and pettiness, to rivalry and betrayal and his obliviousness was even more apparent when it came to his beloved Maiar. He didn’t seem to have perceived the darkness which had long been brewing in the hidden depths of Mairon’s fëa and, if he had, he’d deliberately chosen not to see it.

He had failed to recognize the sudden oddities in Mairon’s behavior, he had not noticed the slight change in his voice—from high-pitched and enthusiastic to low, distant  and cold. He had failed to notice the blackness that oftentimes tainted the outer corners of the young Maia’s golden eyes, slowly spreading toward the pupil as a promise of the menace he would eventually become. He hadn’t perceived his adored child’s quiet treason and was blissfully unaware of the schemes Mairon was plotting underneath his fair hue.

Mairon knew how to charm, he knew how to trick, how to manipulate. He had mastered the subtle art of deception and employed it to his advantage. He had joined the ranks of the fallen Vala Melkor, awed by his aura of majesty and power. Power he was confident he would one day wield himself. Melkor had ensnared him, he had poisoned his young, impressionable, curious mind. He had tantalized him with dreams and visions of grandeur, nurturing his ambition and feeding his ego.

You’re such a talent, the fallen Vala had gently whispered into Mairon’s ear, his suave tone subtly but effectively denting the Maia’s mental barrier, you have so much potential. Mighty you are among your kind and mightier will I make you if you indeed decide to follow me. Long have I watched you, young one. I have observed you far longer than you imagine and I do believe you deserve much better than the boring existence you’ve unknowingly—or perhaps knowingly, you alone can answer that—chosen for yourself. I have seen how your face lights up as you create trinkets of the most unimaginable beauty, I have caught the twinkle in your eyes as you turn liquid metal into art, engulfed in the heat of Aulë’s forges. I have taken notice of the unmistakable pride you feel holding the artifacts you so delight in making. And it saddens me to think you will never receive proper credit for your tireless work. Tell me, Mairon, have you ever been praised? Has Aulë ever shown genuine admiration concerning your boundless abilities as a craftsman? Has he ever hailed you as the greatest of his students? I’m quite sure he has praised you aplenty, but with all his blabbering he has forgotten to remind others of the heights you could reach. You already know you are the most skilled of the lot, you must be tired of hearing it. You’re weary of this miserable existence of yours, I can see it in your eyes. You wish to be boasted about, you wish to create and mold the Earth to your taste for all the world to notice. Yet you’ve only been given half-hearted, empty words of consolation by your doltish master, one of the lesser among the Valar. You possess a rare gift. A rare gift which should not go to waste. You are the mightiest of the Maiar, the most admired. You have a destiny to fulfill, and you know as well as I do that said destiny can only be fulfilled if you come with me.

The fallen Vala had rested his eyes on the Maia, caressing Maia’s plump cheek with his elongated fingers.

I’m offering you a chance at another life. A path which is vastly different from the one you’re currently pursuing, a path you clearly have not yet considered. You know little of Ëa, my sweet child, very little. There’s a land out there, beyond the sea. A pristine, beautiful land. As unspoiled as you are, little one. A land that could—and will—be yours. See it as an opportunity. A chance for you to start over. A chance for you to become the lord that you know in your heart to be. It would make me most unhappy to see you wither and diminish. Most unhappy, my sweet child. Look at you, you’re fairer than the accursed stars of Varda, stronger than the foundations of the Earth, more resilient than the obsidian rocks so dear to your foolish master.

Melkor paused as he looked intently into the Maia’s bright fëa.

You are a rarity among your kind, my child. In order to prosper you need proper guidance. That I can give you, Admirable One.

The once young and innocent Maia had at first expressed his confusion and hadn’t given the Vala a straight answer. Melkor’s proposal was enticing, he recognized it, and it certainly felt nice to be validated. On the other hand though, he loved his master and was loyal to him. He couldn’t simply leave him. Melkor had mentioned a new world beyond the sea. What world was that? Did it look like the beautiful, blessed Isle of Almaren where he’d peacefully dwelled since he’d took his first ever step on Arda? Mairon was enthralled at the prospect of exploring new territories, yet he didn’t feel comfortable following Melkor.

Mairon knew full well Eru had envisioned a specific path for him, a clearly defined path which entailed a life of servitude, a life of work in the forges as the head apprentice of Aulë, the Smith of the Valar. Following Melkor would’ve meant interfering with precise patters ordained by a higher authority. An authority Mairon greatly respected and, to some extent, feared. The Vala and the young Maia had parted ways, Melkor’s now faint words echoing persistently in the latter’s head. He had tried to ignore them, but he had quickly found that resisting the allure of Melkor’s  proposal was way harder than he had anticipated. He didn’t wish to stray from the path Eru had dictated for him, yet…he couldn’t deny he had always yearned for more. He couldn’t lie to himself any longer. It had been difficult to restrain his ambition, to settle for a never-ending apprenticeship that left no room for personal growth. His forging skills were unmatched, he now wished to foster his many other talents. Perhaps…perhaps Melkor had been right. Perhaps he was meant for something greater than what had been decided for him. Perhaps Eru wasn’t really omniscient as his fellow Ainur had so confidently claimed. His judgement could be as faulty as anybody else’s, maybe he had made a mistake in assigning him to Aulë. His good-natured, jovial and boisterous lord was master of the Earth and, as such, he fashioned the substances of Arda, rock and metal.

Highly practical, he delighted in knowledge and skill of hand. He was intensely fascinated by jewels and shiny artifacts, working tirelessly on his designs. Aulë was a proud craftsman and so was Mairon, his prized and much loved apprentice. His golden boy.

It was undeniable they had much in common, yet Mairon had begun to feel increasingly uncomfortable in his lord’s presence, his uneasiness carefully concealed under his usual calm, restrained demeanor. His handsome elven features didn’t betray any sort of emotion, his inner turmoil tucked away for no one to see. It was an overwhelming feeling he couldn’t quite describe. He didn’t have to understand it to hate it though. The natural, perfect harmony of his fëa had been altered and that was enough to unnerve him. Chaos had been stirring within him, a fastidious sense of anxiety clouding his judgement and severely hindering his self-control.

The young Maia had repeatedly gulped and gasped as waves of panic had rushed freely through his weakened body. He felt lonely, unwanted and scared; his lord’s Halls no longer the safe haven they’d always been. Lord Aulë himself appeared somewhat changed, his own fëa twisted and unrecognizable. Mairon had progressively shied away from him and a growing worry had swelled into the heart of the Smith. The Vala of the Earth had tried to reach out to his beloved child, sensing the shame and doubt that had filled his heart. But his will had been met with mighty resistance, his helping hand mercilessly rejected and his good intentions had been looked upon with scorn. The ever hopeful Vala hadn’t been discouraged by Mairon’s blunt display of hostility. He knew the young Maia well and was not at all surprised by the latter’s impulsive decision to let his pride stand in the way of a possible reconciliation.

Aulë had held his head while rhythmically scratching his beard, as he usually did when he was deep in thought. Reconciliation? It certainly wasn’t the right term to describe what was happening. Reconciliation implied the restoring of friendly relations. The restoring of a bond lost to the Ages. The bond he shared with Mairon was as strong as it had ever been, the Smith reasoned. There was no need for reconciliation for there had never been disagreements. They’d never quarreled, they’d never been involved in any rows. Mairon was simply experiencing feelings he’d never known before.

Of course. It is to be expected. How did I not think of it? He basks in precision, order, routine. One can only imagine how distressing it must be for him to experience novelties. Novelties he can’t quite make sense of, to boot. But I know in my heart that my sweet son shall understand at last. He needs a bit of time to himself to analyze and rationalize what’s happening to him. I don’t blame him at all, how could I? Shame on me for forcing my hand upon him, shame of me for not being the supportive father he’s in dire need of at such time. Shame on me for failing him. Oh, can you forgive me, my child? Mairon, my son, here I come to you seeking your pardon. Can you give it to me? I beg you, my sweet boy.

The Smith reached out to his apprentice, his fëa expanding as he mentally addressed his beloved Maia. He called for him anxiously, eager to right his wrongdoings at once, eager to feel him, to protect him. His sweet son, his golden boy. He missed him. He doubted not the strength of their bond and was confident Mairon loved him still. Surely he did. Aulë had seen firsthand the glowing light that twinkled in Mairon’s eyes whenever he stepped into the forges. He had felt the Maia’s gratitude in his thoughts, a force so potent it couldn’t possibly be restrained. It had made its way into the Vala’s mind and its might had bound Aulë’s will, forcing him to his knees. The momentarily incapacitated Smith had struggled to regain his senses; impressed and delighted by Mairon’s show of fealty. He didn’t remember his beloved child ever being able to channel such power and he was surprised at the sheer intensity of it. He had felt his love, the immense admiration Mairon had for him, so strong a feeling it nearly bordered on adulation. Aulë didn’t wish to be worshipped, personal glory mattered little to him. He viewed himself as a mere laborer, an humble servant of Eru whose creations—as stunning as they may be deemed by others—were not meant to be celebrated. In fact, they simply were to be accounted as a minimal contribution to Ilúvatar’s designs.

Creation was his domain, his addition to the Great Music and he felt beyond privileged to be able to play a part—no matter how small or irrelevant it might be—in the betterment of Arda. He had instructed his Maiar to be grateful, encouraging them to forsake power and greed. He’d instead remarked on the joys of a simple life, stressing the importance of conviviality. It was his utmost desire to see his Maiar merrily cooperating, unselfishly putting their unique talents at one another’s disposal, being each other’s greatest allies in the hour of need. He strongly believed in each and every one of them and was ever pleased to see them working steadily toward a collectively chosen goal. That was the Smith’s vision, his ultimate feat to achieve and he’d hoped all the populace of his Halls would contribute to the effort. Many of his students had joined him and Mairon had too, albeit less enthusiastically. He didn’t seem to fit in and Aulë had soon taken notice of the young Maia’s internal struggle.

Although blessed with extraordinary ability—his skills as a smith were surpassed by none, save Aulë himself—he wasn’t suited for communality and preferred working alone. Aulë had wished for him to share his seemingly endless knowledge with his fellow Ainur, but Mairon appeared to have little to interest in communicating with any of them, let alone imparting what he considered to be basic notions of metallurgy. He was a master smith and didn’t plan on wasting his time on clueless Maiar who had barely spent a month among their kin. Of course they were young—most of them hadn’t adjusted to the new environment they had found themselves in and were so frightened they cowered before every harmless beast they crossed paths with—but, in Mairon’s vocabulary, young and stupid certainly weren’t synonyms. He was living proof of that. Young he was and way younger had he once been, but he had always had a resolve to him that wasn’t common in his kind. He possessed an incredibly sharp focus and an iron will. There was nothing he could not attain. Nothing had ever seemed too out of reach or too hard to grasp. Whether Eru had endowed him with superior intelligence he did not know, but he wouldn’t have been surprised had that been the case. He’d rarely known fear and the few times he’d experienced a feeling akin to it, he’d dealt with it steadily and rationally. He wouldn’t be seen trembling or pleading for mercy. To be fair, he had never really done anything that might have caused him to stoop that low and he’d vowed he’d do his utmost not to be reduced to such a pitiful state. Begging was for dogs, for lesser beings. For lesser Maiar than himself. Mairon the Admirable was above fear. Above his fellow Ainur’s frivolous concerns. Above Lord Aulë’s silly concept of common goal.

He remembered how he’d scoffed and rolled his eyes at yet another of the Smith’s several passionate speeches on sharing the individual gifts the One had bestowed upon them all. He had stood in a dimly lit corner of the main Hall, forsaking his seat on the shiny obsidian balcony overlooking the room. A seat that, as the Vala of the Earth’s head apprentice, he was rightfully entitled to. His figure carefully and strategically concealed by a purple velvet curtain, he had soaked up every word his Lord had uttered whilst simultaneously ignoring the persistent whispering of his fellow Ainur. He’d quite enjoyed observing the confusion so clearly displayed on the younger Maiar’s faces, their eyebrows knitted together as they attempted to find a plausible answer to the one question everybody had been asking themselves at least once throughout the evening.

Where was Mairon?

It was undoubtedly an unusual riddle to be solved, a deeply uncomfortable situation not a living being in those Halls thought they would be faced with. Where was the mighty, fiery apprentice? His shadow was never far from his master. All of the Smith’s folk were acquainted with him and knew how proud he was. He never shied away from reminding anyone who he had the unlucky chance of crossing paths with — whether they be Eldar or fellow Maiar mattered little — that he was the Smith’s head apprentice, his most prized jewel. His obnoxious habit of constantly rubbing it in everybody’s faces was something all of Aulë’s people were terribly familiar with. It was well known how much the Maia enjoyed being in a position of authority and the Smith’s folk were all too familiar with his tendency to abuse whatever measure of power he was accorded.

Mairon was of course aware of these rumors and had scowled at the sheer stupidity of his brethren. What a whole load of nonsense. He had never abused his authority.  If anything, he had held back. It had proven to be quite the struggle, but he had eventually mastered the fine art of concealing the disgust and shame that took over him when forced to interact with any other Maia. As instructed by the Smith, he had made several attempts at establishing some sort of a bond with them, careful not to let his contempt show. He had tried to engage in their banter, feigning interest in their doltish conversation topics. He had done so to further ingratiate himself with the Smith, but at times he wondered whether his efforts had been worthwhile. What was he doing it for? What was his end game? He had acquired much knowledge, he was every bit a master craftsman as Aulë. Was there really anything left for him to learn? He’d thought about it for a long while. He’d entered Eä as a powerful, indomitable being and had put his talents to good use. His behavior had been impeccable, his conduct irreprehensible. Constantly having to downplay his emotions and acting a role was starting to affect him, it was eating him up. Failing to show up at one of the many assemblies in the Great Hall—which was unthinkable and nearly unforgivable for a master apprentice—would be his first act of rebellion. Subtle but to the point. It would be talk of the town for days, but Mairon cared not what a bunch of thoughtless Maiar’s opinion of him was. The bright fire which had burned within him during his time as a spirit in the Timeless Halls had immediately brought him to believe he would be a distinguished and most valued addition to the Vala of the Earth’s forges. He was above the lot of them. He had feigned humility but, deep down, he had always known.

 He had known he was above his kin in skill and intellect way before Melkor had approached him. He had been aware of it during the Ainulindalë. The tales that the inhabitants of Middle-earth would much later pass down to their offspring fail to mention it, for the Music of the Ainur was the one catalyst that set in motion the events of Arda long before they came into being;  the creation of the universe. And it was around that time that the downfall of the Admirable started. The Eruhini believed they knew his story but, as it is often the case, they knew only part of it. To know the full account of it, one must go back to the beginning. 

-

When the Music was sung, the Valar and the Maiar were one. They were all Ainur, working together. They had seen how their combined effort had paid off and most of them had marveled at the beauty of the vast, untouched land they had been presented with. Mairon too had been left speechless—though only for a brief moment, contrarily to his companions who had stared at it in wonder straying out of thought and time—by the novelty that the unsullied world that lay before his eyes and had soon felt an urgency to dwell in it. What had started as a vague inclination had quickly escalated in his mind until it had become a compelling desire, an obsession that consumed him much like the fire that so ardently burned in his fëa. He intended to descend into that unnamed realm and, possibly, perfect it. That was what made him stand out from the rest. His quest for perfection; a quest which was never-ending. For instance, he had already spotted a few elements that looked out of place. The vision Lord Eru had shared with them all did indeed reveal a pristine environment, yet the young Maia was firmly convinced it could benefit from minor tweaks and embellishments.

Several ideas had come to his mind; ideas that sprang from his preconceived notions of order and flawlessness. His eager eyes  had meticulously scanned the images shown to him by the Allfather and, though he was entranced by their beauty, he had found it impossible not to squirm at the subtle yet very much evident imperfections of the red and brown mass that seemed to extend beyond infinity. Its texture bothered him.

It was painfully clear—and not in a strictly metaphorical sense, for such inaccuracies and oversights caused a great deal pain to violently stir up in his fëa, a wave of unshakable discomfort that needed to be addressed, or else he might as well succumb to it—that it had not been carefully planned, as if not much effort had been put in its creation. He diverted his attention to other details in a feeble attempt to soothe his troubled mind, but, everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but flaws. The greenery had lost its appeal, its messy and wild appearance irking him to the core. The newly-sprung trees—this was the name that came to him as he fixed his eyes on those tall, towering columns that seemed to reach beyond the stars; another term that had presumably originated in the depths of his fëa and had wallowed there, only waiting for him to acknowledge it and use in proper context—had no finesse to them, no grace, no real beauty. The Maia shrugged, his innate curiosity leading him to analyze and elaborate on every tiny piece of information thrown his way. As he pondered and drew his conclusions on what he could’ve improved, he was distracted by a new sound. It was a strange sound, something he could not define. He searched for answers in the very depths of his fëa, but, much to his dismay, he didn’t have a name for it. He focused on the anatomy of the sound itself, breaking it down and examining each component with the utmost care. It felt like a pulse; a quiet yet strong pulse which was oddly reminiscent of the palpitating beat he’d so distinctly felt as the Song was being loudly belted by the choir of the Ainur, his kin. The clear, steady beat of the Universe being crafted could now be found within Eä.

Mairon stretched his will and searched for the source of that mysterious yet familiar sound which seemed to bring some much sought-after peace to his troubled mind. When he finally found it, he was overwhelmed with surprise. A crystal-clear water expanse lay before him. Mairon narrowed his glinting golden eyes, frantically looking for its confines, but he soon realized water — the sea, as a thin voice in his head promptly suggested — couldn’t be contained.

As amazed and entertained as he was by such a bizarre novelty, he found that it didn’t sit well with him after all. It made him uncomfortable, his ingenious mind already working and processing information to swiftly solve what he considered to be a structural problem. What good could ever come from something so wild, so apparently untamable, so unrestrained? Such an horrific, shapeless mass of nothingness couldn’t be controlled and any environment needed control and restraint in order to flourish. Mairon had assumed Lord Eru would be aware of it and was dismayed at the lack of basic common sense the One had displayed. He concealed his disappointment and forced himself to ignore all the contrasting feelings that had progressively being building up within him. He turned away from the sea—a sickening sight—and focused on any other details he might have previously overlooked.

A shiny glimmer had caught his eye, his interest immediately peaking. He was overwhelmed with thought, a sudden thought which had grown so large in his mind that had filled his spirit too. Mairon shook violently as he felt the Song flow through every fiber of his being, every inch of his formless body responding to the energy around him. The Song grew louder and he found himself incapable of shying away from it. In fact, it was not what he wanted. He welcomed all of its intricacies, its harmony, the delicate notes of the various instruments in the mighty orchestra that had originated the Music. That very same music, the Great Music, filled his longing fëa and the young Maia stood still as his true calling was revealed to him. The Music overpowered him and forced him to stare at whatever radiated the glow he’d been so fascinated with. As the light dimmed and his vision cleared, he was able to cast a glance at the source of such captivating brilliance. Mairon was elated, overjoyed to have  found his purpose at last. Lord Eru had then suddenly spoken, addressing the Ainur who had felt the power of the Song.  They were welcome to descend into Eä and actively play their part in the Great Theme, if they so wished. They had been called upon to fulfill their task and were encouraged to put their talents to good use in order to prepare the World for the coming of the Children.

The Children.

The Ainur had yet to see them, for it was said the One would create them with no external interference from his own individual mind. The Ainur were to inspire them, guide them, lead them. They were to make. They were to stretch their minds to their limit and bring the One’s great plan into being, thus acting as his intermediaries, his messengers, his vassals. Holy and fair they all were, yet some happened to be greater than others. The latter, the One had declared, would be known as The Powers.

Fourteen had they once been, yet one of them had soon strayed from the path ordained by the One, seeking to supplant him. Melkor was his name, he who arises in might.  He had yearned to establish his own Music. As he had contributed his themes in an attempt to subvert the harmony of the Song, many of the lesser spirits had joined with him and, together, they had created a counter to the Main Theme. A forceful addition, as unplanned as it was powerful. Yet it was not unwelcomed. In his wisdom, the One knew a rebellious act was needed for his vision to be shaped as he had originally intended.

Melkor’s discord was as well perceived by the fellow Ainur who had not sided with him. Their brethren’s sudden surge in power had startled them and they had gone quiet as the thoughts Melkor had woven into his choral segment became fully apparent. Melkor’s discord had triumphed over a Second Theme ordered by Eru in an attempt to imbue the original Theme with a new meaning. Eru had envisioned the Second Theme of the Ainur should be like and yet unlike the first one, endowed with even more power and beauty.

Melkor’s dissonance was felt, however, and it soon caused a war of sound more violent than before, prompting Eru to lay the foundation for yet another piece of music. The Third Theme of the Ainur rose up from the Second Theme’s confusion. It had a warm, soft feel to it; notes flowing and rippling freely. The Timeless Halls were at last filled with peace, the Ainur pouring life into the designs of their heart. That was, until Melkor struck again. Some of the Ainur’s voices were torn from their throats as they quivered with fear, though a smaller faction resisted and bravely faced the sheer horror Melkor’s new theme had awoken in them. This minority, this small alliance of headstrong spirits countered the rebellious Power’s tune with one of their own. Two themes were now playing, one full of immeasurable sorrow and made even more poignant and beautiful by it and the other, composed and arranged by the will of Melkor, merely took the former theme’s note and wove them into its own solemn pattern. The clash between the two themes caused the Timeless Halls and even the Void—the everlasting darkness beyond Time and Space—to shake.

The One then yet again made his presence known and rose from his high seat once more. In one chord, deeper than the Abyss and higher than the Firmament, the Music ceased. It abruptly came to a halt as Eru dissuaded them from perpetrating the discord any further and showing them the result of their singing as he led them into the Void.

Behold your Music, he’d spoken.

The Vision that had Mairon both startled and intrigued had appeared then, and the young spirit had spent so much of his energy fixating over the crooked symmetry of the landscapes that he had failed to grasp what the cause of the general amazement among his brethren was. He had scowled at the awed expressions of the multitude surrounding him and had reached out for a satisfactory answer to the one pressing question that was now occupying his mind. But no one heeded his need for clarifications, for the Ainur were entranced, their senses oblivious to their surroundings. They seemed bewitched as they stared at the newest addition to Ilúvatar’s plan. Mairon turned away with a shrug but soon he too was caught peering in, even though he did not exactly know what he was looking for. He believed he had seen it all: the trees, the sea — he felt queasy at the mere thought — the grass. What else could there be to behold? There was nothing missing in Eru’s vision, for it already showed a fully formed world, albeit imperfect. It needed not any more additions. What could’ve served it well was, in the fiery Maia’s unheard opinion, some good amount of polishing. It was in dire need of order, of embellishments. Why add new elements that would undoubtedly benefit knife work later on?

He pushed his doubts to the very back of mind and narrowed his eyes. And then he finally saw what everyone was gawking at. Two groups of similar beings had appeared before him. They were unlike anything the Ainur had known and bore no visual resemblance to them. They were not made of light, they were no spirits. They looked corporeal, which was a foreign concept to the Ainur. As thrilling as that sight was, it was highly confusing also. Ilúvatar could sense the Ainur’s astonishment and was beyond pleased to see the creation that was dearest to his heart had been so well received, in spite of the many perplexities and queries that plagued the Extensions of His Thought.

He came among them and reached out to them, addressing them collectively and, simultaneously, establishing an individual contact with each of them.

I give ye my children, he spoke, for it is them you shall serve. So have I, the One Eru Ilúvatar, holder of the Flame Imperishable, declared to you. Thus I command ye: behold the beauty of the Children and fashion a world they shall be glad to inhabit. Fashion a world where they may go forth and prosper, while bearing sons and daughters. But this ye knew, for that was my will and I had made it known. At last, behold the Firstborn and their Followers! This too ye knew, but again I shalt repeat it, for my word may be heard across the Void and Eä. Ëa, I shalt say. Be! Let these things I showed you be! I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable and it shall be at the heart of the World and the world shall Be and those of you that will may go down into it. This choice lies before you. Do not choose lightly for, if you do descend into the World, you shall be bound to it until its very end. And if you’re ever in doubt over whichever path you might take, listen to the Song within you. Some of you have already heard it and will hear it again, others will only feel it once or never perceive it all. Do not try to wake it before its time.

Those of you who, during your dwelling in my Halls, have heard its calling twice are bound to descend into Eä at once, for the World needs your skill to come into being. Those of you who hear it once may think of it as a promise of what will come to pass. Be ready for when it truly awakens, for you too shall be needed in the coming centuries or millennia. And, lastly, those you who do not feel the Song stirring within them: do not despair! You’re no lesser than your brethren, for you shall assist me! Be welcomed in my Halls and dwell here in peace!

Eru’s voice slowly quieted and Mairon closed his eyes, patiently waiting for the Song to awaken. He had heard it once and presumed he’d hear it again. The prospect of descending into Eä appealed to his innate curiosity, his desire to leave a mark on the World. He wasn’t meant to sit idle and watch events naturally unfold, he was meant to influence them. He would do everything in his power to let the Children know he had entered Ëa and walked on Arda. He would leave tangible proof of his presence, of the fact he had actually been there. The Children would remember his name, for he was Mairon. He was admirable and he would accomplish glorious deeds, which would in turn earn him unstinted admiration. The Children would gape at his works and he would most kindly impart them some of his knowledge, for he undoubtedly had much of it. He still needed to figure what his main expertise would be, yet he was confident that he wouldn’t fail his Maker. His expertise…the one thing that sent shivers down his fëa, the propeller of his very being, his True purpose as an Ainu. He’d found it, he’d manifested it, he had visualized it clearly in his mind. He knew what it was, he simply needed to recall it. He needed to recall that feeling that had  so made him feel he could have a future, a life within Arda. An existence that pleased him greatly. An existence that wasn’t beneath him. He yearned for that mysterious, totalizing feeling and was certain it would come back to him. 

The young spirit glanced at the designated Powers, the Aratar. They stood tall, having already traced a symbolic barrier between the rest of the Ainur and themselves. They indeed looked mighty and radiated a blinding light Mairon could never hope to match. He stared at them, curiosity and envy both visible on his handsome face. For a moment, he wondered what he would feel to be that majestic. What it would feel to be as powerful. They may have been common Ainur once, but it was no more. They were now nearly as great as Eru himself and, as it had been decreed, they would be the lesser ones’ lords and ladies, to whom they’d be assigned.

Mairon had plenty of questions about that specifically. How would it happen? Would they have to prove themselves to the Aratar? If so, what was expected of them? What was expected of him? It was his understanding that the lesser Ainur—a term which may have been apt for some of his brethren; a word that certainly didn’t apply to him—would be drawn to their respective Masters or Mistresses. They would feel it, like a pull from the depths of their fëar, a strong need for guidance, a bond.  That concept too didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t wish to be bound to anyone. He would of course bend to the will of Ilúvatar, but there was no denying he found the matter to be unsettling. He understood his duty was to serve, but being at someone else’s mercy and command presumably until the very end of the newly-established universe certainly was no reason to rejoice. He hoped his time of diligent servitude would be a sort of springboard to indelible achievement. Leaving a mark of any kind was paramount, that much was clear. And he would work toward that. He would work steadily and tirelessly and, most importantly, he wouldn’t try to restrain the natural power Eru had gifted him. He would let it flow, he would let it take over his very essence and then he would wield it wisely and responsibly in the sacred name of creation and craftsmanship. The more he pondered that notion, the more sense it made to him.

Craftsmanship. It had a nice ring to it.

He let that notion slowly sink into his fëa and glowed in satisfaction as it filled with personal gratification and what he assumed happiness felt like. It was an inebriating sensation which briefly overtook him before it vanished, leaving him cold and empty. An inebriating sensation which left him wanting for more. He could easily obsess over it, he realized. Personal gratification which could only be achieved through object-making. He couldn’t visualize them in his mind, but he could picture himself being the greatest craftsman among his kin. He had yet to figure out what he would employ his talent for, but he had little to no doubt he would craft trinkets of beauty beyond reckoning. He had the skill. He simply needed to find materials worthy of his abilities. Materials that would allow his prowess to shine.

Where would he be able to find such materials? What would those materials even be? Were they present in the vision Eru had shown them or would he have to create them himself? Why was no one explaining anything? He took another glance at his brethren and yet again he scoffed, annoyed beyond measure by their sheer cluelessness. Had they even been paying the slightest bit of attention to what Eru had said to them? Weren’t they eager to know what the One had concocted for them or were they going to blindly follow him? He laughed bitterly as he full well knew there was no need for him to spell out an answer. He knew they would serve and obey without further inquiring on the matters they were presented with, without challenging their intelligence—at this point in time it was fair to doubt they even possessed a smidge of it— without seeking a way to better what they had been given. He would find no kindred spirit, not here. Of that he was sure.

His troubled mind wandered and his eyes darted back and forth, periodically resting on the group of Aratar. They were conferring amongst themselves and little could the fiery young spirit do but stare at them, as if a mysterious force were pulling him towards them. As much as he tried to deny it, he did feel drawn to them. He hadn’t been lied to. He looked at each and every one of them, for he knew in his heart that the time had come. One of those supremely powerful beings would be his Master or Mistress. He would belong to them to do as they pleased, he would learn from them. He would study and observe. It seemed to him he was being pulled in every direction. Almost as if all of the Aratar were interested in having him under their tutelage. Almost as if he were a treasure coveted by many. Their voices, melodic and soothing, echoed in his fëa. They were talking about him, weighing his character and his motivations. Unlike his fellow spirits, Mairon wasn’t nervous. He had done nothing that could warrant a reprimand. He had received some questioning looks but he had paid no heed to them. Their opinion of him hadn’t mattered before and certainly didn’t matter now that the Powers were discussing his future.

Even though he wasn’t drawn to any of them, he still wanted to impress them, especially the ones he deemed most interesting. The ones whose mentorship could benefit his growth. As he patiently glanced at them, he quickly realized he had yet to find his true calling. He’d had a glimpse of it…that feeble shine his watchful eyes had caught. The glimmer that had caused the Song to grow louder and louder within him. The fascination he had felt at its mere sighting.

 That glimmer…

He hadn’t been able to see what caused it but it mattered not now. His mouth hang agape and his breathing halted. He might have as well found its source. It stood before him. One of the Aratar he was and, Mairon sensed, one of the mightiest. Tall and proud he was, strong and sturdy. There was nothing else of note about him except his eyes. Kind and compassionate they were and, most importantly, they held the light he yearned for. The purest light he had ever seen; a light that—albeit faint—could dispatch any darkness around him. He kept staring at it until it became more intense than he could bear. He then tried to turn away from it, but he quickly found that he couldn’t, as if he’d fallen prey to some sort of enchantment. He stared at it for so long he failed a notice several other young Ainur like himself had gathered around the Arata.

Mairon’s eyes gradually adjusted to the light until it partially dimmed, enabling him to see what was beyond it. And it was then that he saw his path laid before him. His destiny was at last unveiled before his very eyes, which narrowed into a slit as he observed and analyzed it. He saw several hearths, metals and work utensils, all of them covered in smoke, a gust of scorching hot air hitting his face. Despite it being exceedingly warm, it didn’t bother him. On the contrary, he’d never felt happier. That was his place. The forges—yet another noun which he’d realized he’d known all along—were to be his home. He heard the One’s voice resonate through his fëa.

Go to him, he commanded, for he shall be your Master and the mightiest of his servants thou shalt be. The Children shall call him Aulë, the First Craftsman, the Smith and thusly you may address him if you so desire. The lord of the Earth thou shalt serve and you will do so honorably and faithfully until there’s nothing more for you to learn. It is only then that your doom will be appointed, but I shalt not tell you where it lies, for it is only you, my child, who can know it.

Mairon remembered to bow his head as he walked up to his new Master. He  stared at his luminescent eyes once more and officially joined the ranks of Aulë’s servants. The Smith cupped his face and kissed his forehead. An unexpected gesture, which caused the young spirit to jolt. He stiffened and took a step back, confused and now slightly intimidated by the Arata’s imposing presence. Aulë smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder.

Come, my son.

Mairon nodded and bowed. As he prepared to follow his lord into the world Eru had created, he noticed a fellow Ainu he didn’t believe he had seen before. He didn’t remember his face and it puzzled him since he prided himself on having an excellent memory. He glanced at him expecting to scoff at his mediocrity, but he swiftly changed his tune the minute his eyes rested on him. Nothing about that particular Ainu was mediocre. He was every bit as majestic as the Arata he would be serving. He was golden, a beacon of light and hope. Even from a distance, Mairon perceived his inner power to be much greater than his own. His gaze was fixed on him and he only lowered it when he felt a pair of eyes staring right back. The clearest shade of blue he had encountered until that moment; perhaps the purest color he would ever come across. That was no ordinary Ainu. There was nothing dull about him and Mairon decided that was a fellow spirit worth befriending. He raised his chin  and his lips curved into a lopsided smile as he attempted to establish a connection with the Ainu, whose name he did not yet know.

He immediately received an answer.

Eönwë, the golden Ainu replied, my name’s Eönwë and I serve Lord Manwë.

A kingly being at the service of a kingly-looking Arata. How fitting. Maison glanced at Manwë briefly before politely replying.

I am Mairon and I serve Lord Aulë.

Eönwë smiled and turned to face his lord. That was the last thing Mairon saw before forever departing from Ilúvatar’s Timeless Halls, with his mind set on leaving a mark on Arda.

-

It was a typical evening in the Houses of Healing. The sun had already set and most of those in need had drifted into a peaceful sleep, lulled by the gentle breeze that came through the semi-opened windows in the various chambers. A fragrant herbal aroma pervaded the corridors, lit by the few scented candles which hadn’t yet been put off. Corridors which, at that time of night, were silent. Apart from the rushed steps of the occasional healer who might have forgotten a stash of bandages lying somewhere or run off to retrieve medical supplies, nothing could be heard. Everybody slumbered quietly and all the rooms were utterly dark. All but one.

The top floor of the building housed its largest room. It was easily the most comfortable and luxurious chamber, especially reserved for the ruling Steward and his family. Now that Gondor’s rightful king had reclaimed his throne, it was intended for him and the rest of the royal family, should they need it. But King Elessar had not made use of it, his Dúnadan blood making him immune to most ailments, and Queen Arwen and Crown Prince Eldarion hadn’t never even stepped into the Houses of Healing. Yet, several candles had been lit and a handful of concerned people hurried about, constantly fetching clean water and fresh athelas leaves. That was because the room was momentarily being occupied by someone who ranked even higher than Elessar himself.

The Herald of the High King of Arda lay in the middle of the canopy bed that had been hastily made for him, his bloody tabard and undershirt torn off from his sweaty, sticky skin to reveal extensive injuries all over his torso. But none of them was more worrying and frightening than the massive gash on his side. The remaining flesh around it had blackened and was covered in yellowish discharge that stank horribly. The veins on the upper parts of his body had enlarged and they had progressively blackened in spite of the speedy intervention processes that had been attempted on him. Mithrandir sat beside him, holding his hand and whispering words in a language unheard in Middle-earth. Elessar and the Steward too were  present and tried to assist as best as they could. The King had just returned with a new batch of athelas and was diligently cleaning even the most insignificant cuts, while the Steward had just handed Mithrandir a jug of Mirúvorë, which by sheer luck had been supplied only months earlier by the lords of Rivendell, the Queen’s brothers.

The Steward and the former Istar gently raised the unconscious Herald’s head and the Thain of the Shire stepped forward. He and the Lord of Buckland often visited Gondor and they had seen the Herald collapse in the council room. They had readily offered to help, hastily bringing a stretcher into the room so that he could be carried to the Houses in all haste. 

The Thain poured a generous amount of the Elven liquor into a cup and and brought it to the Maia’s lips, gently opening his mouth to make sure he drank it. He then placed the empty cup on a nearby table and instinctively hugged the lord of Buckland, who sat on a chair facing the Herald’s bed. Mithrandir forced a smile on his face and—after ensuring his lord was comfortable enough—he went to them, spreading his arms. The two hobbits leapt into them at once and tightened their grip around the Maia’s waist as tears fell down their cheeks.

“Is there any hope for him, Gandalf?”

The former Istar blinked, but didn’t snap out of the trance he’d plunged in. Peregrin Took looked at him and tugged at his robe in a desperate attempt to get his attention. He had matured quite a lot from in recent years, but there was no denying both he and Meriadoc Brandybuck had retained an innocent, child-like quality to them. He asked again but to no avail. Grief seemed to have gotten a hold of the Maia who stared at the emptiness before him. The King, weary and just as worried, replied in his stead.

“There’s always hope.”

The Steward nodded absently as he pressed a damp cloth on the Herald’s forehead. Out of the councilmen, only the Steward had been a constant presence by the injured Maia’s bedside; the others coming and going continually. Some of them had expressed genuine concern over the Herald’s health, but the vast majority was merely in for any news that might be worth spreading around. The Maia’s brush with death—as it had been dubbed—certainly was a juicy piece of gossip and everyone yearned for regular updates on the matter. Some members of the court wished death upon him, remarking that it had been his kind had that had tormented Middle-earth for entire ages; others were eager to know more about him and some people questioned his motives and abilities. Some lords instead prayed to the Valar for his full recovery. They regarded the Herald as a prized opportunity to establish an alliance with the Uttermost West and were willing to use their daughters as pawns to contract some advantageous marriage. The Warden of the Houses had reported some of these rumors to both the King and the Steward who hadn’t tarried in making their disgust known. The latter had been particularly vocal about it.

“They should be ashamed of themselves,” he had ranted, his voice hoarse, “who in their right mind would…”

He had paused, tears forming in his eyes. “I cannot believe how far we have fallen. They have no honor, no dignity…they have disgraced their Houses, their name, their bloodline. Is this how the greatest realm of Men intends to repay those who lend their helping hand to our cause? Had he not been here, our city would’ve fallen, my vanimelda would’ve fallen…my Elenna…”

At the mention of his daughter, the Steward crumpled, sobbing and whimpering. Elessar sighed and placed both hands on his shoulders, forsaking his healing duties for an instant.

“Faramir.” The king’s tone was calm yet stern. “I understand your pain and believe me when I say would’ve gladly carried your many burdens. In fact, I wish I still could. But I need you, mellon-nín. Lord Eönwë needs you, he needs all of us. You mustn’t falter now. Be strong.”

Faramir bowed. “As my liege commands.”

Elessar hugged him and patted his back. They both glanced at the Herald whose appearance, despite the intensive treatment he’d undergone, was and remained ghastly. His skin was nearly translucent yet blotchy and he had dark circles around his eyes. His lips had a blue tint to them and the veins on his neck had enlarged so that one could see blood slowly running through them. The infected gash on his side hadn’t healed and all the other minor wounds he’d sustained were still bleeding. The king touched his forehead and immediately retracted his hand.

“I believed the fever would break,” he murmured, “alas, it has not. His condition is beyond my skill to heal. Surely he has been poisoned, but I had never encountered any malady that Kingsfoil couldn’t treat successfully. What kind of sorcery has befallen him? He who, according to the old lore, is the mightiest among the Maiar? How could a fallen servant of the First Enemy, bereft of all power, reduce one so great to a helpless shadow barely clinging to life?”

“We do not yet know how he returned,” Mithrandir said, “but this I can tell ye. He channeled a power beyond him, a power that never belonged to him, for it was indeed first wielded by the Black Foe of the World, whose name I will not hither pronounce.”

“What do you speak of, Mithrandir? What is it, then?”

Faramir was frantic. “Is there anything we can do at all?” he asked, echoing the sentiment of the Thain of the Shire. Contrarily to his friend Meriadoc, the young Took hadn’t broken free from Mithrandir’s hug and seemed to have no intention of doing so. He compulsively clutched the Istar’s white robe and it took a lot of persuading for him to let it go. A sighing Mithrandir poured him a cup of Mirúvorë and ran his hand through his hair as he sipped it. The Elven cordial calmed the Hobbit long enough so that he could be seated and pulled into another hug by his closest friend. Meriadoc Brandybuck too was shocked at the sight before him and was resting his face on Peregrin’s shoulder.

“What happened to him, Gandalf?”

Mithrandir gulped, his distress showing through the focused façade he’d masterfully put on.

“If it is a direct answer that which you hope to receive, my dear Merry, I’m afraid you shall be disappointed. I can offer you consolation if you’ll accept it, whilst sharing with you my opinion. The certainties we all so seek at the present time I do not have, but it is also true that few things in this world are certain.”

He took a deep breath. “I have reason to believe my lord was stabbed with a blade which once belonged to the Black Foe himself; a blade coated with his very Deadly Nightshade. We are all familiar with said plant and its effects, yet the original creation by the lady Yavanna was mutilated at its very core and made even more potent and destructive. Hithlas it was called, also known as Sauron’s gift in later days. A mockery of the noble Athelas plant, which was first introduced to the Secondborn by the Herald himself when the Black Foe was overthrown and the sons of Men gifted the lost island of Elenna-nöré, now most likely to be remembered by its names of Númenor or Westernesse. I have no doubt Sauron learned the properties of the flora from his former master, just as I have no doubt he was taught how to twist them for his evil purposes by the very same hand.”

He looked at the king. “No amount of skill will save my lord Eönwë. He alone can do that. You may expect a full physical recovery, for he is indeed the mightiest of my order, but I suspect the Dark Lord will try and weaken him from the inside. Should he succeed in breaking his will, I have no doubt my lord would perish. He could not endure the pain he would suffer as a result of it, nor would he choose to. Such is the dark power of the Nightshade. I would’ve already succumbed to it, for I am much lesser than he.”

“Is there anything we can do? I cannot bear to witness a friend’s agony while sitting idle. Surely, there must be something that can be done.”

The lord of Buckland had spoken again, his voice hoarse yet firm.

The Maia frowned. “Friend?”

“Yes, well…if you deem him worthy of your trust…and he’s your friend…then I suppose he’s my friend too. And one needs to help their friends. Or at least one should try.”

“I never doubted your valor, my brave hobbit. But the evil of the Black Foe cannot be undone, for his treachery runs too deep and it has marred the very fabric of this world.”

“Even so, there may be…”

“Meriadoc.”

“You can help him, can’t you?”

“No. We’ve all done all that we could. Our hope lies with him now. May the Valar assist him. May his lord be with him now that he’s most in need of comfort and care.”

-

Two days had passed. Two days of agony and silent prayer, two days of constant hovering and worrying. Now the shadows of the night stretched over Minas Tirith and with them they carried a gloominess that had no place in the hearts of the grieving. And yet, they carried an ember of hope that, although faint, could as well snatch away one’s weariness and troubles. All of those who had been attending on Herald were still there, patiently waiting for the Herald’s health to improve. They had been visibly on edge and did not wish to be parted from him, even though King Elessar and the Steward had left in order to partake in a long, drawn-out council meeting which had led to an intense argument among several of the lords involved. Both the King and the Steward had regretted calling such meeting, for they realized they had wasted time that could have been otherwise used productively. They had both rushed back to the Houses of Healing and had continued tending to the Herald until they had collapsed into their respective chairs, exhausted. The hobbits too had turned up and had eagerly helped in any task they had been commissioned, even sending letters to Prince Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves. The King requested their presence not because of their healing hands—as a matter of fact, none of them were healers—but simply because he needed his friends to be there. His friends, his brothers in arms. The Fellowship reunited once more. Elessar was confident they would both ride to Minas Tirith once the letters reached them and he hoped that by then the tide would turn, that Lord Eönwë would be well. He was hopeful the Valar would eventually see to it.

Mithrandir had never left the Herald’s bedside and he had openly wept, comforted by the Hobbits.

He’ll be alright. If he’s half as strong as you are, he will be.  

They had repeated that line over and over, whispering it into the Istar’s ear each time they saw his resolve weaken and to the King it had ended up sounding like the linnod his mother had often recited to him in his youth; the very same linnod which had spurned him to take up his sword and embrace his destiny. But even higher beings can fall into despair and Mithrandir had stormed out of the room, leaving everyone else cold and even more confused than they already were. The Hobbits had attempted to run after him, but had been promptly stopped by the Steward.

Let him be, he’d advised them, let him deal with his grief. He’s not leaving. He would never leave. He just needs time to himself. This is new for him too.

And so the Hobbits had done and they had remained at their posts, cleaning wounds that still hadn’t healed and mentally begging the Herald not to give up. They had stayed with him all night; Mithrandir standing by the door and walking in just to leave again in a puddle of endless tears. His aged face showed pain mingled with rage and to the Hobbits he seemed mighty and terrible, yet frail and beaten. They had not spoken another word to him until dusk. The windows—which were usually closed sometime during the night before the evening breeze turned freezing—had been opened and left ajar. The Herald didn’t look any better. The King stared at him and watched his chest rise and fall with enormous difficulty. Had it not been for the imperceptible movements of his torso, one could’ve as well sworn he had passed on. He lay as still as ever, drops of sweat trickling down his sunken cheeks. Melkor’s Nightshade ran his through his veins, corroding his flesh and consuming his Maiarin light, which had gone out almost entirely. Even his hair, once golden and bright, had darkened and dulled. Elessar caressed his forehead.

“He still burns,” he said and the Hobbits shivered as they’d never heard Strider, as they still sometimes called him, sound so defeated. The King’s  gray eyes glistened with tears; tears he was holding back, tears he so clearly needed to shed. His jaw tightened as he proceeded to soak yet another cloth into a basin filled with athelas-infused water. He pressed it against his face and neck and cleaned as many wounds as he could. The distress he felt was catching up to him and he had to muster all of his inner strength to keep his head clear. He couldn’t fail. Not now.

The Hobbits had filled another cup with the remaining Mirúvorë—so much of it had been needed that Gondor would soon be forced to ask for new supplies—and they had tried applying it directly on the skin with no visible result. Now they were gently lifting the Herald’s neck to ensure he drank some of the Elven liquor. The sweet mead had barely touched the Maia’s lips when his eyes snapped open. They were colorless, blank. The Hobbits screamed and Meriadoc dropped the cup, causing the liquid to spill all over the bed. Elessar recoiled and instinctively reached for the dagger on his waist.

“Go and get Gandalf. Do as I bid!” he commanded.

But there was no need, for Mithrandir was already there. He rushed to the Herald’s side and grabbed his hand. The Maia’s breathing had changed, becoming more and more erratic. His hands trembled lightly but soon enough the tremor took a hold of his whole body. Mithrandir held him as he spoke, with a feeble tone that wasn’t his.

It has come…where am I? Ruins, ruins everywhere…Beleriand is no more…the Children…we have to protect the Children…so many Children…they’re dead, they’re all dead…there’s so much smoke, I can't see what lies beyond it … so much ash and dust…

He paused and his eyelids fell.

The fortress is near…bring it down…free the Children, free them all…so much death, too much death…we should’ve saved them…I should’ve saved them…saved them all…tear it down…take the Children away from there…burn the corpses…bodies everywhere…

His voice was more and more distant.

Mairon, where’s Mairon? Oh, brother…where is he? Bring Angband down and set the Children free, bury the dead and find Mairon…Find him and bring him to me. He’s coming home. He'll be forgiven, I forgive him…Mairon, don’t go…they haven’t forsaken you…

The tremors gave him no respite.

Mairon! Don’t go…where is he? Can anyone tell him I love him? Mairon…Mairon…Vinya lóme…

He was crying out in remorse and sorrow.

Naiya lyenna, malta, vinya lóme…Thalión melmeo carilta sinome…

Tears of regret streaked his tortured flesh.

Antaura me…Nai nin na-voituvë hantalë…nai elye hantalë…Lóte melmë yuldar ar nin narquelë, nai elye hantalë.

Nai elye hantalë!

Mithrandir held him close. “My lord…”

Aita-nelya lelyuvavë lómen…Yonyaron morni ar nin hulmë lye. Nai cárielma  Herunya nai hantale Mairon meldo ar nai yaure len.

 Laita Valaron mára-messë! Laita heru mára-messë…

The moment that the delirious Eönwë uttered those half-whispered words that went unheard by Men and Hobbits—and yet were all too clearly perceived by the fellow and utterly powerless Maia who held him—the room brightened. The window creaked open and a gentle wind akin to the early spring breeze forced its way in, its fragrant scent overpowering the metallic reek of blood that pervaded the room, a feeling of hope newly kindled.

 The wind rested on the Herald’s face. The Maia stopped shaking and his contracted muscles relaxed, his chest dropping suddenly. Mithrandir’s eyes widened and he swiftly bowed his head. The Herald’s fingers twitched, his ring glinting.

Heru Manwë…i lye…heru lyenna nauva.

The breeze lingered on his face for a while longer. The Herald drew a labored sigh and fell silent. Then the wind left as it had come and the room went cold and darker than before.  Mithrandir caressed his lord and brother’s hand.

“He’ll live. The Valar have spoken.”

Chapter Text

She had heard many tales of her beauty and grace, but what she saw surpassed her wildest expectations. She did not look quite like the portraits that hung in her father’s study and in the long corridors of Minas Tirith. Those paintings portrayed the image of a splendid woman, a queen in all but name. Yet, they did not do her justice. She had something to her appearance no artist had successfully managed to capture. Though Elenna could not tell what it was, she could sense it. There was something about her the young lady could not quite put into words, her eloquence failing her. They looked into each other’s eyes for a time and Elenna noticed how similar they looked in shape and color. Elenna lowered her gaze and glanced at her hands, her cheeks assuming a reddish tint. She sighed as she tried to make sense of the contrasting feelings that had suddenly overtaken her fëa. Elation, embarrassment, and sadness were the ones she could detect, the ones she could not shake off. She was confused and to an extent heartbroken, yet she smiled, and her smile was not at all forced.  It was a joy to watch her. She was standing a few feet away from her and she was still, the wind playing with her silver gown. As she quietly approached, she noticed she wore a tiara which was similar to the one the queen often wore during banquets and official engagements. It was undoubtedly an heirloom of the House of Isildur, and it matched the designs on her dress. Elenna let out a labored sigh as she took a step back. She did not wish to appear uncouth and indiscreet and was educated enough to know it was considered impolite for a younger person to first address an older one and this beautiful woman, although still in her prime, looked way more mature than she was. Keeping her head low, she stumbled backwards and subsequently lost her footing as her leg tingled and gave out. She let out her most dignified gasp and frantically tried to regain her composure, hoping the mishap would go unnoticed. She gracefully rolled to her side and propped herself up before making a subtle attempt at shifting the totality of her weight to the uninjured leg. A weak attempt that ended up drawing unwanted attention to her struggle, as she realized she would not be able to get back on her feet without a steady hand to help her. She breathed in and shivered as she touched her own leg. It appeared swollen and even the slightest movement was cause of severe pain. She grimaced as she made one last, desperate attempt at standing up. She could hear Ioreth scolding her for making a spectacle of herself, her shrill cries engrained in her mind and carved deep in her heart. Ioreth was the personification of her conscience, the essence of her duty. Their bond was so strong Elenna thought she could feel her presence even when they were apart. Ioreth inspired her, her sole source of comfort when her father was away. Ioreth had raised her, taking care of her during bouts of illness and educating her on worldly matters. Of course, her own individual readings had shaped much of her personality, but there was no point in denying her elderly nursemaid’s influence. Ioreth had, for all means and purposes, replaced her mother. Though she would always honor her memory, she also knew she had to move on. She was no longer a child and dwelling on the past would only further weaken her resolve. She was a woman and had to act like one. She was the lady of the House of Ithilien and she was an adult. Adults did not complain, nor did they weep. With that renewed knowledge, Elenna tried to stand once more. Though she was aware that her effort would most likely be unsuccessful, she felt an obligation to try. She hissed as she put pressure on the injured leg and forced herself to straighten it.

“My sweetheart, what are you doing?”

The woman of whom she had barely seen the shadow was now standing mere inches before her.

“Lady grandmother? Is that you? Am I dreaming?”

She had forsaken her usual breathy voice for a more vibrant, high-pitched tone. A tone that would have been deemed childish and ridiculously inappropriate by fellow members of the court; a natural and relaxed way of expressing oneself that was rarely seen in formal setting such as the one in which Elenna had been raised. Ever self-conscious of her station and committed to protecting her reputation as a noblewoman of fine manners and good character, she was extremely mindful about the way she acted. Her every movement, action or word were carefully pondered beforehand. She understood that her personality was to be torn in two and that she was to be two-faced. Her real feelings, her real emotions and intentions were to be hidden from the rest of the world and shared only with a handful of people whom she wholeheartedly trusted. In order to survive, in order not to be bothered or schemed against, she was forced to employ her public persona, a tactic she had learned from her aunt Lothíriel, a behavioral code that she had been trained to follow. Therefore, resorting to her public persona meant annihilating every trace of originality, warmth and humor she might naturally possess to adapt to her surroundings whilst falling into a predetermined pattern that was no different from that of another lady. They all followed the same rules, spoke in the same manner, and wore the same dresses. There was no way of telling them apart save the tiaras they wore or the sheen of their hair. Some of them had been trained for so long and had so successfully embodied their role within society that they had forsaken their interests, their true nature lost to time never to be recovered. Thankfully Elenna’s humanity had not abandoned her, her true self still intact beneath the façade she so skillfully put on. She had known of another who had managed to retain the gifts bestowed upon her. A woman who had been object of her admiration ever since she had drawn breath, a woman she had not known during her lifetime. A woman she had always looked up to, a woman with whom she would have loved to discuss history, politics, and literature. Her grandmother Finduilas. She had been described as a wonderful lady, a rose bud, as shiny a gem as the Southern Sun. Though she had never doubted her father’s mother to be a remarkable lady, Elenna had often found herself pondering and reflecting on the words of others and had wondered whether some of the tales about her may contain inaccuracies or exaggerations on their part. She realized now that she had worried needlessly, for all those stories were truthful. Now that she could see her face, she could indeed agree that she was one of the most beautiful women to ever walk Middle-earth. As far as her other qualities, she supposed she would find out, one way or another.

“You are hurt, and you are ill, my darling girl. You should not be standing.”

“This is a dream, is it not?”

Finduilas nodded. “Sadly, this is the only way I am permitted to visit you.”

“Who permitted it? The Valar did?”

“They did, by the grace of Ilúvatar himself. There is much we need to talk about.”

“I am so glad we finally met, Lady Grandmother.”

“Titles are unnecessary.” She helped her sit down and kissed her hair. “I only wish to be your grandmother. As you grow older, you will realize etiquette and proper manners do not matter nearly as much as you once thought they did. To live a life of happiness is all that is truly important. It is also what most aspire to have, though they rarely speak of it. A simple life, a serene and meaningful life…though I doubt anyone in Gondor will ever tell you that.”

“What are saying, grandmother?”

“I was sent to warn you, my beautiful girl.”

“Warn me? Against what?”

The former Lady of Minas Tirith clasped her granddaughter’s hand and held onto it. “You know as well as I do that we have been compared ever since you first drew breath, and it seems our lives will follow a similar course. I would like to prevent that, for I do not wish to see another suffer as I did, more so if it is a family member. When I was your age, my only wish was to be surrounded by love. I will admit I was naïve and rather foolish at times, but what young girl isn’t after all…I dreamed of love, and I dreamed about being loved. Though I was aware of the rampant practice of arranging marriages, I assumed I would immediately fall in love with my intended upon hearing his name. Alas, that did not happen.”

“Ioreth mentioned Minas Tirith was not to your liking. She said that you fell ill eventually, but she also remarked my grandfather loved you very much.”

“He did cherish me,” Finduilas replied. “He might have loved me…in his own peculiar manner. I suppose...I suppose he loved me as much as he could.”

“You did not care for him.”

“I respected him, for he was the father of my children. He was also a cultured and pleasant man to be around, though extremely withdrawn and at times ill-tempered. I grew to appreciate him but, no, I never loved him.”

She turned away from her. A feeling akin to regret was now etched on her beautiful face. Elenna frowned. “Grandmother? What is it?”

Finduilas tightened her grip on her granddaughter’s hand. “My heart belonged to another.”

Elenna’s jaw dropped. “I did not know that. Who was it?”

Finduilas’ lip quivered and Elenna rested her head on her shoulder. “A soldier. An experienced one, a captain, a lord of Men. Thorongil was his name.”

“I have never heard of him. Was he from Gondor?The name does not sound familiar. Was he of Dúnadan descent perhaps? It sounds far more likely."

“He never explicitly mentioned his ancestry, but I believe so. He was close to your grandfather in age, yet he looked only a few years older than I was. He was kind and thoughtful and would always listen to me. I would often tell him about my life in Dol Amroth and he often had tales of his own to share. He was a traveler and had served King Thengel of Rohan before coming to Minas Tirith. He spoke fluent Sindarin and he even taught me a few more sentences my tutors would have never known. He spoke the Elven tongue as if he had been reared in Imladris.”

“He was indeed from the North then and a ranger, most certainly. They all speak Sindarin fluently. The king used to be one of them,” she halted as she noticed her grandmother’s puzzled expression. “We have a king now. The rightful king has returned and sits on the throne in the Main Hall, and he has a beautiful Elven queen. Perhaps the king knew this Thorongil you told me about. Maybe he still lives. Perhaps I should ask him and…”

“My sweetheart…we have talked enough about him. My love for him was unrequited and nothing can be done about it now. Bear in mind that I am no longer of this world, I left it decades ago.”

“You look so real. I do not want to wake up. Do I really have to?”

“You must. There is no use in taking refuge in dreams and you have a long life ahead of you.”

“Can I not stay here with you for a little longer? I just met you and I still know next to nothing about you. I heard so much about you and…I just would like to talk. I do not know whether I will be able to do it again.”

Finduilas offered her a warm smile. “You may linger here still. In fact, we still have not addressed the matter I was sent to discuss with you, though I indirectly touched upon it.”

“What matter?”

The former Lady of Minas Tirith looked at her. “Allow me to ask you a question which might as well seem trivial. If you were to die tomorrow, would you be content with the life you lived?”

Elenna did not answer right away, her eyes squinting slightly as she pondered every possible answer that came to mind. “I would be. I am.”

“And you swear it is the truth?”

Elenna nodded. “I have always tried my best, grandmother. Of course, I would have been happier had I not lost people I loved dearly, but…It was Eru’s will. Who are we to judge? I would like to think I have been a good, respectful daughter and a dutiful older sister. I do not think that, given the circumstances, I could have done more. Perhaps I should have, but I had no way of knowing. If that were to be the case…may Valar forgive me, for I was unaware of it.”

“You followed the path that was expected of you.”

“You did it as well and so did my father. We cannot escape our fate. Our paths are laid before us before we’re born. I do not fully know what mine entails but I have no doubt I will learn as I grow older, if Eru sees fit.”

“Doesn’t what you said suggest otherwise? You can change your fate if you so wish. You can influence it; you can alter it. It is not set in stone.”

“Eru has envisioned a unique destiny for every creature in Middle-earth and whatever that is, we must accept it and move forward. His decisions will revealed to us through the actions of others and those happenings we cannot explain rationally, those so-called coincidences…well, I do not believe them to be just coincidences. It is Eru himself interceding and sending messages to us, leaving clues, and making His will known in a way that those who are not Ainur can understand it.”

“Do you believe in love?”

“I love my father and my brother.”

Finduilas smiled. “Naturally. It is right for you to love them, thought my question concerned courtly love. Romantic love.”

“Oh…I would not know. It is not something I have personally experienced, though I suppose my parents did. There was such light in their eyes whenever they looked at one another. From the moment they met to the fateful day she passed, they were happy. They were so happy. So incandescently, ardently, fabulously happy. Watching them together was delightful. But all violent delights have violent ends and all of my father’s joy turned to grief. He has yet to process her death and I doubt he ever will, for she was his strength and stay.”

“My poor Faramir,” Finduilas lamented, “my sweet boy. Life has not been kind to him. My pure-hearted boy. He more than any other deserves peace. Both my boys deserved it. Your uncle found it, but at what cost?”

Her voice was broken.” Sometimes I wonder…I wish that Eru’d had mercy on my children. Even as young babies, they were so dutiful…and where did their sense of honor and duty lead them? One was doomed to die before his time and the other…”

Her voice trailed off as she cast her gaze on Elenna. “My time is up. Before I go, I want you to promise me something. Do not forsake your heart. Listen to it and follow it. Never place duty above your sanity or your happiness. You will regret it once you have passed beyond the Circles of the World. All I desire is for you and your loved ones to live a life you will be content with and, when death comes to you, I want you to look back at your time within Arda with fondness. Do not make the mistakes I made, my sweet girl. Let go of etiquette and rules. Be free of it, be whoever you wish to be. Be yourself and live according to your principles. Do not conform to protocol for the sake of it just because it is demanded of you. One’s life is hard and painful enough as it is.”

“I…”

“Be your own woman. Do not lie to please others. Think for yourself. Promise me.”

“I…I do promise.”

“I will miss you, my sunshine,” Finduilas said as she kissed her brow, “you’re so beautiful and so innocent. I see much of your father in you. How I miss him.”

“I am so grateful to have him. As I am grateful to have you. Don’t go.”

“We will see each other again.”

“Please, don’t…”

A burning light cut her off. Her surroundings had vanished, and her grandmother was no longer there. She had been called back and had vanished. The wind blew strong, and she cowered, burying her head into her gown. She ignored the persistent pain in her arm and in her leg and waited. She would wake up soon.

-

"My lady?”

As she felt a firm hand on her shoulder, Elenna drew a labored sigh and opened her eyes. She glanced at the white ceiling for an instant before taking a few deep breaths. She gasped for air though whether it was due to the intense smell of athelas pervading the room—an inebriating aroma she had yet to get used to—or to the dream she had woken up from, she could not tell. She felt weak and the only the pain in her junctures prevented her from slipping into oblivion again.

“Ioreth? How long did I sleep? Where am I? I saw her, Ioreth. I saw my grandmother and…”

Her nursemaid’s blue eyes were fixed on her, her wrinkled hands brushing her forehead with a wet linen sheet, a hard look on her face.

“Be still, my lady, I pray you,” she admonished her, “you caught a fever during the night. They have a horrid habit of opening the windows at dusk these days, what nonsense. It never happened when I was in charge here. In my time, all the patients were properly looked after and cared for. Naturally, when the welfare of this city was rightfully entrusted to me, no king sat in the Great Hall. In fact, this realm was ruled by your grandfather who, although a man of many flaws, had the foresight and the intelligence to recognize a woman of talent and wit such as myself. He knew the extent of my capabilities, for I had previously treated him on multiple occasions. Mild colds and headaches, nothing to lose sleep over, really. Though still a girl and serving as primary attendant to your grandmother, I was well-versed in the lore of herbs and plants and even your beautiful grandmother often heeded my advice. What a gracious, kind lady she was. I’ve often remarked, madam, how I wish she was here. She would be proud to see how far you have come, how you matured into a woman of fine taste. I’m pleasantly surprised myself, though I must say your behavior over these past few months disappointed me deeply.”

She paused and soaked the sheet into cold water and hastily crumpled it. She pressed it on her temples and ran a hand through the young maiden’s hair before she continued. “It is my strong belief that your grandmother too would have been saddened by the lack of judgement you recently displayed. I wouldn’t be here tending to you had you behaved as you’ve been taught since childhood. Oh, if only you had showed some common sense…I would not be here attending on you. I have done everything in my power to raise you properly, a duty your late mother neglected all too often. She might have been proficient with a sword, but she was wholly unfit to be a mother, may the Valar forgive me for speaking ill of the dead. She was strong-willed, which is not a bad trait to possess, but it needs to be tempered with reason, which your mother unfortunately lacked. To be fair, I could not expect anything less from a woman from a land which would have no political relevance if it weren’t for Gondor and where people walk on hay-covered floors and play the mud with rats and dogs. But then again, I suppose she must have had some skill of womanly sort otherwise your Lord Father would have not married her. My heart weeps for all those nice ladies who could have once hoped for your father’s affections. I can name them all and I can tell you every single one of them would have been a much better parental figure than Éowyn of Rohan has been to you. At least she gave your father a son before she passed, a son who will grow to be fair and healthy, as well as free of her influence. Once he reaches the age of five and that fool of a governess he has to put up with is finally dismissed, young Elboron will be educated as befitting his station. I have no doubt your father will assign me the task of rearing him and rest assured I will make an excellent statesman out of him. You will assist me if you so wish and if you prove that you are capable of making sound decisions. Do you happen to have any questions or remarks ?”

She furrowed her brows and folded her arms when she received no answer, the linen cloth dropped to the ground in frustration. “My lady, are you even listening to me? Have you been listening to anything I said?”

Elenna had slipped into a semi-conscious state, the only indication that was she was alert being her persistent gulping and a slight twitch of her jaw. She drew a labored sigh.

“I…I’m cold…”

“Surely you can listen to me, my lady. Have I not taught you the basics of proper conversation? Why are you so disrespectful all of a sudden? What have I done to you? I have cared for you, I protected you, I loved you. I still love you, I love you with every fiber of my being and this is how you repay me? Is really this how you intend to show your appreciation and consideration? The respect you owe me? Am I a mere servant to you? Have you no regard for my position, for my honor? I hoped I would never know the pain of being ignored by those to whom I’m loyal. Do you wish to dismiss me perhaps? Is this why you’re not talking to me? I understand you’re feeling unwell, but illness is no excuse for incivility. Had I known my words mattered so little…”

“Ioreth…I thought you knew…I value you more…than anyone.”

“Is that so, my lady? Forgive me, but I’m inclined to disagree. Based on your recent behavior, it has become apparent to me that you would rather act on your instincts than follow what morality dictates. Although he has not spoken of it, word has reached me the lord Steward is deeply disappointed. Of course I haven’t discussed the matter with him, as it is not my place to do so. But I cannot imagine how he could possibly feel otherwise. He is a good man after all, a sensible man. Naturally, we are all concerned about your health, and I am well aware this is not a suitable time for patronizing speeches. But I would like to remind you that you are in a privileged position, a position many contemporaries of yours can only envy. The One has bestowed you with many talents and gifts and you must not throw them aside. It is your foremost duty to lead your people in one capacity or the other, and it is essential that you do not let personal feelings or silly fantasies in the way of your most sacred duty. A duty you were once so close to accomplishing…what will the king say now? He visited you and treated you himself last night. He was in this very room and sat in the very same chair I’ve been sitting in while you were sleeping. He is very fond of you…he is caring and even affable, if I may say so. A gracious ruler. He held you in high regard and loved you as if you were his own daughter. He trusted you and you so carelessly betrayed his trust. You were in the king’s good graces and your future shore bright ahead of you. The whole court admired you, young lads were willing to fight for your love. There is no such thing as a perfect life as it is often an utopia in which unhappy people seek refuge, yet you had nearly achieved the impossible. You were as close to perfection as any Child of Ilúvatar can possibly get to, both physically and intellectually. And you…you threw it all away. I cannot fathom why you would do so; I cannot understand. What persuaded you to escape from your home? Do you not know it is frowned upon?”

She covered her face with both hands. “You ran away. The king immediately sent a search party, depriving the army of the best scouts and rangers. Officials from the Grey Company were also employed in the task of returning you home safely. They were much needed here, yet they were out in the wilderness looking for you. The people were scared, my lady. They believed something horrible had happened to you. They prayed and lit candles every morning and some even sent your father letters. They thought you were dead. Poor Faramir, my dearest prince! Had you seen him, perhaps you would have hurried back in all haste. Never had I, in my long lifetime, witnessed such agony on a man’s face before. I feared he would spiral into madness. And Lord Elboron…poor child. Poor child. He cried for days on end; I did not know what to tell him. Nothing would calm him, neither warm milk nor his books. Though I do not approve of Fíriel and I have long questioned the Lord Prince’s seemingly inexplicable decision of making her his son and heir’s governess, I have to admit her demeanor during this trying time was nothing short of commendable. She will be still sent away as it is glaringly obvious she lacks the skills to properly raise a lord, but she somewhat gained my respect. On the contrary, my lady, I’m saddened to tell you that you lost a great deal of my admiration. As much as it breaks my heart to say it, I think it is right that you know the truth.”

Elenna had paid little attention to her nursemaid’s talk. She felt weaker by the minute and simply wished to be left alone. She was incapable of moving her limbs and, as a result, found herself in a deeply uncomfortable position. Her back was sore, and breathing came at a significant cost. Her lungs seemed to be filled with a sticky, viscous substance that made inhaling and exhaling extremely painful, her temperature so high her body was subjected to uncontrollable tremors. She gulped and let out a dry cough.

“I would like some syrup,” she managed to blurt out, “please.”

Ioreth scoffed and reluctantly grabbed a bottle from a shelf, pouring its content—a greenish, gelatinous liquid—onto a spoon. She approached Elenna with a furrowed brow and her lips tightened in a thin line. She ignored her mistress’ pleading stare and forced the medicine down her throat. The young maiden’s eyes widened as they gazed at the other woman with an unsettled expression. The former healer had never been so rough, in fact she had more than often gloated about what she had described as her most prized quality: her gentleness. A deceiver she was not, for Elenna had witnessed it firsthand throughout her childhood. To all those who knew her, it was clear Ioreth had a flaring temper, but Elenna had greatly admired her steadfastness and her assertiveness. She had been firm but had not once forsaken decorum. For her to act so brashly and inconsiderately, she had to be angry beyond reckoning. Her eyes so blatantly displayed the hurt she was feeling and an horrified Elenna was shaken by yet another tremor which, unlike the others, was not due to her precarious health. A shiver which was accompanied by a sharp pains in her chest, pains that spread to her shoulder and her jaw. Her dry eyes filled with tears. Tears of regret. Tears of shame.

“All that I did in recent times, I did against my will,” she whispered. “I…suppose I…”

“Against your will? By the grace of Eru, what is that supposed to mean?”

She cleared her throat as her body shook once more. “I was manipulated.

She paused briefly and whimpered as gasped for air. “I cannot remember…I have tried to…I…”

“You may resort to pathetic excuses to justify the evil of your actions and, though others might believe you and even sympathize with you, I do not. Long have I defended you, but I will not support reckless individuals who value their own personal needs and temporary gratification over the reputation and the prestige of their House. Running off on one’s own and secretly meeting up with a man, who would have thought! The esteemed Lady Elenna of the House of Húrin, Gondor’s most sought-after jewel. A credit to the realm and to her line. A beautiful woman with a clever mind and a good heart. Everyone adored you, your fiefdom nearly worshipped as if you were Varda herself. And now…now all that is no more. Your reputation is forever ruined and not even death could restore it. Your grandmother died in glory, hailed as the greatest queen that never was. Had the times been different, she would have been a glorious queen. What say you? What will your fate be now? What about your legacy? Given your current situation, I must presume you have not given it a thought. The House of Stewards has failed and who is it to blame? Whose fault is it, my lady? You have disgraced yourself and I expect you shall be punished. Once you have recovered of course, I doubt our liege Elessar will do anything to you now, except making sure you’re healthy again. He seems to still have affection for you and you should thank the One he doesn’t properly loathe you after what you did. Unfortunately things are now in motion, things that cannot be undone, and a king must put his personal feelings aside in favor of the law. Our ancient laws say that those who stand accused of unlawful behavior be stripped of their titles and possessions and exiled never to return to the land they once called home.”

Elenna’s head was pounding. “U…unlawful behavior?”

“It apparently took place in plain sight for everyone to see. So I am told.”

“No! I am an unmarried woman, I…Ioreth, you must believe me, I…”

“Trusted sources have informed me you were seen on walks with him, here in Minas Tirith. Bergil, son of Beregond, witnessed one of your many encounters with him. Encounters of a romantic nature, of that I have no doubt. Holding hands and whispering words to each other, delighting in one another’s company. I have not spoken to Beregond’s son myself, but many who indeed have done so reported alarming news, which I withheld from your dear father for his sake as well as yours. Know that the stain of your name will never be cleansed, no matter how much time passes.”

“Ioreth…I do not know who is feeding you information but whoever it is, they are lying. They are slandering me. I swear on my mother’s honor that I never had…”

“Are you calling all those who are nothing but reliable and honest witnesses cheaters and liars?”

“Ioreth…”

“Will you deny that you left the court in a fit of rage when news of your engagement reached you?”

“I will not.”

“Very well. Then you will indeed admit that you rushed to the stables, saddled your horse and galloped well into the fiefdom of Anórien. You were followed at the doorstep of the Drúadan Forest, where your tracks were lost.”

“It was not my intention to venture into it.”

“But you did.”

Elenna nodded. “I did not realize I…”

She paused and gasped before a coughing fit hindered her speech. Her lungs burned as if a fire were corroding them and with each breath she took, she writhed in pain. She grabbed her chest and turned her face, burying it into her pillow. The fire burning within her had not gone out and it soon became clear to her it would not be soon extinguished. The persistent tickle in her throat also gave her no respite. Her mouth was filled with saliva, which she promptly gulped down hoping it would ease the discomfort. Her ribcage ached and no herbal treatment had yet been successful at dulling her agony.

“Could I have some more syrup, please?” she pleaded, as her nursemaid’s cold stare remained fixed over her. She looked unconcerned, her brows knitted together as she watched her lady struggle for air.

“There is little left and I am not wasting it on you when other people might be in greater need of it, my lady.”

“You are angry, I understand. But I…”

The Steward’s daughter coughed once more and brought her hand to her mouth at once, frantically searching for a napkin or a towel so that she might wipe whatever was the liquid that was running down her chin. She gulped again and stared in confusion as a few drops of it stained the bedsheets. She briefly glanced at Ioreth before she grazed the soft fabric with her fingertips. She felt a sudden urge to vomit as she attempted to smother ghastly retching sounds. Breathing had never been harder, the fire in her lungs burning everything in its stride. It was eerily reminiscent of something she was already acquainted with. Something she had felt before, something she had known. That fire, the warmth that had silently crept within her, comforting and seemingly shielding her from evil. That soothing feeling which had soon turned into terror as the warmth in her body had left her, quickly replaced by a scorching heat which had scored her very flesh. An intoxicating sensation, as beguiling as it was deadly. That friendly fire, which had kept her warm and alert, had betrayed her. It had unraveled his true purpose, slowly consuming her. She had trusted it as she had innocently trusted the source of that fire, for she had not only been acquainted with the fire itself but she had known the one who mastered it, the one who could bend it to his will. She had known its heat, its golden sheen. That very same tint was to be found in his eyes and it had assumed a new meaning. Ever since she had met him, ever since she had looked into his eyes, that sheen, that hue had been an unshakable part of her, an omnipresent though in her weakened mind. Though he was not there in body, she could feel his presence. She could feel his cold breath on her skin, his fingers trailing down her neck. She heard his voice, the silvery-toned musings that had enchanted her and, to a degree, seduced her. She recalled feeling safe around him and had appreciated his intellect and his refined ways. When he had told her he was a Noldorin lord she had believed him. His eyes shone as if an incandescent light were trapped within them, a light that was not of Middle-earth. The light of the Two Trees of Valinor, which according to the old lore was so intoxicating any being, living or dead, was changed by it. Transformed and beautified. The High Elves, who had beheld the splendor of Telperion and Laurelin, looked taller, stronger and more fair than any other because they had basked in that blessed light, which had been sung into existence by Yavanna Kementári, one of the most powerful ladies of the Valar. Giver of Fruits and Queen of the Earth, she was responsible for all growing things and the Trees she had envisioned and brought to life with the power of her Song had been a source of hope throughout the centuries. Centuries in which the people of the Valar and the Firstborn who had crossed the sea had lived happily; those days a reminder of the Spring and of the peace they had forgotten. Their memories had been clouded by suffering and torment and yet their grief was dispersed the moment their gaze had been captured by the Trees’ shimmering light. A light that engulfed those who were exposed to it, a light which would never be extinguished for it had its source in Ilúvatar itself. Those were the precise words Mairon had uttered, and Elenna had noticed how his figure glowed, a clear sign that he too had witnessed it. It had been only natural for the young lady to prod for more information, and she had struggled to hide her malcontent when her eager questions had been met with a shrug and a menacing glare that had shaken her to her core. He had then swiftly apologized and had provided a general description of what the Trees had looked like. A description which, although seemingly exhaustive, had filled her head with even more questions. It had stuck her as incomplete and lacking in substance, as if he were simply repeating the words of others. She had bowed her head and had kept silent for she certainly was mistaken. That glow, that halo of his proved her silly conjectures wrong. He was a High-Elf and the destruction of the Trees had to have been a devastating blow to him. Not something one would be inclined to discuss, surely. She had cursed herself for being so careless and had diverted the conversation onto another topic of mutual interest while reminding herself not to continuously look him in eye. Those golden eyes and flaming red hair had left a long-lasting impression on her and, even now that the truth about her former friend had been revealed, the idea that such an understanding, cultured and well-mannered elf was in reality a treacherous Maia of old who had brutally and mercilessly tried to smite her was a concept with which she had a hard time reconciling herself. It seemed unlikely, impossible even. Mairon had been a valued and trusted friend. He had been her only friend for a long time. Perhaps her injuries were only the result of her own clumsiness. Perhaps she had fallen off her horse, the young foal the uncle had sent from Rohan as an unexpected birthday gift being in need of adequate training. They had bonded rather quickly and she had made several attempts at taming him, fully confident in her Rohirric blood. Although not a naturally gifted rider, she had honed her skills and had even participated in tournaments and jousting competitions. Her instructor had congratulated her more than often and even her worst performances had been hailed as noteworthy.   The Lady Éowyn would have been proud, he had said. She might not have been the best rider in Gondor but galloping ceaselessly across the verdant plains of Minas Tirith reminded her of her darling mother, whose death she still had not accepted and whose presence she still mourned. It had probably been during one of those hasty morning rides that she had slipped off her saddle and hit her head whilst breaking her leg and hand as she had fallen. That was the sole logical explanation that fit her current state and she would not hear of anything else. Blaming Mairon, a dear friend, for her misfortune was beyond outrageous. The fact that she had even considered such an unthinkable option in the first place was abhorrent. She felt nothing but shame and hoped he would be lenient and take pity on her, for she had quickly found she could not forgive herself. Alas, maybe in his mercy he would forgive her. He would understand that she meant no offense. He was wise, surely he would not make a scene about it. There was much she could learn from him still and she hoped he would keep offering advice and guidance, for she desperately needed it. Her beloved ada, busy as he was tending to state matters, hardly had a moment to spare and when he was indeed allowed to rest his mind, he spent his time with her little brother. Elboron was still so very young and, as heir to the House of Stewards, he needed to be properly looked after. He was to be equipped with the necessary tools to be successful as a ruler and only his father could provide them to him. Faramir had discussed the matter at great length and Elenna had always appreciated his concern and his dedication to ensuring there would be no ill-will between siblings. On her part, she had always encouraged her ada to lavish Elboron with attention, not only because he was his heir, but also because he was in need of parental affection. He had never met his mother and Fíriel, despite being an attentive and loving governess, could not make up for a mother’s absence; Faramir doting on him as any father should. Elenna was glad about it, her eyes alight with happiness whenever she overheard Elboron’s giggles. Spending time with parents, especially in the highest ranks of the nobility, was perceived as a luxury at best and as an utopia at worst. Many of her fellow ladies had been raised exclusively by governesses and some of them barely remembered what their mother and father looked like. Some families favored their male offspring altogether, never interacting with their daughters save on formal occasions—usually wedding banquets or ceremonial dinners—where they were required to sit at a table. Those instances were rare and the distance between the parties was evident from the first bit of the conversation to the very last. Customary questions were exchanged; questions which were followed by diplomatic answers and rueful smiles that in no way denoted warmth or affinity. The Steward’s children had been reared differently and Elenna was perfectly aware of her sheer luck. Despite this, there were times when she felt neglected. Since the king had formally invited them to court, she had noticed a distance between her and her father. An issue at first so minimal that she had failed to recognize it. An imperceptible shift in their relationship which had grown into something she could not explain. On the surface nothing had changed, and Elenna sometimes wondered whether hers was simply uneasiness. There was no reason for her to believe her father no longer loved her. He did care for her, he always had. Yet…her heart doubted it. For some unknown reason, she no longer trusted him as she had once done. A horrible feeling to put into words, a ghastly truth to discuss. She had opened up to several of her loved ones who had repeatedly told her to let go of such a silly notion, reassuring her that her ada did indeed love his Morning Star, his Tindómiel. His vanimelda. He loved his only daughter more than the Eldar revered the stars and more than the dwarves fashioned the fair jewels beneath the Earth. Those words, albeit pleasant to the ear, had done little to reassure her. As much as she had tried to talk about it in a concise and simple manner, no one had understood what she truly meant. No one save Mairon. He had listened to her intently, never interrupting her, never judging her. He had not even pitied her, he had just let her vent; her inner rage and angst flowing freely. She had believed it to be a mere coincidence, but all of her emotions seemed to be amplified whenever she was with him. She thought more quickly and clearly and her voice also was significantly stronger. She had come to cherish him and had longed for his company far more than she could have ever cared to admit. She had missed him and, even now that the mystery behind his origins had been revealed, she still missed him. He had intended to hurt her, to kill her. He had wished to harm all her loved ones and had clearly only used her to his advantage for whatever wicked and twisted plan he might have concocted. Nevertheless, she still missed him. Even now that she was confined to a bed, burning with fever and vomiting because of what he had done to her, she still missed him. His eyes and his voice were imprinted upon her memory. They were a part of her, a shadow that never left her.

Her lungs ached at every breath she took. She could barely breathe. She let out another cough and frowned in disgust as she felt a metallic taste in the back of her mouth, her scraped throat tickling. Her cheeks were filled with saliva and the more she tried to gulp it down, the more her body seemed to reject it. Her throat was incandescent, a sensation that was now comprehensive of her whole neck as if Mairon’s fingers were clenched around it. Her already compromised vision was fading rapidly, her veins bulging as her face reddened. Her eyes were wide and her torso shook in spasms, the metallic taste in her mouth becoming more unpleasant by the minute. Whatever she was trying to swallow she needed to spit out. She gagged and closed her eyes as another spasm caused her lips to part. She ignored the dribble down her chin, only paying attention to it as it ran down her chest. She felt it trickle down to her stomach as more of it reached the tip of her tongue, damping her dry lips. She glanced at it and looked away only to abruptly turn her gaze as she spotted a red stain on the hem of her long sleeve. A large stain which was of a dark crimson color. She immediately released the remaining liquid in her throat and she yelped as she noticed it looked eerily similar to the red stain on her gown. Her spasms subsided and she froze in horror as it dawned on her. She was coughing blood. Her gown was stained with blood and so was her skin. She trembled as her eyes wandered, searching for a friendly face.

“Ioreth…”

Her voice was a little more than a whisper and it was cut off by her deep breaths. Her eyes burned and soon tears started running down her face. “I am scared, Ioreth,” she mumbled, “am I going to die?”

The nursemaid was staring at her, her lips curved downward in a thin line. “Based on my lengthy expertise as a healer, you may have contracted an illness akin to lung infection. Alas, in order to be certain of it I should come closer and carry out a thorough examination, but I shan’t. It is known to be a contagious ailment, after all, and a woman who has seen as many winters as I have unfortunately cannot possibly overlook the consequences of such an illness.”

She hastily urged all of Elenna’s attendants to exit the room, those who were most reluctant to leave their lady’s bedside being dragged through the heavy oak door. The Steward’s daughter could only watch the scene unfolding before her, a panicked expression all over her features. She had never known or even imagined that Ioreth—her sweet-natured and jovial governess—could be so brutish. Her softer side had always prevailed. She had been strict in the past, but it was an acknowledged truth that running a household required rigor and discipline. She had managed it with an iron fist, instructing and advising her young mistress on how to best deal with insubordinate and lazy servants. Elenna had heeded her counsel on all matters, but she had also bent some of the needlessly harsh rules established by her nursemaid. Though she understood the reasons behind the implementation of such rules, she found them demeaning and unfair. Society dictated that a rigid separation between servant and master be maintained, and Elenna did agree with such customs. Servants had their own quarters, and they were forbidden to interact with their lords and ladies unless they were summoned and asked direct questions and they had to keep their head low when addressing those to whom they had pledged fealty. Kissing one’s master or mistress’ hand was expected, though not strictly mandatory. The act of bowing or curtseying was not formally listed among the rules to follow, but that was only because it was so engrained in each and every individual’s mind since early childhood. Gondorians learned to bow before they learned to walk and that applied to the nobility as well. Just as Elenna was expected to be able to perform a flawless curtsey before the king, she expected her household to show her the same courtesy. She had seen all kinds of people bowing and some of their attempts had been so weak she had been unable to keep a straight face. With her eyebrows raised and a visible pout, she had corrected their stance at once and had lectured them on the basics of protocol, of which they clearly had no knowledge. She had instructed both bystanders along the roads of Ithilien and her members of her household, for she believed it was her duty to educate her people to the best of her ability. She was to inspire and to lead, for that was what her mother had told her. Being a lady was no easy task and with the title came a great many responsibilities. Responsibilities which she undoubtedly wished to fulfill. The most important one was caring for the people who served her, for it would shape her legacy. Those had been her father’s words and she had taken them to heart. Though not overly permissive, she was indeed more lenient than Ioreth had ever been. Contrarily to her nursemaid, she had spent a considerable amount of time becoming acquainted with her maids. She had memorized their names and thanked them. She had also been willing to help them with their tasks and had learned how to make her own bed and tidy her own chambers—which was unheard of among upper classes. She had gifted them some of her old dresses and, as many of them had never been schooled and had received no education, she had personally taught them how to speak proper Westron. Of course Ioreth had frowned upon such lowly practices and had scolded her mistress for mingling with those beneath her. She had been harsh, but her temper flairs could not compare to the uncontrolled rage that oozed off her. She had yelled at servants before, but she had never struck them, pushed them and dragged them out of a room as if they were uninvited stray dogs stricken by disease. Elenna’s weak pleas and her screams did nothing to calm the elderly woman, who seemed keen on taking out her frustration on innocent attendants. She had opened a window and, before she left, she instructed a bewildered Warden to lock the door.

“We will all be ill if we do not act swiftly,” her high-pitched tone could perfectly be heard through the walls, “She has contracted an infection of the lungs, which is highly contagious. Her illness cannot spread beyond that door. Everything in that room is infected, which is why I deemed it necessary to open the main window. Hopefully, the winds of the Valar will cleanse it thoroughly. The future of the realm is at stake. That door must remain shut. She is forbidden to see anyone for at least two days. She will receive no food and no water, which is not much of a punishment in light of the crimes she has committed. Were I the king, she would be stripped of her titles and left to beg on the streets. That is a punishment fit for a traitor and there is no question she has betrayed her father and all that she once stood for. Alas, our merciful sovereign even visited her and exerted himself trying to heal her. Should he fall ill…should the prince...”

She paused. “Oh, Eru forbid it. Our prince is much too young to…oh, I cannot even bring myself to say it. Poor child, he is only a child…my poor, poor prince. Such a gallant young man he is and oh, so beautiful. He certainly has the look of his father, but his Elven blood truly makes him a wonder to behold. Our handsome prince…he is even more beautiful than the Elven lords from the Elder Days!”

Her voice had turned into a shrill and Elenna did not know whether she was talking to anyone or simply enjoying the melodic flow of her words coming out of her mouth. She heard no other sound, no other comment. Perhaps the Warden had hastily retuned to his duties once he had figured she would continue rambling incessantly. That perspective made her chuckle for an instant before her quiet laugh which turned into a dry cough in a matter of seconds, the few minutes of respite she had been granted already behind her. She could taste blood in the back of her throat, the chilly wind seeping into her bones. She was shaking, her bloody nightgown soaked in sweat and stuck to her skin, her every breath an ordeal. The wind had put out the flames in the small fireplace by the door and every trace of warmth had left the room. She was so cold. With her eyes closed—it relieved the pain in her head—she tried to reach for additional blankets only to realize they were all gone. Had she imagined them? Had Ioreth taken them? She could not tell. She could not recall. She was exhausted. She instinctively tried to curl up into a more comfortable position that would allow her to warm up a little, but she let out a deafening scream as she moved her broken leg. Her injured arm and its corresponding hand—although sore—had surprisingly regained mobility and her other hand no longer bothered her as much. Overall though, she was in pain.

She wondered how much suffering a human being could endure. How much pain could the Edain take? How much more trauma and misery could she survive? Death was preferable to such endless torment. She welcomed it heartily and prayed to the Valar that it would occur sooner than later. Perhaps Ioreth was right. Death was the only possible outcome. She had disregarded the old traditions and her Lord Father’s will. She deserved to be demeaned and exiled. Fate would not spare her that humiliation and rightly so. Death was a gentle epilogue for her; one that was much too kind. Her mother had died and she did not deserve to be reunited with her, though it was what she most desired. The Lady Éowyn of Rohan had honored her ancestors. The fearless Lady of the Shield-arm had covered the House of Eorl in glory, her actions never to be forgotten. She could not be compared to her worthless daughter; the wench who had disgraced the esteemed House of Húrin, of which she had once been a proud member.

She could no longer hear Ioreth, perhaps she had left. On the other hand, she heard something else. Someone else. A richer voice, one that was much warmer. One that she had learned to recognize. It whispered to her, reinforcing her beliefs. He had returned, his voice now fueling the fire that had been her doom. She sobbed and in vain she begged to be left alone. His voice boomed loud across her brain, becoming more deafening each time she tried to silence it. She gulped and whimpered as she buried her face in her pillow. Her dehydrated lips only let out muted screams and feeble requests for help, which were promptly ignored. Her whole body had gone numb and biting inner cheek was her sole way to prove she was still able to feel; the only way she had to attest that she still lived. The voice did not quieten, and its potency caused her to drift in and out consciousness, her fever still not abating. If anything, the pungent chill of dusk—many hours had now passed since Ioreth and the other attendants taken their leave—had weakened her even further. The window was still open and intended to muster all of her strength to close it and maybe drink some water from the empty pitcher on the night table nearby. They both were far from her bed, but she needed to get up. She leveraged on her elbow and propped herself up before falling sideways. She pursed her lips as she made one more attempt at sitting straight. She would not let her weakness win, she would not allow it. She had already failed her parents in innumerable ways, she would be strong now. Fierce, like her mother had been. She would not surrender. In death, she would make them proud. If Ioreth’s perception was to be trusted, her reputation was beyond ruined. She had nothing to hope for except a dignified death. With extreme difficulty, she touched the floor with the tip of her uninjured foot as her eyes darkened. She applied pressure on it as the other leg dragged, but quickly lost her balance. She hissed as she fell—her throat was too sore for her to let out a proper scream—and hit the back of her head on the hard marble floor, drowsiness taking over her senses. She lay motionless and closed her eyes as she was hit by a sudden wave of nausea. She gasped and held her breath, her stomach tangled in knots. She slowly turned and tried to crawl towards the window. She could see its frame and the night table just a few inches away. She breathed in and ignored the sharp pang in her chest. She relentlessly moved forward, panting and gulping. She reached the night table first. A marble table, which was beautifully carved and adorned with small gems, undoubtedly an artifact borrowing from the old Númenórean art. She stared at it before she attempted to stand once more to grab the pitcher. As soon as she did, she faltered. Her aching lungs were about to give out and she knew it. She coughed once more as her shaky fingers tightened their grip on the handle. There was no glass in sight so she brought the heavy pitcher to her lips, hoping a sip of water would ease her cough. As soon as the first few drops made their way into her mouth, another wave of nausea hit her. She let go of the pitcher, which shattered at her feet, and proceeded to vomit, the metallic reek in the back of her throat twisting her stomach even more. Acid bile and blood were spilled on the night table as she fell onto it, the pain in both legs making it impossible for her to stand. As her head spun and her vision darkened further, she glanced at the open window. She had to close it. She yelped as she steered her legs away from the table and wiped her face. She inhaled and took a few unsteady steps before stopping in her tracks. Now she could hear someone speaking outside the door. Multiple people speaking simultaneously. One of them was furious. Her eyes widened and she turned.

Ada…

She wanted to scream, she wanted to let him know that she was in there, that she needed help. She wanted to take refuge in his arms. She wanted him to forgive her, to love her in spite of what she had done. More than anything, she wished to see him one last time. Death was approaching quickly, she could feel it lurking in the shadows, waiting. She stood there as her body violently shook. The window, she had to close the window…

Drowsiness took over once more and she dropped on her knees before slumping onwards, her forehead touching the floor. She drew a labored sigh before her surrounded completely faded and a black curtain fell before her eyes.

-

The dark veil that hindered her sight was torn and a dim light had appeared before her. A faint voice was whispering words in a language she believed she knew, though the tone was so low she could hardly make out what was being said. The light grew more and more intense as the humming continued and she soon became aware that a hand was cupping her cheek. She gulped and breathed in, her eyelids fluttering.

“Breathe, child. Breathe.”

She frowned. It still hurt.

“It may feel uncomfortable for a while, but the symptoms will fade in a few weeks. You are on the mend. Unfortunately, I cannot do much for the other wounds. It brings me great comfort and joy to see you're healing quickly, far more quickly than expected. Rest now, my child.”

That voice was strangely familiar. She slowly opened her eyes and jerked away as soon she realized who it was. There was no one else and the door was shut.

“My liege Elessar, please forgive me,” she mumbled, “I…am not worthy of your…of your…”

“Fret not, my lady. You need to rest.”

“I beg you, let me see my father and my brother. Please. I need to see them one last time. One last time. I am in no position to make requests, but please…just this once.”

“Your brother is with his tutors now. As you know, your father and I deemed it appropriate that he started his classes. He may be young, but his education must be taken care of and it is never too early for a child to get accustomed to books and the old tales, for they contain much knowledge that can be useful to this day. If I am not mistaken, you too began your own studies around that age. He needs to focus and cannot be disturbed. He will visit you at a more suitable time.”

He caressed her face. “Get some sleep, Elenna.”

She sniffled. “How am I supposed to sleep, my liege? How? How am I supposed to waste my time like so when I will soon be sent away? I will not see my family again and I know I deserve it, but…”

“What do you mean, my child?”

“You will exile me,” she stated, “and I do not expect I shall return. Our laws forbid it.”

The king furrowed his eyebrows and a crease appeared on his forehead. “Why would I exile you? What led you to assume I would do such a thing?”

“Would you rather kill me? Will you have me executed?”

Elessar laid a hand on her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

Elenna took a deep breath. “I…I…”

“Breathe. Calm down, my child, I am here. You will not be harmed. Breathe.”

“I… Mistress Ioreth said…Ioreth…she said to me that…she implied that…”

She was gasping for air. “Where is my father? I need to see him. Please. Can I talk to him one last time?”

The king gently pulled her up and patted her back, careful no to touch her injured arm. “Your father is unavailable at the moment,” he explained as ran a hand through her hair, “but I will send word for him once he regains his strength. He needs to properly recover and so do you, sweet girl.”

“Recover? What happened to him!? Where is he? I need to talk to him.”

“Elenna…”

“What happened to my father!?”

Elessar sighed. “Breathe, my lady. You need to calm down. You are safe, no one is going to hurt you. Not while I am around. Take a deep breath and then exhale. Do it again, a few times. It will help.”

Once her breathing stabilized, he continued. “He saw how you were faring and he fainted. He collapsed.”

He helped her lay down and pinched her cheek. “We found you on the ground covered in blood and such an horrific sight was too much for him to bear. I must confess I too felt slightly queasy. Had we tarried, you probably would have died. Luckily, that was not the case. You both need plenty of rest.”

“Mistress Ioreth said my illness is contagious, my liege. You must leave at once. Otherwise, Eru forbid, you will be sick.”

“You need not worry, my child. I am not ill and I won’t be. And neither will you.”

The king spoke with confidence, yet his eyes betrayed concern and apprehension. “You are a brave young woman. Your mother would be proud of you.”

“Not at all. She would despise me.”

Elessar was startled by the change in her tone and gave her a knowing look. She immediately lowered her gaze. “Forgive me, my liege. I did not mean to…”

“Elenna.”

She slowly raised her chin and the king noticed the tears threatening to run down her face. She squeezed her hand. “You did nothing wrong. Do you understand me, child? You are not at fault.”

“I betrayed the realm and…”

“Who established that?”

“Mistress Ioreth said that…”

“And you value a Wise-woman’s word more than mine?”

“She spoke truthfully, my liege. I did indeed betray you, my father, my brother and, in doing so, I disgraced my name and that of my House. I should be punished.”

“Very well. Since you hold yourself accountable, I would like you to tell me what your actions entail. You seem eager to suffer the consequences, but I have to hear your account before I make a decision.”

Elenna cleared her throat and instinctively brought a hand to her neck. She jolted and smothered a scream, her jaw tightening.

“Your injuries tell me all I need to know, my child.”

“I am afraid they only tell part of it,” she replied sheepishly. “I am not to be pitied nor I would wish to be. All the misfortunes that I have endured, I brought them upon myself. No one else is to blame. I have been a fool and, as such, I do not deserve anyone’s sympathy.”

“You still have not told me what your fault is. You spoke of betrayal. In what way have you betrayed the realm?”

“Do you not know I abandoned my betrothed and rode off into the forest?”

“I might have been informed of that, yes.”

“Is that not sufficient a reason to have me branded a traitor?”

“It is not. I will not deny that I was surprised and perhaps a little disappointed when I learned you had fled, for it is very much unlike you. I would have expected it of virtually anybody else, but never would have I thought that the lord Steward’s very own vanimelda were daring enough to pull off such a feat. For instance, I would have expected it of your betrothed. But of you, the White Lady of Ithilien? No, my child. We were all puzzled.”

“You do not sound angry, my liege. Shouldn’t you be?”

“I am not angry with you. I never was. In truth, I am partly responsible for your troubles and I have come here not just to heal you, but to ask for forgiveness. I hope you can find it in your heart to grant it to me.”

“My liege, I…”

“Can you forgive me, Elenna?”

The girl was startled. “I do not understand.”

The king hinted at a polite smile, regret etched on his face. “Had we…had I been honest with you from the start, none of this would have occurred. I should have told you way sooner and I sincerely apologize for the distress the news might have caused you. As the ensuing events showed, it clearly did affect you.”

“You are referring to the betrothal and the way I reacted to it.”

Elessar nodded. “Your intended was informed beforehand. He had known for months.”

Elenna scowled. “Oh…”

“Everything I have done, I have done in good faith. If I have hurt you, please say so.”

“It is what you deemed appropriate, what you saw fit. Who am I to tell you otherwise? My feelings do not matter.”

“They do. I would not be asking you to forgive me if they were irrelevant. I would not even bother speaking to you.”

“It is not my place to question your decisions, my liege. I trust your judgement.”

“My judgement is not infallible and my decisions are not irrevocable. I will say it once more. What is it that you wish for? Tell me, child. There is no reason to be scared. Speak to me.”

Elenna sighed as her head throbbed. “I…only wish to speak to my father and my brother. I wish I could be with them one last time. I need to see them. I had promised Elboron I would…”

Her voice quivered with emotion. “I promised him I would read him one more story from The Lays of Beleriand. We read the tale of the Children of Húrin together, though I was worried it would be too grim for a child his age…surprisingly it was to his liking…he also wanted to learn about Beren and Lúthien and their quest so I…could not refuse because my father…my father read that very same story to me when I was a child…he read it to me every night…we used to spend so much time together before…before…before my mother…”

Her voice trailed off and she finally let loose the tears she had been holding back. “I should have saved her...I was scared and I did not know what to do…I should have done more and…I should have helped her but I did not know how…they said she had a fever and I…”

She glanced at the king and noticed that he too was weeping. She tried to regain her composure as she looked away. “I...I did not mean to embarrass myself before you.”

“You wish your mother were here.”

She took a deep breath. “I did. But I am glad she is not here to see what I have become. She would be so disappointed. I know my father is. And you are as well, you said it yourself.”

“You misunderstand me, my child.”

“I do not fear death. But I know I will not be at peace beyond the Circles of the World. I will not find solace because my mother, my uncle, my grandmother…they will shun me and, if they ever talk to me, I will be reminded of the horrible things I have done. My mother was the epitome of courage and…I…”

“I knew your mother well and she was indeed a brave woman. I knew your grandmother as well and she too was bold, although in a different way. I see much of them in you.”

“They would have never run away. They would have never befriended and trusted a stranger. They said they saw us together but I cannot remember…I cannot remember anything…he was a friend…he is a friend…he said he would never hurt me and I believed him…I liked talking to him, we discussed books and history…the topics I used to discuss with my father long ago. He has been so busy ever since my mother died that I reckon he barely has time for my brother and I. Perhaps it is his way to cope with his grief, maybe I shouldn’t speak for him. But I missed him so much and he was never home…Emyn Arnen is so big and I get so lonely…Mistress Ioreth kept me company, she is like a mother to me…she always cared for me. But nothing could make up for the love my father had given me. I had the most wonderful childhood. Then…everything crumbled and I…I was so scared and…I suppose he…some of things he said…the way he said them…I was reminded of my father. He was so kind to me…we spoke about each other’s lives and he often stressed how lonesome he was, a feeling I could well understand…”

She looked at the king, her eyes filled with shame.

“I assumed his family had either crossed the Sea or perished in the war. Not necessarily this most recent one, I…tried to ask him, but he was clearly so uncomfortable I berated myself for not being more tactful. He told me it was his desire to behold a city of Men so, naturally, I brought him here to Minas Tirith. It was my intention to have him visit Ithilien but…”

Elessar raised a hand and the room fell silent at once. Sadness was all over his Númenórean features. “Is that all, my child? What else do you recall?”

“I…believe I…I…”

Her vision blurred. “I hear voices sometimes…a voice…but I…b…”

“Do not overexert yourself.” Elenna could no longer see his face properly, but the alarm in his tone was unmistakable. “You are going to faint.”

“I…I am well…don’t…”

The king had left her bedside to grab a small bottle from one of the cupboards and, as soon as he uncapped it, a pleasant smell of herbs pervaded the room. Elessar returned to her and poured half of the content of said bottle into his hand. It was not liquid; in fact it resembled a thick paste.

“It is a balm widely used in the North,” he explained, “a lotion of some sort, which I will apply on your scars. It won’t make them any less visible, but hopefully it will ease your pain. It will probably sting a little so bear with me.”

Elenna nodded and found that, although it did indeed initially sting, it was beneficial to her healing as well. It was soothing and its delicate scent brought back memories she cherished. Her carefree childhood in Ithilien, endless days spent chasing horses and climbing trees. And flowers, oh, so many beautiful flowers.

“How can I thank you…”

“There is no need. Though you’re on the mend, you still have not fully recovered. Once you have healed, we will speak again. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy, but only slightly. I am fine.”

“You are weak, my child. You need to rest, and you need to eat as well. I will have food sent to you and if there is anything else I can do for you, you only need ask.”

He handed her a glass of water—the broken pitcher had been replaced and new sets of silverware had been brought in—and kissed her brow.

“Now, get some rest. Sadly, other duties await me, and I cannot linger here for much longer.”

She bowed her head.  “Once I have recovered…”

Elessar caressed her cheek. “Yes?”

“You will send me away. You will exile me.”

“Based on what you told me, you have committed no crime, nor you have hatched any treason. You were deceived. And you showed your quality.”

“Mistress Ioreth…”

“The mere words of a Wise-woman and her archaic beliefs are not sufficient to prove you guilty. She may have accused you of misbehaving, but, as of today, you stand innocent. We will discuss this matter again once you have recovered and hopefully regained your memories so that you can provide a more comprehensive account of what happened to you. I have nothing more to say. You shall not be stripped of your titles and you shan’t be exiled. You are under my personal protection and anyone who tries to slander and demeanor will be dealt with accordingly.”

“My betrothed?”

“He will visit you later today after you have rested. He assured me he is fond of you and intends for the wedding preparations to proceed as planned. Of course you are both much too young to wed now, but he has not spoken out against the marriage so I can only assume he is pleased with it, which gladdens me.”

He paused. “What about you? Do you think he will make you happy?”

“It is what you saw fit. I am grateful to you and to the Council, my liege. I can only thank you for deeming a suitable bride for our noble and…”

“Answer my question. Does this arrangement please you? Would you prefer to be wed to someone else?”

“No, my liege, of course not. As I said, I am very grateful.”

“Is that so? Then, why did you try to escape as soon as you were told about it?”

“I was taken aback, my liege. It was completely unexpected. I suppose I was overwhelmed and I…simply wished to clear my head. I was unable to think straight, and I do not know what possessed me to act so foolishly. As you mentioned earlier, it is quite unlike me. I promise on my mother’s grave that it will not happen again.”

Elessar sighed and Elenna could sense he was not convinced.

“I presume the two of you have become acquainted, have you not?”

“Of course. He is charming.”

“Charming is not the word I had hoped to hear you say,” he retorted. “Is he kind? Hopefully he is polite and treats you well. Eru knows he can be quite arrogant at times.”

“He is most wonderful. It would be a privilege and an honor to be his wife.”

“You are not in love with him, are you?”

Elenna hesitated. “I do not believe he is in love with me either, my king. My parents were lucky enough to marry for love, but I do not repute it to be an essential component of a long-lasting marriage. Love is fickle and fades overtime anyway.”

“What do you think makes a marriage successful?”

“Respect. If both parties respect one another, love becomes a welcomed but ultimately unnecessary addition to an already balanced relationship. If I have the respect to which I am entitled, I can as well forgo love and be happy.”

“It all sounds eerily familiar. Long ago, a girl with whom I had grown reasonably close confided in me. She was ravishing, a rare kind of beauty. A sweet, innocent maiden who endured the misfortune of marrying a man whom she did not love. A woman of your House, a woman to whom you have been compared, a woman you did not meet in this lifetime.”

“My father’s mother. My grandmother Finduilas.”

Elessar nodded silently.

“She came to me in a dream. Never have I seen a more beautiful lady. She knows I am to be wed.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “Did she say anything?”

“I cannot quite recall her words in their entirety. You must forgive me, my liege. She did mention my grandfather, but she seemed more inclined to speak about her children. You should have seen how her eyes lit up.”

“Dear, sweet Finduilas,” Elessar sighed, “fate was cruel to her. She did not deserve such an end.”

“Father rarely speaks of her. I was told she died of an illness no one could treat. Apparently, she slowly withered away.”

“I trust that is what indeed happened.”

“Were you in Gondor when she passed? Mistress Ioreth said you used to be a ranger. Is it true?”

The king released a huff of annoyance. “I was a ranger for a long time. As a matter of fact, I spent most of my adult life in the wilderness.”

Elenna noticed the shift in his demeanor and a nervous shiver ran down her spine. “Forgive me, my liege. I should not have dared…forgive my impudence, I beg you. I have wasted so much of your time and…”

“I am not upset, my child. But I have a request.”

“I am yours to command.”

“My judgement, in which it seems to me you have full confidence, may not be accurate, but I would appreciate it if you kept your distance from the Wise-woman.”

Her eyes widened as panic flashed through them. “You want me to…keep my distance…from…the nursemaid who raised me.”

“I cannot imagine how distressing a perspective it must sound to you. But I have reason to think…”

“NO! You cannot do that! Please…you cannot ask me that! I…please…don’t send her away…”

“It is my impression her constant hovering might do more harm than good.”

“She loves me, and she would not…she has been with family ever since my father was a boy, I…”

“I was not going to exile her. But I would advise you to…”

“NO!”

Her eyes were burning, and she hastily turned away, her palm covering the totality of her face. Crying before the king was considered protocol breach and she had wept enough. She had never seen her parents cry and she had no doubt they would have been extremely disappointed had they caught her in this pitiful state. She cowered and tried to hide beneath the bedsheets, her face buried deep into her pillow.

“Look at me, child.”

Elessar’s calming voice reached her ears, but she ignored it.

“Elenna, look at me.”

Her uncontrollable sobbing quietened as he sat by her and lightly squeezed her shoulder. “My child, talk to me. I love and care for you as if you were my own daughter and I would never do anything to cause you pain. I was merely offering my advice, but I realize now it might come across as unsolicited or even condescending. I know the Wise woman, Dame Ioreth, is very dear to you. As you rightly said, she helped you and raised you ever since you were a newborn and fully stepped in as a parental figure when your beloved mother joined her adored uncle beyond the Circles of the World. It is only natural that you would not want to be separated from her, I understand it all too well. What I am trying to say, albeit very inarticulately, is…do not forget you have the upper hand. You are her lady; she is a servant. She is experienced and it seems to me she holds a lot of influence within your household. I have known her for decades and she has always tended to overstep the line and certainly has a knack for intruding in the personal affairs of others. You may think nothing of it, but do not let her overpower you. Always treat her with kindness and love and do not neglect to show your gratitude for her support. But I would advise you to be firm and I would even encourage to put her back into her place should she forsake her manners.”

“She never was disrespectful, my liege. She can be blunt, that I will not deny, but I am convinced all that she does, she does for my own happiness and comfort.”

“Are you certain of it?”

“Of course. What is that you fear, my liege? Her loyalties lie with the House of Húrin. She oversaw my father’s birth and, as long as she does not hurt him or damage him, I will not say a word to her. I beg you not to be harsh on her. She is an elderly woman who has served Gondor her whole life. She has been a source of help for those around her since my mother’s untimely passing. While I am aware she was not fond of her on a personal level and would have preferred that my father marry a Southern noblewoman, she never discredited her. It is a credit to her integrity and honesty.”

She sniffled and glanced at Elessar for a brief moment before she lowered her gaze. “I trust her. She simply has strong opinions. She is not afraid to speak her mind, which is a character trait I admire. Excuse my audacity, but I do not think she should be reprimanded for it. My mother occasionally meddled in affairs that did concern her, but she is hailed as one of Middle-earth’s greatest heroines. I even heard one of the scholars wished to compile a book about her and her dees on the field of battle and rumor has it my Lord Father and Éomer King have given permission for it to be written. Though I suppose they should have approached you first.”

“Fret not, my lady. The lord Steward and the king of the Riddermark have indeed consulted with me and the scholar you were so eagerly mentioning has been granted my full support and approval. I too believe the deeds of the valiant and ever beautiful Lady of the Shield-arm should not be forgotten. Which is also why the scholars who will be collaborating on this daunting literary achievement have been granted full access to the general archives and to all the libraries in the Citadel. Material provided by the people of both realms will be collected and studied in order to create a tome of historical value which will hopefully read by many in the years and even centuries to come. This is my wish, for so brave a lady should be honored and I believed this to be a fitting tribute to so bright a star that burned out all too quickly. Do you agree, my child?”

“Your words have moved me,” she smiled timidly though her gaze was so low her face was barely visible, “my mother did not delight in books as much as my father did. In fact, she only read the missives she was sent and only learned to write after she wed my father. He taught her how to hold a quill and patiently sat with her as she practiced the Tengwar Script. She eventually learned how to write decently, though she would always ask Father for advice. Because of the scrutiny she knew she would inevitably receive; she would have me read her replies to letters so that I could point out any grammar mistake or improper use of vocabulary. It was cause of profound distress and unhappiness for us both.”

She paused and blinked rapidly before she continued. “She was ashamed and feared she would be ridiculed for her perceived lack of education. And I was saddened because no one should be made feel lesser a person for not knowing how to spell words correctly or because they cannot speak another language properly. I saw how she was treated at court; I saw how others looked down on her. They mocked her when they should bowed before her and kissed her hand. She singlehandedly slayed the Enemy’s most powerful servant and it was still not enough for those stuffy, hypocritical, egotistical old crones and their equally horrible offspring to accept her as one of their own. My mother did nothing to be undervalued, overlooked, and mistreated. The maids sweeping the floors were treated better than she was. When she died…she died alone. She died alone and in pain, no one around to comfort her. No one was by her side except for a clueless, stupid child who could not understand what was happening!”

Those last words had escaped her mouth in a desperate sob. Memories came flooding back to her with callous violence, memories she had believed to be secretive, memories that she had chosen to lock in a hidden, dark corner of her mind. They came to her with overwhelming force, leaving her disoriented and breathless.

She remembered. She remembered how she had spent her morning in the gardens having strawberries with cream, her mother brushing her hair and quipping about this and other delicacies imported from the Shire, one of the most fertile lands across Arda. Elenna had never visited that region of Eriador, but she had heard all about it. She had heard all about its farms, its cornlands, vineyards and woods. She had heard of its inhabitants, laborious little people called Hobbits. She had never had the pleasure of seeing them up-close, but their physical appearance was not wholly unknown to her. Her mother owned several miniatures, mementos of people she had met and places she had been. She kept them on her night table in her private bedroom, beside a small portrait of her beloved husband. One of those miniatures depicted a boy or so it had seemed to her at first glance. A boy of blond hair and friendly hazelnut eyes. A mischievous grin was plastered on his face and young Elenna had wondered whether his personality matched his picture. She had often glanced at his image and had thought nothing of it until Ioreth had made an offhand comment about her Lady Mother and her Halfling friend. Elenna had not been paying close attention to her as she had been perusing a new book her aunt Lothíriel, the Queen of Rohan, had gifted her following their first meeting. A heavy tome on the early history of Calenardhon—the green realm’s ancient name now only remembered by Elven scholars—it had been Elenna’s main object of interest for weeks and the young lady had hardly taken her eyes off it. A proper labor of love, it had been put together by the Queen of the Riddermark herself who had also had a hand in choosing the artists who had painted the beautiful illustrations on the spare pages. On the cover, adorned with the golden horse of the House of Eorl, were carved her initials. As explained in the foreword, the book had been an attempt to explore and verbalize the culture of a land which, despite having originated as a fiefdom of Gondor, had found its own identity and traditions. Elenna had looked through hundreds of pages detailing all sorts of customs and was resolute on memorizing all the information available to her. She had enjoyed learning about the various breeds of foals—the Mearas soon becoming the sole focus of her interest—and had dived into the different types of festivals held in Meduseld, the Golden Hall of Rohan. It had been an interesting piece of writing to examine and reflect on and she was determined to write back to her aunt in order to express her appreciation which was most heartfelt. Though they had corresponded only a few times and they had met only once several months prior, Elenna had grown fond of her aunt and wished she could visit her more often. Lothíriel, Queen of the Horse-lords, had been reared in Gondor and was related to the Steward’s daughter in more ways than one. In addition to having married her mother’s older brother she could also boast about a special connection to the Prince of Ithilien himself. Lothíriel’s own father was none other than Prince Imrahil, the younger brother of the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, wife of Steward Denethor and mother to Boromir the Tall, the celebrated hero who had tragically perished during the War of the Ring and Faramir, the Prince of Ithilien. Therefore, Elenna’s aunt was also a first cousin of her father’s, which made their bond all the more unbreakable and precious. The young girl had immediately felt a close affinity to Lothíriel, to whom she was also similar in likeness. They both had long dark hair akin to silk and their splendent gray eyes were unanimously considered their best feature. Those were the most common traits to be found among the Gondorian nobility, as nearly all the prominent families were either related to one another. Marriages were generally political in nature and male infidelity was widely accepted and even encouraged. Gondorian nobles did not usually married foreigners. Anyone who hailed from outside the borders of the realm which was heir to Númenor was deemed lesser and unworthy of praise. Such notions were deeply rooted in the fabric of society and both the marriage of the former Princess of Dol Amroth and that of the lord Steward had raised questions and fueled speculation and rumors that had become the favorite topic to discuss in high-ranking gossip circles. Noblewomen and lords came together at private banquets hosted by mutual friends and exchanged opinions while gathering sensitive information that, should the need one day arise, they could use against one another. Much had been said about Princess Lothíriel’s marriage to the newly crowned king of Rohan and, while the match had been at first deemed unsuitable, some had noted how an alliance with the people of the Riddermark could only benefit the Reunited Kingdom. Rohan was a powerful fiefdom and its verdant plains offered provisions Minas Tirith desperately needed. Gondor has won the war and the armies of the Enemy had disbanded, but the devastation decades of conflict had brought about would not be dealt with overnight. Rohan too had suffered incalculable losses, but they were minimal compared to what Gondor and Arnor had been through. While several regions of the Riddermark had been restored and were quickly being repopulated, many Gondorians still did not have homes, food, and access to drinkable water. The king and his new council had been working steadily to ensure the people’s survival, but a source of external help was much needed. Although the oath of Eorl had been renewed and Rohan had pledged to help its most trusted ally at any hour, Minas Tirith was urging for a way to make the alliance official from a practical, tangible standpoint. The solution to this apparently insurmountable issue had been laid out by the Princess of Dol Amroth herself and reported to the Council by her father. Prince Imrahil, who was of course fully aware of the raised eyebrows such a thing would ensue, had advanced the suggestion as a last resort and, as predicted, it had been met with discontent by some and outrage by others. The valor of the young king had been dismissed and the near totality of the members of the Council had downright rejected what was considered an indecent proposal. Only the king and the steward had remained silent, and it had been at their existence that a betrothal agreement had been drafted and eventually signed by the groom and the bride-to-be. Festivities had been held in both Minas Tirith and Edoras; Gondorians having been promptly reassured that this disgraceful union had been only allowed for their sake. Some of them had openly wept at the news of the nuptials and others had fainted, for the thought of sending one of their most beloved princesses away to a land of barbarians was too much to bear. They had not seen her beaming face as she and Éomer King had exchanged their vows and ignored she had been the main proponent of the marriage. Because of the promised betterment of the living conditions and the continuous arrival of supplies from Meduseld, most Gondorians had learned to accept the idea of the house of Dol Amroth being deprived of his most beloved star and some had even grown to approve of it. But no one was prepared for the announcement that would soon follow. The news of the Steward and Prince of Ithilien’s betrothal to the Lady Éowyn, Éomer King’s younger sister, had come as a thundering storm on a perfectly calm spring day. It had sparked controversy and indignation, Gondorian nobles judging the Rohirric Shieldmaiden to be wholly unfit for her future position. They knew her, for there was none in the whole of Middle-earth who could not say otherwise. They knew full well what she had done, yet to them it did not matter. They only saw a young, uneducated, inexperienced, classless, low woman. What was the House of Eorl anyway? It was nothing but a denomination for a dynasty that had never held any power, a dynasty that would have never even taken roots without the very existence of the realm of Isildur.  What was Rohan if not a metaphor for a spoiled barn where brigands and peasants drunk their fill and children were carelessly left to play with their dogs deep in dirt and mud? No, no lady from that wretched land would be allowed to wed one that was so dear to them, the most precious son of the House of Húrin. A man whose moral integrity was unmatched and whose knowledge was limitless. The loss of Princess Lothíriel had been hard to process but the prospect of having the son of the Lady Finduilas married to the royal equivalent of a tavern wench was an insult to history and to the people. How dared the king allow such a thing? How could he let an odalisque into the Halls of Minas Tirith? No, she was not even worthy of that designation. Concubines and mistresses had more dignity than she could ever hope to have. Disguising oneself as a knight and running off into battle with a witless halfling? No sensible woman would have done that. It was unheard of, a proper scandal. And yet she had not only been allowed to retain her titles, had been covered in glory and hailed as one of the greatest heroes of the Third Age. And now she had been rewarded with a husband to whom all the proper ladies past their adolescent years wished to be betrothed. Nobles were raging. Did the king take delight in mocking them?

Following their marriage, Faramir and his new wife had formally taken residence in Ithilien and the newly appointed Princess of Ithilien had rarely made appearances at court. Pained by the constant disrespect she was shown on a daily basis by her husband’s people, she had desperately tried to fit into the mold of the perfect Southern lady. She had learned the customs; she had attended elocution lessons in order to get rid of her thick foreign accent and had started wearing garments to bind her waist. They were called bodies or bodices and were a fixture among the upper classes as it was thought they added to the natural elegance a woman should possess. Éowyn had tried to get used to them but she had found them impractical and rather limiting. She had soon forsaken them while attempting to keep a straight face through adversity. The people of Ithilien were much more welcoming than those of the capital and she had befriended several local women to whom she had taught the basics of self-defense. She had instructed them on how to wield daggers and swords and, in turn, she had been taught how to garden and how to make delicious soups and stews. A few days after celebrating their first anniversary, the Prince and Princess had announced the birth of their first child. It was not the heir they had hoped for, but their joy was palpable nevertheless. A beautiful baby girl had joined their family, a girl they had named Elenna. She had joined them in the month of May on an early morning, which was why Faramir had also called her Tindómiel, morning star.  Never had an epessë, a moniker, ever been more fitting. Her gray eyes shone bright as stars in the darkest night, and she was indeed the star of her people, much like Arwen Undómiel had been a beacon of hope and light for hers. The similarities between them were many and some of the elders even compared her to another beautiful elf-maiden, one of whom Queen Arwen was a descendant. The first child of her mother and the most precious treasure of her father, she had known love ever since she was born. Her parents had shielded her from the cruel environment in which high-born children were thrust in the capital, thus securing for her a relatively calm and happy childhood. She spent her days running and jumping about, alternating classes pertaining to languages, history, sewing and dancing to horseback riding and climbing trees. She had been happy, but her days of laughter had ended on the third day of May of the eleventh year of the Fourth Age.

She had woken and had eaten her daily breakfast alone, for her father had been urgently summoned to Minas Tirith a few weeks prior and her mother, who was expected to be delivered of a son or daughter, was confined to her room. Though she had borne her pain stoically as befit a Shield-maiden, the pregnancy had been difficult and had taken a toll on her. Elenna had been warned not to disturb her—the midwife had assured the whole household the unborn child would be a boy and, as such, he was the priority, not his older sister—and had met with her history tutor without first visiting her mother. She was reading an excerpt from a tome narrating the fall of Gondolin when she had heard a commotion, people rushing up and down the stairs. She had ignored it, steadily focusing on her text. Except for the palpable tension and the hushed chattering of the servants, it had been a rather quiet morning. Elenna had finished her lessons and had her lunch on her own as, once again, members of the household were nowhere to be found. She had been lounging on a recliner with a book in her hands when she had heard the screams. Agonizing, heart-shattering screams coming from her mother’s chambers. She had leapt to her feet and had rushed upstairs bumping into Ioreth. The nursemaid had curtsied and had stopped her from barging into the room. She was having the child, and no one was allowed in except for a few ladies and the midwife. Elenna knew she would never forget those screams. The afternoon had passed in a blink and Elenna could not remember most of what had happened until she had heard a different type of screaming. She soon realized it was a cry, a newborn’s cry. She had stepped into the corridor leading to her mother’s room and had silently approached her mother’s ladies. They had bowed to her and had informed her the child was indeed a boy. She remembered how she had run off to write her father a letter on the finest parchment before scurrying back upstairs to see the baby and spend some time with her mother. It had been then that the physician had told her that she was in no condition to see anyone. The birth had been difficult, and she needed plenty of rest. She had nodded and had gone to bed, an unspeakable fear surging within her. Her memories of that week were blurry and confused; she recalled next to nothing except for that feeling of dread that had never left since. She had tried to reconnect the dots but to no avail. She only remembered that morning of the tenth day of May. The last time she had spoken to her mother. She had been lying her birthing bed for days, her golden hair all over her pillow. She looked gaunt and utterly spent, her lips barely moving as she tried to talk. Elenna had run to her and had hugged her tightly.

You will be fine, mother, do not worry. I have talked to the physician, and I was told it takes time to recover. You don’t need to worry, Ioreth and I will take care of everything, she’s been teaching me so many things. Ada will be here soon; I sent a letter. He’ll be so happy, mamma. And I’m happy too. You just need to rest now so that you’ll be fine when Ada comes back. I can look after my brother until then, I like children.

The Shield-maiden had blinked, her fingers attempting to reach for her daughter’s hand. Elenna had immediately clasped her mother’s hand into hers. She had tightened her grip on it as the feeling of dread she had known only a few days prior resurfaced, blood rushing to her cheek.

 Mother?

Éowyn had feebly smiled.

Is it a boy?

Elenna had nodded as doubt had crept into her mind. Had the physician lied to her? Everybody had left. She was alone in a huge, cold room and her mother looked worse with each passing second. Their last exchange was imprinted upon her memory.

Perhaps they would have liked me now. I gave birth to a son. A son I will never meet.

Mamma…

My beautiful girl. My light in the darkness, my brightest star. Do not be sad. I have done everything I could. Forgive me if I have not been the mother you deserved. Forgive me.

What are you saying, mamma?

Be strong, my brave girl. I wish I didn’t have to leave you. I did not want it to be like this.

You are going to recover. You’ll feel better. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, mamma. You will see. You’re going nowhere. You can’t. It’s just fever. You’ll be fine. You’ll stay in bed a few more days.

Don’t you ever give up on hope. Never surrender. No matter what they say, you’re my daughter. You are your Ada’s daughter. Remember that.

You promised me you would always be my side. You promised…

As long as you don’t forget me, I will be. My daughter…I am so proud of you.

No…you can’t…you promised…I cannot do it alone. My life has no meaning if you’re not in it. I need you. My brother needs you…papa needs you…

Do not weep for those whose time has come.

Mamma…

 Your brother and father are entrusted to you. I love you, my sweetheart. Always.

She had slipped away quietly, her hand still holding that of her daughter. Elenna had stared at her, her eyes glazed. She had stood there for hours, holding her mother’s hand as nothing had happened. She had stared at her face and had brushed that long golden hair of hers. She had always brushed her mother’s hair in the morning, and she would do it again. No one had entered the room in over two days, neither the physician nor the maids. Elenna had paid no heed to it, forsaking food and sleep. She had stood there, frozen in place, her sunken eyes unable to shed tears. She had forgotten about the baby, about her father, the servants. She had even forgotten why she was there. She had not seen her father rush into the chamber, she had not seen him despair. She had not felt the warmth of his hug. She did not even recall whether she had returned to her room that night. For a long time, she had only remembered her mother’s parting words and yet she could not place the context in which they had been uttered.

Only several months later her brain had started to process what had occurred and she had cried. She had wept so much. She still did. She tried to be strong, she tried to be brave like her mother would have wanted her to be. But she had quickly found she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. Each time she thought about her, she wept. She wept as she felt the recount what had happened. The more she talked about it, the more her pain seemed to lessen. She did not need to be listened to, she just needed to say it loud. At times, she did not even realize she was speaking, much to her own shame. She thought she had learned to control her loose tongue, but, according to Ioreth, the problem persisted with a few occasional episodes of this kind having taken place in Houses of Healing as well. While some of her attendants believed it was just a phase, a manifestation of the trauma she had endured, to her nursemaid it was only a childish whim, a rather immature manner of seeking attention. She had been the sole person to complain about it. The King himself had not said a word now that it was occurring again. In fact, he had been far more compassionate than anyone could have anticipated.

He was holding her as she cried into his shoulder and was humming an Elven lullaby in an effort to calm her down and bring her back. Little by little, she snapped out of it and her mind cleared.

“What happened?”

“It is over, child, it is over,” Elessar replied, his arm wrapped around her. “Breathe.”

“Did I…”

“Breathe and stay focused.”

She breathed in, her heart beating against her ribcage. “Forgive me, I…”

“Don’t talk, just breathe.”

“I am fine. I do not wish to waste any more of your time.”

“Oh, my child,” the king’s compassionate tone bordered on exasperation, “you’re not wasting anybody’s time and you’re certainly not wasting mine. It is my duty to help those in need. I can stay and you can talk to me if you wish. We could even resume our conversation.

Elenna remained silent; her head filled with memories. Her mother, her grandmother…meaningless memories flowing freely across her brain. She grimaced as she resisted the temptation to scoff at her stupidity. Until…

“My liege?”

Elessar’s eyes were alight with worry. “What is it? Are you in pain, my child?”

“No…on the contrary, I am feeling much better. I…I think I remember some of the things my grandmother told me. I do not know if you’re still interested in knowing…”

“Go on, my child, tell me. What did she say to you?”

“She…she advised to trust my instincts, for the intuition of a woman is among the most powerful forces ever conceived by Ilúvatar. Something along the lines of that, maybe I’m paraphrasing. I usually never pay attention to dreams; I often dismiss them. But I’m quite certain she said that she hoped I would follow my heart and stay true to it. Always.”

The King stared at her. “What does your heart tell you?”

She sighed. “I wish to do what is right by my realm and by my people. I wish to do what is right by you. Which is why…in regard to my betrothal…I do not intend to shy away from my obligations. My betrothed and I shall be wed according to tradition, but that has to occur only if and when you see fit. As I am your subject, I will gladly submit myself to your will and you may dispose of me as you deem appropriate. That is, if my betrothed too agrees to this marriage and does not wish to be bound to a bride that suits him better than I. In that, I have no saying, and I will of course respect his decision should he turn to others.”

“What will you do if he turns to others after you’re wed?”

“I will honor him as a wife should honor her husband. I certainly will not turn my back on him. If it is his wish to take a mistress, he is allowed to do that. I will not object to it, for it is his right by law to have one if he so desires.”

“You mentioned earlier you value respect more than love in a marriage. Is it respectful of a husband to take a mistress then? I must assume this is your firm belief for you to speak so convincingly.”

“It is his right by law, my liege. My feelings and opinions on the matter are irrelevant. Whether I agree or disagree with it, it will not make a difference. And I will blame him neither him nor the women he beds.”

“Do you intend to suffer through infidelity?”

“I…do not love him and he does not love me. I will try to be a good wife and I shall try to please him to the best of my ability. But should I not be able to do so, he is free to seek companionship and solace elsewhere. I will neither dissuade him from loving another nor shall I attempt to prevent his attempts at finding happiness. I have known sorrow in my lifetime, and I would not want for my husband to live through what I have. Though the circumstances will obviously be vastly different, I do not wish to be the cause of someone else’s misery. I am confident that seeing my husband content will also grant me the happiness I have sought for so long.”

She briefly glanced at the king and gave him an innocent, hopeful look. Elessar’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes were veiled with tears. He silently approached her and kissed her forehead, her bed creaking as he yet again sat next to her.

“Only a fool would consciously neglect you in favor of other women. I have no doubt any young man of sound mind would feel privileged to call you his wife.”

He offered her a smile, a smile that did not feel all too sincere, a smile that, although warm and sympathetic, did nothing to conceal his inner turmoil. “I will do my utmost to ensure that your betrothed is worthy of you. He is young and has much to learn still but has no evil intents and possesses a good heart. Yet he is easily deceived, and I fear his habits might lead him astray and set him on a path of destruction and despair from which none has ever safely returned. Perhaps your strong will and your intellect will guide him as the star of Ëarendil guides lost mariners and leads them to safe havens.”

“I will be glad to assist him and counsel him. I too believe him to be a kind boy and a gallant one as well. He is under tremendous pressure and constant scrutiny, which is why I suspect he turns to diversions. Though I do not condone excesses, I am also inclined to judge him kindly. If I may say so, I pity him. And it is my wish to help him.”

“It is easy now to see why Ithilien holds you in such high regard. You are as merciful as you are fair.”

“It is my task. A task that has been appointed to me. You have entrusted him to me and I will not disappoint you. I am your humble servant and whatever you command I will do.”

She hesitated for a moment. “What other duty would you have me do, my lord?”

The king cleared his throat and quickly rubbed a hand over his face.

“Duty? No. You are far too acquainted with it. You’re so acquainted with it you have forgotten what being a child really means. The way you speak and conduct yourself, the way your eyes seem to stare off in the distance as they refuse to shed tears until your spirit is broken and your mind much too restless. No, there shall be no more duties from me to you, my sweet girl. I would only have you smile again.”

“I…I will fall in love one day and he will love me back. Only then, perhaps, I will be able to do as you ask. Perhaps love will save me as it saved my mother before me.”

“I hope so, my child.”

He stood up. “Get some rest and regain your strength. I regret I must leave you now, for other patients are in need of my skill. I will send word to your betrothed so that he can visit you later today at a convenient time.”

He was interrupted by sound knocks and, before he could reply, the door opened, though only slightly. Gandalf the White stood by the entrance; his hand tightly wrapped around his staff. Elessar nodded and swiftly joined him.

“Mithrandir?”

Elenna was surprised to see him. “I trust you are in good health,” she said timidly before she clumsily attempted to look above his shoulder. “Is the Lord Herald with you? I hope he is well. He seemed exhausted when I last saw him if I may say so. I…wish to thank him properly, as I did not have the chance to do it sooner. But I am feeling much better now. If you deem it wise, I should like to pay him a visit…”

“I am sure he would appreciate your concern, my lady,” he quipped, his grave stare resting on Elessar.

“Unfortunately, he cannot receive anyone at the moment. Fret not though, your kind words will reach him, and I am confident you will be able to speak to him when…when you are fully healed. He instructed all of us to take good care of you.”

Mithrandir’s tone did not reassure her. “Something has happened to him, has it not? He is…he is well, is he not…? He was…Mithrandir? He is resting, am I right? Sleeping…he is sleeping, is he not?”

“You could…you could as well say that, my lady. Of course.”

Elenna had not failed to notice the quiver in the Maia’s voice. Her eyes widened as horror engulfed her heart. “No. No, it cannot be. Could I speak to him? Please, I…”

“There’s no need for you to worry. But I am afraid you will have to wait for a little while.”

“Why is that, Mithrandir? Why?”

“As I said, my lady, he cannot receive anyone at the present time. There will be many occasions in which you will be able to thank him and he will not deny you an audience if you wish your questions answered in a more detailed manner. As of now, It is not possible.”

“Gandalf.” Elessar’s voice was stern.” It is of no use to withhold information from the Lady Elenna, for she too is implicated in this matter. As a matter of fact, she is more implicated than even you are,” he retorted.

“What happened to the Lord Herald, my liege? Is he alright?”

The king gulped. “No. No, he is not. There is no purpose in lying. Not even to protect you.”

He then continued, shifting his gaze onto Gandalf. “Fear not, my child, for death did not claim him nor did the Valar abandon him. He will live.”

“He…will…live? Why are you saying this? What has happened? I do not understand.”

“Let me explain, child. The Lord Herald has sustained severe injuries and has been suffering from bouts of fever. He is currently unconscious, and he is being treated here in the Houses of Healing.”

The faint color on Elenna’s cheeks was drained away, replaced by a deathly pallor.

“How…how could it…”

The back of her neck was covered in sweat, the walls suddenly closing in around her. She remembered to breathe, and she calmly did so, but it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Her surroundings were blurry, and she no longer knew where she was. Her lungs were burning once more and all the pain she had experienced and hoped not to feel ever again had come back in a rush. Her heart was pounding slowly, and she could very well feel its heavy sound in her ears. A rhythmic, regular, dull sound that was both calming and frightening. She was gently lulled by it but its persistence made her uneasy. The sound of her heart had grown so loud it had annihilated any other noise in her room. She was shivering, shaking even, as she tried to flee from there, the room suffocating and overwhelming her. She could not breathe, and she felt yet again a hand on her neck, an invisible yet powerful force that gave her no respite. She fought to get rid of it but that hand had already trailed off to her chest. She could feel his fingertips on her skin, his nails scratching it so deeply they carved intricate wounds that would never heal. Wounds and scars that burned, scars that she would bear for a lifetime, scars that perhaps would stay with her even after her passing into the shadowlands beyond Eä. Her lungs had collapsed, and her heart was engulfed in fire, a fire that she knew to be coming from said hand. That hand which was fire itself. That hand which had taken a hold of said heart and had crushed it.

“Child?”

A voice had called her, but it did not belong to whom she expected. Her eyes sighted a tall white figure next to her. She could not yet understand who it was, but the white shimmering light around them suggested that it could not be the king.

“Mithrandir?”

She had spoken in a whisper, and she was struggling to keep her eyes open. She was once again in tremendous pain and wondered whether her curse would ever be lifted.

“It is me, child.”

He held her and, as he touched her face, the weight and the pain in her chest were gone. She had felt a similar sensation when the Herald had done the same the last and only time she had seen him. The Herald…

“He will be…he’ll be well…”

“Yes, he will. We are all taking care of him, and the Valar will not abandon him.”

“My ada says they only abandon those who betray them…and he has not…I know he would never…he would never…”

“You need to rest now, child.”

“He’s loyal and…and handsome… he is really handsome.”

Mithrandir cackled. “That, I shall tell him.”

She gulped as she gradually regained her senses. “Was it my fault? He was injured because of me, was he not? It shouldn’t have happened…he came to me because I needed help…had I not…”

“We did not come to you or because of you,” Mithrandir chimed in. “The Valar were aware something strange was festering in Middle-earth and we were chosen among many of our kind to embark on a new journey. We were tasked to gather information, but we did not think we would face Gorthaur once again. The Eagles did confirm Sauron had indeed returned and that it had been seen in Gondor. Naturally, we set out to Minas Tirith and that is when we became aware of the sound of battle. Someone was fighting for their life, and it turned out to be you. He protected you as he protected thousands of Children in his long lifetime, but it would be inaccurate to say he came here for you.”

“You…you believe me, then? I did…not lie, but…but Mistress Ioreth said..

He caressed her cheek, the Ring of Fire glinting on his hand. “Put your mind at ease, my lady. He will be well and so will you. Do not be afraid. No one can harm you. Rest and be merry, for better days are ahead of you. Now we must take our leave, but attendants will be called back to look after you. Allow yourself to be free of your burdens, if only for a little while.”

He clasped her hand and warmth entered her body, every inch of it becoming numb. She nodded and soon her eyes closed as she fell into a peaceful sleep.

-

 She frowned as a gentle hand shook her. “My lady?”

She yawned as her eyes opened. “What is it?”

An attendant, a very young girl, was staring at her. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you, my lady. You were sleeping well.”

“Yes…I suppose so.”

She took a deep breath. “I feel rested. Much better than earlier anyway. I do not think we have met before and, if we have, forgive me, but I do not recall your name.”

“I am Adanel, my lady. My name is Adanel.”

“It is nice to meet you. I’m Elenna, but you may call me Enna.”

“I know who you are, my lady. Everybody does. They also know what you did.”

“What do you mean by that? What are they saying? What do they know?”

“Please, calm down, my lady,” Adanel tried to steady her as soon as she saw her fidgeting.” Some of them say some Dark Lord has returned and that you fought him off. They think you’re really brave and I agree. You’re beautiful too.”

Elenna smiled, visibly relieved. “I beg your pardon Adanel, but…I am wondering how you are allowed to work here. How old are you?”

Adanel’s eyes widened. “I am seven years old, my lady. It is my birthday today.”

“Many happy returns, then.”

She kept silent for an instant before she continued. “Why are you working here?”

“The Warden gives me a few coins, my lady. I can buy food for myself.”

“Is there anyone to take care of you? Where are your parents?”

“I’ve never met my father, my lady. He died when I was a baby. My mother and my little brother passed away last year, and I have been on my own since.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

The little girl shook her head and Elenna sighed; her smile long gone.

“I live here, my lady.” Adanel explained. Her thin voice was filled with shame and caused the young Lady of Ithilien to tear up, though she swiftly wiped her years with the back of her hand. She had never known misery but had witnessed the struggles of many and sometimes she wondered why she was born a lady and what had done to deserve her good fortune.

“You live here?”

“Yes, my lady. I sleep on the front porch and bathe in the gardens. I use a bucket and I fill it with water from the well. No one has ever seen me do it, but I try and be careful. They say that those who get caught doing such things are flogged. I didn’t know what it meant until a couple of weeks ago, but it sounds painful.”

“Why would anyone whip people in need? Does the king know?”

“I do not know, my lady. I am only trying not to get caught. You won’t tell anyone, will you? Please, do not tell anyone. They will…flog me and I will lose the money. I need that money. Those few coins are all I have. The Warden does not know I am staying here, he only pays me. Please, my lady, do not tell him.”

“Your secret is safe with me. But you will no longer stay here. You can keep working here if you wish, but that will be it.”

“My lady, where am I to go? It’s cold outside…”

“As long as I am recovering here, you will live in my chambers at court. Hopefully, I will speak to my father soon and he will agree. Of course, the King will have to be informed as well, but I do not think he will be against it. He’s a just ruler.

“But…”

“It is my decision. My brother Elboron and his governess have separate quarters and mine will be covered in dust before you know it. I hope they will be to your liking; they are spacious, and I think you will be comfortable in there. I have plenty of books as well. Do you like books?”

“I…I wouldn’t know, my lady. I cannot read. I have never learned.”

Elenna stared at her as she processed that bit of information. She was not surprised, but was baffled, nevertheless. To her, it was simply inconceivable for any being on Arda not to have a house, a lodging, a room packed with books, dictionaries, or maps.

“It is no problem,” she eventually replied, her smile back in place, “I will teach you, if you let me. Are you interested in learning?”

“Yes, my lady! Thank you!”

“It really is no bother. It will keep me awake and I will be useful somehow. I will have someone fetch some books and you will pick the ones you like best. I have read them all several times and I remember what they are about. Is it alright with you?”

The little girl was hopping about the room, her brown eyes alight with happiness. “Can we start tomorrow?”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, my lady! I have always wanted to learn but no one ever taught me. My parents were too poor to afford books and they did not know how to read either. They were farmers and my mamma was from the Horseland.”

“The Horseland?” Elenna inquired. “Was she from Rohan?”

Adanel nodded. “She had yellow hair.”

“Mine too.” She closed her eyes and cleared her throat. “Mine too, Adanel.”

The little girl had an anxious look on her face. “Are you sad?”

“No, but...I usually don’t talk about my mother.”

“Why? Where is she? Your father…”

“She is dead, Adanel. My mother is dead.”

“Was she from the Horseland, too?”

“She was. You already asked."

“Forgive me, I did not hear you. Maybe I wasn't listening. It happens often, but I don't do it on purpose. I simply forget." She paused. "Perhaps my mamma met yours and now they are talking about us. My mamma used to say the dead don’t really die, they go somewhere else.”

“Their fëar travel beyond the Circles of the World.”

“Fëar? What does it mean? What is that?”

“It is how the Elves of old referred to one’s soul. The word fëa means soul in their language, which is called Quenya.”

“Can you speak it, my lady?”

“I can read it quite well. I understand it well enough to read poems and old texts, but I cannot speak it fluently. The King can though, and perhaps some of the older councilmen too.”

“What do the Elves who work in the Houses of Healing speak then? Is it…Quenya?”

“Elves nowadays speak Sindarin.”

“Do you speak it? I would love to talk to those Elves, but I can tell they are not comfortable speaking Westron and I cannot understand the Elven tongue. It seems so complicated.”

“I do speak it and I can teach it to you. It is really not that hard once you have mastered a few basic grammar rules and I am sure you will pick up on it rather quickly. As I own quite a few books in Sindarin, we will read them together and you will learn the language. What do you think?”

“Thank you, my lady. Can you write?”

Elenna frowned. “Of course, I…”

She stopped in her tracks. “You never learned to do that either and you would like me to teach you?”

Adanel’s eyes widened even more. “If it is not too much to ask…”

“It really isn’t. You will also be given new clothes and anything else you might need.”

The child stared at her before she hugged her. Elenna flinched but ignored the pang in her arm as she patiently waited for Adanel to loosen her grip. She caressed her child’s cheek as Elessar had previously done with her and kissed her brow.

“I have seen important people do that.”

Elenna chuckled. “It’s custom to show appreciation, affection or respect.”

The child was beaming. “You look happier now, my lady.”

“Adanel?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Please call me by my name. Enna will suffice.”

“You are a lady and the Warden said…”

“The Warden is not here right now. Please, Adanel. You may call me Enna when we are alone, though I suppose you will have to use the title when someone else is present. But address me as you would if I were a friend when it’s just the two of us.”

“Am I friend? Would you like to be my friend, my l...Enna?”

“I suppose I would.”

“You can call me Nel. My mamma called me Ada, but I did not like it. I think it is boring.”

“I think no name is boring, but it certainly is quite unusual. It is also the word for father in Sindarin, which is what makes it so uncommon as a given name." She shrugged. "Oh, well...Nel it is, then.”

The young girl smiled eagerly and Elenna nodded. “So…Nel…why did you wake me up? I probably should have asked you at once but…”

The child froze. “I…”

“You have no reason to fear me. I am your friend. You can speak freely, remember that.”

“I forgot to tell you the Warden wanted me to…well, he said your…your…husband will be here soon.”

“I am not ma…what did you say!?”

“Your…”

“Why did you not say it sooner, child! Oh Eru, not now…oh, no. Oh no, no, no. Why now!?”

“What is wrong, my...Enna?”

“He cannot see me dressed so poorly! My hair, how does it look? Unmarried women cannot wear their hair loose and, even if I could, I have no doubt it looks horrendous. Where is my brush? I need a brush. I NEED MY BRUSH!”

“I can fetch you one…”

“Have you ever curtsied to anyone?”

“I…”

“DO YOU KNOW HOW IT IS DONE!?”

“N…no…”

“Keep your head down and place your right foot behind your left, slightly to the side. Then bend your knees.”

The child was blatantly confused. “Right…left…”

“Quickly Nel! I do not have time to teach you, and, for obvious reasons, I cannot stand up and show you. Try and curtsy.”

“Why do I have to…”

“Be quiet and do as I say!”

The little girl nodded and obeyed while Elenna took several deep breaths. “It is not bad. It is, in fact, quite decent.”

She frantically ran her fingers through her hair. “Straighten your back.”

Adanel complied as Elenna fixed her nightgown. “A little straighter.”

“Should I try again, Enna?”

“You have done very well for a first attempt. I am impressed.” She let out a loud sigh. “Forgive my lack of manners. I do not know why I reacted that way and I apologize.”

“It is alright. I do not think you should be nervous. Why would you be? Is he not your husband?”

“He is my husband-to-be. We are yet to be wed.”

“Why would you be anxious? My mamma once said…”

“As much as I would love to hear it, Nel, I do not think your mother’s advice would be of any help to me. My betrothed is…unlike any other.”

“What do you mean? Why should I curtsy to him? Who is he?”

They both heard people rushing about and gasping loudly, a booming voice hastening them to make way. The door was still locked, the long-awaited guest striding toward her room, the sound of his boots perfectly audible through the walls. She glanced at Adanel worryingly.

“Curtsy as soon as the door opens. Do not forget your footing and be mindful not to trip. Try to remember how you did it your second time, it was very well executed.”   

The Warden stood by it and behind him fully armed guards surrounded someone who could not yet be seen.

“The Crown Prince of the Reunited Kingdom! Hail to Prince Eldarion! Make way for our esteemed prince! Make way for our lord Prince!”

The guards around him lined up to the side and bowed as a boy stepped forward. Tall and lean, he wore a black tabard with silver hems and the White Tree of Gondor was plastered on his chest. The fabric of his garments was as dark in hue as his hair and his youthful face was a clear reflection of his ancestry. His complexion was fair and luminous as if a light from the West were lingering upon his features; his Elven traits apparent even to the few people who had never beheld one of the Firstborn, his alert gray eyes as well shining like unspoiled gems. The blood of the Eldar ran true in him, for his mother was none other than the most beautiful Elf-maiden of her Age, the daughter of Elrond Peredhel, the Evenstar of her people who had forsaken the Blessed Realm to be with the man she loved. He was the son of Arwen Undómiel and Elessar Telcontar and possessed the grace of his mother and the majesty of his father and appeared to be be older than his fourteen years, looking as grave and lordly as the glorious the Kings of Old from whom he descended, his gaze oozing power and authority. His eyes were now focused on the sickly Lady of Ithilien, his stare impenetrable and imperturbable. She bowed her head, the tip of her chin touching her chest and subtly reminded Adanel to curtsy.

“My prince.” She lifted her eyes. “It is most kind of you to honor us with your presence. Forgive my unseemly attire, I was only recently informed of your visit. I am perfectly aware that my condition doesn’t excuse my appearing before you in such a deplorable state and I wish to assure you that it will not happen again.”

“I would hope so. I myself come from the practice grounds where I’ve suffered through an extensive training session. But I did not neglect to dress appropriately for the occasion. Is this how you show me the respect I am owed as Crown Prince of this realm? By wearing a stained nightgown and by not combing your hair properly? Based on your reputation, I find it unacceptable. Did you do it to spite me, perhaps?”

Elenna kept silent and once again lowered her head. Adanel rose from her curtsey and fell as she had shifted the totality of her weight onto one foot, her back bent. She fell with a loud thud, which caused the Prince to momentarily dismiss his betrothed.

“Who is this?”

The little girl jolted and quivered. She was afraid and looked at Elenna for comfort. “My…I…my n…”

“Her name is Nel, my prince,” the Lady of Ithilien interjected, “she has been looking after me. She is a girl of seven and is very smart. She had been a tremendous…”

“I am not interested in who she is and what she does. She is just a maid. Why should I care? Do you know who you are talking to?”

“You asked a question. I was kindly attempting to provide you with a satisfactory answer.”

His gaze was yet again fixed on Elenna. “How dare you, woman? How dare you speak to me so? Behave yourself and remember who is standing before you!”

Elenna gulped. “I did not mean to sound rude. I simply wished to…”

He raised a hand. “You clearly intended to explain why you are unable to train your maids. Is that not a prerequisite for any noblewoman? It is well-known that the manners of maids reflect the education and the overall value of their mistresses. I was told you were highly valuable, the perfect lady, the shining jewel of Gondor, a most eligible bride. I was deceived. Now I realize your beauty was overstated and so were your other qualities, for I do not find you desirable in any way. How do you expect me to bed you when I even find tavern girls more enticing? How do you expect me to marry you when far more attractive ladies from all the Gondorian fiefdoms are presented to me daily? I do not need the Steward’s daughter, for my power resides within me. I am the King’s son. It seems my father only came forward with this arrangement an act of appreciation towards your father, who is indeed an honorable man. But you…look at you. Look at you. I suppose you do own a mirror. Take a look at yourself and tell me…how could any man to whom the Valar have accorded the gift of eyesight ever be inclined to take you as his wedded wife? You used to be beautiful, but now you have withered like a flower during wintertime. What a shame…”

He motioned for the guards to exit the room. “I hope you can recover. May the Valar assist you,” he said before turning to Adanel. “You, get up. Only dogs and beggars spend their time worthlessly moping on the floor.”

He turned away and left, the workers still roaming the corridors quietly bowing as he was walked. The guards who followed the Prince closed the door at once and its loud creak made Elenna jerk before she plunged into apathy. She stared at the walls around her as her mind processed her betrothed’s harsh words. She found that she could not focus on them as pondering their meaning was too tiresome. She let them sink in and she realized that the more she tried to shut her inner voice out, the stronger it became. The voice of her conscience, her most secluded thoughts, the vulnerability she had tried to shy away from ever since she had introduced to court. Her sensitivity, her naïveté, her innocence…traits she had long chosen to forsake, enclosed as they were in the cage of steel she had erected around her heart. She had learned to dismiss them as she was aware they would only hinder her. She had silenced her emotions and, while retaining her compassion and her mercy, she had given up the components of her soul that made her human. It had proven necessary not to succumb to grief, not to crumble into pieces. She had worn a symbolic armor that was to shield her against the persistent hatred and jealousy which had been mercilessly thrown her way since she had first stepped into the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, an impenetrable armor which had proven to be more than effective. She had worn it proudly, as expected from the firstborn of a Shield-maiden. She had assumed it would never be dented, but now she knew it had more than only a few scratches on it. The armor that had been a constant companion to her had been pierced; the hole in it so vast it could never be filled again. Her most sacred protection had been violated by the hurtful words of a boy. A boy she did not love. A boy that was to be her husband, a boy for whom she had hoped to develop a feeling akin to what she had envisioned love to be. Her father had once told her love was the highest form of devotion known to the Eruhíni, the highest praise one could lavish onto another. Love in its true essence was hard to find and few were fortunate enough to encounter it. Elenna had believed in love and had once been determined to seek it, but that sentiment now belonged in the past, a past from which she had long moved on. Love was an illusion, a thing of fairytales, a concept suited for children and the dispossessed. Love was for poets and fools. It had no place in a structured society, it had no place in her world. Love had no place in heart, for all those she loved were one day doomed to die and many of them had already said their final goodbyes. Others she had never met, yet she had mourned for them. Love had brought her no joy, only torment and grief. She had grown accustomed to suffering, but that did not mean she enjoyed it. She had accepted it as an inevitable part of the cycle that was life; she had rationalized it as a gift from the Powers to the Children of Eru. She had walked hand in hand with sorrow more times than she could count, but that had not turned unhappiness into her preferred companion. Whenever possible, she gladly escaped from it. Love had caused her much pain and she intended to distance herself from it. She would be polite and respectful, but now that her armor had been shattered she would need a new one. She would create a girdle.  A girdle as powerful as that of Melian, the Maiarin woman who had become queen of Doriath following her marriage to Elu Thingol, one of the most celebrated Elven lords in recorded history and the father of Lúthien. Doriath, a realm of forests among the mightiest in the land of Beleriand, had endured as long as the girdle had been in place. It had thrived and prospered because of the protection the girdle had provided. Once that had been taken away, it had faded into nothingness and had eventually been destroyed. In order to avoid the very same fate, she was in need of even greater protection and her mind was the key to it. She would construct a girdle around her mind and clear the latter of every emotion, her soul as calm as a waveless sea. She sighed. It had to be done.

“Enna?”

Adanel’s thin voice woke her from her reverie. She looked at the girl with vacant eyes. “Yes.”

“Are you alright?”

Adanel’s eyes were filled with apprehension, but the Lady of Ithilien did not notice it, turning her gaze away. “Of course I am,” she replied, her tone cold and dry.

“He was so mean to you, he had no right to…”

“He had every right to speak to me the way he did. What would you know? You are but a child.”

“He was rude to you and now you’re sad again.” Her eyes widened as she offered her a smile and spread her arms, pulling the lady in for a hug. “ I do not want you to be sad.”

Elenna stiffened and held her breath, as she glared at the child. “My feelings are none of your concern.”

“I thought I…”

 “Must you talk all the time!?”

Adanel tilted her head. “Forgive me…”

“I need a mirror. Would you be so kind to get one for me?”

Adanel’s dark eyes widened even more, as little creases appeared on her forehead. “Where can I find it?”

“Do you see the mirror hanging over there? I cannot see my reflection from here, it is too far away. Take it off the wall and bring it to me.”

“I cannot reach it.”

“Find a way. Make yourself useful, I cannot walk.”

The little girl nodded and lowered her head as tears started to run down her cheeks. She turned and looked around aimlessly until she spotted a stool in the far corner of the room. She grabbed it and dragged it about, her scrawny arms hurting and shaking as she tried not to carelessly drop it. She nearly lost her balance as she hopped on it and carefully held the mirror, stumbling as she put the stool back and ran to Elenna.

“Be careful. Are you hurt?”

Though clearly a question born out of genuine interest, the lady’s tone was flat and devoid of any empathy.

“I am fine,” Adanel said sheepishly as she handed the mirror to Elenna, before realizing she would have never been able to hold it with only one hand. Elenna did not acknowledge her efforts as her attention was solely focused on studying her reflection. She had not looked at herself in a long time and what she saw caused her to release a whimper. Her eyes were now as wide as wide as those of the girl holding the mirror for her and she recoiled as she slowly grew aware that the image she was beholding was indeed hers. A mutilated version of her former self was staring at her; her blueish skin as thin as parchment and her hollowed, pale eyes surrounded by deep dark circles. Her jawline was bruised, her hair discolored. She caught a clump of it between her fingers and smothered yet another whimper. Her long, luscious mane, which had been darker than night was reduced to dull, lifeless strands a few shades lighter than before.

You used to be beautiful.

She glanced at Adanel before her gaze shifted to her reflection once more. And then she saw it. It was so evident she wondered how she had not noticed it at once. Her neck. It was ravaged, the skin rotten and burned to the bone. It was strangely translucent in some areas, and it bore a visible handprint that reached her nape. Elenna gasped and let out a cry, immediately covering her mouth as she did so. She knew that hand, those elongated fingers. She knew to whom they belonged. Those fingertips which were just as soft and deadly as the voice that had poisoned her mind. She would not be able to forget what had occurred, not now that he had left a permanent mark of his power on her. He had touched her, he had hurt her and no spell, no external intervention, no Elf, Man, Maia or Vala could change that. She let out another cry as that thought sank deep into her skin, more indelible than any injury she could have suffered. She screamed and sobbed as her uninjured hand twitched, unrestrained anger overwhelming her. She pulled the mirror toward her—Adanel clutched to the bed not to fall over, her knuckles turning white—and tossed it, the glass shattering as it hit the floor. The sudden fire in her eyes had burned out and her stare was blank again. She briefly glanced at the sharp remnants of what had been a beautifully carved mirror and turned to Adanel.

“Leave,” she commanded, her tone imperious and detached.

“I…”

“Leave me alone.”

The child hesitated. “Am I still allowed to come tomorrow? So that you can teach me how to read and…”

“OUT! GET OUT! NOW!”

Adanel jolted and attempted a curtsy and before she ran to the door. Elenna sighed and her sighs quickly turned to sobs once more as the words of her betrothed echoed in her head.

Do not ignore the wishes of your heart, my darling. Listen to it and perhaps you shall be happy.

Elenna groaned.

Love does not exist, Lady Grandmother. It’s a lie. Leave me be. Everyone, please, leave me alone. I wish to be left alone. I wish I had died.

Her thoughts turned to Mairon. He could hear them. Of that, she was sure.

Why did you not kill me? I wish you had. You condemned to a fate which is worse than death itself. Why did you do it? What have I done to you? I wish you had killed me that day.

I wish I had died.