A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Twenty

Rating: R
Category:
Pairing(s):
Warnings: Noldo behaving oddly, foul language, rodents, questionable eating habits.
Summary: Fingon leads Maedhros on a merry chase, Fin makes a side trip, Rabbit brings Elrond a ghastly gift, and Legolas plays a prank.
Notes:Meadbunny Rating: 4

If you listen rrreeeaaallllllyyy hard, you can hear Tolkien in the distance, screaming and swearing.

Photo used to depict the Faery Realm from whence the Plains Elves come is ‘Pond Moonlight’, taken in Long Island, New York in 1904 by Edward Steichen.

Dedicated to LK Beagleluvr. Hang in there hon, and know you are loved.

This chapter has an accompanying illustration by Animama.

All the world was silent, and dark. A faint twilight and the glitter of stars was all that was to be seen. If one listened very hard, the soft sound of a haunting, glorious melody could be heard, wrapped up in the soft wash of the waves, the quiet wind, and the gentle rustle of the long grasses. The world was newly born. Animals stirred, predator and prey alike looking at one another in puzzlement, trying to decide upon their place, as with all newly born creatures. Slowly the players found their marks, and the pageant that was the ways of nature began. All was right with Ilúvatar’s world, and as Manwë stood in the field and gazed about, one of his mighty eagles perched upon his arm, he found himself smiling at the peace and perfection.

Well… near perfection, anyway. Melkor’s insolence had caused disruption, and sung into being a gate that Manwë was quite certain Ilúvatar had never intended. As Manwë watched, the gate came open, and out stepped a beautiful woman, her skin as black as a starless night, her eyes like twin moons. She was unclad, and her long hair was wild, and she carried for him a gift for his new world; a pair of nightingales. Manwë bowed to her.

“I greet thee, lady. I am Manwë, and this is my realm.”

She graced him with a sweeping and elegant curtsy. “I am Titania, Queen of Night. I do not mean to intrude, but some discord has caused a door to open between my realm and thine. We are neighbours now. As such, I bid you welcome, and bring you this gift. They are nightingales, and their song is most sweet. I thought it might please you to have them.”

Manwë smiled, and held his hand out to the birds. They flew to him, lighting upon his palm, and gazed at him with bright eyes. In truth they did not look like much; they were small and fat and brown. It was not until they opened their mouths and began to fill the night with their glorious melodies that he understood how great a gift they were.

“Thank you, my Lady. I shall cherish them always.”

The eagle bent his head to look at the nightingales. The nightingales gazed back at the mighty eagle. The eagle suddenly opened his great beak and swallowed the little birds down. Manwë winced.

“Sorry about that.”

Titania smiled. “Quite all right. I shall bring you another pair.”

***---***

The gate stayed where it was, open and unguarded, for Manwë sensed nothing foul within the realm of the Queen of Night, and he was not bothered by her children, large and strange and feral as they were. He sang his own children into being, the First Born, and they awakened, fair and tall, bathed in the light of their own fairness and purity. They rose to their feet and gazed with wonder at their world, and began to explore, walking far and wide, creating villages and towns, and learning the ways of their folk. Manwë let them explore for a while, then gently called them back. All returned, save for one.

“Where are my Avari?” asked Manwë with impatience.

Not far away, something large that was lying in the long grass burped. Manwë sighed, and turned to look at Titania.

“Could you please ask them not to do that?” he asked.

She nodded. “Of course. Um… what about that?”

She pointed. Manwë looked, and sighed heavily as a giggling Noldo maid ran by, skirts hiked up, followed hotly by something huge and shaggy and tattooed. He threw up his hands in frustration.

“My Lady what were you thinking when you made those things?” he demanded.

“Well, actually, they were my husband’s idea. He thought it would put a halt to all the ‘which sex is superior’ nonsense.”

“I see. And just where is your fine husband?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Truth be told I think something ate him.”

Manwë sighed heavily, and once more watched the maid running, giggling, from her feral suitor. She decided to let him catch her in the golden wheat field.

“Wonderful,” said Manwë sarcastically. “You do realize I had intended she fall for another Noldo, and bring forth the first High King.”

“I am very sorry my Lord Manwë. I fear I did not make them terribly obedient, and I certainly made them far too independent. But he is a worthy sire for your king, if that eases your heart. His name in the tongue of your Noldo is Brother Star, and he is most ancient. He came into being the same night I hung the first star in the evening sky, and so my husband declared him to be a sibling of the night. It is for him my realm is kept in eternal twilight, for should sunlight strike him, he would fall to dust, and so too would the Evening Star.”

Manwë nodded. “Then let them have their time. He will have to flee back to his realm soon enough. Then I suggest you urge him not to return here. I would be grieved should the sun of my land cost you something so rare as an Elf made of the same matter as the Evening Star.”

***---***

Thousands upon thousands of years later, the descendants of Brother Star sat together on their bed, each staring at a glass containing a sparkling pink liquid.

“You’re really going to drink that,” said Maedhros.

“Mouse said it would work,” said Fingon. “Unless you would care to drink it, my darling one?”

“Amusing as I am certain the results would be,” said Maedhros, “you are the only one in this relationship with a complete and functioning uterus. That means you get to drink the wine with the blood in it.”

“I wonder if we added enough?”

“Well how much do we need?”

“I’m sure I have no idea. Mouse said this was enough. It does not seem so to me.” Fingon picked up the small vial of blood he had convinced a female friend to part with and emptied the contents into it the glass. “There. That should do it.”

“I’m starting to wonder if this is worth it.”

“Now, now, my lover. It has been far too long since any Fëanorian has caused an outrage. We are due.” Fingon made himself drink the wine in a single gulp, and shuddered in revulsion, more at the idea of what he had done than the taste. He set the glass aside. “And now we wait.” Fingon’s expression became thoughtful. “I wonder when last I consumed the blood of a lady? I’ve only been pregnant once, and it’s not as though you and I hardly ever make love.”

“The only thing that comes to mind is that time you and I found the young lady when we were out hunting. Her horse had leapt into the bog, remember? You sucked the thorns from her hand while I found a way to get the horse out.”

“I recall that,” said Fingon, remembering the very young Elven lady on her first hunt. She had been more frightened than hurt, but the thorn had been very deep in her hand; far too deep for him to reach with his fingers. “I suppose that must have been it, then.” He looked thoughtful. “I suddenly have this terribly odd desire to make you chase me.”

Maedhros blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Chase. You know, pursue?”

“I’m aware of what the word means, but why would you wish for me to chase you?”

Fingon’s eyes glittered. “To catch me, of course.”

“Of course. How silly of me to have not realized that.”

“Well that is what our kind does. The chase is symbolic, but extremely important. Rabbit was explaining it to me.”

“Our kind? Fingon, we are more Noldo than we are Thrayre-Iyre.”

Fingon shook his head. His fair skin was beginning to gleam with a fine coating of sweat, his hair becoming damp and wild. He suddenly seemed fevered, and rose from the bed, pacing, his hands over his abdomen. Maedhros became concerned.

“Fingon?” he inquired gently.

“I feel strange.”

Maedhros rose from the bed and walked over to his lover. He was clad only in a shirt and breeches, as was Fingon. “Are you ill? Shall I call for Elrond?”

Fingon shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong, I just… I just feel very odd.”

Maedhros sat on the bed and watched his lover of many, many centuries as he continued to pace, his eyes taking on a strange glaze. He began to pant, then seemed to begin seeing things that were not there. He flinched and shook his head, and his movements became more quick, more agitated.

“Fingon?” asked Maedhros worriedly.

He was gone, suddenly turning and bolting for the door, racing like a wild thing off through the great keep. Maedhros swore and took after him, cursing.

“Fingon! A pox on all Plains Elves and their concoctions! Fingon!”

Fingon made it outside and lit out for the beach with a purpose, running flat out as fast as he could go. Maedhros tore after him, fearing his lover had lost his mind. He spied Mouse, who was returning to the keep to see how Caranthir was faring, and caught hold of his arm.

“What is he doing?”

Mouse gave Maedhros an odd look. “Well clearly he is making you chase him.”

“But why? Is he ill? Is he mad?”

“He’s fertile. How much of that potion did you give him?”

“Well we didn’t know how much blood to use so we…”

“Used the entire vial,” finished Mouse. He sighed heavily. “What is it with you Glaur-Iyre? Is an inability to follow directions a trait of your race? He has consumed enough blood to stoke his body like a blast furnace. He has one thing on his mind and one thing only. I suggest you catch him before he lets someone else do it for you.”

Maedhros was outraged. “My lover is of irreproachable fidelity!”

“Fidelity has naught to do with it, my lord. If you had given him the prescribed dose he probably would have led you on a little precursory prance around the keep before letting you capture him in the bedroom. All very neat and sweet and Noldo. But that is a Plains Elf that just tore out of here, and he is not going to stop until someone worthy makes him. And there are larger and faster Elves than thee haunting the beach, Maedhros son of Fëanor. Were I you, I would pray for speed and a wrong turn into a dead end.”

Maedhros swore and raced after Fingon.

“I am willing to think that it has not been long enough since a Fëanorian caused an outrage! Eru grant nothing happens tonight I need explain to Fingolfin!”

Maedhros tore down the path to the beach and ran after Fingon, swearing as he found him in the middle of an entire clan, milling between two very large and old Plains Elves, who seemed more puzzled by his antics than aroused. Doubtless this was the first time they had encountered such behaviour in one not of their kind. Maedhros swore again and made his way into the clan, and was absolutely astounded to have Fingon meet him head on, and with a fair amount of aggression. The fight was brief and bloody, over before Maedhros could even comprehend what had occurred, finding himself lying on his back, blood running from his face, and Fingon nowhere in sight. One of the two substantial Elves Fingon had been encouraging gently helped Maedhros to his feet and dusted him off. He seemed amused.

“Such fire. He will bear you a god if you can catch him.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Keep him heading in the direction in which he is going. If he keeps down the beach he will meet a cliff face. Pray he does not notice the steep path leading up or you will lose him.”

“I thank you, friend.”

Maedhros kept running, swearing, cursing, panting, less aroused than annoyed. He could see Fingon ahead of him, a blazing light streaking across the jewelled sand, his fire causing the gems in the sand to sparkle briefly in his passing. He was wild and beautiful, without restraint or care, unfettered by societal constraints.

“Praise the Valar we did not attempt this in the middle of the day,” grumbled Maedhros.

He watched as Fingon spied the cliff wall, and wheeled around to make for the path. Maedhros swore.

“Fingon for pity’s sake!”

Fingon charged up the dangerously steep path, reaching the top of the cliff and running along the summit. It was with a sudden sinking of the heart that Maedhros realized where his lover was heading. Fingon was going home – to his father’s keep. Maedhros screamed.

“You can’t do this to me! Your mother still dwells there! She will have me castrated! FINGON! Ah crap. Run, then, play your game. It’s not as if I have a reputation to protect.”

Fingon charged straight through the front door and made a direct line for the ballroom, skidding into the glittering chamber and into the midst of a huge crowd of Elven nobility. He paused, looking them over, his violently heightened senses telling him there was no male in the room worthy of siring his children. Shunning them, he raced through the room and out the great glass door that led into the garden. Moments later Maedhros ran through the ballroom, spewing apologies.

“What have you done to my son?” demanded Anairë.

“I’ll explain this all later, I swear!” he called as he fled out the glass doors.

He had a brief, flickering hope in his breast that the great and ancient rose hedges would stop his lover, but swore with the vocabulary of a soldier when he spied Fingon leap to catch the top of the hedge, heedless of the great thorns driving into his palms. Three ladies in the ballroom fainted. Maedhros steeled himself and went after Fingon. He gasped as he saw his beloved’s destination; the faint, softly shimmering purplish light of the gate to the Faery Realm. He felt his heart sink.

“No,” he whispered.

Fingon bolted through the gate. Without hesitation, Maedhros followed after him, and halted, drawing a quiet gasp, his eyes becoming large.

The world was dark, yet not, illuminated by a great golden moon, low in the sky. All around was the gentle sound of nightingales, and other night birds. A great pond lay before him, shimmering softly in the light of the moon, the trees like ghostly sentinels, silently guarding the water. Above him the sky was a soft twilight, filled with faint stars, glittering in the almost-light. The air was clean and sweet, and to him this place seemed more fair and Elven than any place he had seen before.

“By the Valar,” he whispered.

He saw Fingon making his way down to the water, walking now, but still moving with that same purpose, hearing, scenting, and seeing things beyond Maedhros’ senses. He stepped into the water, moving down onto all fours to drink. Maedhros walked down to the water, watching him, aware that Fingon was currently existing as his wild ancestors had, and had little interest in the ways of his Noldorine kin. Maedhros walked into the water, standing near, taking his cues from his lover.

Fingon suddenly looked up, spying a group of small deer. He lit out after them, Maedhros following, suddenly realizing at how much of a disadvantage he was. He was in the realm of the Thrayre-Iyre, which meant he was bound by their rules, and Fingon was certainly behaving as they did. There would be no simple uniting of bodies and whispered words of love. Fingon would demand a provider. He wanted a lover who was fast, powerful, and capable of feeding him and his future child. He would make Maedhros earn his right to have him. And if Maedhros could not keep up, there were certainly others who could. His first challenge had been met; he had kept up with Fingon. Now to kill for him, to feed him, and to do it with no weapons.

Praise the Valar he was here and not back in Valinor, where any number of folk could see him doing this.

Catching the small deer was pure dumb luck. The animal was young, frightened and confused, not certain whether to leap over a log with the rest of the deer or turn back to the pond in hopes the Elves would chase the others. It chose the pond, and leapt almost directly into Maedhros’ arms, nearly knocking him over. He caught the animal and turned his body to ensure he fell on it, stunning it.

It was far too easy to sever the jugular with his blades. He had anticipated having to chew his way through the hide, but the teeth did their ghastly work with lethal ease. The hot blood shot down his throat, and he dropped the shuddering deer, shaking his head, coughing. He grimaced, but used his teeth to open the deer up for his beloved, then went to the pond for a drink, to wash the blood out of his throat.

He returned to find a small clan had come into the area, drawn by the scent of blood, and likely a few of them by the scent of Fingon. Maedhros had never seen Plains Elves in their own realm, beneath the light of their moon, and he felt the breath leave his body as he stared at them. Their bodies were of mercurial black, the moonlight appearing to drip off their skin, their tattoos showing up as patterns of silver, their eyes like lamps of sunlight. In their midst stood a white Elf, the colour of purest Mithril. They did not walk in their own light as did their kin from Arda, but were no less the mystical for it.

Maedhros stood close by Fingon, watching him share his deer with five Elflings, permitting them to rob him as they did their own elders, their small hands touching him, knowing he was different from them, yet very much of their kind. Maedhros watched him with envy, desiring to experience this night as he did, with his eyes. But too thoroughly had his mother removed the physical traits that spoke of his mixed ancestry.

Fingon ate what he wanted, then bounded off, leaving the rest of the deer to the Elflings. He ran more slowly, loping as the Plains Elves did, having chosen his suitor and seeking now only a suitable place to let Maedhros catch him. He made his way into a small grove, surrounded on all sides by flowering shrubs and tall grass, the trees forming walls that held up the clear sky. He made a thorough inspection of the area, and found it acceptable. At long last, Fingon stopped running, his body gleaming with sweat, shining with the same mercurial light as did his wild kin. He watched Maedhros approach, Fingon and yet not Fingon. His eyes held a feral light Maedhros had not seen before, and he suddenly had the sinking feeling that Fingon was going to expect him to perform as a Plains Elf.

“My love,” he said quietly, “I have the odd feeling you are going to end up leaving my most inadequate form gasping in the sand so that you may skip off and find someone whose bow fires more often and with greater frequency.”

***---***

“Now this is how an adventure should be!” said Boromir. “Lovely clear sky, breakfast cooking in the pan, free-roaming Hobbits for amusement…”

Bilbo poked Boromir with his cane as he passed him. “Mind your manners.”

“But I haven’t any! Ask Faramir!”

“That is something I have no difficulty in believing. What is our Elf looking for?”

Boromir glanced up, finding Legolas perched on a wall of the castle ruin they were exploring.

“Doubtless he is keeping an eye out for those ruffians who ran us over a few nights ago.”

“Nonsense, they must be well out of sight by now. Help an old Hobbit up the hill, there were some lovely mosaics on the inside of the main hall; I should like to draw them.”

“Before breakfast?”

“I already had mine. But I suppose it will do no harm if I wait for you to have yours. Those mosaics are thousands of years old; I doubt they shall vanish within the next few minutes.”

Gimli watched Legolas perch, his eyes closed, enjoying the sea breeze. Gimli found lately that everything Legolas did was of great interest to him, and he was constantly observing him for the slightest sign of… something. Gimli wasn’t certain as to exactly what he was looking for, or what he expected to see. He just knew there was a chance that somewhere in that skinny little body was the child they had been promised. And Gimli was not taking his eyes off his Elf for anything. Frodo and Gandalf watched as Gimli studied Legolas, a scowl of concentration on his face as he chewed his bread. Hobbit and Mage exchanged glances.

“He’s not going to change colours, you know,” said Gandalf.

“Doesn’t matter. That’s my Elf and my baby and it’s my duty to make sure nothing befalls them.”

“So… you are certain he’s with child?” asked Frodo. He mused how, not very many years ago, this entire scenario would have been inconceivable to him.

“Well… no, we’re not.”

“But you think he may be.”

“Let’s just say that if he is not, it isn’t for lack of trying.”

Sam turned purple. “The things some folk consider breakfast conversation is beyond me.”

“Well how does a pregnant Elf act?” said Gimli. “My uncle always said he knew when Aunt Beryl was pregnant because of how she acted.”

“Lord Elrond could answer that better than I,” said Gandalf. “And even then he would be talking about the ladies he has tended, not a male Elf granted a gift by the Valar with a bellyful of Dwarf.”

Boromir seated himself near the group. “A shilling says the child looks like Éomer.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Sam.

“Well take the best traits of the two. Legolas’ height and golden colouring, combined with good Gimli’s broad strong frame and mighty beard. And there you have it, a rider of Rohan.”

“I could accept that,” said Gimli.

The group stared at Legolas. The Elf was clearly aware of the scrutiny, but chose to ignore it.

“What do you suppose he’s looking at?” asked Sam.

“Probably asleep,” said Bilbo, who was having a second breakfast, purely to keep Boromir company while he ate, of course.

“Well I’m not asking,” muttered Gandalf. “He’s played that game before with us. Remember how he stood in Lothlórien, staring up, until we all gathered to see what he was looking at?”

Boromir chuckled. “That was the first time I realized Elves played pranks.”

“And we were fool enough to keep looking up even after he left,” said Sam. “Even you, Mr. Gandalf!”

“As a mage I am naturally curious, you can’t blame me for wishing to know what he was looking at.” He glanced towards Legolas, and called; “But I am not getting up to stare at invisible cats!”

“Well,” said Gimli, “I’ll look.”

He rose to his feet and walked up the hill to stand by the wall on which his husband perched, and suddenly cried out in joy as into view walked a tall, rangy figure, clad in worn travelling garb, followed by two short figures clan in greens and yellows, wearing cloaks that were clearly of Lothlórien make. Frodo jumped to his feet, staring, then finally cried out in joy, racing towards the trio.

“Aragorn! Merry! Pippin! I thought I would never see any of you again!”

“Well it’s almost time for Sam to come home,” said Pippin, “so we thought we would come for a visit and then all leave together. And Arwen wanted to see Lord Elrond.”

Frodo was beside himself with joy, hugging each in turn, then looked up at the figure on the wall. “You were watching them approach this whole time! And still you said nothing!”

Legolas smiled. “Well I had already played the joke where I was staring at nothing. This time I was staring at something.”

Frodo laughed, then turned his attention back to his friends. “It is so good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Merry. “Well we have brought news of all the Shire, down to the smallest bean in Farmer Maggot’s field. But I suppose that must seem dull, what with you living here with the Elves and such.”

“News of the Shire sounds wonderful. You must tell me all about it.”

“So what is our adventure this time?” asked Aragorn.

“Determining whose ruins these are!” said Bilbo. “I can’t find a record of them anywhere in Lord Elrond’s library!”

“We can ask the next Elf that runs me over,” said Boromir.

“Yes you’ve had quite a run of bad luck with that,” said Bilbo. “Well look, there’s Fingon, he’s a sensible Elf. We can ask him.”

“Seems in a hurry,” said Merry.

Before Boromir could even turn to look, Fingon crashed straight into him, knocking him onto his back and tearing off in another direction. It was utterly inexplicable behaviour from him, and the group stared in astonishment, particularly Aragorn who had been raised on tales of Elrond’s Noldo kin. He certainly never mentioned they were fond of running over Men. Maedhros walked up, panting, gasping, looking as if he had just run a marathon. Which, coincidentally, he had. He accepted a tankard of cold water from Sam.

“I thank you, good Hobbit.” He shoved his hair out of his face with his Mithril hand, and watched Fingon in the distance, following something in the grass, giving his therlu a chance to catch up. “He’s got to be tired. He can’t be feeling any better than I!”

“Good gracious!” said Gandalf. “Mouse said he saw the pair of you bolt out of the keep at nine-thirty last night! Has he made you chase him all this time?”

Maedhros nodded, coughing, gasping. Merry looked up at Aragorn.

“Is that how you looked after chasing us three days?”

“Three days!” exclaimed Maedhros. He looked from the Hobbit, to the Man, back to the Hobbit. “I hope he was bloody worth it!” He studied Aragorn’s face. “Do I know you, friend? Your face puts me in mind of someone.”

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir.”

“Then you are descended from Lúthien and Beren.”

“I have that honour.”

Maedhros coughed. “Well. Fancy that. Pardon my abruptness but I have a husband to catch.”

Aragorn looked mildly taken aback. “Have I offended you?”

“No, but I can promise that any minute I will certainly offend you.”

Aragorn looked surprised. “I sincerely doubt that. I have lived among Elves my entire life and found them kind and gracious.” He caught movement from the corner of his eye, and was just in time to see Fingon dive on a mouse as if he had been doing it all his life.

“Correct me if I am wrong, but… Bilbo did you say that was Fingon? Son of Fingolfin?”

“That’s him,” said Bilbo, sipping a cup of tea.

“Why is a former High-King of the Noldo eating mice?” asked Aragorn, looking most distressed.

“He doesn’t care for voles?” suggested Sam.

“I really do beg your pardon,” said Maedhros, “but I must catch him. He’s… ah… not well.”

“So I see,” said Aragorn, still with a look of utter disbelief on his face.

“Before you go,” said Bilbo, “can you tell me whose keep that was?” He pointed to the ruin.

Maedhros looked. “That keep rose and fell before my time, good Bilbo. You will have to get young Elrohir to ask my At… FINGON! WILL YOU HAVE A LITTLE CONSIDERATION FOR YOUR FORMER STATION IF YOU HAVE NONE FOR ME?!”

“He appears to be heading for that tavern the pirates go to,” said Sam.

Maedhros put the cup down, and it was then that Aragorn took note of the Mithril hand. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, but before he had a chance to say anything, Maedhros was gone.

“That was Maedhros!” Aragorn exclaimed. “Son of Fëanor! What is he doing here? I thought he was dead! And deservedly so, he and his entire family!”

“A little harsh, wasn’t it?” chastised Gandalf. “This is Valinor, and the Valar decide who may dwell here. Maedhros has done much to make up for his past sins, and might I add so has Fëanor. Old wounds have no business being opened in this place of healing, my friend.”

Aragorn bowed in apology. “You are right, I was merely taken aback. And certainly Lord Elrond speaks fondly of him. But Fëanor is here, too?”

“Fëanor is atoning for his crimes, and has faced many harsh trials. Know this, Aragorn, we have learned much of the sins of Fëanor, and were it not for a dose of venom from the Ungoliath, much of the blood he shed would never have been spilled. He is not blameless, but he is owed a chance at redemption. So far the most foul thing he has done in recent history is raise horses.”

“Then he was out of his mind. I long suspected an Elf would have to be to commit such acts. Still, I should like a look at him. I do not know why, only that much history surrounds him.”

“Perhaps you shall have the chance ere you return to Gondor. Remember Aragorn, there are two sides to every situation, and history is not always is as written, and now that I am permitted to know all and my mind is not clouded by being in Middle Earth, I can assure you the flight of Lúthien Tinúviel would not have happened had she not stolen Celegorm’s dog.”

Aragorn blinked. “But..!”

“And the situation was not made any better by Beren getting Curufin in the family way. Celegorm had reason to be angry. Again it grants him no absolution but know you there are more details than are sung about in the lays. Remember that before you draw sword against any of the sons of Fëanor. Now. Let’s go explore the ruin. I would be most interested in seeing these mosaics good Bilbo is describing.”

“But..!” said Aragorn weakly, looking distressed. Boromir walked up and put an arm around him.

“There, there,” he said. “Would you feel any better if I told you we think Legolas is carrying Gimli’s child?”

“No, not greatly. How did they manage that?”

“Frankly I haven’t asked. Just doesn’t seem a polite topic for dinner conversation.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” said Sam.

Legolas and Gimli watched as the group entered the ruins to examine the mosaics. Then Legolas climbed down from his perch and walked over to Gimli, sitting down on a rock so he was eye to eye with his beloved, draping his arms about his neck and drawing him near. They kissed, Legolas feeling Gimli’s hands run lightly down his sides.

“So we are to bear the next king of Rohan,” are we?” said Legolas.

“There are worse things to bear,” said Gimli, “though if this is a girl-child, and half-Elven, I sincerely doubt she shall wish for her father’s beard.”

“But we shall love her even if she is as hairy as a pony,” said Legolas.

“Still, I wish I knew what the child will look like. I can think of no instance in the history of Middle Earth wherein a Dwarf and an Elf bore a child together, other than baby Balin. And in his case it was what my folk would deem and unsuccessful brew.”

“How about a Dwarf and a Hobbit?” asked Legolas. “Think of that and be afraid!”

Gimli chuckled. “A Hobbit and an Elf would be frightening. Or an Elf and an Ent!” He touched Legolas’ face, and looked into the clear blue eyes. “Are you?” he asked quietly.

“I do not know. I do not think so. Is it possible Ilúvatar decided it was not his will? But if so, why were we not told?”

“The Valar have matters far greater than thee and I to tend to,” said Gimli. “But, tonight I shall make hot spiced beef for dinner. My mother always swore ‘twas good for illness and rose the body to the right temperature for child-making.”

Legolas looked intrigued. “Does it work?”

“I’ve no idea.” Gimli grinned. “But is cannae hurt to try, now, can it?”

***---***

Fingolfin watched Lindir from a distance, in the middle of his lessons with Maglor. While it was true that Maglor was the greatest poet and bard of his people, it was clear Lindir had potential to be equally talented. He had much to overcome, but he was succeeding, and daily Fingolfin watched his lover blossom and become stronger and wiser. He was flourishing, finding his strength and becoming the ellon he was born to be, and Fingolfin could not help but be proud of him.

He felt someone take his arm, and looked to see Anairë standing beside him, her right arm through her former husband’s, her left arm cradling the tiny red-haired baby girl Fingon had claimed to have borne. Fingolfin took the child.

“There you are, little trouble maker. And you look just like your Atar! Poor child.”

“Be nice,” said Anairë.

“She does bear a striking resemblance to Maedhros, though.”

“Red hair does not make kin,” said Anairë. She sighed. “I do wish Fingon had found another love.”

“As do I, but there is naught we can do about it. We should have stepped in years ago. As it is we have no business interfering in a marriage that has outlasted every other relationship I can think of, including our own.”

“Well if you had told me you were coming back I would have waited.”

He laughed. “We are both happier in our current arrangement, I think, and I still have the pleasure of your company in my home.”

“His home, he says! Who cared for it all this time?”

“Very well. Our home, then.”

“Much better. Do you know what your son was doing last night?”

Fingolfin sighed. “Why is it when Fingon misbehaves he is my son? No, I do not know what he was doing. Enlighten me, my lady.”

“You are aware he and ‘Big Red’ are plotting to breed.”

“I am aware. Not pleased, mind, but aware.”

“And you are also aware of certain ‘rituals’ these wild Elves perform prior to binding?”

“I know they go on a lengthy chase.”

“Indeed they do, flat out like a horse in a race and straight through the ball I threw for Lord and Lady Súlialdo.”

Fingolfin roared with laughter. “I’ll wager that took some explaining!”

“I have never been so mortified in my life! What was I supposed to say? ‘Pray forgive my child your Lordship, he is in heat.’ Positively shameful. And why did he need to go through my party?”

“Well from what I gather, the chase is to test the strength and sincerity of the pursuer.”

“Well there is no questioning Maedhros’ sincerity, though I shall have a word with him about his language, and both of them about the hole they smashed through my hedge.”

Fingolfin grinned, cradling little Annaiel. “Now we can but pray ‘twas he who caught our boy.”

Anairë looked appalled. “How dare you imply such a thing about your own son!”

“My dear lady I am not questioning his fidelity, but the point of the race is to ensure the sire has the needed strength and skills to support a family.”

“Ghastly,” said Anairë.

“Oh we do the same thing, darling, we just don’t run our family secrets through a ballroom.”

“And thank the Valar for that! Speaking of shameful antics, how is your child-bride?”

Fingolfin grinned. “He is doing well. He can almost dress himself and yesterday he said ‘Atar’.”

“I do hope you are joking.”

“I am. Young he may be in mind, but he does not lack for intelligence and strength of will. He is determined to fly, and knows better than any around him how long he has lingered in the nest, though it was not his choosing to stay.”

“So it is true,” said Anairë. “His mother forced him to remain a child. How very awful.”

“And she is most determined to see him returned not just to the nest but to the egg! The lady would have no time pass! If Lindir grows up then her beloved husband truly is dead.”

“My heart understands her loss,” said Anairë, “but my mind cannot comprehend what she has done to her son, no more than I could comprehend what Fëanor’s wife did to her children. All those pretty babies, mutilated. Nerdanel the Wise, they called her, but how could wisdom commit such cruelty?”

“Because wisdom is not synonymous with kindness, my dear. My children are fortunate however that they were not only graced with their mother’s beauty, but that she is as kind as she is wise.”

“Flatterer. Still, it is nice to know you still think so highly of me.”

“How could I not? I know how Nerdanel urged you to do as she had done, yet you did not give in.”

“It is not for me to question the gifts the Valar give. He was healthy, that was all I cared about. And speaking of Fingon’s betrothed, good day to you, Maedhros, though I have seen you look better.”

Maedhros walked up, hair unkempt, his clothes torn and dirty, a ragged gash across his face. “Good day to you my Lady. Have you seen Fingon?”

“No, I have not.”

“Did he lose you?” asked Fingolfin, grinning.

“Hours ago. I am no weakling but I do have limits!”

“Well you had best find him!” said Anairë. “I shudder to think what he is doing! And where! And with WHAT! Can you do nothing without causing an uproar?”

“Where is the fun in that?” asked Maedhros wearily. He sighed with relief as he saw a wild shape in the distance, clad in a khiton he certainly had not been wearing when Maedhros last spied him. He sighed.

“Fingon! Come, surely you cannot still wish to… ah bloody hell. He went crashing through a tavern the sailors use earlier. Straight through three tables and out the window, didn’t even so much as pause. FINGON! Come here now, I demand it! I am tired and… bloody fucking shitcakes of Morgoth FINGON!”

Anairë slowly brought her hand up, hiding her face. Maedhros doggedly went after Fingon. He spied Fade coming towards him and paused, panting.

“Fade. Can you help me catch him?”

Fade raised an eyebrow. “That’s considered very poor manners in polite circles,” he said in his heavily accented voice. Fade rarely spoke the tongues of the Glaur-Iyre.

“I just want him to stop running! He’s led me all over Valinor and into the Faery Realm and out again and then at one point I would have sworn he was determined to go visit the Valar!”

Fade looked puzzled. “Well forgive the improper question, but have you caught him yet?”

“Five bloody times I caught him! And he’s still acting the fool!”

“Then let him run. He’ll come home when he’s tired.”

“I can’t do that! What if he decides to make somebody else chase him?”

“No one else will chase him. Mark my words. He is clearly bound. Youngsters in their first cycle seeking their first suitor get away with such nonsense, but a bound adult of his years will likely only get his silly self bitten. And if you caught him five times and he is still running then it’s a false cycle anyway. He will come home when he’s tired and hungry.”

Maedhros stared, utterly incensed. “False? This is a false cycle? He made me run all over Valinor for nothing?!”

“Well, hopefully it was not a complete waste of your time.”

Maedhros, clearly at his wit’s end, bellowed; “I BIT THE HEAD OFF A SMALL ANIMAL FOR HIM!”

In the background, Anairë fainted. Fingolfin, with an armload of baby and thus unable to help, watched. Fade patted Maedhros on the head.

“My world, welcome to it.”

“Just help me catch the silly bastard.”

“Very well, but if Hare sees then you will have to tell him why I am helping you run down your husband.”

Fingolfin handed the baby to Anairë, who was still on her back, a hand over her face. “Mind the wee one, will you my love?” He then straightened and called to Maedhros; “I’ll help.”

“Oh this is just getting more perverse by the moment,” said Fade.

Maedhros elbowed him. “Appearances be damned, we can use the assistance.”

The three made their way towards Fingon, who was at the top of a steep cliff, looking down at the water. Maedhros began to relax, thinking they had him at last. Surely even in his current state Fingon was intelligent enough to realize he did not want to chance going down the high cliffs at the far end of property that made up New Imladris.

“We’ve caught him,” said Maedhros. “He has nowhere to run.”

“Never assume,” said Fade. “My first Pfar went straight through a brush fire.”

“Pfar?” said Maedhros. “That is the Elf in cycle who leads the chase?”

Fade nodded.

“I hope he was not hurt!”

“No, he was just fine, apart from a few scorches. But once I saw him head off into the flames I decided he was another’s problem. Never underestimate your Pfar, Maedhros. Hormones and adrenaline are a combination not to be taken lightly!”

They drew near, and Fingon raised his head, looking at them. Fingolfin addressed his son sternly.

“Enough of this nonsense. Now come to your Atar and mind your decorum, I think you have disgraced Maedhros and yourself quite enough. You were King once, try to behave as such!”

Fingon charged, body-slamming his own father, knocking him onto his back and moving at a dead run for the beach. Maedhros tore after him, while Fade paused to look down at Fingolfin as he lay.

“Never underestimate,” he said, and went after Fingon.

“I am starting to suspect that Nerdanel had the gift of foresight,” Fingolfin grumbled to the sky.

***---***

Haldir felt something large hop onto the bed with controlled grace, and slowly opened one eye. He saw Rabbit sitting before him, wet, dirty, his hair a tangled mess, and a dead rabbit hanging out of his mouth. Outside he heard someone race past the house, followed moments later by two more people.

“Fingon! Get back here!”

Haldir decided to ignore the goings-on and smiled at Rabbit. “You know, most lovers bring their bed-ridden mates a cup of tea.”

Rosie bustled in after Rabbit, and held her hand out.

“I will take that, thank you.”

Rabbit dutifully spat the dead rabbit into her hand, and she sighed. “I’ll go hang it with the others.”

She left the room, and Haldir eyed his strange lover. “Rabbit you have to stop wearing yourself out. Hunting down every small animal in Valinor is not going to make me heal any faster.”

“I know. But I do not know what else to do to make up for what I have done.”

“We have been over this. You were ill.”

Rabbit looked away, hanging his head, looking dejected. “I heard you, when I was drugged. You called me a monster, you were afraid of me.”

Haldir closed his eyes and winced. “I was wrong to say that.”

“But yet you fear me now. You did not before.”

Haldir wished to deny he was afraid of his husband, but could not lie to him. “That shall pass.”

“And if it does not? Will you send me away, to be alone once more?”

“No! Never. For no reason will I send you away. I love you. And the fear shall pass.”

Rabbit nodded, then glanced at Haldir. “But shall I now be a monster to you?”

“You are no monster. You are my Rabbit. And never shall I forget watching you hunt geese by the pond, or playing in the rain, or teaching Bramble to catch crayfish. These things cannot be overshadowed by a nip.”

“A nip? If that was a nip then let us pray I never bite.”

“The arm required adjusting anyway.” Haldir reached up with his uninjured arm to pull Rabbit down and kiss him. “But if you really must hunt for me, crab in butter sounds delightful.”

Rabbit kissed him again. “Crab it shall be, then.”

Rabbit left the room, loping out of the stone cottage and making his way down to the beach. He had no sooner reached the sandy shore when he spied something lying in the sand. Drawing near, he realized it was Warrior Moon, very near death, surrounded by bits of dark blue seashell, broken. Rabbit gazed at him, pondering. It was his duty as Clan Warrior to run off the outcasts and troublemakers, and Warrior certainly fell into that category. But he was dying, and Rabbit could not leave him to his fate. Not even Warrior deserved to be left to die as if he was no more than trash.

Rabbit sighed, and picked him up, slinging him over his shoulder. He then scooped up a small handful of the shells, not knowing if they were of importance.

“Come along, old villain. But once you are well again, I shall truly run you off. Titania grant I am given the chance.”

However by the time Rabbit reached Elrond’s healing rooms, it was clear Warrior had breathed his last. Rabbit placed his body down on a table, and watched as Elrond, Elrohir, and Frost gathered around Warrior, examining him.

“I do not understand,” said Elrond. “There is not a mark on him. He should not be dead.”

“And yet he is,” said Frost. He glanced up at Rabbit. “Did you see anything strange near where he lay?”

“These only I found,” said Rabbit, and showed them the dark blue shells. They had clearly been snapped open by the blades of a Plains Elf, and Elrond sighed heavily.

“He has died by his own hand, though likely unwittingly. It seems his famed laziness caught him up. These shellfish are plentiful, and they taste very nice indeed. But unless one knows how to prepare them, they are most poisonous.”

“I have seen Horse Clan eat them,” said Frost. “But they crack the shells, then take apart the morsel inside.”

“Clearly they are aware of the toxin and how to avoid it,” said Elrond. “Warrior would not have known to clean them. I suggest you ask Horse Clan to teach you this skill. It could save others from his fate. What now will you do with his body?”

Rabbit shrugged. “Unless Mouse wishes to give him a proper funeral, as is doubtful, likely we will bury him in the forest. That is what we do with the outcasts.”

Elrond looked at the body on his table. Warrior was not one of the largest of his kind, but he was still an impressive figure, even in death.

“I may be able to offer him some redemption,” said Elrond. “But I will need Mouse’s consent.”

“Redemption?” asked Frost.

Elrond nodded. “With permission, I could study him. Study his bones, his organs, his nerves. He could be invaluable in teaching me and others about the workings of his body. This knowledge could be used to care for and treat other Plains Elves. His unwitting death may save another’s life.”

“How?” asked Frost, intrigued.

“Well, I can do nothing without Mouse’s permission. It is true he and Warrior parted under terrible circumstances, but they were lovers for many long years. It is possible Mouse would wish for him to have a proper funeral.”

“I can go ask him,” said Frost. “He went to Fëanor’s keep last night, but he has since returned.”

“Then please do so,” said Elrond. “For we can do no more without his permission.”

“Curious as I am to see what you intend to do with Warrior,” said Rabbit, “I have crabs to catch.”

“Bring me one too, Sia!” said Elrohir.

Rabbit seemed terribly pleased to have Elrohir still refer to him as ‘Sia’. “More than one, my Aia-Nen,” said Rabbit quietly, and left the room. Elrond smiled at his son.

“That was kind of you. It means a great deal to him that he is not shunned for his deed.”

“I would not shun him,” said Elrohir. “He has proven himself brave and noble, and we know the deed was not his, but another’s. Now what do you plan to do with poor Warrior? Dissection I suppose.” He shuddered.

“It is gruesome work but you know as well as I there is much to be learned.”

“I know. But… most distasteful.”

“I know. And like as not Mouse will refuse our ghoulish request, but his death could bring much knowledge.”

Rabbit stepped out of Elrond’s house, pausing on the porch to watch Fingon come racing up from the beach, eyes bright, filthy and scraped, his hair tangled, and reeking of everything he and Maedhros had done the night before. He watched as Fingolfin, Maedhros and Fade tried to corral him, to little avail. A small smile tugged at the corner of Rabbit’s mouth. He had caged errant youngsters before, but never one so old.

He rushed straight at Fingon, meeting him head-on. Flustered, Fingon could not react quickly enough, and suddenly found himself pinned heavily to the ground, the air knocked out of him, and Rabbit sitting on him. Maedhros staggered up, exhausted and very grateful.

“Thank you, Rabbit, I have no idea what we would have done without you.”

Rabbit stood up, letting Maedhros collect his husband. “You gave him too much potion.”

“I did no such thing! I gave him the prescribed amount! He took the rest!”

“And so now he is exhausted, he will be sick, and his body is inflamed. He will give you no child or eight. Next time do as you are told,” he snapped, and left, roaming towards the beach to find crabs for Haldir.

Maedhros stared, shocked at Rabbit’s tone, and stunned at what he had just said. He turned to look at Fade.

“You said it was a false cycle!”

Fade shrugged. “I still say that. What Rabbit spoke of is exceedingly rare. And he will not have eight. The most I have heard of is five.”

Maedhros closed his eyes, feeling a headache come over him. Slowly, heavily, his stunned lover over his shoulder, he walked towards the Healing Rooms in Elrond’s house to find some rest and a bath, swearing as he went.

***---***

Thranduil lay in his bed, his small son beside him, both deep in sleep. It had been a stressful few days for father and child, and rest was called for. Besides, there seemed no reason to get up anymore anyway.

Thranduil made a small sound in his sleep, restless in his dreams, which were of tangled Mirkwood paths that were unfamiliar and went nowhere, and great milling spiders, reaching out to capture him, fangs dripping poison. He was unarmed, his horse was dead, and all seemed hopeless. Then there came a soft white light, and the trees and spiders melted away, leaving him in a great flowering meadow. He cried out in joy as he saw a warrior clad in white walking towards him.

“Gaelemir! You are not dead!”

He ran to him, and was caught in a pair of strong arms. They embraced, kissing, then Thranduil collapsed against his chest, weeping.

“Come home to me. I miss you so very much.”

Gaelemir stroked his hand over Thranduil’s hair. “I cannot, my dear one. I am dead, and it is in the realm of the dead I must now stay, if only for a little while. Things are set in motion that I cannot undo. Ilinuil must follow paths yet unknown to him, as must you. I was only keeping you from your true love; the one who will adore you always, and never again will you face cold and lonely nights, wondering why you, Thranduil, King of Greenwood, must dwell alone when all else have found love.”

“I but I had found love. With you.”

“And I love you. But I am not for you. Another shall come, very soon, who will mend your heart. But I shall always be near, and will come visit your dreams as often as you need me.”

“And Ilinuil’s as well I suppose.” He shook his head, and held Gaelemir tightly. “I love you.”

Gaelemir squeezed him. “I love you too. I always shall.”

“But how can you have two loves? How can you love Ilinuil as well as me?”

“An ellon can love a white diamond as well as a blue. He loves them for different reasons. But that does not make the love any less true. And I love you enough to release you. You have felt pain enough in your life. Trust me. Another will come along, and soon. You will know him. And though he shall be bound to another, never fear. He is yours.”

Thranduil shook his head. “No more loves with husbands near at hand. My heart cannot stand the grief.”

Gaelemir kissed him. “He is yours, Thranduil. And with him you will know a love that you have never felt before. Trust me, please. And forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” said Thranduil softly. “I only wish things could be different.” He raised his head and looked into Gaelemir’s eyes, and smiled. “The meadow is fair, the day is warm, and this dream seems devoid of other people. Shall we lie together, before you must depart?”

Gaelemir smiled, and kissed him. “It shall be my great delight to lay with you one last time, my love.”

***---***

It took Glorfindel days to reach the keep. It would have taken weeks if not months without the aid of his dragon-friend, but Syrdanna had caught a warm current of air and ridden it, drifting through the sky on gigantic wings. There were times when they were obligated to land on the water, where they would bob for a time like a great and unlikely duck. Then, once she had rested and fed on the schools of small fish, Syrdanna would rise into the air once more, and they would continue on their way.

At last, after nine days, Syrdanna landed on a flat expanse of stone and moss that had once been the courtyard of the great keep that Celegorm and Curufin had called home. Glorfindel slid down from the dragon’s back and eyed the ruins, which had once been a great and fair structure, now little more than grey stone and rubble. He could still see the emblem of the House of Fëanor above the door, though it was scarred and covered in moss, vines trailing over it, blowing listlessly in the cool mountain breeze.

Who could leave a tiny child here?

Glorfindel caught a glimpse of movement, and spied the ragged and tormented form of Celegorm. The spectre motioned to him, and Glorfindel followed his tattered presence into the keep. Celegorm walked slowly, not wishing for Glorfindel to lose sight of him, leading him to a broken tower, the stairs exposed through the opened walls. Celegorm walked up with little concern, but for Glorfindel it was a little more nerve-wracking, feeling the stone steps shift in a disturbing manner as he stepped on them.

He made his way to the upper floor, and gazed down the long hallway. The roof was gone, and the hall ended in open space, the wall having long ago fallen away. He walked slowly down the passage, moving with the greatest care, feeling the floor threaten to break beneath his boots at any moment. Despite his distaste for the sons of Fëanor, Glorfindel could not help but feel an intense dislike for anyone who could take a child, even Curufin reborn, and leave it in such a place.

He finally reached the bedroom, stepping carefully over the rotted floorboards, and felt his heart break as he saw the tiny, dirty and desperately thin Elfling seated on the bed. He held his arms out to the first living being he had seen in months, and Glorfindel walked over to him and picked him up, holding the small child close, squeezing his eyes shut as the tears threatened to spill.

“I’ve come to take you home, little one. Home to your true family. Whew! But not before a nice bath and a hot meal, right? And some milk? How about that? You must be so tired of fruit you shall not eat it again all the remaining days of this world. Well my name is Glorfindel, and I can’t stand your father, but I think you and I can be friends. Here.” He gave the child a piece of taffy. “This will make you feel a little better, at least until I can get the pot boiling and supper made. Come now, your brother does not want you up here, and for once he and I are in complete agreement. This is no place for you.”

Glorfindel carried the Elfling out of the ruins, and set him down near Syrdanna, watching as the child listlessly looked at the great green and gold beast. He reached up a tiny hand to touch her muzzle, and Glorfindel left him in her care while be began building a fire, heating water for a bath, and making stew with the rations he had brought. He fed the child first, only bothering to wash his face and hands. He then simply let Curufin eat as much as he liked while he readied a bath. Finally the child was full and sleepy, though not too sleepy to enjoy warm water and a rubber duck. At last, clean, fed, and dressed in Estorel’s hand-me-down sleepers, Curufin was asleep; his tiny body bundled in a blanket and laid to sleep on a small mattress of packed cotton. Finally Glorfindel could turn his attention to Syrdanna.

“I can’t imagine abandoning a child. Not even that one,” he said as he removed the golden bridle.

Syrdanna was glad to be rid of the bridle, and shook her head. Glorfindel moved to the saddle, unlocking the buckles and straps that held the device in place. Once she was free of the harness, she walked down to the lake to fish and play in the water.

Glorfindel had his own supper, and then climbed into the tent with Curufin, closing his eyes, falling quickly into a deep sleep. Soon he was dreaming, seeing outside his tent the great keep as it had been, when Celegorm and Curufin had been alive. Its sides were white with limestone, blazing in the noon day sun, its banners caught high. There was beauty here, and joy, and peace. Though Glorfindel could not move in his dream, he could still see, and as he watched he saw three figures pass by, two on tall grey hunters. One was Oromë the Huntsman, and with him was Huan. At Oromë’s side was Celegorm the Fair, and Glorfindel could not think of a more fitting name for him. He was tall and beautiful, his thick hair cascading over his shoulders. No more was he ragged and haggard. His duties were fulfilled, and he was at peace. Glorfindel watched as the lovers rode towards a nearby forest, and saw Celegorm as he looked back once over his shoulder, to gaze at the brother he had defended through life and death. Then he waved at Glorfindel, and passed from sight, never to be seen by him again.

***---***

“NEYLOFWED!” shrieked a voice.

Glorfindel sat bolt upright. It was dark, it was late, and beside him was a small Elfling wailing in a most broken-hearted manner.

“NEYLOFWED!” the child repeated, sobbing so hard he was hiccupping.

Glorfindel stared at the child. “Curufin, for whom do you call?”

“Neylofwed,” repeated the child, as though it should be obvious.

“Who, or what, is Neylofred?”

“Neylofwed!”

Glorfindel stared at the child, tired and confused. “Well is he a pet? Is he a toy?”

“Neylofwed!” wailed the Elfling.

Something scratched at the door of the tent, and Glorfindel opened it. He leapt back in revulsion as he spied the largest, ugliest, and most foul-looking rat he had ever seen in all his long years, and that included the hideous plague-rats of Morgoth as well as a few specimens patrolling the battlefields that stuck out in his mind. This thing was the size of a cat, missing the left eye and the right foreleg, its greasy fur but sparse patches, its long, naked tail bent, and a ragged scar across its face. It looked like a rodent version of a pirate. Curufin gasped with delight.

“Neylofwed!”

The Elfling picked the horror up and hugged it. The monstrous rat gave the child a few licks of his pink tongue, then turned his head and stared back at Glorfindel, daring him to get too close. Glorfindel could have sworn he saw the small paw come up and make a beckoning gesture.

“C’mon, blondie, ya won’t be so pretty when I get done with ya.”

“Neylofred, I presume,” said Glorfindel. “Yeesh. Curufin, I really don’t think your Atar will let you keep…”

The rat’s whiskers quivered threateningly. Glorfindel cleared his throat.

“..let you keep your friend so dirty. How about we give him a nice warm bath, and something to eat? He must be hungry, too.”

Curufin was too small to have much of a vocabulary, but it was clear he feared his ghastly companion would be taken away. Glorfindel smiled at the child.

“I will not hurt your friend. Clearly he is as dear to you, as you are to him. But didn’t you feel better after a bath and something warm in your tummy? We will do the same for Neylofred.”

Curufin stared back, clearly having little trust for adults, who had shunned him and left him alone with only this brute and a dead sibling to look after him.

“Or,” said Glorfindel, “you could give him a bath, and I will help.”

Curufin nodded, and followed Glorfindel out of the tent, holding the rat which was nearly as long as he was tall. Glorfindel warmed some water, noticing Curufin insisted on checking it before putting Neylofred in the water. The rat behaved surprisingly well, his one forepaw on the edge of the pot, whiskers aquiver at all the goings-on. Once cleaned, Glorfindel gave the creature some lembas, then left briefly to bury the pot they had bathed the rat in. He returned to the camp to find both child and rodent curled up in the tent, asleep once more, Neylofred resplendent in a gold ribbon tied about his neck in a bow. Glorfindel stared sourly at the ribbon, which was one of his favourites. He sighed, and lay down on his bed.

“Harken now, one and all, to the tale of Glorfindel the Rat-Bather.”