The Last Homely House
Chapter Seventeen

Rating: R
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Legolas/Gimli
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in some kind of love) Mpreg
Summary: Frost moves house, Lindir turns a Nazgul-Hunter, and Mauburz finds something in her tent.
Notes: ‘Wanna-Be Sailors’ is by The Kinship, a smashing band who just happen to live here in Beautiful British Columbia. Borrowed and semi-filked without permission. Which come to think of it, is a fair description of slash as a whole.

There is an accompaning illustration of the lovely Ilinuil with his fire to go with this chapter, drawn by the wonderful Pira. The picture comes with a full-frontal nudity warning.

Frost sat up and looked around, uncertain what had awakened him. Outside the sun was setting, and a warm wind heralded the summer to come. He sniffed the wind, smelling flowering trees and plants, the warmth of the wind, the clean scent of the river, and the usual confusion of smells that was life in the encampment.

Satisfied all was right with the world around him, he pushed back the covers and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. He had been there for seven days now, and could no longer shirk his duties. And Elrohir may appreciate having his bed back.

Frost sniffed again, once more checking the breeze, then looked around for his clothes. He slid into his breeches and boots, then looked about for his spear. It was under the bed; hardly a place of honour for a spiritual weapon, but Elrohir likely had shoved it there in haste. He picked it up, then picked a bit of debris off of it. The spear would need to be cleaned and re-consecrated, but that was no great feat.

He sat back down on the bed, and tried to convince himself to leave the tent. He did not wish to go. Elrohir did not wish him to go. His own Sia, not known for his great love for other races, had even let it be known that he was not opposed to Elrohir’s presence. From Rabbit, that tantamount to welcoming him into the family with open arms. Frost smiled as he noticed Elrohir’s latest gift; a little box of Rosie’s hand-made chocolates. Dear Rosie, who walked with impunity into a camp of less-than-friendly Plains Elves, welcomed even by the most wary and intolerant. Frost made up his mind to do something kind for her.

Frost had not been fooled in the least by Gaelemir’s trick; he knew the sweet rolls had come from Elrohir. He had endured more than enough falsehoods in his life, he would tolerate no more. He was not a prize to be fought over, and Gaelemir, though he was basically of good heart, had been a warrior too long, and viewed everything as a battle to be won. Frost was sick of battles.

He scuffed one toe on the floor, depressed and weary. Elrohir’s tent was a nice place to be, a place of healing and wisdom, of the quiet arts. It was true Elrohir was also a formidable warrior, but he fought when had to, not because it was all he knew. It made him very attractive to the ancient and soul-weary Elf, and Frost was reluctant to be parted from that green spirit. When it came down to basics, Elrohir made him feel good. Gaelemir just made him think of old times and trouble. And it was plain his word meant little.

Elrohir walked into the tent just then, and smiled. “Frost you are awake!” Then his smile fell. “And dressed.”

Frost laughed, a sound of warmth and affection. “You object to me dressing?”

“No, I have nothing against it. And I am truly glad to see you looking so well! But… I very much enjoyed having you here.”

“I enjoy being here too,” said Frost softly, and laughed again as he watched Elrohir’s knees buckle slightly.

The young Elf caught the side of a chair and steadied himself, then blushed. He decided just to sit down and not risk making a complete fool of himself. Elrohir swallowed nervously, thrusting his long slim hands between his knees. His hair was untidy and coming loose from his circlet, and when he spoke, it was with a small, slightly quavering voice.

“You do not have to go if you do not wish to.”

Frost smiled, his eyes narrowing slightly, his expression not unlike that of a great hunting cat’s. He could not resist teasing the young Elf-Lord. “Do you not wish to have your bed back?” he purred.

“The chair is… not uncomfortable,” said Elrohir, growing annoyed with himself. He had bedded dozens of lovers, and courted dozens more. He was not without his fair share of conquests.

So why did Frost reduce him to a blushing Elfling experiencing his first childhood crush? He was a little surprised to hear himself answer his own question in his mind: because Frost was no crush, nor was he a conquest. This was someone Elrohir could see himself with the rest of his life, and it meant everything to him that Frost liked him. The knowledge somehow gave him strength, and he made himself look into the yellow eyes.

“I do not mind the chair,” he said softly.

Frost smiled again, enjoying the gentle sparing. “I would enjoy the bed more if you had one as well.”

Elrohir almost suggested that the bed was big enough for two, but knew that was taking things a little too far. He looked about the tent, and said quietly; “The tent is large. You could keep that bed and I could have my own brought in. In fact, I think this tent could hold two occupants easily.”

Frost suddenly felt much lighter in heart. He could tend to his duties as Shaman, and not return to the small hut where he had brooded on his losses. He could stay in the healing light.

“Then Firespark may have my hut. He is old enough to not have to live with his Sia and Aie.”

“That would work well for all, then,” said Elrohir.

Frost rose to his feet, and stepped towards Elrohir. The younger Elf stood also, and suddenly was face to face with the large being, so close he could smell the warmth of his body. He was looking deep into the yellow eyes, and felt a rush of emotion wash through him. Frost smiled, and lowered his head so his face was very close to Elrohir’s.

“There is but one last thing I must say to you, Elrohir.”

“Yes?” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Frost moved his face slightly closer, and when he spoke, Elrohir could feel his breath on his lips. “Something I feel I must say to you,” he whispered.

Elrohir forced his knees to hold him. “Yes?”

He felt the smooth, icy touch of metal, just brushing his lips. “This spear does not go under the bed.” Then Frost lightly stepped around him and left the tent, leaving Elrohir shaken, sweating, and with a painfully hard erection. He put his hand on the carved back of the chair to steady himself, then shoved his hair out of his face.

“That,” he said quietly, “was just evil.” Though he was but a young Elf, he sat down in the chair as though he was a very old mortal.

***---***

Frost crossed the encampment, heading to the secluded little village. He had scarcely reached the river when he heard a cacophony of greetings; everything from yips to a few screams, and he called back to his village, the sound of their voices echoing eerily down the river.

He walked into the village, and was immediately embraced by Firespark. “I am so glad to see you well, I was so afraid you would not be here for tomorrow!”

Frost laughed, then kissed the young Elf on the forehead. “Fear not, little Spark, I was there for your arrival, I would not miss your coming of age. I will be there to name you, and, I have a gift for you.”

“A gift? For me?”

“Yes for you.” Frost gently turned Firespark towards his hut. “There you go.”

Firespark looked puzzled. “It is in your hut?”

“It is my hut. I shall be staying in Elrohir’s tent. And you are old enough…”

Firespark leapt on him. “A home of my own! Thank you!”

An older Elf, Fade, barked a warning, and Firespark pulled back. “I am so sorry, Shaman, I hope I did not injure you.”

“I am not harmed, little one. And I am pleased you are happy with your gift. I shall take out my things, and you may have it.”

Frost left Firespark and made his way to the small structure. He entered the hut, and looked around distastefully. He had only occupied it a brief time, but to him it was merely a place of death. Better to let the young one have it, and grow well in Elrohir’s tent. Perhaps Elrohir could answer the riddle of why his children died. Frost had exhausted all he knew on the subject a very long time ago.

He gathered up his few belongings. He had a great black longbow, and a long black knife, much like his Sia’s. There was a quiver, a small bag of rune-bones, and a small round drum with a painting of a horse on the skin. There was bedding also, but he opted to leave that for Firespark.

He came out of the hut, and smiled. “All yours,” he said.

As Firespark dove in to explore his new home, a few of the older Elves came to speak with Frost.

“Staying with the youngster, are you?” teased Grey Wolf.

“Well he is reasonably fair to look at,” said Rain Chaser. “For a tree-dweller.”

“Yes, for a tree-dweller,” said Grey.

Frost looked around for Hunting Fox, finally spying him near his own hut. He took a step towards him, then stopped as Fox curled his lip and spit like a cat. Frost raised an eyebrow.

“Someone is not pleased with life,” said Frost.

Rain rolled his eyes. “You know how these youngsters are when awaiting their first. He’s a little touchy.”

Hunting Fox muttered; “I am NOT touchy.”

“He’s touchy,” said Grey.

Hunting Fox went into his hut to escape the humour of his fellows, followed by his lover, Fade. There was some snarling, and a moment later Fade dragged himself out and flopped onto the soft earth wearily, where he had spent the last two days and nights. He looked at Frost and said; “I don’t suppose there is anything you can do to make him hurry up and get it over with.”

“Short of picking him up and squeezing him, no,” said Frost. “Fox if you cannot be pleasant at least take yourself to the birthing hut and let poor Fade have a bed.”

Fox muttered a few suggestions about where they could all go. Frost sighed, then turned to Grey. “Come for me when he is serious about delivering those two babies, and not merely grumbling with discomfort.”

“I will, Shaman. Oh, and I made certain to set aside the old and rusty needles for Firespark’s first tattoo.”

“Ah good, be certain they are blunt as well.”

Firespark ignored them, knowing full well the needles would be neither blunt nor rusty. Frost bid good night to the other Plains Elves, then began making his way back to Elrohir’s tent. He was only halfway there when he encountered Gaelemir.

“A fair eve to you, Mir. You seem to be all set for the hunt.”

“No, not tonight. I am moving house.”

“Is there something wrong with your current home?”

“I do not wish to speak of my reasons, Gaelemir.”

“Of course not, forgive my prying.”

“I would rather you beg forgiveness for lying to me the other day.”

“Lie to you? I would do no such thing!”

“The breakfast rolls were not from you, Gaelemir.”

The large Elf sighed. “You are right, they were not. It was foolish of me to say they were, but surely you cannot blame me for wishing to be seen favorably by you.”

“I should think you would want to be seen truthful as well as favorable.”

“I shall take what I can get.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Oh come, Mir, do not judge me harshly, I beg.” He stepped before the white Elf and gently took hold of his shoulders. “You are more fair than any who have ever walked this land, and I live only on the hope that one day you may return my love.”

“Gaelemir, you know I care for you. But my life is bound to my people, and I cannot dance off to follow a warrior across Middle Earth.”

“Nor do I ask you to. Your folk need you, that is plain. I ask only that, when you are ready to take a suitor, you consider me. Please Mir. You may question my actions, but never question the truthfulness of my heart.”

Frost looked away. “Gaelemir I have no strength for this conversation. In truth I do not know how long it shall be before I look to have someone by my side. You were a good friend to me once, and I would, at least, rekindle that.” He passed Gaelemir his drum and quiver. “Walk me home,” he said softly.

“I shall be honoured. Ah, where would home be, now that you have left your hut?”

“Elrohir has granted me permission to share his tent.”

Gaelemir laughed. “Ah my worthy young rival. I recall when he was but a wee Elfling. Now he is a warrior and respected healer. He has done well for himself. I wonder, though.”

“About what?” asked Frost.

“Well Lord Elrond is Half-Elven, as you know. His father was a Mortal.”

“I did not know,” said Frost.

“No? There is a very wonderful lay about his parents. I should have thought you would have heard it. But what I wonder is this; if there is a chance any of his children could be Mortal?”

“I suppose such a thing is possible,” said Frost. “Master Erestor came forth as a Plains Elf, though that part of him is dilute. I suppose a Half-Elven parent could father a Mortal child.”

“T’would be a shame, would it not, to watch one’s child grow old and perish? But I suppose the chance of it happening is rather small.”

Frost stopped, staring coldly at Gaelemir. “How dare you try to frighten me with such ideas.”

“Frighten you? I was but speculating…”

“I know what you were doing. Threatening me with the thought that if I chose Elrohir we may have Mortal children.”

“I was threatening you with nothing. You said yourself you have no inclination to choose any suitor, why should I frighten you with something that could well never come to pass? You are an Elf, he is three quarters Elf; IF you chose to have children with him they would be Elves. Do not frighten yourself with nonsense. Of course, any children I fathered would be far more adorable than his. Come now, the tent is just ahead, let us get you out of the night air.”

Gaelemir walked Frost to the tent, then gave him a gentle kiss on his brow. “Sleep well, fair Mir. I shall bring you breakfast rolls in the morning. Ones actually from me this time.”

Frost nodded. “Very well. Good night, Gaelemir.”

He watched the white Elf disappear into the tent, then turned towards his own quarters, singing softly.

***---***

Ithilian stood, shivering, eyes huge, staring up at the great imposing form that was Námo, Vala of the Halls of Waiting. The great form with his burning eyes leaned forward, peering at the little Elf closely.

“How tall are you?” he asked icily, white teeth shining.

“Four foot eleven, Lord,” said Ithilian, shaking like a whipped dog.

“And what do you weigh?” he drawled, teeth glinting once more.

“Ninety five pounds, Lord.”

“Now answer me this.” Námo stepped closer, and Ithilian didn’t know if he was going to cry or wet himself as the irate deity drew near.

“Yes, Lord?”

“HOW CAN SUCH A LITTLE ELF BE SUCH A BIG PAIN IN THE ASS?”

Ithilian stared at him, shaking in utter terror, as the Vala of Death loomed over him. He heard an equally huge being come to stand beside him, and Námo was gently nudged back with the tip of a Mithril forge-hammer.

“Let him be, he’s a good boy.”

Námo forgot about Ithilian for the moment and raised his head to glare at Aulë, Vala of Smiths and Craftsmen. “Oh he’s a delight! In the short time he has been here, he has managed to get you, and I, and several others, into a long running debate about whether he should even be here. I finally relent and say he can depart, and now, he won’t go!”

“So give him what he wants,” said Aulë.

Tulkas strode forward, his armor glittering like diamonds strewn across green silk. “I am not opposed to the smith’s request, we have done such a thing before.”

“I cannot simply release Elves willy-nilly all over Arda!”

Lórien, Lord of Dreams and Visions, began snickering at the image of Mandos throwing its door wide and Elves escaping like puppies out of a kennel. Ithilian grew a little bolder and asked innocently, “Why not?”

Námo did not look at him. Instead he addressed Aulë. “Did that peanut just speak to me?”

Aulë crossed his arms and did not look amused. “Pray, kindly refrain from referring to my smith as a peanut.”

“Your smith should be pleased to be that large.”

A large, silent presence stepped forward, a great eagle perched upon his fist. “Námo, there is no need to be insulting.”

Námo bowed his head, and said softly, “Yes, Lord Manwë.”

Ithilian felt smaller than the afore-mentioned peanut as he stood in the presence of the Lord of the Breath of Arda. In truth he could not actually see the Vala, though he had the impression in his mind of a large and noble Elf, fair and wise. He sensed this great being meant him no harm, but wished only to have the discord in his realm ended.

“So you are Ithilian. You have been granted permission to leave, why do you not go?”

Tulkas faced his Lord. “If I may, great Manwë, he wishes to bring the warrior Ecthelion with him.”

“Ecthelion may not leave,” said Námo. “He died in battle, he was not unfairly killed to spare the life of another.”

“But he was,” said Manwë softly. “Ecthelion gave his life to spare another. And he was to have had his fea set into another body, but he was denied this for interfering in the birth of Estorel. It is time, I think, to let him go. He has sacrificed of himself many times, and asked for nothing in return. Even now, he does not come forth on his own behalf, it is the one who loves him who intercedes. I say let us release him.”

“As you wish, Lord Manwë,” said Námo. He then turned to stare into Ithilian’s face, placing one icy fingertip on the Elf’s nose. “But hear me, peanut. If I see you before a thousand years pass, I know what I shall set THY fea into!”

***---***

Ilinuil crossed the encampment, feeling the last of the warm daylight touch his shoulder. He passed a group of Lothlórien archers, and was not unaware of their eyes following him. He even heard a few appreciative whispers, and he smiled slightly, listlessly. It was nice to be watched by friendly eyes.

Ilinuil did not know he was beautiful; he certainly did not know the depth and extent of it. Though he had only been in Imladris a few days, the Elves who did not yet know his name were calling him the Child of Lórien, for only the Vala of Dreams and Visions could have made one so fair.

The slender Elf made his way to the tent he shared with Gaelemir and Elentar, the Lórien archers following every sway of his body, every flutter of his long silver hair. When at last he passed, one archer turned to his lover, blushing. He knelt and took the other Elf’s hand.

“Forgive me my love, I did not mean to stare.”

“You are forgiven, light of my heart. I was staring too.”

Ilinuil stepped into the tent, hoping to see his brother Elentar. Instead he found Gaelemir, preening before a small chipped mirror. He was dressed in his best garb, and looked very handsome.

“How fine you look tonight, Gaelemir.”

“Ah thank you, Ilinuil. I thought I would go to the Bardic Circle tonight, I heard Frost may be there.”

Ilinuil nodded, turning away so Gaelemir would not see his blue-grey eyes grow wet. “Tell me, my lover, have you forgotten the vows we made to one another all those years ago, or do you simply no longer care?”

“Well I do recall the eve, so it could not be that.”

“You and I are bound, does that mean nothing to you?”

“Oh Ilinuil do not bore me. You never did mean anything to me, you know it.”

Ilinuil had long suspected as much, but to hear the words, to have them flung into his face, was the final blow to his heart. Quietly, he began gathering up his few belongings.

“Oh what are you doing?”

“I should think it would be obvious, I am leaving.”

“Well have fun trying to find a home. I am quite sure once Lord Elrond finds out what you are, then your time in this pretty valley will be over. There must be limits to even his patience.”

Ilinuil continued packing. “He will not find out.”

“Oh but he will, pretty bird. I’ll tell him.”

Ilinuil turned and faced Gaelemir. “You do not want me, why do you not let me go?”

Gaelemir grabbed the silver hair, pulling it with force enough to rip out a few strands, then abruptly released it, rubbing his hand as though it pained him. “Because you are mine!” he hissed. “Just because I do not want you does not mean you are free to be with another. And once I tell them what you are and where I found you, there is no one in this entire land who will want you.”

Ilinuil sat on the bed and watched Gaelemir depart, off to openly court another while his discarded husband sat in the tent. In the distance, he could hear Elentar laughing with a group of Elven warriors. Then he heard Legolas’ voice, reciting some tale. Ilinuil could not hear him well enough to know which one.

‘So much merriment,’ he thought, picking idly at imaginary threads on his clothes, ‘and here I sit, my heart rent, and none to comfort me.’

After a time, he stepped out of the tent, lonely and dispirited. He wished he could find a quiet place and simply lay down, fade away into the nothingness of Mandos’ Halls, die and be done with Arda. But he feared death, and what may become of him. He did not know where his fea would go should he die, or even if he had a fea.

Ilinuil made his quiet way to the Bardic Circle, pausing just outside the ring of singers and storytellers. He saw Faramir, and thought about going to sit beside the Ranger. Then he spied Lindir, seated close to the Mortal, and staring at the intruder with unfriendly eyes. Ilinuil turned and made his way to the common tent, where perhaps he may find someone to speak with. But when he reached it, there was no one there. All were down at the Circle.

The fair Elf turned slowly, a vision of perfect Elven beauty, and made his silent way back to the tent. He found his lute, and smiled as he recalled his mother giving it to him when he was still rather small. She would be heartbroken to see him alone, while others made merry. He decided to join the Elves at the Circle, but he had to do something first.

He removed his clothes, then peered outside to see if any were at hand. He was alone, and he stepped naked out of the tent. Taking one last look around, he walked into the remains of the small cooking fire.

“Warm me,” he said quietly.

The flames rose up, licking their way up his slender white body, enveloping him, the heat causing his silver hair to blow as if in a wind. He waited until his flesh was hot, then stepped out of the fire, the flames dying down to coals once more. He went into the tent and dressed, then, taking his lute, quietly made his way to the Circle.

***---***

Ithilian sat up in the long grass, feeling it crinkle beneath his hand. It was just past nightfall, and in the distance, he could smell roasting venison, and hear the sound of laughter and song.

He pushed his unkempt hair out of his face, then looked around. The world seemed strange, and as he blinked, he suddenly realized why. Both of his eyes were working.

“I can see,” he whispered, and grinned. Then he looked around. “Ecthelion?”

His eyes widened at the sight of the Elf who rose to his feet, just a short distance away. He was clad in armor of crystal and gold, his long black hair flying loose. He stepped over to Ithilian, and grinned.

“I’m alive,” he said.

Ithilian was very glad he was not standing; he doubted his legs would have held him. He stared up at the handsome Elven warrior, eyes large, suddenly understanding fully who he had been spending his time with in Mandos’ Halls.

“You’re… Ecthelion,” he said.

The warrior laughed. “Yes of course I am, who did you think I was?”

“I… do not know. I… should have realized.”

“You should have, my little peanut.” He reached down to the smith, gently raising him up. He kissed him, them pulled him close, looking around.

“I have been gone a long time, I do not know this land.”

Ithilian looked about, then grinned as he heard an Uruk-Hai voice bellow; “Damn mouses back in tent!”

There was Elven laughter, and Ithilian grinned. “We are near Imladris!”

“Did I hear an Orc?”

“You did, but you are not allowed to slay this one, great warrior! That is Mauburz.”

“Ah yes, I have heard of her. Come, we should go make her acquaintance.”

Ithilian stepped before Ecthelion, kissing him. “Must we go now? We have only been back a few moments. Can we not languish here in the grass a little?” He kissed him again. “I never made love in the grass to a legend before.”

Ecthelion grinned. “Really? Fine, tonight we shall lay here in the grass. Tomorrow, the forge.”

“Glorfindel always said you were mad.”

“He should know, he is the one who drove me to it.” He slid his arms around Ithilian, and grinned. “Perfect fit.”

***---***

Elentar sat munching venison, and watching Mauburz evict mice from her tent. He turned to look at Sam.

“So explain to me how the Orc came to live here.”

Sam shook his head. “I have no idea. I heard she held a map upside down and ended up here instead of Mordor.”

“So what happened to her Orcish disposition?”

“Must have lost it along the way.”

Mauburz came out of the tent, holding a mouse in one huge paw. She showed it to Orophin, and gave him a mischievous smile. “Who you think this look like?”

Orophin studied the hysterical rodent. Unlike many of its brethren, it was white. Its tiny muzzle was wrinkled into as fierce an expression a mouse could manage, and the little eyes blazed with fury and fear. Orophin carefully took the little beast, then howled with laughter.

“IT LOOKS LIKE GLORFINDEL, I SWEAR IT DOES!”

Elladan took the mouse as his lover fell backwards off the log with uncontrolled hilarity. He looked at the rodent, then admitted; “There does seem to be a strong resemblance.”

He opened his hand, and the white mouse sat up, sniffing. Lord Elrond peered at the little beast.

“All he needs is a sword.”

The Lord of Imladris held out his hand, and the mouse marched up his arm and onto his shoulder. There it sat, whiskers quivering, watching the Elves around it.

“A most daunting familiar, my Lord,” said Rúmil.

“If it resembles Glorfindel in more than just physical appearance, it may be.”

Elladan pulled Orophin into a sitting position, smiling at him. He linked his arm through his lover’s, then looked up as he saw a slender form draw near the fire.

“Elentar, who is he?”

Elentar looked up, then smiled. “That’s my brother, Ilinuil. Well, half-brother. We share a Nana, but I never found out who his Ada was.”

Elrond watched the graceful beauty seat himself near the fire, his silver hair trailing in wisps over his fine face. “You do not know who his father is?”

“Nay, never did. And Nana would say nothing about it.”

“A most elegant beauty,” said Elrond.

Rúmil nudged him, and Elrond smiled, slipping an arm around him. “But not as fair as you.”

“I accept your last-moment scramble to pull your boot out of your mouth.”

“He’s not that pretty,” muttered Lindir, edging closer to Faramir.

The Mortal had been staring openly. He shook his head suddenly, and tore his gaze from Ilinuil. “I have heard tell he has put flight to a Nazgûl, is that true?”

“Aye it is,” said Elentar. “He, Gaelemir and Glorfindel are the only three Elven Warriors with strength enough to do such a thing. I’ll never forget it, either. T’was… like something out of a tale. We had been chasing the fell thing for days. Well, little of both, I suppose, it chasing us, we chasing it. Finally, one night, it caught us, just came out of nowhere, screaming, frozen cold, sword raised. I have to admit, my first thought was to flee. And Ilinuil just… stared at it. Didn’t raise his sword, didn’t say a thing. Just stared.” Elentar turned to look at Elrond. “And you may think me the biggest liar ever to spin a falsehood, but I swear the damn thing cringed. It turned like a whipped dog and fled. Never saw such a thing in my life.”

“Maybe what they are saying about him is true,” said Elladan. “They say he is the child of Lórien.”

Elentar shook his head. “I know nothing about that, and I do not care to speculate on one of the Valar siring my brother. Ilinuil!” he called, and the beautiful Elf looked up.

“Come play us a song. Come sit beside me and we’ll sing something offensive.”

Ilinuil smiled shyly, and came to sit beside his brother, watched closely by Lindir. The white mouse on Elrond’s shoulder suddenly bounced off into the night, unnoticed.

“What shall we sing?” asked Ilinuil, his voice not much more than a whisper.

“Oh you pick something, I’m drunk.”

Ilinuil smiled, then began playing something that had a cheery melody to it. Elentar laughed, and began to sing in his strong voice.

“Oh we are a band of wanna-be sailors, forever in love with the ocean.
We come from the inland, surrounded by mountains,
We carry the spirit, but we don’t have a boat.

And we’ll fight in the name of our country, and
We’ll drink until well after dawn.
And we’ll dance with the lasses, they’ll come by the masses,
If we never reveal that we don’t have a boat.

Oh we are a band of wanna-be sailors, we’ll tell you of battles we’ve won.
And we claim to have sailed the sea seven times,
Which is funny because we don’t have a boat.

If we did, well who would be captain?
If we did, well where would we go?
Well we’ll sail to an island not far from the Homeland,
But we never reveal that we don’t have a boat!

Oh we are a band of wanna-be sailors, and anyone’s welcome to join.
For we have a bottle and we have a song,
And we’ll share it with you if you bring us a boat.”

“Too bad Cirdan is not here,” said Elladan, “He would have liked that.”

Faramir laughed. “I have heard that song! It is sung in Gondor often!”

“Well where do you think we learned it? We were there, fighting at the Black Gate with your new King. Nice fellow. And that wife of his… phwoarr what a beauty! Listen if she ever gets sick of that Mortal…”

Elrond cleared his throat. “You mean Arwen, my DAUGHTER?”

“Lovely, fair maid, very pretty, very nice, demure chaste maid I’m sure she is too. Your Lordship. Sir.”

“I’ll forgive you if you go get the cask of miruvor out of my tent.”

“Going sir.”

Ilinuil grinned broadly, then looked at Elrond. “Forgive him Lord Elrond, I pray. Truth to tell I have long feared his Ada was a Dwarf.”

Glóin belched. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Not a thing father,” said Legolas.

Ilinuil looked about at the crowd assembled there, his gaze finally coming to rest on Rhimlan and Mauburz sitting together by the fire, Silmaril, Emerald and Syrith beside them.

“There’s a tale,” he said softly.

“Indeed,” said Elrond. “There are many tales in this valley, and each odder than the last. The Plains Elves have named it Thil-Cuin, the Good Place.”

“An apt name,” said Ilinuil.

Gaelemir came and sat down just then, and seemed a little startled to see Ilinuil. “There you are. I see you decided to come join the Circle after all

Elrond noticed the red welt across Gaelemir’s palm. “How came you to injure your hand, Gaelemir?”

Gaelemir looked at his hand. “T’is nothing, Lord Elrond. I merely picked up a heated utensil.”

“Play us something else,” said Elladan to Ilinuil. “Do you sing?”

“I fear I have not much of a voice,” said Ilinuil. “Elentar is the singer.”

Elentar returned to the fire just then, and set down the cask. He bowed low to Elrond. “Your cask, my Lord.”