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          ‘Bilbo had a corslet of mithril-rings that Thorin gave him. I wonder what has become of it? Gathering dust still in Michel Delving Mathom-house, I suppose.’
          ‘What?’ cried Gimli, startled out of his silence. ‘A corslet of Moria-silver? That was a kingly gift!’
          ‘Yes,’ said Gandalf. ‘I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the whole Shire and everything in it.’

—The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, “A Journey in the Dark”

“For Eärendil,” her cousin says, and thrusts into her hands a small mail coat made of shining silver—of mithril!

He is gone before she can say anything, and Idril stares down at the priceless gift in shock. She had not known there was this much mithril in all of Gondolin! And to craft it into a coat so small, that a child could wear for only a few years at most—

Either Maeglin cares about Eärendil a great deal more than he lets on, or this is some kind of deception.

Idril clutches the green stone that hangs about her neck, seeking insight and understanding. But though the Elessar gives no indication of Maeglin’s trustworthiness, she knows deep in her heart that mithril, truesilver, is not a material that could be wrought with malice.

“Well, he’s too small for it now,” says her husband when she confesses her troubled mind to him that evening. “Give him a year or two and he’ll grow into it. Perhaps your mind will be clearer then.”

Idril kisses his cheek and puts the mail coat away. She can always count on him to find the most practical solution.

Eärendil weeps at the red sky and the crashing noises about the walls, and in her heart Idril wishes to weep with him. But she cannot: she is a princess and a mother, and she must protect her own.

“Eärendil, my Ardamírë,” she murmurs, taking her little son into her arms. “I have a gift for you.”

“Ammë?” Eärendil whispers. “Will it protect me from—from Morgoth?”

“Yes, it will,” Idril promises, and draws out of its hiding-place the coat of mail Maeglin made for him years before. He is just the right size for it now, and as he sees the glittering silver of mithril Eärendil’s eyes alight with wonder.

“Here, help me put it on you,” Idril says, and more eagerly than he has ever assented to being dressed, her son allows her to clothe him in armor. He laughs when she is done, and races to his mirror, shouting back to her, “Ammë! Ammë! I’m a knight now, like Atya!”

Idril herself wears armor, though not of mithril, and it sits ill upon her. She has never been a warrior, and has never wished to be; she is an architect and a jeweler and a strategist, but not a soldier. Now, staring down at her tiny son in his tiny coat of mail, she cannot help but weep softly, for the end of Eärendil’s safety and happiness, and for his glee and pride to be like his father, who learned to kill so he might survive.

Not since he was a thrall in the land of his fathers has Tuor felt such rage as he does now. He roars in fury and rushes forth to save his family—his wife, his child!—from death and doom, and he will not fail this time. He will save them, and he will kill Maeglin, he whom once he might have called a friend, he who now proves himself a traitor of the worst sort.

His hands are tangled up in Idril’s hair—and Tuor has seen the way Maeglin looks at her hair, with envy and bitterness—as he drags her close to the edge of the walls. He laughs wildly, though his followers are frozen in fear of Tuor as he rushes forth, and in his other hand is Eärendil, perilously close to the chasm below.

“Your fate—is death!” Maeglin cries, his voice ragged. “You should—have known! You should—have seen—I tried to tell you—you—are doomed!”

“Mandos curse you to the Void!” Idril spits, trying to wrench herself free.

But Tuor is here now: he shoves past Maeglin’s guard, slaying any who stand in his way, and leaps toward them.

Then many things happen at once. Idril’s eyes close, and she falls still, and for a terrible moment Tuor fears her dead. But then Maeglin’s eyes roll back into his head, and he realizes: she is in his mind, attacking with all the strength of her spirit.

Maeglin screams, and lets go of Idril, who staggers backward. Voronwë, ever-faithful behind Tuor’s step, catches her, and now all Tuor must do is save Eärendil—

His heart stops.

Maeglin has drawn a knife, and wildly he stabs down into Eärendil’s breast—

But Eärendil bites Maeglin’s hand, and the knife glances against the mail coat Maeglin himself had forged, and the blade breaks and falls into the pit of Caragdûr.

Now Tuor is upon him, and seizes the arm with which Maeglin still holds the knife hilt. In one motion he wrenches Maeglin’s arm and breaks it, and Eärendil falls out of his grip. But Idril is there, and Voronwë and Meleth and Hendor and the best of the folk of the Wing, and together they take the child and retreat into the secret tunnel his wise, brave, beautiful wife had made.

Now Tuor’s wrath is focused in full upon Maeglin, and he lifts him up by the middle and screams in his face: “How dare you, you fiend, you filth, you traitor—”

He has already let go, hurling Maeglin into the very pit his father died, when Maeglin smiles at him, eyes clear at last.

I am sorry, he whispers in Tuor’s mind. Protect them.

“Wait—!” Tuor cries, as understanding of Morgoth’s curse hits him like a blow, but it is too late. Maeglin falls, and he has no coat of mithril to save him as his body hits the ground once, twice, thrice, and is still.

Elwing loves the bright spark in her husband’s eyes when he has an idea. Eärendil does not wait a moment to chase his memory, interrupting himself mid-sentence and hurrying into the chest of keepsakes he keeps beneath their bed.

“Aha!” he exclaims, beaming, and triumphantly holds up a shimmering silver object.

One hand resting on the swell of her belly, Elwing asks, “What is it?”

“Why, a coat of mail, of course!” Eärendil says.

Elwing blinks, taking it in anew. It is fine work (certainly Noldorin in origin), each chain glittering in the lamplight. Eärendil offers it to her, and she hums softly as her fingers feel the smooth interlock of metal. It is astonishingly light—and astonishingly small.

“It is made of mithril,” Eärendil explains. “I wore it—” His smile faltered. “I wore it the day Gondolin fell.”

Elwing does not ask why someone would make a chain mail coat for a child. She does not need to, in Beleriand: she, too, is the child of a fallen kingdom.

“It is beautiful,” she says. “And mithril! How valuable!”

“I thought we could give it to our baby, as an heirloom,” Eärendil says, kneeling at her side. He reaches to take her hand, and presses both their palms against where their child grows inside her. “Though...if you think it wiser to sell it—”

“And who would buy? Morgoth?” Elwing shook her head. “No. It protected you, did it not?”

“It did.” Eärendil did not say more. She knows the story of Gondolin’s fall, and knows he does not like to relive it.

“Then it shall protect our child,” she says firmly. “Thank you, meleth nîn.”

Eärendil kisses her softly. “For you? Anything, meldanya.”

“Boys,” Naneth says, and they hurry to her side. It is dark outside, and there are shouts in the distance, and they are afraid. The sons of Fëanor are coming.

“Naneth,” Elros whispers, “are we going to die?”

Naneth pulls him into a hug so tight he can barely breathe. It is over quickly, before he even has the chance to squirm, and then it’s Elrond’s turn.

“No,” she promises, and Elros believes her. Naneth never lies. “No. You will live—I promise you.”

She lets go of Elrond and stands up, walking over to the wardrobe. “I have gifts for you,” she says. “To protect you.”

Despite their fear, Elros and Elrond exchange looks of excitement. Gifts! And it isn’t even their begetting day!

“Elros,” she says first, and he hurries closer. Out of the wardrobe she pulls the prettiest thing Elros has ever seen, except for her jewel necklace. It’s silver and sparkly and just his size. It’s armor! Like a real warrior wears!

“This was your father’s once,” Naneth says, and Elros can barely restrain himself from grabbing it out of her hands. It’s Adar’s! Elros misses Adar so much, and now he gets to wear Adar’s coat! “He wore it when he was not much older than you, ion nîn. It protected him, and it will protect you.”

Elros is barely listening, he is so excited. He lifts his arms so Naneth can put it on him and shouts, “Thank you, Adar!” He hopes, wherever he is, his father can hear.

Elrond gets a gift, too: a necklace with a green jewel. It’s not as pretty as Elros’ coat or Naneth’s shiny jewel, but it’s still interesting. And Naneth says it will keep him safe, which is good. Elros hadn’t thought to feel bad that he got armor and Elrond didn’t, and now he doesn’t have to.

Naneth’s gifts will keep them safe. Naneth will protect them. And someday soon, Elros hopes, Adar will come home and he can show him how handsome he looks in his armor.

Maglor has to suppress a gasp when he first sees the mithril coat peeking out from beneath the boy’s shirt. When they finally arrive at Amon Ereb and Maedhros insists on taking inventory of the children’s possessions, he takes the coat from Elros and holds it for a long time, a faraway look in his eyes. If he has to guess, Maglor thinks he is remembering his time among the dwarves, before the Tears. They prize the metal greatly, and nearly all mithril ore comes to Beleriand through their hands.

Or it did, once, before Morgoth ruled all Beleriand save for one tiny fortress and a ragtag settlement by the sea. Now even that haven is destroyed, not by the Enemy but by Maglor’s own hand, and only Balar and Amon Ereb remain.

“That was my father’s!” the boy wails indignantly. “You can’t take it! Give it back!”

“It is still yours,” Maglor says, and doesn’t know if he lies. This much mithril is beyond valuable—if they could trade it back to the dwarves...

“Noldorin make,” he hears Maedhros mutter.

“But it is dirty, see?” Maglor says, distracting the twins. He points to a speck on the collar, where some unfortunate elf must have sprayed their blood onto Elros as he fled the battle. “Blood is the only thing that can stain mithril, and it must be cleaned.”

Elros is yet unmollified. “We will return it when it is ready,” Maglor promises, and at last the boy relaxes, still glaring at them both.

A week later, Maedhros beckons Maglor to his study. Erestor is with him, scribbling away on a piece of paper so covered in ink Maglor thinks it will turn solid black soon. They do not have the resources to waste paper.

“I am returning the hostages’ possessions to them,” Maedhros rasped. It has been far too long since he slept, Maglor can tell, but it is useless to attempt to make him sleep when he doesn’t want to. “The fish-doll, the hairpin, and the dragon scale have been cleaned. Erestor will see to the exchange.”

Maglor sighs. His brother refuses to acknowledge that Elrond and Elros are children in their care, not hostages. To be hostages, there would have to be someone to whom they could return, but that they were alone in the world was precisely the reason they were here at all.

“It’s not an exchange if they aren’t giving anything to you in return,” he points out, the one technicality he knows Maedhros will concede.

Maedhros inclines his head in acknowledgement. “There is one more thing. I wanted your opinion before I made a decision.”

“Yes?” Maglor asks.

Maedhros waves his hand, and Erestor retreats with a small bow. The door closes behind him, and Maglor perches himself on the edge of Maedhros’ desk. In Himring, his brother would have scolded him, but in Amon Ereb, he says nothing, too weary for meaningless arguments.

“The mithril coat,” Maedhros says. He looks up at Maglor, as if to say: So? Thoughts?

Maglor hums, tapping at the buttons of his cloak. “We are low on resources,” he admits.

“Yes.”

“That could buy a lot of paper.”

“And weapons.”

“And food.”

Maedhros nods slowly. “You think we should sell it?”

“Hmm...” Maglor bites his lip. “It would be the practical thing to do,” he admits. “But my heart warns against it, I fear.”

Maedhros’ lip curls in what others might see as contempt, but Maglor knows is amusement. “That is why I ask you,” he says. “My heart speaks to me no longer.”

Maglor closes his eyes for a moment, feeling so very weary. Things are better now than they were before the attack on Sirion—they speak cordially to one another, and the Oath sleeps, for now. But before Sirion, Maedhros insisted on morality, on his conscience; it was Maglor who had stopped caring. Now, their roles are reversed: Maedhros stubbornly refuses to feel, while Maglor’s heart bleeds profusely. It was why he stepped in to care for the young twins, when it was Maedhros who has always been better with children.

He knows Maedhros is only hiding from his emotions. He cannot bear to grapple with the weight of a third Kinslaying. That night when they had rediscovered the Elessar in Elrond’s possession—he had broken then, and it had taken all Maglor’s strength to piece him back together. Ever since, Maedhros keeps himself under tight control.

But there has to be a middle ground. There has to be a place of softness, of vulnerability, that did not make him fall apart entirely. Maglor is determined to find it, and he knows the boys will be instrumental in his efforts.

“You ought to listen better,” he chides his brother gently. Before Maedhros can protest, he continues, “It would be most practical to sell the coat, yes. But aside from my heart’s warning, how would we make such a transaction? Who would buy it from us? We cannot trade with the folk of Balar. We certainly cannot trade with the Enemy. The Laiquendi, those few who remain in blighted Ossiriand, have no use for mithril, nor could they afford such a kingly item.”

“The dwarves,” Maedhros says. “It came from them originally, as ore, I am certain. They would be eager to reclaim it.”

“But they would not melt down a masterpiece such as that coat,” Maglor says. “The work is exceedingly fine, and their respect for craft is too great to mar it. It is small, yes, but only a very young dwarf could use it as armor—they are bigger than elf-children, at least horizontally!”

Maedhros nods. “We shall return it, then,” he says. “I will inform Erestor. But keep an eye on it, Káno. If the need arises, it will be good to know where such a valuable item is hidden.”

“Atar,” Elros says, wandering into the music room where Maglor is plucking at his harp. “I was going through my things, and I found a bunch of clothes that don’t fit any longer, and—well, I guess it’s sort of clothing? But I found that coat, too, and I’m much too big for it now. Should I give it to you, or...?”

Maglor’s hands pause mid-strum. “It is your coat,” he says uncertainly. “Even if you no longer fit it...well, would you not want it for sentimental value?”

“I don’t need it,” Elros explains. “It’s not really sentimental. It just reminds me of...that day. And I know it has real value. Which you could use, maybe.”

Maglor grimaces. “You know, we considered that, when we first took it from you,” he confesses.

Elros huffs, crossing his arms. “Elrond will be vindicated,” he complains. “I told him you returned it because you wanted to prove you meant your word when you gave it. He says you just didn’t know what to do with it!”

“It was a bit of both,” Maglor admits. “We had no one to sell it to, and no way of getting a fair price for it. For something as valuable as all the jewels in Doriath’s treasury—save one, of course—it’s quite useless when there’s no economy to speak of.”

“Well, you can have it back,” Elros says. “I’ll give it to Erestor with my other clothes.”

“Those can go to the mortal children,” Maglor says. “Much more useful!”

“I’m sure you’ll figure out what to do with the coat, too,” Elros says. “Even if you just put it on the wall to look pretty!”

King Fimli of Belegost remembers days of peace and plenty, before his father died battling a dragon and his brother was slain feuding over someone else’s masterwork. He never expected to be king, but he likes to think he has risen to the occasion. It is not as if he has another alternative, save leading his people into ruin.

The Lord of Himring, once his father Azaghâl’s friend and savior, kneels before him in supplication. Fimli was young when Maedhros was first welcomed into Gabilgathol, and introduced to its mighty halls under the elf-name Belegost. He had brought many elf-names with him, gifting them freely to any who asked for one. They had never had such a generous guest. The Dark Elf kept his secrets close, and offered nothing, not even names.

Maedhros had named his elder brother Sacha, for the fire of his beard. It was a good use-name for a prince, especially one so obviously a Firebeard. There are whispers in the court that Sacha was Linnar born again, the first reincarnation of their Father, but he died too early for the truth to be known. Now the Grey-elves name him Bodruith, for his vengefulness, and he lays silent in his tomb of stone.

Fimli is a suitable name for the younger prince, Azaghâl’s second son. It is, perhaps, not as good as Thalor, the name Azaghâl’s consort and Fimli’s birth-father had earned from trade with the Men on the other side of the mountains, but Fimli has never been so strong as his bearer or his sire. But crafty: yes, this is a good name for a prince whose heart is wed to the forges. And it suits him now as king, for his mind turns swiftly to ponder the offer Lord Maedhros has made.

To foster elf-princes in Gabilgathol—it is unheard of. Even the Dark Elf, in his visits, did not entrust his son to the dwarves, keeping him close by and under watch. But Maedhros is in all ways unlike the Dark Elf, and has ever been a friend of Belegost.

The Broadbeams in Tumunzahar may keep their secrets and scheming! They were closer in the Dark Elf’s confidence, and trusted the Grey-elven traitors who killed Sacha in the end.

So: let Nogrod laugh, then, at the elf-princes in dwarven halls! Fimli will take them in, and treat them as his own sons, for he shall have no children of his own. The crown will pass, in time, to Sacha’s child, who was not ten years of age at their father’s death. Come Fimli’s end, they will be old enough—perhaps even too old.

In private, their plea granted, Maedhros and his brother are deeply grateful for Fimli’s agreement. He finds himself gratified by their humility, and weeps dutifully as Maedhros waxes poetic about Azaghâl’s bravery and faithfulness. It helps that they speak such beautiful Khuzdul, learned not from their dwarvish allies, but from Mahal in the Bright Lands. What wonders these elves bring!

And with them is an even greater wonder, produced by the brother: a chain mail coat, forged of mithril. Fimli nearly drops his wine-glass in astonishment, and all but yanks the finery from the elf’s hands. He is lost in admiring the masterwork—for surely this is the finest piece its smith ever made!—and only looks up again when he hears Maedhros chuckling.

“Where did you get this?” Fimli demands. “Did your smith-brother make it, who is gone?”

“It is not Curufin’s work,” says the brother. “We are not certain which smith forged it, but it is certainly of Noldorin make.”

“This maker’s mark...” Fimli whistles, admiring the tiny black star hidden skilfully on the inside collar. “It is missing the anvil, or I would swear Lord Eöl the Dark Elf forged it!”

At the name, the brother’s face twists into a scowl. Ah, yes; now Fimli remembers the Dark Elf and the Noldor were unfriends, before he vanished. Some in Tumunzahar say Noldor slew him, but it could never be proven.

“Perhaps it was an apprentice of his,” Fimli suggests, his curiosity burning. “But you say it is Noldor-craft? Ai, I see it now—the Dark Elf was never fond of stone-patterns. Nor did he work in truesilver, when he could use his own metals!”

“It is an heirloom out of Gondolin,” Maedhros says. “We offer it to you in payment of your protection of our sons.”

Fimli clutches the coat close to his chest. “A thousand elf-princes would I foster for a gift such as this!” he cries. “Are you certain?”

“You will find more joy in it than we would,” the brother assures, and Fimli does not ask again. He is too enchanted by the coat—so beautiful, so skilfully made, and of mithril!—to risk them changing their minds.

The wedding of Princess Dalla of Gabilgathol to Prince Fræg of Khazad-dûm is great and merry. King Rathsvith cannot even find it in himself to be annoyed at having to travel so far to give his daughter away, so impressed is he by the great halls of the Longbeards. His architects are taking notes, and he is certain his artisans are busy ingratiating themselves to the local smiths.

The bride-price he received is flattering, also: a full platoon of armed warriors to act as sweet Dalla’s bodyguards, many wondrous gems Rathsvith is already planning on having set in his new crown, and best of all, a herd of cheese-goats acclimated to living underground. Still, he is more pleased that the dowry he offered to Fræg and his father is absolutely impossible to outdo, not even should Fræg offer him every goat beneath the mountains.

No, Rathsvith has shown these Longbeard dwarves exactly how impressive Gabilgathol is. Let there be no doubt in their wealth, in their prosperity! Let the Firebeards laugh long at the look on Fræg’s face as he beheld the gift his law-father gave him! Let all the Khazad know that no dowry in all the world could be worth more than a mail-coat made of truesilver and wrought by the elven-smiths of old!

“...and this is the Prince’s coat,” Narvi continues, pointing to a chain mail coat on display alongside the other treasures of Dwarrowdelf.

Elrond’s mouth falls open. Celebrimbor exchanges a smile with Narvi. His cousin is even more impressed with Durin’s museum than they expected, and it is gratifying to see it.

“That’s my brother’s!” Elrond exclaims, and Celebrimbor nearly trips over his own feet.

“What?” he yelps.

“It is King Durin’s,” Narvi admonishes. “As you can read—well, alright, you can’t read Khuzdul, but I’ll tell you what the inscription says. ‘Made in the Elder Days from Khazad-dûm’s truesilver ore, this coat was given in S.A. 521 to King Fræg II from Rathsvith of the Blue Mountains as a dowry for his daughter’s hand.’”

“That’s a full millennium after my after my brother had it,” Elrond says.

Narvi scowls. “I hate it when you elves remind us you’re so impossibly old,” she complains.

“No, I remember...” Elrond sighs. “Our fathers gave this to King Fimli in exchange for fostering us during the War of Wrath.”

“Fimli?” Narvi exclaims. “But—Fimli was only the previous king of Belegost.”

“Fimli I,” Celebrimbor says. “The one you knew was Fimli III.”

“Well, I didn’t know him,” Narvi mutters. She shakes her head. “Was it really your brother’s, Lord Elrond?”

“Just Elrond,” he says, “and yes. It was our father’s before him.”

“Which one?” Celebrimbor asks, though he thinks he knows the answer. He would certainly have known if one of his uncles had such a treasure.

“Eärendil,” Elrond confirms. “He wore it amid the Fall of Gondolin...and Elros wore it when Sirion fell.”

“Well, Fimli I kept it,” Narvi says, her voice somewhat strained. “And his descendants kept it too, up until Rathsvith...and now it is an heirloom of Durin’s line.”

“You called it the Prince’s coat,” Elrond says. “Why the Prince, and not the King?”

“Well, the King can hardly fit into it,” Narvi laughs. “It’s for a child! Your father and brother must have been awfully young when...” She winces. “Sorry.”

“No, they were,” Elrond says. “Elros only gave it up to our fathers because he was too big for it.”

“So, it sits here in the museum except for special occasions,” Narvi concludes. “King Durin has no children yet, so it hasn’t been worn since he was a child.”

“Well, when it comes out from behind the glass again, let us know,” Celebrimbor says. “I’m sure Elrond would like to see it in use once more, under more peaceful circumstances.”

Thráin knows his guards want him to stay hidden and safe amid the crowd of fleeing refugees, but he is King now, and he refuses to be anything less than a good king. And so instead he lingers in the rear until the last dwarves hobble by, wailing and weeping in the shadow of the mountains that once were their home, ensuring no one is left behind.

Now he will go to the front, he decides wearily, and lead his people onward. It is what his father would have done. No—damn his father! Náin had refused to evacuate even when it was clear the fire-beast would return to destroy them all. It is what his grandfather would have done. Durin the Deathless, sixth incarnation of their Father, protected his people with his life—and so will Thráin.

He is turning around to march to the fore when he spots her: a little girl, sobbing quietly on the side of the road. She is alone, and she is bleeding from a wound on her shoulder, and Thráin’s heart is moved with pity.

“Majesty—” his bodyguard protests, but Thráin ignores them as he hastens to the girl’s side. She is older than he thought at first glance, her beard mostly grown in, but she is still a child. Thráin is only forty-seven, perilously young for a King, but the girl is barely thirty, if that, and has some growing still to do.

“Let me help you up,” he says softly, and the girl whimpers, shaking her head.

“Please,” he says. He turns back to his guard and snaps, “Someone get a healer, or a bandage, or something!”

“My leg—I c-can’t walk,” the girl cries. “Amâd’s dead and Adâd is—he fell behind two days ago, and...an’ I can’t...”

“I’ll take care of you,” Thráin promises. “What’s your name?”

She sniffles, her tears receding. “Astrid,” she mumbles. “An’ you’re—the prince.” She flinches. “Sorry. King.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Thráin assures. At last he sees a healer approaching with two apprentices carrying a litter. Good—finally. “Here, let me help you...”

Astrid laughs a little as he lifts her up on the litter. He walks at her side as they carry her to the main host, and she shyly admires his beard-beads.

“They’re real mithril,” he boasts, and then his face falls. That was something to be proud of, when Khazad-dûm still thrived. But it was mithril-mining that woke the beast. And now his people were homeless, for the sake of truesilver.

“I always wanted something made of mithril,” Astrid sighs.

Thráin nearly offers her his beads then and there, but then he has a better idea. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.

In the end he’s accosted by lords and ladies and even more guards, and it takes him two days before he can sneak back to Astrid’s side. He brings with him a parcel wrapped in cloth, and makes her promise to keep his gift a secret.

“This might be the most valuable thing we brought out of Khazad-dûm,” he says solemnly. “But what can we do with it now? Nothing. Here, Astrid. Wear this, and you’ll stay safe forever.”

She opens the parcel and gasps. It is the Prince’s coat, grabbed by the museum curator in the chaos of the flight. But the curator fell into a chasm, and the coat was given back to the prince, and Thráin thinks that right now there is no better use for it than to comfort an injured friend.

“I can’t,” she cries. “Oh, Thráin, I—”

“Keep it safe for me, please,” he begs. Keep yourself safe.

At length she accepts, and Thráin’s heart is lighter as he leads his people into the wilderland. He knows that some day, the coat will come back to him—and he hopes that Astrid will, also.

Thorin II, son of Thráin II, son of Thrór, son of Dáin, son of Náin II, son of Óin, son of Glóin, son of Thorin I, son of Thráin I, son of Náin I, son of Durin VI, and son of all the other Durins before him, stands very still next to his grandfather and tries his best to look like a noble prince. The elven delegation from the Forest are very tall and eerily beautiful, the way silver is beautiful: in a strange, otherworldly way no dwarf can hope to be, nor would any wish such a thing.

The Elvenking speaks smoothly in the common tongue, which Thorin knows better than Khuzdul. It is very important, his father tells him, that a prince know the common tongue better than everyone else around him. Khuzdul is very important too, his mother adds, for it is the language of Mahal, and only dwarves may speak it.

“Little Prince Thorin,” the Elvenking says, and smiles that strange silvery smile. “How very handsome you are in that coat. It is of elven make, is it not?”

Thorin puffs out his chest. Yes, he is wearing the Prince’s coat, which Queen Astrid saved from the fall of Dwarrowdelf, and the elves made long ago. “It is, your Majesty,” he says solemnly. “But it is in dwarven-keep!”

He thinks that is very clever, and the elves behind their king laugh politely. Thorin’s father shoots him a disapproving look, but his grandfather chuckles, and he is the king, so his opinion is what matters.

“Indeed,” the Elvenking agrees. “It suits you well. A shame you shall soon grow out of it!”

“But then I will be big and strong, and I will serve my people,” Thorin counters.

Now the Elvenking laughs, high and silver. “Very good,” he approves. “I shall remember you, Prince Thorin.”

“Thank you, King Thranduil,” Thorin’s father says gruffly, and the Elvenking turns his attention toward the adults.

“Would that we had even a fraction of our treasure now!” Thorin laments, staring enviously at the smoke pouring out of chimneys in the valley below. Yet again the Men of the North have turned them away, even the children and the wounded, and he can find only bitterness in his heart.

“They’ve mouths to feed of their own,” Frerin says tiredly. He’s spent all day searching for firewood, and found hardly anything. Their people shiver in the cold, huddling together, and meanwhile the Men in the valley have hearth-fires!

“Grandfather’s doing nothing,” Thorin seethes, stamping his foot. He used to admire King Thrór, but he has changed. It is Thráin their father who truly leads Durin’s Folk in their exile, and Thráin’s children who do most of the work to support him.

“Grandfather is unwell,” Dís says.

“That’s no excuse,” Thorin mutters.

“I didn’t mean it as one,” Dís snaps, and Thorin backs off. He knows she feels much the same as him, unlike Frerin, who is ever the optimist.

“You sound like him, you know,” Frerin says. “Treasure, treasure—it’s all he talks about! As if the Arkenstone could save us now!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Thorin growls. “I’d sell every link of the Prince’s coat for food and fire for our people—you know I would!”

“And Grandfather would never give up the King’s jewel,” Dís says sourly.

“Well we don’t have either,” Frerin counters, “so what’s the use complaining? Thorin, get your harp, I know you managed to save that.”

“I—” Thorin’s heart pangs. “I suppose it could work for kindling,” he says reluctantly. If he would sell the Prince’s coat, what right does he have to keep his harp close to his chest?

“Not what I mean,” Frerin sighs. “I’ll get my fiddle, out of tune though it is. Perhaps we’ll earn a few coins in the village, if these Mannish folk find it funny to see dwarf-princes dance for their pleasure...”

Outfitted at last in dwarven mail, Thorin feels at last a true King under the Mountain. His gold-plated chain mail will protect him from all harm, and his ruby-encrusted belt he remembers being worn by his father, and his silver-hafted axe shall strike to the heart of the dragon, if it dares return.

He sees then another relic of the past: the Prince’s coat, too small by far for any grown dwarf warrior of his Company. But then he laughs: there is one of the Company, faithful and true, who is no dwarf at all—and is indeed just the size of a dwarven princeling!

“Mr. Baggins!” he cries, and Bilbo jumps in the fidgety way he does before hurrying over to greet him. “Here is the first payment of your reward!”

He lifts up the mithril coat, and around him the others see what he gives and laughs. Fíli and Kíli have heard tales of this coat, that might have been theirs had the dragon never come, but they are all in such good spirits that not even they the youngest are jealous of Bilbo’s wonderment.

“Cast off your old coat and put on this!” Thorin exclaims, and after a bit of fussing Bilbo assents, and shrugs into the Prince’s coat. He looks quite handsome in it indeed, though from the look on his face as he examines himself, he is not so impressed.

“It’s truesilver,” Balin tells him. “Moria-silver! Priceless, and princely!”

“I feel magnificent,” Bilbo says, and smiles wide enough that Thorin believes him, though there’s a hint of mirth dancing behind his eyes.

“Take this too!” says Fíli, and tosses him a belt of pearls and crystals.

“And this!” Kíli adds, lifting up a leather helm studded with white gems.

When Bilbo is fully outfitted, the dwarves stand back to admire him. Thorin laughs as Bilbo preens, mumbling under his breath about wishing for a looking-glass, and they all assure him he is quite the doughty warrior.

“Let us hope I need not see battle,” Bilbo says, though he has already killed spiders and faced down a dragon. What a wonder he is! Thorin thinks. The bravest soul in the Company, and still so very modest!

At the end of his adventure, Bilbo has lost quite a few possessions he isn’t able to wrangle back from the auctioneers, but he finds he doesn’t mind all that much, for he has acquired more valuable treasures along the way. His chest of gold—not nearly as full as others believe, but still quite a handsome reward—he stores away in a closet, pulling out ingots and jewels as necessary. He will never want for anything again, save perhaps companionship.

Sting he displays on the mantlepiece for visitors to admire, and his mail coat he arranges on a stand so it might sparkle in the starlight through the window. But after some years he grows cross from tripping over the thing in the dark—starlight doesn’t filter in to a ground-level home very well—and decides to be rid of it once and for all. It will impress more hobbits in the Mathom-house, anyway!

To tell the truth, the only time Bilbo thinks of his coat is when he works on his memoir, and even then it is not foremost in his mind. In fact, he nearly forgets about it entirely, and is already out the door and on his way to Rivendell and beyond before it strikes him that the roads outside the Shire are not entirely safe, and he is wanting for armor!

“Just wait here a pinch,” he tells his dwarven companions, young fellows in service to his friends from the Company who had done much of the delivering of goods for his Party. Anar and Hannar and Lofar and Nar hold him in much awe, having heard stories from their elders of his escapades along the way to the Lonely Mountain, and they cannot find themselves to say a word against him even as he skips away back down the trail toward Michel Delving.

Bilbo feels a fierce pang in his heart as he remembers he no longer has his Magic Ring, and must do all his sneaking while still fully visible! But to his luck, everyone is still at the Party or feeling its aftershocks, and the Mathom-house is dark as he slips inside.

There are no locks on the doors, of course, for this is the Shire and theft is, while not unheard of, more of a game than anything else. Besides, the Mathom-house exists upon donations, and is full of items with no particular use: if someone finds something to do with one, it is their right to take it and use it!

Bilbo laughs softly to himself when he locates the silvery coat. What a pretty thing it is! He ought to have taken it back years ago. But no matter: he removes it now from its stand and leaves an orange autumn leaf in its place before hurrying back to the dwarves.

The coat is more snug around his belly than it once was, but it still fits, and Bilbo is glad to have this old friend with him on his next great adventure.

“It’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?” Bilbo says, lifting the coat up into the light. “And useful. It is my dwarf-mail that Thorin gave me. I got it back from Michel Delving before I started, and packed it with my luggage—”

(Well, that isn’t quite the truth, but Bilbo has no qualms about exaggerations or little white lies. It’s what his book is built on, after all!)

“I brought all the mementoes of my Journey away with me,” he continues, “except the Ring. But I did not expect to use this, and I don’t need it now, except to look at sometimes.” He hadn’t truly been worried about trolls then, he admits to himself. Mostly he wanted it for sentimental reasons, and the thought of a little danger had been thrilling at the time. He is quite glad now that he didn’t find any!

He holds the coat out Frodo—sweet, sad-eyed Frodo who faces an adventure far more perilous than Bilbo’s ever was. “You hardly feel any weight when you put it on,” he says encouragingly.

Frodo hesitates. “I should look—well, I don’t think I should look right in it.”

“Just what I said myself,” says Bilbo, and that much is true, no matter how much the dwarves praised him. “But never mind about looks. You can wear it under your outer clothes.”

Frodo’s frown does not leave him, and Bilbo switches tactics.

“Come on!” he urges. “You must share this secret with me. Don’t tell anybody else!”

Now Frodo smiles, and it lifts Bilbo’s heart to see it. Still he does not take the offered gift, and Bilbo sighs, turning to his last resort.

“But I should feel happier if I knew you were wearing it,” he says gently, his voice dropping. “I have a fancy it would turn even the knives of the Black Riders.”

This, at last, seems to get through to his poor, humble nephew. “Very well, I will take it,” he says at last, and Bilbo jumps up to put it on him, ever more proud of him.

“...Bilbo had a corslet of mithril-rings that Thorin gave him,” Gandalf says, and Gimli is startled out of his thoughts. “I wonder what has become of it? Gathering dust still in Michel Delving Mathom-house, I suppose.”

“What?” Gimli cries, full of dismay. “A corslet of Moria-silver? That was a kingly gift!”

“Yes,” Gandalf agrees. “I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the whole Shire and everything in it.”

Gimli huffs, the thought of that much truesilver simply “gathering dust” an offense to his dwarvish heart. No wonder his father and the others never speak of such a gift, if it simply walked away from the Mountain and into obscurity! Their shame must be too great.

But then he imagines his father’s voice chiding him, reminding him of Bilbo Baggins’ bravery and sacrifice, and he is humbled. Thorin gave it to him, and he did not give gifts lightly: Gimli was young then, but he remembers.

Still, when it is revealed that the coat is not sitting useless in the Shire but protecting the life of the Ringbearer, Gimli finds he is much relieved. He wishes he could get a closer look at the mail, for it is clearly of fine make, and he understands now why it was not melted down so the mithril might be better used. It would be an affront to the elven-smith who made it to destroy such a work, and Gimli is beyond glad that Frodo yet lives, the most worthy wearer such a gift has ever seen.

Shagrat growls at the look Gorbag’s got in his eyes, the silvery shine of elf-mail gleaming brighter than the doomful Moon. He knows that look, and knows it’ll only be trouble for them all, if it doesn’t get squashed right now.

“Hands off,” he snarls, and swipes the shirt out of Gorbag’s claws.

“Think you’re the Master of the Tower, eh?” Gorbag growls, lunging back at him. “Who’s you to say you get to keep it?”

“I ain’t keeping nothing,” Shagrat snaps. “This is for Lugbúrz, you hear me? It’s all for Lugbúrz, ’less you want us all to end up headless!”

Gorbag looks like he’s gonna lunge again, but instead he whirls around, descending down the Tower stairs. “We’ll see how all your mates feel about you hoarding the swag,” he threatens, and is gone.

The little elf-rat whimpers softly on the ground. It’s naked now without its pretty coat, and Shagrat aims a vicious kick at it, just because he can.

It’s not long before there’s commotion down below, shouts and screams and the sounds of weapons. Shagrat doesn’t pay it much mind at first—there’s always a scuffle among orc-folk—but as it gets louder he starts to feel uneasy. He tosses the mail into a sack, the tark-blade and elf-cloak with it, and shoves into a corner. No sooner has he done that when the hatch bangs open again, and Gorbag’s back with a bloody knife.

Shagrat grabs his own knife, but Gorbag’s a Morgul-rat, and they’ve better knives than they get up here in Cirith Ungol. Gorbag nicks him, and one of his mates swats the knife out of Shagrat’s hand, and then Shagrat leaps onto Gorbag to throttle him. He screams as he chokes the life out of Gorbag, and when he falls limp Shagrat jumps up in triumph.

The fighting’s still going on downstairs, but Shagrat’s own crew defended him well. They’re all dead but for a snaga, who’s holding Shagrat’s knife and standing over a gutted-open Morgul-rat.

“Toss ’em out the window,” Shagrat snarls, and swipes the knife back outta the snaga’s hands. “But not him.” He points the jagged blade toward Gorbag, lip curling. “I’m gonna carve him up first.”

He doesn’t get the chance in the end, for there’s still more fighting, and he and the snaga have to beat back the last of Gorbag’s crew. When it falls silent he sends the snaga back down to check for survivors, but he comes back whining about elf-warriors and scary shadows, and Shagrat loses what little patience he has. He chases the snaga round the turret until the rat ducks back inside and bars the door.

Shagrat feels his wounds now, and cursing himself he heaves for breath against the battlement. He drops his bundle and draws out his knife again, but before bursting into end that snaga’s miserable life he has to do what the rat wouldn’t. He can’t make it all the way down and up the stairs again, so instead he leans out over the edge and shouts down.

“Ey! Scum! Any of you living?”

No answer.

“If you’re breathing and just hiding from your captain, I’ll gut you when I see you next!”

Nothing.

Satisfied that they really are all dead, Shagrat leans over further to inspect the damage—

—but behind him there’s a sound. He whirls round to see Gorbag, the fucker, standing up with the sack clutched in one hand, the other ready to strike at him with a broken spear. Well, Morgul-rats might have better knives, but Ungol-folk are faster, and Shagrat slips aside to slit Gorbag’s throat before his rival can do anything more.

“Got you, Gorbag!” he shouts. “Not quiet dead, eh? Well, I’ll finish my job now.”

Hoping the snaga inside hears how vicious he is to those who betray him, Shagrat leaps onto Gorbag’s corpse and tramples it again and again, slashing at it with the knife when he feels like it. When Gorbag’s nothing but pulp beneath him he throws back his head and howls out his victory.

Next he grabs the sack—that’s the most important thing of all this, he knows—and sticks his knife between his teeth. Reluctantly he realizes that in his wounded state, the snaga might actually kill him if he attacks, and it’s more vital that shiny coat gets to Lugbúrz than for him to get revenge. He’d best deliver the tokens himself, since no one else around here can do their job right.

But before he can tramp down the stairs, a thing jumps out before him, shouting out a horrible yell, and with its shining elf-blade it drives Shagrat back with fear in his heart—but not for long.

Well. Shagrat’s already chosen duty over fun, so he drops his knife and jumps right at the little elf-warrior, nearly knocking it down with the force of the sack colliding into its face. Shagrat doesn’t wait to see if the thing follows him, instead running down the stairs and out of the Tower walls, clutching his precious burden close to his chest.

Lugbúrz will reward him for this, he thinks with a cackle. So pretty a toy! That snaga will deal with the elf-warrior, or at least he’d die trying. Spies and elf-rats and mutinies! What a dreadful, doomful day!

He’s never been up Lugbúrz before. It’s a greater tower than the Tower of Cirith Ungol, of course, all black iron and steel, and at the top the flame of the Eye burned down upon all Mordor. Shagrat’s scared shitless as silent Man-slaves lead him up stair after stair, until he’s all the way at the very top.

He didn’t think he’d actually see Him. He’d thought one of the Nazgûl, or a lordling, or—or a bigger orc-boss, not Himself—

But he’s here now, before Him, and though Shagrat can’t see Him for all the shadows in the highest chamber, he can feel Him.

What hast thou found? hisses His terrible voice, and Shagrat is screaming, screaming, screaming all he knows.

The sack falls to the cold black floor, and the things tumble out: elf-cloak, dwarf-mail, tark-sword and all. Shagrat is still screaming as He moves with heavy steps, and His black hands run over the fine silver mail.

Mithril, He says, sounding almost...impressed. 

“Please,” Shagrat sobs. It hurts. “Please, Master, please—”

Send for the Dulgabêth, He orders, and some shadow-servant scurries away.

“Please—” It hurts it hurts it hurts, he hates him, he hates Him, he hates himself—

Silence, filth.

Shagrat screams once more, and then knows nothing, not ever again.

Mordu, the Black Word of Barad-dûr, rides out into the Field of Cormallen, taking grim pleasure in the dismay of the rebels assembled before him. He is the Lieutenant and Mouth of the Master, and only the Nazgûl rank above him: but unlike they, he is no wraith-slave to a Ring, but a living Man of great years and power.

“I am Dulgabêth, the Black Word of Tar-Mairon!” he declares, and the fools tremble before him. “Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me?”

The fool-king steps forth, but Mordu laughs. “Not thou at least! It needs more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass, or a rabble such as this. Why, any brigand of the hills can show as good a following!”

But though he says naught, the king holds his gaze until Mordu feels himself stricken, as if the Master himself has reprimanded him. He flinches back, furious, and cries, “I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!”

“Where such laws hold,” says the Wizard, “it is also the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence. But no one has threatened you.”

Lies! What lies! Mordu spits at his words, and guesses darkly that it was he who sent the blow. But no matter: he is a strong Man of ancient blood, and greater than any Wizard.

The Wizard speaks more, making false assurances of safety that end in dark threats. He begs the Master’s wisdom, and Mordu is glad to provide: he is the Mouth of Tar-Mairon, and speaks the Tower’s will.

But first he will return the blow, not as he received it, but in harsh words. He is an ambassador! He is the Black Word!

“So!” he says. “Then thou art the spokesman, old greybeard? Have we not heard of thee at whiles, and of thy wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? But this time thou hast stuck out they nose too far, Master Gandalf; and thou shalt see what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of Tar-Mairon the Great.”

He signs to his guards, and as they approach with their burden, he continues, “I have tokens that I was bidden to show thee—to thee in especial, if thou shouldst dare come.”

Now he lifts the first item, and laughs at the dismay of his foes as they see the Númenórean sword. His is better, for though it is not from Anadûnê of old, it has been tempered in the forges of Mordor.

Then he displays the elf-cloak with its leaf-brooch, ragged and pitiful; but last and best is the coat of mithril-mail. Mordu grins with his fearsome mouth as the host of rebels falls back in a cloud of black despair, the hope draining from their eyes. An elf-ratling leaps forth, crying out in its grief, and though the Wizard thrusts him back, it is all too clear: the spy is indeed dear to them, and this blow strikes deeper than any fearsome glare!

Mordu laughs long and loud. “So you have yet another of these imps with you! What use you find in them I cannot guess; but to send them as spies into Mordor is beyond even your accustomed folly.” He bares his teeth to where the ratling hides. “Still, I thank him, for it is plain this brat at least has seen these tokens before, and it would be vain for you to deny them now.”

“I do not wish to deny them,” says the Wizard, sound as weary as the old man whose body he inhabits. “Indeed, I know them and all their history, and despite your scorn, foul Mouth of Sauron, you cannot say as much. But why do you bring them here?”

“Dwarf-coat, elf-cloak, blade of the downfallen West, and spy from the little rat-land of the Shire—nay, do not start! We know it well—here are the marks of a conspiracy,” Mordu hisses. “Now, maybe he that bore these things was a creature that you would not grieve to lose, and maybe otherwise; one dear to you, perhaps? If so, take swift counsel with what little wit is left you. For Tar-Mairon does not love spies, and what his fate shall be depends now on your choice.”

Deeper horror settles upon them now, and Mordu laughs again. What merry sport this is, destroying the hopes of such pathetic creatures!

“Good, good!” he cries. “He was dear to you, I see. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail? It has. And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done.”

He is reminded of another Shire-rat who faced such a fate: the Gollum-creature, tormented and degraded into a slippery, stinking snake. Oh, that damned orc may not have been smart enough to keep hold of the spy, but there is nowhere to hide from the Eye, not in Mordor. They will find him, and they will make him into a creature more debased even than Gollum.

“This shall surely be,” he declares, “—unless you accept my Lord’s terms.”

“Name the terms,” says the Wizard, full of anguish, and Mordu does, relishing each word. With each demand their spirits wither further, and as he speaks of Isengard’s new dominion, he imagines himself in that mighty tower, second only to Barad-dûr, ruling over the pitiful horse-tenders with ultimate power.

Yet the Wizard, more fool him, resists. “This is much to demand for the delivery of one servant: that your Master should receive in exchange what he must else fight many a war to gain! Or has the field of Gondor destroyed his hope in war, so that he falls to haggling? And if indeed we rated this prisoner so high, what surety have we that Sauron, the Base Master of Treachery, will keep his part? Where is this prisoner? Let him be brought forth and yielded to us, and then we will consider these demands.”

Mordu takes a breath, infuriated, but he is the Lieutenant of the Tower, and will not lose his temper. He laughs instead, harsher this time, retorting, “Do not bandy words in your insolence with the Black Word of Tar-Mairon! Surety you crave—Tar-Mairon gives none. If you sue for his clemency you must first do his bidding. These are his terms. Take them or leave them!”

“These we will take!” the Wizard shouts, and casting off his cloak he raises his hand and strikes Mordu once more, this time with a sword of white light. He cries out and lifts his hand in the face of such blinding fire, and before he can defend them the Wizard snatches the tokens from his grasp.

“These we will take in memory of our friend,” the Wizard declares. “But as for your terms, we reject them utterly. Get thee gone, for your embassy is over and death is near to you. We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed; still less with one of his slaves. Begone!”

Mordu has no more laughter in him, not any longer. He is twisted with rage, humiliated, smitten down. From his mouth—the Mouth of his Master—he can only grind out shapeless sounds of fury, and he draws himself up to attack the ones who dare insult him so—

But the eyes of the kings and lords, and even of the halfling, are filled with deadly light, and he is strangled with his fear. A pitiful wail tearing itself from his throat, he turns and leaps upon his steed, rushing back through the Black Gate. He does not fall quiet until he is enclosed once more in Mordor’s grasp, and the mighty host of his Master marches forth—but he knows, before Tar-Mairon’s summons even reach him, that he is a dead man.

He has failed, and he will fall, by sword or by spell. Too many orcs has he seen killed by his Master, and well he knows the torments of the Tower. He will not face such horrors—and so, in cowardice, he turns back around and rides into the battle, where not even a coat of mithril could protect him.

The feeling of the mithril coat under his fingers is a wonder to Frodo, who had not thought to feel it again. He is near to tears as Sam tenderly dresses him in it once more, and this time, he wears it over his clothes, for they are calling him a proper hero, and mean to treat him as one.

It is impossible to grow used to, the stares of awe upon him, and though it is wonderful to see his friends once more and to know their every happy ending, Frodo’s heart is weary. He wishes to return home to the Shire, though there is a quiet part of him that knows he shall never truly call any place “home” again.

Perhaps home is no place, but the people one loves, he considers as he and Bilbo speak long into the night in the homely warmth of Rivendell. The elven-land is quiet now, slowly emptying, and he cannot stay here, but he feels better when he is with Bilbo, and with Sam.

“Take this,” Bilbo says, his voice tremulous: he is already so much older than he was when Frodo last saw him a year ago. “My dwarf-mail...Thorin gave it to me... And this, this is Sting...”

“Bilbo, you gave these to me already,” Frodo says gently, but accepts the gifts anyway, and nods when Bilbo insists he hasn’t.

Bilbo has no home, either. His books are not finished, but he is finished with them, and gives them to Frodo—these truly for the first time.

Before they leave for the Shire at last, Lord Elrond catches Frodo putting on his mithril coat on. He starts, feeling guilty somehow, though it is no longer a secret that he carries it with him.

“Forgive me, Frodo,” he says. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” Frodo assures, quickly tugging on his shirt over the coat. He doesn’t like the way folks stare at him while he wears it openly.

“That coat has a long history,” Elrond murmurs. Something like pain, or perhaps homesickness, flashes briefly in his eyes. “I will not bore you with it now, but...perhaps when we meet again, I might tell you of its adventures before it was Bilbo’s, and you might tell me of its adventures afterwards.”

“I would like that,” Frodo says softly.

But before they meet next in the woods of the Shire, Frodo gives the coat away to Sam along with all his other possessions, and it is not there on the ship to Valinor to remind them.

“...and it would save Mr. Frodo’s life one more time, even,” Sam says, “when old Saruman tried to stab him—in the Shire itself! But that’s the last he wore it, and he gives it to me—me, plain old Sam! And now what am I to do with it?”

“Put it back in the Mathom-house?” Bilbo laughs, his eyes bright and clear again.

“Wear it as mayor?” Frodo suggests, and his smile is wider than it’s been since before the Party.

“I do hope you had no more need for armor,” Elrond says.

“Well, it spent some time in the Mathom-house, yes,” Sam admits. “But not for too long! When Strider—pardon me, King Elessar, I mean—when the King and Queen came to visit, he gave me a present, and I thought, ‘Well, Sam, you ought to give him one in return.’ But I hadn’t anything, well, kingly—but then I thought, ‘Mithril is a kingly gift, or so Gimli said.’ So I went back to the Mathom-house and took it out, and wouldn’t you know! Young Eldarion, that’s Strider’s son, he was the perfect size for it. And so a prince wore it again!”

“And so it returned the line of Celebrindal at last,” says Lómion, who has sat in the shadows, silent until now.

“I am sure my great-grandson looks as handsome in it as I did myself,” Eärendil laughs. Sam is awed and honored that the Evening Star himself has come down from the sky to hear his story, even if it was Lord Elrond who asked for the favor.

“Well, he’s a man grown now, he is,” Sam says. “But his sisters all had their turn to wear it too, and so will all his heirs, I’m sure.”

“Why did you make it all out of mithril, Uncle?” Eärendil asks, turning to Lómion.

He shrugs. “I knew...well, I knew the city would fall, and being so isolated the smiths of Gondolin had been very sparing in their use of mithril. I wanted to make something beautiful with it, before the end. And...I knew I was a danger to you. This was a way I could protect you.”

“You made many things like that,” says Idril, her eyes sad. “That dagger you gave me, the one I dared not use...”

“Enough talk of sorrow,” Elrond scolds them gently, but now Bilbo perks up.

“Dagger, you say?” he asks. “Yea long, and glowing blue when orcs were near?”

Lómion blinks at him. “Yes. You know it?”

Bilbo laughs. “Know it! Why, it was my best companion! Frodo, whatever did you do with Sting?”

“Another gift to dear Sam,” Frodo admits, and Sam blushes.

“Well—there’s no weapons here in Valinor, I know,” he mumbles, “but I did have to bring one keepsake along with me...”

And from his cloak he pulls out Sting, wrapped in cloth to hide the blade, and another round of stories begins.