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Chapter Text

One evening in the March of 1436 Master Samwise Gamgee was in his study at Bag End. He was sitting at the old well-worn desk, and with many pauses for thought he was writing in his slow round hand on sheets of loose paper. Propped up on a stand at his side was a large red book in manuscript.

Not long before he had been reading aloud from it to his family. For the day was a special one: the birthday of his daughter Elanor. That evening before supper he had come at last to the very end of the Book. The long progress through its many chapters, even with omissions that he had thought advisable, had taken some months, for he only read aloud on great days. At the birthday reading, besides Elanor, Frodo-lad had been present, and Rosie-lass, and young Merry and Pippin; but the other children had not been there. The Red Book was not for them yet, and they were safely in bed. Goldilocks was only five years old, for in this Frodo’s foretelling had made a slight error, and she came after Pippin. But she was not the last of the line, for Samwise and Rose seemed likely to rival old Gerontius Took as successfully in the number of their children as Bilbo had in the number of his years. There was little Ham, and Daisy, and there was Primrose still in her cradle.

Now Sam was ‘having a bit of quiet’. Supper was over. Only Elanor was with him, still up because it was her birthday. She sat without a sound, staring at the fire, and now and again glancing at her father. She was a beautiful girl, more fair of skin than most hobbit-maidens, and more slender, and the firelight glinted in her red-gold hair. To her, by gift if not by inheritance, a memory of elven-grace had descended.

‘What are you doing, Sam-dad dear?’ she said at last. ‘You said you were going to rest, and I hoped you would talk to me.’

‘Just a moment, Elanorellë,’ said Sam, as she came and set her arms about him and peered over his shoulder.

‘It looks like Questions and Answers,’ she said.

‘And so it is,’ said Sam. ‘Mr. Frodo, he left the last pages of the Book to me, but I have never yet durst to put hand to them. I am still making notes, as old Mr. Bilbo would have said. Here’s all the many questions Mother Rose and you and the children have asked, and I am writing out the answers, when I know them. Most of the questions are yours, because only you has heard all the Book more than once.’

‘Three times,’ said Elanor, looking at the carefully written page that lay under Sam’s hand.

Q. Dwarves, Frodo-lad says he likes them best. What happened to Gimli? Have the Mines of Moria been opened again? Are there any Orcs left?

A. Gimli: he came back to work for the King, as he said, and he brought many of his folk from the North, and they worked in Gondor so long that they got used to it, and they settled there, up in the White Mountains not far from the City. Gimli goes once a year to the Glittering Caves. How do I know? Information from Mr. Peregrin, who often goes back to Minas Tirith, where he is very highly thought of.

Moria: I have heard no news. Maybe the foretelling about Durin is not for our time. Dark places still need a lot of cleaning up. I guess it will take a lot of trouble and daring deeds yet to root out the evil creatures from the halls of Moria. For there are certainly plenty of Orcs left in such places. It is not likely that we shall ever get quite rid of them.

Q. Legolas. Did he go back to the King? Will he stay there?

A. Yes, he did. He came south with Gimli, and he brought many of his people from Greenwood the Great (so they call it now). They say it was a wonderful sight to see companies of Dwarves and Elves journeying together. The Elves have made the City, and the land where Prince Faramir lives, more beautiful than ever. Yes, Legolas will stay there, at any rate as long as Gimli does; but I think he will go to the Sea one day. Mr. Meriadoc told me all this, for he has visited the Lady Éowyn in her white house.

Q. Horses. Merry is interested in these; very anxious for a pony of his own. How many horses did the Riders lose in the battles, and have they got some more now? What happened to Legolas’s horse? What did Gandalf do with Shadowfax?

A. Shadowfax went in the White Ship with Gandalf, of course. I saw that myself. I also saw Legolas let his horse run free back to Rohan from Isengard. Mr. Meriadoc says he does not know how many horses were lost; but there are more than ever in Rohan now, because no one steals them any longer. The Riders also have many ponies, especially in Harrowdale: white, brown, and grey. Next year when he comes back from a visit to King Eomer he means to bring one for his namesake.

Q. Ents. Elanor would like to hear more about them. What did Legolas see in Fangorn; and does he ever see Treebeard now? Rosie-lass very anxious about Entwives. She looks for them whenever she goes in a wood. Will they ever be found? She would like them to be.

A. Legolas and Gimli have not told what they saw, so far as I have heard. I have not heard of any one that has seen an Ent since those days. Ents are very secret, and they do not like people much, big or little. I should like the Entwives to be found, too; but I am afraid that trouble is too old and deep for Shire-folk to mend. I think, maybe, Entwives do not want to be found; and maybe Ents are now tired of looking.

‘Well dear,’ said Sam, ‘this top page, this is only today’s batch.’ He sighed. ‘It isn’t fit to go in the Book like that. It isn’t a bit like the story as Mr. Frodo wrote it. But I shall have to make a chapter or two in proper style, somehow. Mr. Meriadoc might help me. He’s clever at writing, and he’s making a splendid book all about plants.’

‘Don’t write any more tonight. Talk to me, Sam-dad!’ said Elanor, and drew him to a seat by the fire.

‘Tell me,’ she said, as they sat close together with the soft golden light on their faces, ‘tell me about Lórien. Does my flower grow there still, Sam-dad?’

‘Well dear, Celeborn still lives there among his trees and his Elves, and there I don’t doubt your flower grows still. Though now I have got you to look at, I don’t hanker after it so much.’

‘But I don’t want to look at myself, Sam-dad. I want to look at other things. I want to see the hill of Amroth where the King met Arwen, and the silver trees, and the little white niphredil, and the golden elanor in the grass that is always green. And I want to hear Elves singing.’

‘Then, maybe, you will one day, Elanor. I said the same when I was your age, and long after it, and there didn’t seem to be no hope. And yet I saw them, and I heard them.’

‘I was afraid they were all sailing away, Sam-dad. Then soon there would be none here; and then everywhere would be just places, and’

‘And what, Elanorellë?’

‘And the light would have faded.’

‘I know,’ said Sam. ‘The light is fading, Elanorellë. But it won’t go out yet. It won’t ever go quite out, I think now, since I have had you to talk to. For it seems to me now that people can remember it who have never seen it. And yet,’ he sighed, ‘even that is not the same as really seeing it, like I did.’

‘Like really being in a story?’ said Elanor. ‘A story is quite different, even when it is about what happened. I wish I could go back to old days!’

‘Folk of our sort often wish that,’ said Sam. ‘You came at the end of a great Age, Elanorellë; but though it’s over, as we say, things don’t really end sharp like that. It’s more like a winter sunset. The High Elves have nearly all gone now with Elrond. But not quite all; and those that didn’t go will wait now for a while. And the others, the ones that belong here, will last even longer. There are still things for you to see, and maybe you’ll see them sooner than you hope.’

Elanor was silent for some time before she spoke again. ‘I did not understand at first what Celeborn meant when he said goodbye to the King,’ she said. ‘But I think I do now. He knew that Lady Arwen would stay, but that Galadriel would leave him. I think it was very sad for him. And for you, dear Sam-dad.’ Her hand felt for his, and his brown hand clasped her slender fingers. ‘For your treasure went too. I am glad Frodo of the Ring saw me, but I wish I could remember seeing him.’

‘It was sad, Elanorellë,’ said Sam, kissing her hair. ‘It was, but it isn’t now. For why? Well, for one thing, Mr. Frodo has gone where the elven-light isn’t fading; and he deserved his reward. But I have had mine, too. I have had lots of treasures. I am a very rich hobbit. And there is one other reason, which I shall whisper to you, a secret I have never told before to no one, nor put in the Book yet. Before he went Mr. Frodo said that my time maybe would come. I can wait. I think maybe we haven’t said farewell for good. But I can wait. I have learned that much from the Elves at any rate. They are not so troubled about time. And so I think Celeborn is still happy among his trees, in an Elvish way. His time hasn’t come, and he isn’t tired of his land yet. When he is tired he can go.’

‘And when you’re tired, you will go, Sam-dad. You will go to the Havens with the Elves. Then I shall go with you. I shall not part with you, like Arwen did with Elrond.’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ said Sam kissing her gently. ‘And maybe not. The choice of Lúthien and Arwen comes to many, Elanorellë, or something like it; and it isn’t wise to choose before the time.

‘And now, my dearest, I think that it’s time even a lass of fifteen spring-times should go to her bed. And I have words to say to Mother Rose.’

Elanor stood up, and passed her hand lightly through Sam’s curling brown hair, already flecked with grey. ‘Good night, Sam-dad. But’

‘I don’t want good night but,’ said Sam.

‘But won’t you show it me first? I was going to say.’

‘Show you what, dear?’

‘The King’s letter, of course. You have had it now more than a week.’

Sam sat up. ‘Good gracious!’ he said. ‘How stories do repeat themselves! And you get paid back in your own coin and all. How we spied on poor Mr. Frodo! And now our own spy on us, meaning no more harm than we did, I hope. But how do you know about it?’

‘There was no need for spying,’ said Elanor. ‘If you wanted it kept secret, you were not nearly careful enough. It came by the Southfarthing post early on Wednesday last week. I saw you take it in. All wrapped in white silk and sealed with great black seals: any one who had heard the Book would have guessed at once that it came from the King. Is it good news? Won’t you show it me, Sam-dad?’

‘Well, as you’re so deep in, you’d better be right in,’ said Sam. ‘But no conspiracies now. If I show you, you join the grown-ups’ side and must play fair. I’ll tell the others in my own time. The King is coming.’

‘He’s coming here?’ Elanor cried. ‘To Bag End?’

‘No, dear,’ said Sam. ‘But he’s coming north again, as he hasn’t done since you was a mite. But now his house is ready. He won’t come into the Shire, because he’s given orders that no Big Folk are to enter the land again after those Ruffians, and he won’t break his own rules. But he will ride to the Bridge. And he’s sent a very special invitation to every one of us, every one by name.’

Sam went to a drawer, unlocked it, and took out a scroll, and slipped off its case. It was written in two columns with fair silver letters upon black. He unrolled it, and set a candle beside it on the desk, so that Elanor could see it.

‘How splendid!’ she cried. ‘I can read the Plain Language, but what does the other side say? I think it is Elvish, but you’ve taught me so few Elvish words yet.’

‘Yes, it’s written in a kind of Elvish that the great folk of Gondor use,’ said Sam. ‘I have made it out, enough at least to be sure that it says much the same, only it turns all our names into Elvish. Yours is the same on both sides, Elanor, because your name is Elvish. But Frodo is Iorhael, and Rose is Meril, and Merry is Gelir, and Pippin is Cordof, and Goldilocks is Glorfinniel, and Hamfast is Baravorn, and Daisy is Eirien. So now you know.’

‘How wonderful!’ she said. ‘Now we have all got Elvish names. What a splendid end to my birthday! But what is your name, Sam-dad? You didn’t mention it.’

‘Well, it’s rather peculiar,’ said Sam. ‘For in the Elvish part, if you must know, the King says: “Master Perhael who should be called Panthael”. And that means: Samwise who ought to be called Fullwise. So now you know what the King thinks of your old father.’

'Not a bit more than I do, Sam-dad, Perhael-adar dearest,’ said Elanor. ‘But it says the second of April, only a week today! When shall we start? We ought to be getting ready. What shall we wear?’

‘You must ask Mother Rose about all that,’ said Sam. ‘But we have been getting ready. We had a warning of this a long time ago; and we’ve said naught about it, only because we didn’t want you all to lose your sleep of nights, not just yet. You have all got to look your best and beautifullest. You will all have beautiful clothes, and we shall drive in a coach.’
‘Shall I make three curtsies, or only one?’ said Elanor.
‘One will do, one each for the King and the Queen,’ said Sam. ‘For though it doesn’t say so in the letter, Elanorellë, I think the Queen will be there. And when you’ve seen her, my dear, you’ll know what a lady of the Elves looks like, save that none are so beautiful. And there’s more to it even than that. For I shall be surprised if the King doesn’t bid us to his great house by Lake Evendim. And there will be Elladan and Elrohir, who still live in Rivendell - and with them will be Elves, Elanorellë, and they will sing by the water in the twilight. That is why I said you might see them sooner than you guessed.’

Elanor said nothing, but stood looking at the fire, and her eyes shone like stars. At last she sighed and stirred. ‘How long shall we stay?’ she asked. ‘I suppose we shall have to come back?’

‘Yes, and we shall want to, in a way,’ said Sam. ‘But we might stay until hay-harvest, when I must be back here. Good night, Elanorellë. Sleep now till the sun rises. You’ll have no need of dreams.’

‘Good night, Sam-dad. And don’t work any more. For I know what your chapter should be. Write down our talk together - but not to-night.’ She kissed him, and passed out of the room; and it seemed to Sam that the fire burned low at her going.

The stars were shining in a clear dark sky. It was the second day of the bright and cloudless spell that came every year to the Shire towards the end of March, and was every year welcomed and praised as something surprising for the season. All the children were now in bed. It was late, but here and there lights were still glimmering in Hobbiton, and in houses dotted about the night-folded countryside.

Master Samwise stood at the door and looked away east-ward. He drew Mistress Rose to him, and set his arm about her.

‘March the twenty-fifth!’ he said. ‘This day seventeen years ago, Rose wife, I didn’t think I should ever see thee again. But I kept on hoping.’

‘I never hoped at all, Sam,’ she said, ‘not until that very day; and then suddenly I did. About noon it was, and I felt so glad that I began singing. And mother said: “Quiet, lass! There’s ruffians about.” And I said: “Let them come! Their time will soon be over. Sam’s coming back.” And you came.’

‘I did,’ said Sam. ‘To the most belovedest place in all the world. To my Rose and my garden.’

They went in, and Sam shut the door. But even as he did so, he heard suddenly, deep and unstilled, the sigh and murmur of the Sea upon the shores of Middle-earth.

Chapter Text

That birthday, and the summer that came after, would long linger in Elanor’s memory. As Sam had expected, they had been invited to stay in the house by Lake Evendim – and indeed, to call it a house was putting it modestly. It was a tall palace nestled amongst dark, high firs beside a clear, dazzling lake. When Elanor recalled that place ever after, she always pictured it caught in a blue twilight, everything luminous with moonlight, the lake shining with stars like a great, smooth mirror. And, of course, there were the elves – the most beautiful people Elanor had ever seen, and Queen Arwen the most beautiful of them all. Elanor was afflicted with a sudden shyness at the sight of them all, and spent most of their stay watching them from a cautious distance, awestruck and self-conscious. The king, too, was handsome and regal and very intimidating, as were his children, a long-legged prince and princess, both younger than Elanor and so boisterous they made her nervous. So, while few real interactions were had, and fewer friends made, her time was satisfactorily passed in a reverential daze, as though she had wandered into a pleasant dream, and dared not speak lest she wake up.

At the end of their trip, the queen presented each of them with a parting gift. She worked her way upwards through the family, and each of the little ones in turn were given all sorts of wonderful dwarven-made toys. When she came to Elanor, however, she held nothing more in her arms. Elanor tried to suppress her disappointment, reasoning that she was, after all, getting a bit too old for toys. But Arwen did not move on from her. Instead - in many more words than I use here - she appointed her as her maid of honour. Elanor was seized by the brief but very intense notion that she was about to be spirited off to Gondor, to begin some great adventure to protect the queen with her life, from which she would surely return deeply important and interesting, and probably be made a princess of somewhere or other. Of course, no such adventure was forthcoming; the position was certainly only meant to be honorary. With great reluctance, Elanor returned with her family to her ordinary hobbit life, the singing of the elves still ringing in her ears.

Despite her wonderful new title, it would be a long time before Elanor would see the queen or king again. In fact, the trip had all but faded into a pleasant but distant memory, until six years later, when the events of that summer were recalled to her quite unexpectedly.

It was the summer of 1442 – a particularly notable summer, as it was looking to be the hottest in Shire record. On this particular day, Elanor was lying under an old oak tree, in a bed of dry grass, where for hours she had been gradually shuffling to keep in its shade. At first she had been reading, holding her book up above her to block the sun, but by midday the heat had defeated her, and the book had found its way, pages splayed, onto her face. She was half asleep, watching the pulsing colours pressed behind her eyelids and listening to the robins singing above her, when she heard footsteps crunching through the withered undergrowth. She pulled the book down just enough for her eyes to peer out and blinked in the blinding sunlight. When her vision returned, the upside-down face of her brother Pippin swam into view. He was a wilful young hobbit, with all the disdain for authority that comes universally to all peoples at thirteen years of age. He shuffled his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets, evidently an unwilling messenger.

‘Mother told me to tell you you’ve got a letter,’ he said.

Elanor propped herself up on her elbows, her book slipping down onto her chest.

‘Who’s it from?’ she asked. Pippin shrugged.

‘Is it urgent?’ Pippin shrugged again, and unenthusiastically squashed a ripe plum, which Elanor had been saving, beneath his foot.

‘Oh, go away Pip,’ groaned Elanor, and placed the book back over her face until she heard his footsteps receding. Then she heaved a sigh and got to her feet. It really was too hot to be bothering with ridiculous things like letters and brothers.

When she finally made her way back to Bag End, she found the door flung open, as it often was these days, and a carnival of children running in and out, tracking muddy footprints in their wake and repeatedly slamming into an antique dresser as they rounded the corner. Rose came hurrying after them, a tea towel in hand, scolding unhearing ears, and found Elanor trying to dodge her way through the door.

‘Ellie dear, there you are. You’ve got a letter,’ she said, and then smiled secretively, as if she had said something terribly exciting. Elanor leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek.

‘So I’ve heard. Is it something important?’ she asked, but her mother would say no more, and waved her into her father’s study.

In this weather, their hobbit hole was much pleasanter (although also noisier) than the outside, and the cool flagstones were welcome under her feet. The window of the study was flung wide open, spilling sunshine over the mahogany desk, where Sam sat with his hands clasped in his lap and his head lolling back, fast asleep. She tiptoed up and carefully reached over him to the letter sitting on the desk in front of him. It was made of big, weighty parchment, and when she turned it over she found a great black seal. Elanor gasped, and Sam snorted and started awake.

‘Who’s there? Oh, Elanor, it’s you. I was just resting my eyes for a moment. Oh good, you found it. Here, take a look at that and tell me if you recognise it,’ he said.

‘Of course I do, it’s from the king! Is it really just for me? What does it say?’ she cried. Sam chuckled.

‘How should I know – you can see as well as I can that it’s still sealed. But I could probably wager a guess. Go on, open it!’

She tore it open in a hurry. In a sweeping hand was written:

Arwen Evenstar, Queen of Gondor and Lady of the Westlands, invites Elanor, eldest daughter of Master Samwise, Mayor of the Shire, to her home in Minas Tirith, in order to fulfil her duties as maid of honour to the Queen, as was appointed to her in the fifteenth year of the fourth age. A carriage shall await her by the Bridge of Baranduin on the fifth day of August in the Shire-reckoning.

The Queen’s greetings also to Master Samwise, and to Rose his wife, whose presence is also desired for purposes of friendship, if they will.

A.E.

Elanor read it, and then read it again, aloud this time. A gaggle of children had gathered around her, and began to clamour excitedly. Sam clapped his hands in delight.

‘Oh how wonderful!’ Elanor said. ‘Will you come, Sam-dad?’

‘We shall have to see,’ said Sam, ‘I’ve got all you children to think about. But I would very much like to see Strider again, and his white city. I’ve heard that it’s become truly wonderful these days.’

‘Can we come too?’ clamoured the children.                                                      

‘Your names aren’t mentioned,’ said Sam, ‘and though I’m sure the king wouldn’t mind, it’s an awful long way to travel with so many little children. Still, we'll see.’

Elanor could barely hear them, she was so excited. All her childhood dreams of adventure were returning to her. A summons from the queen herself! Who would ever believe it?

‘I must tell everyone!’ she announced, and hurried away at once, leaving the children to their pleas.

The first person Elanor told was her mother, just a few steps out of the door of the study. The second person she told was a farmer, upon the back of whose cart she hitched a ride to the home of her best friend. The third person she told was her best friend, Fastred.

Fastred and Elanor had been friends ever since they were eleven years old, when he had shown up at their door and demanded, in a high-pitched voice, to see all the books that everyone knew Bag End was full of. Afterwards, Rose had to sit him down and bring him cups of tea until he stopped shaking. That was much the kind of hobbit he was. Too much talking of any sort rattled his nerves; he was rather tame, and Elanor always had to be the instigator of their adventures. But Elanor knew he was only so quiet because he believed one ought never waste time talking about anything unimportant, and in his opinion, nothing important had happened in at least an age. So, of course, they got on like a house on fire. He was not exactly someone you felt you could open up to; he seemed a jumpy sort of fellow, the kind who would run away if you mentioned any too-earnest feelings in front of him. However, it had been a decade now and he was still the closest friend Elanor had. She found that she rather agreed with him: she did not feel any need to discuss their lives or characters or feelings, or any other staples of normal conversation, because these things just come to be known, in some way or another, when you spend an awful lot of time with someone. For instance, she had learnt, through no discussion at all, that Fastred was deeply intelligent (not half due to the books, which he had learnt to read alongside the Gardner children, and loved), intensely protective of everyone and everything he cared about, and a jolly good time, once given a kick out the door.

‘Blimey,’ he said, when she told him of the letter, which was about as enthusiastic as he got. He was a wonderful person to share news with. There was never too much fuss. ‘Tell me about it when you get back. I shouldn’t half like to travel myself. See something exciting for once.’

‘It really is exciting, I wish you could come. You wouldn’t believe the elves, they’re like nothing you’ve ever seen before. And I’ll get to see mountains, real mountains! It’s just a shame we can’t both go.’

‘Hmm, yes. But you’re still here for the summer, right?’

‘Yes, for a few months more.’

‘Ah, well. That’s alright then.’

They sat in silence for a moment.

‘Bloody hot.’

‘Isn’t it!’

‘Want to go look for frogs in the creek?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Back at home it was decided that the only those named in the letter would go on the trip, much to the children’s disappointment. However, Sam and Rose didn’t think it right to leave them for too long. So, they would go with Elanor to Minas Tirith, but only for a short visit. Then, she was on her own. Once everyone had been informed and the excitement had died down, summer, as it is bound to do, continued with a blatant disregard for the coming autumn. Elanor spent her summer – well, how she spent her summer might be revealing enough of her character, but perhaps our hero deserves some little introduction of her own, before we get too far into our tale.

Elanor Gardner, at twenty-one, was newly a tween, and the only one of her siblings – who now numbered twelve – to have reached that stage. Since her fifteenth birthday, Bilbo had been born, and then Ruby, and then Robin, and finally little baby Tommy. Tommy would in fact be the last of Sam and Rose’s children, but at the time Elanor had no way of knowing this, and it seemed to her that she was going to end up with hundreds of siblings. Being the eldest of thirteen had not, as one might have expected it to have done, instilled her with any particular sense of responsibility, or practicality, or even usefulness. Instead, she had a head full of stories, had never grown out of daydreams and make-believe, and loved the woods above all else as her stage for this. She was never an angry hobbit, nor a cruel one, but she was often bad tempered and fiery, frequently gloomy and negative, and almost always filled with a deep loneliness and an incessant longing for just about any life other than the one she was living – and was, therefore, though she would certainly never have said this of herself, of a very typical nature for someone of her age. She wanted more than anything to have an adventure, which she sought out often within the safe borders of the Shire, but as for her courage in the face of real danger – well, of that we shall come to see before our tale is through.

She spent her summer much as she had always spent summer: she read lots of books, of which she was very fond, so long as they weren’t too educational or realistic. She helped Sam in his garden, which was suffering terribly from the heat.

‘We need some rain,’ he kept muttering, inspecting the yellowed grass. As a hero of Middle-earth and Mayor of the Shire, Sam could easily have hired a gardener to work for him, but nothing would have horrified him more. He spent every free second in his garden - or indeed often in other people’s. He didn’t have to work for anyone but himself nowadays, but he loved the Shire, and he loved taking care of it. Living up to their name, the whole Gardner family liked helping him where they could. As well as within the garden, Elanor took her horticultural aspirations further afield. She had been trying very hard to grow a second mallorn tree, with the nuts from the first, which grew small and silver. Sam warned her that the first tree had taken a fair amount of elvish magic to grow in Shire soil, and he doubted it could happen again. Indeed, there seemed to be no signs of growth, and disgruntled at her failure to grow the forest of Lothlórien on their doorstep, she resigned herself to planting regular aspens down their lane, in a more ordinary, unimpressive imitation. Her father’s reforestation efforts back in the day had been a lot more effective, and more importantly, a lot faster, but there’s only so much magic dirt in this world, and the rest of us have to make do with the regular stuff. Elanor was certain that the trees weren’t going to sprout for a thousand lifetimes, so instead her and Fastred and a few other young hobbits – her sister Rosie and sometimes her brother Frodo, and Boromir Brandybuck, and Myrtle Smallburrow – went around helping farmers in exchange for a portion of the crops they collected. The plentiful opportunities to pelt apples at her little brother’s head brought her great joy, and with the older siblings’ hard-earned spoils – as well as the less honourably gained spoils provided by the young Merry and Pippin, from their own excursions with Faramir Took and Dernhelm Brandybuck – Rose would make apple and blackberry pies, and pear tarts, and fennel scones, which they would bundle up and take on picnics. Elanor would entertain the little ones with all sorts of stories, sometimes of her own invention, sometimes classic tales to which she added significant flourish with each retelling. Many of these stories were about all the tremendous adventures she would surely get up to with the king and queen in Minas Tirith. She told them of high white spires and noble kings defending the city from ferocious monsters; of men and elves and dwarves living in harmony; of fountains of liquid gold and heroes with magic at their fingertips. But as time went on, her tales returned, mostly, to her favourite subject of all: the heroic exploits of Mr. Frodo and Samwise the Brave. Her mother wasn’t always too keen on this, as she often got carried away and frightened the little ones. Elanor was always getting told that she needed to get her head out of the clouds, and stop living in fairytales.

‘Stories are fun, but you do need to live your own life as well, Ellie. I’m not sure how productive all your little games are. Aren’t they a little childish? Maybe you could learn a skill. Cooking, or sewing, something practical to keep busy with. Or help with the children more, like I’m always asking you. Or you could be preparing for your trip. Researching about the city,’ her mother would suggest. But Elanor did nothing of the sort.

In fact, as she passed summer by quickly in this happy manner, she seemed to have almost forgotten about her upcoming trip. One scorching day in July, Elanor and Fastred were walking down the dried-up bed of a stream, up to their knees in soft, cool mud. Elanor had her skirts tied up around her thighs, which she was probably too old to still be doing, but it really was a very hot day.

‘By the way,’ said Fastred, ‘I forgot to tell you, I’m going to be apprenticing as a shirriff next month. With Thain Took.’

One of Fastred’s little peculiarities was that, contrary to every aspect of his nature, he had always dreamed of being a great warrior. He was certainly good at reading about battles, but as for him, he’d struggle to even give someone a telling off, let alone join a real fight. Luckily – barring the events of the war – a stern word was considered a rare and harsh form of punishment in the Shire, so he would not actually be faced with any of the wars of his beloved history books.

‘Oh,’ said Elanor, trying not to sound too sad. The two of them had spent most of their childhoods armed with stick-swords, doing the thankless work of defending the Shire from a horde of imaginary enemies. But the picking up of a real sword marked, of course, the putting down of a stick one. Not that he would actually be given a sword, but that was beside the point. ‘That’s great Fast, good job. Although I don’t know what I’ll do with myself all day without you.’

Fastred looked terribly confused. ‘What do you mean? You’ll be in Minas Tirith.’

‘Oh! Oh yes, I forgot. Well, that’s good then. Everything works out,’ she said, but not with a great deal of enthusiasm.

It wasn’t exactly that she had forgotten about her trip. Only that she hadn’t been thinking of it as quite real. She was always dreaming about going off somewhere - it had just seemed another one of her stories. But it dawned on her then, for the first time, that she was actually leaving. She had to take a minute to get used to this idea, and for a while they walked in silence.

‘Have you noticed that the leaves are falling,’ remarked Fastred – and indeed they were, though it was far from their time. The trees had largely gone brown in the heat, and dead leaves drifted down around them in a mockery of autumn. The air felt thick and hazy, and a little eerie. It felt as though a heavy sleeping draught lay in the air, and all the world had fallen asleep in the middle of the day. Somewhere off in the bushes, a toad croaked.

‘We need some rain,’ agreed Elanor, looking up at the cloudless sky.

To cool off they threw handfuls of mud at each other until their skin was caked and cracking, and then on the walk home, as the sky lit up orange, they ate blackberries out of muddy hands and talked about all the monsters Elanor would surely encounter on the road. When they got back to Fastred’s house, his mother insisted on lending her his sister’s dress, and then she had to run to get back before dark, pretending all the while that she was on a great big horse, riding towards Gondor with the king long before he became the king, on her way to save her father and Frodo.

Frodo was on her mind a lot as she approached the date of her departure, actually. She would go about, cataloguing every detail of her home in her memory, preserving them as though canning summer fruits to last the long winter months. She began to think of everything in lasts, in the bittersweet manner of someone who knows they are leaving, and so thinks of themself as already gone. ‘Was that the last time I’ll cross that bridge?’ ‘Will I speak to her again?’ ‘Is this the last time I shall look upon this view?’ and other thoughts of that nature clouded every happy moment. She was, of course, being a little dramatic – everyone expected her home again within a year, maybe even in time for next summer, whether to stay or only as a holiday being entirely up to her. She wasn’t being exiled – and yet there was a strange feeling of finality to it that she couldn’t shake, and didn’t like. And so, in this strange mood, she thought often about Frodo, and his last months in the Shire. When he had looked upon this view for the last time, had he known it? Had he been secretly saying his goodbyes? Had he felt like Elanor did now? But of course, his case was far harsher than hers, for he had never returned. The closer she got to leaving, the less excited about it she got. She hadn’t realised how fond she was of the Shire until she was faced with leaving it. Oh, how she loved that little stream, and soon she would not be able to wash her hands in its cool waters, and how she loved her father’s storytelling by the fire in the evenings, and soon she would not be able to hear it. How she loved the homegrown food of the Shire, and the particular taste of their water, and her particular friends, and the particular angle of the sun, and that tree, and that one, and that one too. Of course she wanted to go, she had wanted to go all her life, hadn’t she? But now that the moment was here she was – shamefully – afraid. A chapter was ending, and soon everything she knew would be different, and she couldn’t bear the thought. For here is another, and perhaps the most important fact about Elanor Gardner: she had never been much good at change, and she had especially never been good at endings. How could Frodo have done it? Left it all behind, forever? She had always thought about it in abstracts before, her father simply saying he ‘had to go’, and she taking him at his word, childishly thinking nothing more of it. But now he felt closer than ever, as though she were walking in his very footsteps as she traced the paths of Hobbiton over and over, each time getting closer to the last.

‘The end,’ announced Sam, and shut the red book with a heavy thud, sending a cloud of dust blooming into the air.

‘Aww, couldn’t you just read it again, one last time?’ whined Elanor, who was sitting at his feet, beside his armchair.

‘Again? What, from the beginning? No my dear, I think that’s quite enough. I think you’re old enough to read it by yourself now, anyway.’

‘I know I am, and I have. But I like it better when you read to me.’

‘And I like reading to you too. But haven’t you heard this story enough yet?’

Elanor shook her head fervently. ‘Not at all. It gets better every time. I only hate when it ends. Couldn’t you just – you don’t have to read it all, but just a bit of the start – and then we could finish it next summer.’

Sam smiled kindly. ‘I don’t think so Elanorellë. You’ve heard it what – five times?’

‘Seven, if you count me reading it on my own.’

‘That, I think, is plenty for a while. There’s lots more stories out there.’

‘None so good as yours, Sam-dad.’

‘Thank you my dear. But I can’t see why you dislike the ending so much. That’s the best part – it’s where you come in.’

‘Oh, I don’t care about reading about myself. And I hate when stories end, I always have, it’s the worst part. If I hear it again then it isn’t over.’

‘Well it has to be over at some point,’ said Sam, amused. ‘My legs can only carry me so far. Don’t you want your old dad to have some rest? Anyway, you can’t go on reading forever.’

‘I know, Sam-dad. I’m just being silly. Thank you for reading it to me one last time, before I leave.’

‘Of course, Elanorellë,’ Sam said, and then rose, kissed her hair, and placed the book back on the shelf.

She took to carrying the red book around with her everywhere she went, until one afternoon she left it in the sun for too long and nearly melted the glue that held the pages together. After that she copied select passages and details into her little green notebook, and carried that around with her instead. She was using the descriptions to try to map out what the Shire had been like before the war. Every day she wandered through Hobbiton, trying to find the borders of where the woods had come to before they had been cut down, where now neat rows of houses had been erected. It wasn’t that the Shire was unpleasant now – she was tremendously fond of it - it was just that she wished she could have seen it in the old days, back when it was greener and wilder and truer. The Shire had stayed the same for a very long time, an unchanging, untouchable little pocket of the world, where things were old and lasting and everything ran its course as it always had. And then, very quickly during the war, things had changed. Age old trees had been torn up, good old holes had been torn down, and new things had taken their places. New things which were big and ugly and sliced up the land, ordering it into neat lines and grids. Everything was signposted and labelled and found a place for, made efficient and useful, or else thrown away. Of course, when the hobbits regained control of their land, they had done their best to put it right. But it never was quite the same again – things cannot be made old in a hurry. A tree, even if it is regrown with the finest elvish magic, will never grow back in quite the same shape as before. And though she was sad for herself that she had never gotten to see the Shire as it had been, she pitied even more Frodo, who was never able to return to the home he had known before the war. She supposed that was part of what had driven him away in the end. How horrible, to never be able to go home, because home had changed and left you behind! And of course she pitied her poor father as well, who had not only lost his home, but then his Frodo too.

It was on her way back from one of these walks that she found her sister, Primrose, crouched down and balanced on the balls of her feet, curled protectively over something. Elanor approached and peered over her shoulder. Cupped in her little hands was a baby bird, feathers just beginning to poke through ugly pink skin. It was tiny, all delicate hollow bones, an intensely breakable, blind little thing, and far younger than it should have been at this point in the year.

Primrose looked up at Elanor. ‘I think it fell out of its nest, but I can’t find it.’

Elanor searched the treetops but indeed no nest could be found.

‘Come on Prim,’ said Elanor gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ll look after it. It’ll be alright.’ Primrose carried the bird back to Bag End, walking painstakingly slowly and staring down at her hands while Elanor led her. When they got back, they made it a nest of newspaper in a small chest in front of the fireplace, and fed it jam on a spoon. Primrose sat on the floor by the box and watched it intently, far past her bedtime, refusing to move, until eventually her head began to droop, and she fell asleep, curled up on the floor. Sam picked her up and carried her off to bed, and then only Elanor and Rose were left in the sitting room. Rose had been on one of her tirades about how if Elanor wanted to start going off and living on her own then she was really going to need to start acting more grown up - and she could start by doing her chores (a fair enough point, but not one Elanor was inclined to agree with), so Elanor got up to follow them out.

‘Oh, Ellie, before you go,’ said Rose, and Elanor paused. ‘I was thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if we had a little get-together, you know, a little going away party of sorts, before we left.’

‘Alright,’ said Elanor, who was quite tired, and who didn’t particularly care for get-togethers of any variety.

‘Well that’s not very enthusiastic. What’s wrong dear? Aren’t you excited?’

‘No, I am, it’s just –’ Elanor sighed and sat back down, since a conversation seemed inevitable. She didn’t know how to explain to her mother why she felt suddenly so reluctant to leave, after wanting to go for so long. She barely knew how to explain it to herself. It was at times like these that she sometimes felt a sort of gap. Like walking along a familiar path and feeling your heart drop as you step unexpectedly into a hole. Except, the hole had always been there, as long as she could remember. In certain situations, when she had certain questions, when she felt certain things – like now – she would think-without-thinking, ‘I should talk to him, he’d understand.’ But of course, he wasn’t there. There was only her mother. She would have to do.

‘It’s only, I’ve been thinking about… well, I suppose I’ve been thinking about Frodo, and his going away, you know?’ she tried.

‘Ah, I see. I always miss him on big occasions too. I’m sure he would have been very proud of you, dear.’

‘Well, yes, but … I just feel like everyone’s so… I don’t know, they’re only ever happy about going away. You’re meant to be excited all the time. Even a sad going away like Frodo’s was all for the better and happy in the end. But it’s not all – I don’t know, it’s not always like that, it’s not always a good thing. I mean, did you throw him a going away party?’ said Elanor, frustrated. She was struggling to find the right words, but she felt certain that Frodo would have known what she was trying to say, and that frustrated her even more. She wasn’t even sure why she was suddenly so upset. She thought she had been excited.

Rose frowned. ‘There’s no need for childish outbursts. I’m only trying to be nice.’

Elanor felt embarrassed at once. ‘I’m sorry mama, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just tired. The party does sound nice. You’re right, I just… just wish he could have been here.’

‘So do I, dear,’ sighed Rose. ‘But you shouldn’t be too sad that he’s gone. He was at peace, it was his time to go. And he wouldn’t have wanted you to spend your life being sad about him. He’d want you to be happy in his stead, and to think only of the good times.’

‘What good times?’ muttered Elanor under her breath, a little bitterly, and a little unfairly, because she had heard this speech many times before, and was still feeling rather sour.

‘Now don’t be like that,’ said Rose, pursing her lips. ‘You’re always so negative, dear. We’ve told you all about the lovely time we all spent together, as a family, before he had to go.’

Elanor hesitated. ‘Tell me again?’

‘Hmm,’ said Rose, and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Alright, if it will show you what I mean. Let me think… ah, yes, here’s a story that I think would be good for you to hear.

‘This was one of the earliest moments of your whole life, on the day you were born. Since we lived with Frodo, he was one of the first people to ever meet you. He was very hesitant at first – he didn’t want to intrude on a personal moment, you see, but he was part of our family so of course we wanted him to meet you. Your father practically had to drag him in, but when he saw you, he seemed so in awe of you. I told him he should try holding you, and he protested that he didn’t know how to, and I told him that that was nonsense, and that if he could carry the ring to Mordor then he could hold a baby! So he picked you up so carefully, and he walked you to the window, where the sun was shining in, for it was a rare sunny spring day when you were born. He held you in the sunlight, for the first time in your life, and both of you got all smiley. He was always there, after that; he hadn’t an awful lot of energy in those days and spent most of his time at home, but that meant he was always there to help look after you. We became very good friends, really,’ said Rose, and Elanor could have sworn there was the glint of a tear in her eye. ‘He saw you experience this world for the first time, and for you all those things that we grow to take for granted were new and wonderful once more. And knowing that the world could still be enjoyed by someone, that gave him peace. He knew that we had you now, to look after us. And all of that meant that he was okay with leaving, happy even, because of you.’

‘Because of me,’ repeated Elanor, but it felt more like an accusation in her mouth. Something about her had turned him from someone smiling at a newborn baby in the sunlight, to someone who couldn’t bear to live in this world anymore. She focused very hard on trying to push aside the strange sickness in her stomach, to feel happy on his behalf, like he would have wanted, but it was only making her feel guiltier that she couldn’t succeed.

‘But it can’t all have just been fine. It can’t all have been happy and peaceful, or he wouldn’t have left,’ argued Elanor, too loudly.

‘Well, of course it was sad, at the time. But that’s not your sadness. You’re young, you should be out enjoying the world, not worrying about the past.’

‘And what about you? Do you just have to live with it? Forever?’

‘Of course not,’ said Rose, rather upset. ‘I have you now, so it’s all okay.’

‘But it’s not!’ Elanor wanted to yell, frustrated. ‘It’s not okay at all! How could it possibly be okay?’ But she didn’t say that, because it would have come to nothing, and she wanted her mother to stop looking upset. So she said:

‘I see. Thank you for telling me, mama. I feel much better now. In fact, it’s like I can almost feel him with us right now.’ She couldn’t. She didn’t feel anything at all. But it made Rose smile.

‘Well then, I’m glad. Now off to bed.’

So Elanor went to bed, and tried to put her mind off it. She wasn’t sure what had gotten her so worked up, nor even what point she had been trying to argue, only that she hadn’t gotten it across at all, and that she felt worse than ever. And right up until the moment she fell asleep she couldn’t stop from thinking:

‘Maybe it’s alright for them, because they have me. But what about me?’

A few days later they held the going away party down on the green. It was supposed to be a small gathering, hastily put together, but hobbits can be relied on, if for nothing else, not to miss a party, particularly if there is food and alcohol - both of which were plentiful. The sun had set, but it was still warm – in fact it was the most pleasant temperature that it had been all day, now that the sun wasn’t beating down on them. The dusty field was lit with lanterns, which occasionally blinked when swarms of moths made their furious charges against the light, only to retreat, defeated by the glass. Occasionally, a bat would dart by, invisible and squeaking, and pick one off as though attending a buffet. A mosquito kept buzzing by Elanor’s ear, and swatting it was currently her chief aim in life, but she had gotten caught up in conversation with her mother’s friends, and was busy pretending to be attentive to whatever they were saying. The half of her mind which wasn’t thinking about the mosquito, or about nodding along politely, was scanning the crowd, looking for Fastred. She wanted to speak with him alone, to say goodbye, because tonight was her last night in Hobbiton. But she hadn’t been able to find him all night, and now she was here.

‘- and she was never seen again! Oh, but I’m sure you’ll be fine, dear.’

‘It is so terribly far away though. Personally I don’t see what’s wrong with the Shire. Hobbits ought to stay in hobbit countries.’

‘Oh, she doesn’t want to listen to that old talk. Youngsters will do as youngsters do.’

‘In fact, I’m sure you won’t even want to come back again, once you’ve gotten a taste of freedom!’

‘It’s that family. Always off on adventures. Not entirely proper, if you ask me.’

‘You mind you keep yourself safe.’

‘Of course she will, she’s Sam’s girl. I’m sure she could cope with anything. Got it in her blood.’

And so on and so forth. People would be leaving soon, and Elanor still couldn’t see Fastred. She wished that Gandalf was still around, to light the place up with some fireworks. Nothing was any fun anymore, she thought miserably.

‘Elanor? Aren’t I right?’

‘Completely, Mrs. Bunce. Would you excuse me, I think Ham has gotten hold of the beer,’ she said, and then hurried away before they could interject. Her little brother Hamfast really did have a hold of a great big flagon of something, but she let him be; it would, if nothing else, be very funny.

She wandered around for a while, looking for Fastred, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. She did have other friends – sort of – but any that had been there had left already. People brushed past her, and she began to feel very rotten indeed.

‘Some going away party!’ she thought. ‘They wouldn’t even notice if I was already gone!’ And with that she began stomping home, growing more and more annoyed with every step that no one stopped her.

From a distance, Bag End was darkened and empty-looking, and Elanor was ready to march straight to her room and collapse down onto her bed. But as she came up the path she suddenly stopped short. There was someone there, sitting very still in the dark. As she got closer she saw that it was Sam, sitting on a bench in the front garden, smoking his pipe.

‘Come sit with me Elanorellë,’ he said, unphased by her creeping through the dark. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’

And indeed it was. The bench was surrounded by foxgloves, stretching upwards, ghostly white in the light of a big, bright full moon. She sat down beside him. He put an arm around her and she let her head fall onto his shoulder.

‘What’s wrong, Elanorellë?’ asked Sam. ‘Why are you here with your old dad, instead of down there, having fun?’

‘I like being with you,’ replied Elanor earnestly.

‘And I like being with you, my dear. But I can tell you’re not happy. What is it?’

Elanor sighed. She knew she wasn’t happy, but honestly, she couldn’t pinpoint a reason that seemed satisfactory enough to justify everything she was feeling. So she picked just one.

‘Will you tell me honestly,’ said Elanor, ‘how it was when Frodo left? And please don’t tell me again how it was all okay, how it was for the better and everyone’s at peace now. I’ve spent so long being told it was a happy ending, and I know you have to tell little children that, but I’m older now and I’m not sure I believe it anymore. Because here I am, after the ending, and I’m still not-’. She cut herself off late, but Sam politely pretended she hadn’t said anything. ‘I can’t understand it. I can’t understand how everyone else is so okay, when I’m so hurt, and I’m not even the one who knew him. I can take it now, I just – I just want someone to be honest with me.’

‘Honestly?’ said Sam, looking up at the sky. ‘Honestly, I felt like I was going to die. I considered it. It felt like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest.’

Elanor stayed quiet, but inside she was experiencing what all young people experience when, inevitably, childhood stories are retold without the ugly parts cut out: an upsetting sense of wrongness, at seeing someone so infallible suffering; and yet also some kind of guilty vindication - so it isn’t only me who finds it hard! It’s not only me who hurts!  

‘And sometimes, though it wasn’t fair of me, I felt angry. For I had done so much to save him, to give him this life, and then it seemed he didn’t want it. But of course, that wasn’t true nor fair and I knew it, and I could never stay angry at him. But I was angry. At the war, at the ring, at the whole world, for hurting him, and for hurting me. For hadn’t I earned a reward also? Didn’t I deserve to keep him, after how hard I’d fought to do so? But mostly I was just sad. I am very good at putting on a cheerful face, but I was very sad, for a long while. More sad than I’ve ever told you, Elanorellë. Even before he left, it was sad. Even when it shouldn’t have been. It was like… well, there was one time, when we were first all moving into Bag End – me and Mr. Frodo and your mother, of course. We had lived together before, the three of us, when we first got back and all of Bagshot Row was torn up, but that had been with the whole Cotton family. This was our home, just for us. It should’ve been such a happy day. And it was, in a way. It was just, when we were moving in I saw Mr. Frodo trying to help Mother Rose carry in some chest or other, but he was never as strong as he was before the quest - his injuries bothered him more than he let on - so he dropped it, and he stood there trembling for a moment. And Mother Rose, she went up to him as if to pick up the chest, or whatever it was, but instead she picked up Mr. Frodo, plucked him right off his feet! Your mother is the strongest hobbit I know, and don’t you forget it. And of course Mr. Frodo started laughing and forgot all about the chest. And I swooped in and gathered them both in my arms, and we just stayed like that for a moment and laughed. And I was so happy then, just to have them both in my arms, where they were safe – only, no matter how safe I kept them, Mr. Frodo couldn’t so much as carry a chest by himself anymore, and that wasn’t something I could protect him from. It was like that. You couldn’t ever forget Mr. Frodo was unwell, even in those happiest moments. Not just weak, but unwell. And you couldn’t help thinking, “how much longer can this last?” Oh dear me, I don’t know if I’m explaining this right. How can I describe it? It was like - after the war, the Shire was different. We put so much effort into fixing it, and it was often very beautiful, but it was never quite the same as the Shire that had never been damaged at all, you see, and that was very sad, and for a long time it was very hard to understand that. That is what Mr. Frodo was like. He was beautiful.’

‘But he wasn’t the same?’ finished Elanor.

‘But he wasn’t the same,’ said Sam, looking at the stars.

‘And that’s just it?’ asked Elanor desperately, because of course she had always known that this was how the story ended. And yet every time she heard it, she couldn’t help hoping that somehow this time it would be different.

‘That is how it ends, so perhaps the story doesn’t have a happy ending after all. But I am happy, here, right now. So I think perhaps it does,’ he said, and kissed the top of Elanor’s head.

‘But I don’t – I don’t understand,’ she said, frustrated. ‘There you go again, just being fine. But how? How did you get happy again, after something like that?’

‘Everything was changed. He was changed. But still, he was, and I loved him. So that’s all there was to it,’ said Sam, though Elanor didn’t think it much in the way of an explanation. But he looked so peaceful, just smiling to himself, remembering, so she let him be. She felt almost singed, just from hearing his speech. And yet he smiled so peacefully. How could he be happy? How did he get his heart back into his chest after it was torn out? But these aren’t the kinds of questions you can ask someone, even your own father. Especially your own father. So she buried them somewhere deep inside of her, in the pit of her stomach.

‘It must have been nice though, huh? Before it all?’

‘Yes. Yes it was. If it counts for anything, I do truly wish you could have seen it, Elanorellë. I wish you could have seen him. I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. But… I wish so too.’

Sam sighed. ‘Perhaps you ought to get some sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.’

‘Oh,’ said Elanor, and the sound stuck in her throat.

‘Are you alright dear? You aren’t nervous about going, are you?’

‘No. Or… I wasn’t. I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve spent so long dreaming about going off on an adventure. But now that I’m leaving, I’m so scared all of a sudden. I don’t even know why. It’s just come upon me. I’m so afraid.’

‘You know that you don’t have to go, if you really don’t want to,’ said Sam gently.

‘I do want to go! I want to go. It’s just that…’ Elanor found the star of Eärendil in the night sky and watched it for a moment, searching for the words for what she was trying to say. ‘It’s just that,’ she said in a very small voice, ‘I was braver when I was younger.’ Then she buried her face in her father’s lap and neither of them said any more, as he stroked her hair softly and watched the stars reel above them.

After Elanor had cried herself to sleep, Sam picked her up as if she were very small again, and carried her, slowly, for he was not a young hobbit anymore, to her bed. He pulled the covers up to her chin and gently pushed her curls away from her forehead, then went to bed himself.

That night, when every hobbit was in their bed and every dog was on their mat and every mouse was in their hole, all fast asleep, great dark clouds began to gather in the sky. Slowly, one by one, the stars were blotted out. Then, it began to rain.

The next morning the whole world was fresh and new, and every stream had burst its banks, and the baby bird lay dead in its box.

Chapter Text

The next morning, of course, the whole family woke up late. Elanor, who much to her mother’s persistent annoyance hadn’t packed yet, flew around her room, throwing things haphazard into a bag, and was certain she had forgotten something, but was hurried out the door before she could remember what. She hugged her littler siblings, said, ‘good riddance!’ to the older ones, and then they were off down the lane to a chorus of ‘Goodbye! Good luck! Come back soon!’ Uncle Tom and Aunt Marigold were there also, looking after the children in their absence, and they waved along. Before they could so much as take one last look, Elanor and her parents had rounded the corner, and Bag End was out of sight.

As the letter had said, a coach awaited them just beyond a gate of the Shire, past which no big folk were allowed to pass. It was less stately and decorated than the coach they had ridden in six years ago, but it was harnessed to two of the most magnificent horses Elanor had ever seen, both very big and muscular, with lovely sorrel coats. A man, southern looking, with friendly dark eyes, waited beside the coach with the emblem of Gondor upon his chest. He introduced himself as Finhas, and his horses as Rust and Ross. They were, he bragged, the finest horses anyone could ask for; they were bred by the Rohirrim and gifted specially to the king. They never tired, they could keep up with one of the Mearas, their grandsires had ridden to victory in the war, and their coats were nothing short of the pride of the nation. Then, a little abashed, he asked the hobbits their names.

Introductions were gotten over with quickly. ‘We have a long road,’ said Finhas, and so aboard they climbed, and off they set.

Elanor looked back one last time, and watched as her home slunk behind the hills. She had the strangest feeling that she had gotten the letter from the queen only yesterday, and that everything in between had been a dream, which stayed in the memory for only a moment after waking, then quickly faded away in the light of day.

At first they travelled through familiar country, along the East Road towards Bree. It continued to rain often now that the drought had broken, which was delightful from inside the coach. Raindrops pattered a merry staccato onto the roof, and out the window Elanor watched the earth wake up, growing green once more. It was still very warm, and when the sun shone the air was often misty with rainbows. Potholes filled with puddles which splashed up as they drove through them, and a truly incredible quantity of worms emerged from the dirt. Colourful little snails were also drawn out of hiding, and some of them somehow got onto the coach and clung to the sides like barnacles. Sometimes when the rain abated she would sit up front with Finhas and breathe in the smell of the earth. Finhas talked sometimes, but mostly about his horses - which was, in Elanor’s opinion, how all conversation ought to be. As they went along though, he began to warm up to her, and would sometimes tell Elanor old Haradrim fables which he had learnt from his grandmother.

This part of the road was well trod, and they passed many farms with their swaying golden fields of wheat, little cottages tucked up against the borders of the Old Forest, carts loaded with goods trundling back and forth between villages. There was an air of contentment amongst everyone they passed, caught in that slim period of gratefulness after a long-wished for change in weather, before people swiftly and inevitably forgot how they had longed for the rain, and began to complain about it once more. But for now the world seemed, all at once, to be happy.

They stayed in Bree for a few days, resting the horses (who did, naturally, tire occasionally) and buying sufficient supplies for the quieter parts of the road, before turning South onto the Greenway. They passed between the South Downs to the east and the Barrow Downs to the west, misty and imposing, but never too close for comfort. As they journeyed south they saw less settlements and less people, though certainly not as few as they would have in the old days. The land levelled out into great open plains, grassland as far as the eye could see, grazed by the occasional flock of sheep, sometimes wild, sometimes accompanied by a crook-wielding shepherd. When they did pass towns or villages, they were notably new: the work of no more than a decade. The buildings were all similar and simplistic in style, built in neat rows, made to house many quickly. Not at all like the lonely, tilted cottages of the shepherds, which stood alone in the plains. Tough roots were being torn up and new fields were being ploughed. This was an age of prosperity and progress: empty lands would not stay that way for long.

Where they could, they stayed at an inn. But despite the influx of fourth age settlers, it was still startling to realise just how much of Middle-earth was empty. When they passed nothing in a day’s travel they would stop at the side of the road, and Elanor would run around and collect firewood for Finhas to start them a campfire, and then, without a responsibility in the world, she would lie on the ground and watch the sparks drift upwards into the dark night sky, sleepy and content.

They passed through the ruins of the old town Tharbad on a windy day, and the howling that echoed through the crumbling walls and abandoned buildings made Elanor shiver. There they crossed the river Greyflood, and from there onwards the road became the Old South Road. The distant blue peaks of the Misty Mountains grew gradually bigger – an exciting sight for Elanor, who had not seen proper mountains before, and was awed by their size – but otherwise the road remained much the same. Actually, the journey stayed almost strangely the same; speeding south whilst summer crept to an end resulted in a sort of stasis, as if they were fleeing from autumn. Still, it meant that the days remained long and the nights warm, the fields golden-green and the mood cheerful, so Elanor wasn’t complaining. There was little to do, and little to talk about. Not one villain or monster or highwayman was encountered. It was not the grand adventure she had hoped for. But she had to admit, it certainly wasn’t unpleasant. One had only to watch the land roll by in peaceful silence, sometimes reading from a little book, sometimes thinking about what would be cooked over the fire for supper that night. It was, all in all, a very pleasant journey.

They passed through the Gap of Rohan as September began. The Misty Mountains loomed to the north, and Elanor could have sworn that she could see the black peaks of Orthanc beyond the hills. They passed quickly from that land.

Now, in Rohan, they found the lands populated once more. They rode alongside the feet of the White Mountains, peaked with snow, but the plains below were lush and green and rocky, and there were crops of little wooden houses crowning every hilltop – not to mention the horses, sleek and fast and magnificent, which were left to graze upon the grasslands. Finhas brightened up at these sights, and got almost what one might call talkative:

‘Beautiful creatures, beautiful. This is where my horses were bred. A bold and mighty people, the Horse-Lords. I should be proud to be one of them. Alas, my father comes from Minas Tirith, and raised me there too, where the men are valiant but there is little riding. That is why I took up this job, so that I might serve the king and ride also. But the Rohirrim are not the only horse-masters in Middle-earth. My mother’s family comes from Harad, from a town to the north of Umbar. The people there are great horse-tamers, and the horses bred there are as many as 18 hands high and pitch black, with coats so shimmering that they gleam blue and green and purple, like a raven’s wing. I wager that one of their steeds could rival the beasts of the Rohirrim with ease – and that is no small feat. It is from my mother that I learnt my love of horses, and her who taught me to ride also, a skill most children in Minas Tirith are deprived of.’ He smiled softly to himself, caught up in memory. ‘She was a wonderful woman.’

It wasn’t long before the road passed by Edoras, and they stopped a few days in that fair city. It was a sight to behold, tucked between the slopes of the great White Mountains and purple in their shadow, crowned with the golden hall of Meduseld, where the hearth is always burning and the cups are always full. But the Gardners were growing impatient for their journey’s end, so they moved on again after a short rest.

The last stretch of the journey was much like the rest of it: there was much beauty to see, but almost nothing happened. Elanor was growing antsy. It seemed to her that they would never arrive. But, of course, they did. Eventually the White Mountains culminated in the great Mount Mindolluin, a magnificent looming sight, upon whose immense slopes was built the great city of Minas Tirith.

The tiered city was visible from miles away, gleaming white and exposed in the sunlight. Elanor had been told of the city many times, even seen it in drawings, but it was still nothing like she had expected. It was much bigger than she could ever have imagined, for a start - and they were still a great distance away. The city seemed to have exploded outwards in recent years. Even beyond the great wall encircling the Pelennor Fields, the land for miles around was populated, filled with farmland and farmhouses and villages, many covered in scaffolding and growing. It was harvest season and all the fields, ripe and rippling in the wind, were busy with farmers, tall and sun-browned, like their crops. The road was the most well-trod here that it had been for all their journey, a flurry of people of more sorts than Elanor had ever seen together before, all coming and going from the city like the current of a great river. The gate was guarded, but open for all this activity, and they passed through without hindrance. Inside the great wall, the Rammas Echor, were the Pelennor Fields, more farmland and homes, with little difference to the lands beyond the wall. Originally all of Minas Tirith would have been contained safely within these walls, but now that the city had so expanded, the wall served as little boundary; there was no more need for protection in these days. They passed through orchards thrumming with activity, over little brooks, past cattle herds and golden fields, and no one gave them a second glance amidst the constant activity. Everything seemed terribly efficient; that is to say, not at all like the harvests of the Shirefolk, who took everything at a pleasant, plodding pace. For a moment Elanor thought, a little wistfully, of haymaking and apple-picking and summer bonfires in the Shire, but there was too much to see to dwell on it for long. Above them, rapidly approaching, the city loomed, white stone lit orange in the late afternoon light, floating upon an ocean of gentle golden waves.

They came at last to the foot of the city and dismounted from the coach, walking slowly to take it all in. At the city gate Finhas hailed a black-garbed guard and spoke to him in hushed tones, then turned back to the hobbits.

‘I must take my horses to the stables now, but this man will guide you through the city. I take my leave of you. Farewell,’ he said, bowed, and then left. It was a rather abrupt departure for their constant companion, but before they could so much as call out a goodbye, they were being hurried along by the new guard.

Here, on foot, they did get some curious looks; hobbits, despite the fame of a few in recent years, were still not a common sight this far from the Shire, and it was to be assumed, if one was spotted, that they must be one of the heroes of the war – in this case perfectly true. Nonetheless, it was a busy city, and they walked mostly unobstructed due to the simple fact that they were below most people’s line of sight. Elanor felt terribly small, trotting in the wake of her parents, trying to dodge a forest of long legs. She had to restrain the childish urge to cling to her mother’s skirts.

The citadel, where the king lived, was on the seventh level of the city, so they had quite a climb ahead of them. The gates for each level faced different directions, so to pass upwards through them, one had to wind to-and-fro through the city. In this manner they saw much of the city straight away, and tired their legs out immediately. The city was so full of sights and sounds and smells and people and buildings and wagons and machinery and art and curiosities of every kind imaginable, and then some, that Elanor couldn’t even begin to take it all in. She had never been somewhere so busy and overwhelming and bursting with life. She was sure she would never be able to find her way around. It was certainly impressive – but, she thought, with the snobbish disdain of someone out of their depth, it certainly couldn’t compare with even the tamest of the Shire’s little woods.

As they walked uphill, through streets growing gradually quieter, the guard leading them stopped briefly to speak to another, this one on horseback. He rode up ahead of them, and after some time, came riding back. He spoke to the first guard in a hushed voice, then left again. The guard said nothing, but quickened their pace, and a minute later, following in the messenger’s steps, a man came striding purposefully towards them. Like many Gondorians he was tall and brown skinned, with a head of long, silver-streaked hair, a dark beard, and keen grey eyes. His clothes were fine, but not extravagant. In appearance he seemed a normal - albeit rather handsome - man. Yet there was something in the way he carried himself that would be unmistakable even without the green stone he wore on his breast. This sighting had as much of an impact on Elanor as the first time she had seen him – for she had seen him before. This was, of course, the high king of all the west, Aragorn Elessar, and he was bounding down the street towards them and beaming.

When Aragorn reached them he immediately bent down and pulled Sam into a tight hug. The guard bowed and Elanor, standing slightly awkwardly off to the side, wondered if she ought to as well.

‘My friends!’ he said, and then he bowed. Now Elanor felt really awkward. What was the bowing etiquette here? ‘You are most welcome! I trust your journey was satisfactory?’

‘It was lovely, thank you,’ said Sam.

‘My dear Sam, it is good to see you again. My lady Rose, lovely as always. And little Elanor! You must have Sam’s stout heart, to come so far from home. But where are my manners? You must all be tired! Come, come, I’ll take you to your quarters – thank you Haerion, but I can manage,’ he said, waving away the protesting guard, ‘no, perhaps it isn’t one of the duties of a king, but it is the duty of a friend. You may return to your post. My friends, please follow me.’

He led them through the final part of the city and into the citadel of the seventh level. At the gate, the winged guards stepped aside at once, bowing deeply. It was of course for the king, but Elanor still felt rather important to be travelling in his retinue. And the citadel was indeed worthy of special guards. It housed the courtyard where grew the white tree of Gondor, as well as the tower of Ecthelion, the highest point of the city; Merethrond, the great feasting hall; the barracks of the guards of the citadel; numerous grand lodgings for workers and guests – such as the Gardners – not to mention the king’s own house. The king’s house – like most kings’ houses – was not really a house but a palace of white stone, with high turrets and colourful rooves and lots of little windows and balconies and bridges strung between the clouds like the webs of mighty spiders. Above it all, the tower of Ecthelion seemed to almost brush the stars. Elanor walked craning her neck, and when she stumbled and focused back on where she was walking, she found herself before the white tree of Gondor, young and slender, with dark leaves shimmering and silvery. Which was a lot of legendary sights to take in at once, especially before supper.

The king led them to a grand, many-windowed building, with rooms for guests to stay. It was not heavily populated, but the people they did pass all looked worlds above the rather rustic Gardners. Elanor felt suddenly shy under their disinterested gazes, and tugged at her mucky travelling clothes. They were led down a maze of corridors, and finally stopped in front of a pair of doors.

‘I shall leave you to recover from your journey. Someone will be up with your bags. But I must invite you to dine with my family tonight,’ said Aragorn.

‘We would like that very much, thank you,’ said Rose, and with a nod he left them. Her parents took the door on the left and Elanor the one on the right. Suddenly, for the first time in a long while, she found herself alone.

Her room was large, but with hobbit-sized furniture, which made it seem sparse and empty. She collapsed face down onto the little bed and let out a long exhale. Then, just because she hadn’t been able to in a while, she cried a bit. Then she sighed again, got up, and washed her hands and face in a basin of water that had been left on the low table. She opened a window and the breeze that came in was warm and foreign. The sounds of the city floated up to her, a muffled hubbub of activity and conversation, and she felt relieved, at least for the moment, to be apart from it all. But then there was a knock on the door. She sighed one last time, just for good measure, before answering it.

After her bags had been brought to her and she had changed out of her travelling clothes, she and her parents were led through the citadel, into the king’s house. They arrived at a long dining room, lit by three tall, stained-glass windows at the head of the room, through which the setting evening sun was sending colourful fractals of light swimming across the white walls like shoals of fish. The first window depicted a man standing before a great black castle, shielding a dark-haired maiden. The man held aloft something clutched in his fist, from which a dazzling light shone. A huge wolf, teeth bared, reared away from the light. The second window, which was the tallest, showed a dark blue sky full of six-pointed stars, and through this sky, as if upon water, sailed a boat, from the prow of which a bright light shone. A flock of white birds were flying in formation in the ship’s wake. These scenes Elanor recognised from legends; they were scenes that had long been the subject of stained-glass windows and songs and many other forms of art besides. The third and final window was in composition much like the first: in a great darkness, a man held aloft a brilliant light, from which a huge, terrible spider reared away. But shielded behind him stood not a woman but a man. No - a hobbit. They were both hobbits. For this last window showed, of course, Frodo and her father, in Shelob’s lair. Her father, who had raised her and tucked her into bed each night - her father who was standing beside her right now - was in the stained-glass window of the king’s own dining room. She had always known how important he was, but in the Shire few hobbits really understood it, and Sam was treated like a well-respected, well-loved, but nonetheless ordinary member of the community - if a slightly eccentric one. To see his true importance laid out like this, beside age-old legends, was another matter entirely.

She tore her eyes away from the windows to take in the rest of the room. At the head of the long table sat the king, and opposite him was the queen. The first time Elanor had seen Queen Arwen was in the gentle spring light beside the cold waters of Lake Evendim. Her hair had flowed smoother than the water, her eyes deeper and darker than the lake. She seemed to float rather than walk through the blossoming trees, and even the light paid special attention to her, so that the white blossoms around her shone as bright as the gems upon her brow. When she had seen that sight for the first time, Elanor had felt, breathlessly, inexplicably, the most terrible sadness. At her own table, the queen seemed somehow more corporeal than she did in Elanor’s memory. Her hair was piled in plaits upon her head and she wore a heavy golden circlet, from which red drops of ruby dangled past her pointed ears. Her gown was a deep purple-red, loosely draped and densely patterned. Her eyes were still just as dark and unfathomably deep, and she was, of course, still the most beautiful person Elanor had ever seen.

Also at the table was a young man, slender and striking, his long, dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. The prince - she couldn’t remember his name - whom she had barely spoken to all those years ago. He was a year younger than Elanor; she remembered thinking him slight and bony when she had first seen him. He looked like a man now.

The last people at the table were two young girls, maybe four or five years old, identical in appearance, fidgeting in their chairs. There was another place set beside the prince, but the seat was empty. The Gardners took their places on the other side of the table.

‘Samwise, Rose, Elanor,’ said Arwen. ‘I welcome you to our table. It is good to see you again. Of course you’ve met my son, Eldarion.’ Eldarion, that was the prince’s name. ‘And these are my youngest daughters, Gilraen and Gildin. Girls,’ she said, and the little girls bowed their heads and mumbled something, probably a greeting, very quietly. Arwen seemed to glare, for a moment, at the empty seat, but then her expression smoothed over, and no more was said of it.

Food was brought out, veal and partridge and bread and wine and little fig tarts. They talked about all the things one must talk about after years apart, all the new children who had been born and the events of their lives and the progress of the world – nothing worth paying attention to, certainly. Gondor, so they were told, was more prosperous than ever. New lands were always being reclaimed from the shadow. Peace was spreading further and further. Orcs were being cleared from the mountains. The roads were open again – this fact the hobbits could attest to, as they told of their peaceful journey along roads that had been impassable mere decades ago. Sam, as Mayor of the Shire, had a much smaller domain to look after, and perhaps less significant news to share, but Aragorn looked interested nonetheless as he told of the comings and goings of the north. Elanor tried, at one point, to make polite conversation with Eldarion, but much like six years ago, they really didn’t have anything in common. He would, one day, be king of all the west. Elanor might, one day, if really pressed, learn to sew on her own buttons.

They stayed later than Elanor would have liked, but eventually her parents too began to feel weary, and they excused themselves, with promises to dine with them again tomorrow. Back in her room, Elanor tossed and turned in her bed, tugging at the stiff, unfamiliar sheets.

‘I shall never be able to get comfortable here!’ she thought, and then, to her great displeasure, fell at once into the soundest, most comfortable sleep of her life.

The next day the Gardners were given a tour of the city. It had in recent years received much improvement thanks to the peoples of Legolas and Gimli – whom Elanor looked out for eagerly everywhere they went. Because of the dwarves, water ran throughout the city, flowing in troughs and pipes, opening up into homes, bathhouses, elaborate marble fountains. Gates and arches and balustrades and bridges were wrought in rich metals and the floors were paved in white marble and adorned with mosaic tiles. It all looked terribly – well, fourth age, so to speak. But the city was not all metal and stone. Thanks to the elves, the city bloomed, streets lined with slender silver birches dropping yellow leaves on passers-by. Elanor caught one in mid-air and made a wish.

The city’s trade was thriving. In every square there were carts and stalls filled with rich silks, strange fruits, shiny dwarven tools and toys, cheap glass jewellery, meadows-worth of flowers, and much more besides. Vendors called out in a great cacophony advertising their wares, many in unfamiliar accents or strange tongues. At midday they stopped for lunch at one of these stalls. Elanor was encouraged to try an oyster, which did not agree with her at all, and she felt too queasy to try anything else. She stood sullenly behind her parents as they ate their fill of all sorts of exciting new foods, and thought miserably about strawberry jam and clotted cream.

There were just so many people. Young and old, tall and short, ugly and beautiful, from every corner of the world. But though she looked everywhere for a sign of the elves, everyone had in common only one thing: they were all human.

Some people were interested in the hobbits’ presence in the city, but mostly they were interested in Sam. He got stopped quite a few times – usually to be asked if he was one of the hobbits from the war (‘Indeed I am’), sometimes to be thanked for this (‘It was nothing, really, just doing my bit’), and on one occasion, to reconcile with someone who he had known during his brief stay in the city. Elanor suspected the increased interest here, as compared to at home, was due to the significant difference in the quantity of artwork about the war. The Shire, for example, held very few tapestries, while Elanor had spotted at least three with her father’s face on them just today. When Sam was stopped for the fifth time, Elanor informed her mother of this theory.

‘You’re probably right,’ Rose whispered back. ‘But I shan’t make him one. It would go straight to his head.’

It wasn’t all that much attention really, but it was more than they were used to, and that, as well as the general bustle and clamour of the big city, began to tire the hobbits out. Sam told them he knew somewhere quiet they could go, and led them – with some directional assistance from the guide accompanying them – to a quiet street and through an innocuous, faded green door set into the wall. They walked single file through a short, darkened passage, which emerged suddenly into a large, bright room with a ceiling of glass. A wave of warmth hit Elanor as she stepped in, as though she had been transported suddenly into summer once more. At the centre of the room was a fountain, which spilled onto the ground and ran through a trough in a large spiral throughout the room. Between the spiral-stream, the ground was set with beds of dirt, in which grew a rich, verdant garden. A small stone path wound through the garden, crossing the stream in places with stepping-stones. In the beds, and breaking up through the flagstones of the path too, was earthy sage, anemones, purple crocus, delicate cyclamens, plants beyond count filling the air with their scents.  A pale-yellow tree, its branches heavy with ripe pomegranates like shiny red baubles, drooped so low that the fruit skimmed the water. Grape vines clung to the walls and big, colourful beetles crawled on dinnerplate-sized leaves. It was like a little bubble of another world, kept hidden in the pocket of the city. The family sat on a bench, which was wound with vines and nestled back amongst the plants.

‘How lovely! It looks so magical. Did Legolas’s elves make it?’ asked Elanor, but Sam shook his head.

‘If it is the work of elves, it was elves long ago. It was here when I stayed in the city after the war. Mr. Frodo found it, actually.’

‘Does it have a caretaker?’ asked Elanor.

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen one. But I haven’t been here often, and it well might.’

‘Perhaps it sustains itself with magic!’ offered Elanor.

‘Perhaps,’ smiled Sam. ‘But I think it is more likely that the plants just sustain themselves, through ordinary growth. Ah, but what do I know? Maybe it is magic.’

That night they dined again with the royal family, and everything was much the same: The Gardners, the king and queen, the prince, the twins, the empty place. When Elanor finally got back to her room she was so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

A few more days passed in the same happy manner, exploring the city and being treated as honoured guests. One morning however, when a servant came to lead her to her daily activities, her parents were not summoned from their room, and she was not taken in the usual direction. Instead, she was led through the citadel, into a building she had not been in before. They stopped before a closed door, and the servant bowed and left her without explanation. Elanor looked around, searching for some clue, desperately hoping something would happen to save her from action, but the hallway was empty. There was nothing for it but to steel her nerves and knock on the door. From inside, a voice beckoned her in.

The room was a study, and a very organised one. The voice had come from an older woman, with greying hair tied in a scarf, in a rather out of date dress.

‘Hello,’ said Elanor nervously. ‘Uhh, I’m Elanor Gardner, I was told to come here?’ The woman looked her up and down.

‘You ought to curtsey when you greet someone,’ said the woman.

‘Oh, good,’ thought Elanor. ‘It’s going to be like this.’

‘Her majesty has chosen you as one of her maids of honour. Now, this is not just a fancy title. It is a job, a responsibility, but most importantly, it is an opportunity. You ought to be very grateful to her majesty. None of your kind have ever been given a chance like this before. You will be one of a group of girls, daughters of noble, highborn families. As a foreign child of another race, you are very lucky to have been granted a place amongst the ancient Gondorian families, so you will have to be on your best behaviour at all times. I am here to make sure of this. You may call me Mistress Pedweg. I am the mother of the maids – that is to say, I am responsible for your decorum, and I will not have you embarrassing me. Do you understand?’

Elanor restrained the intense urge to roll her eyes and nodded.

‘Yes, Mistress Pedweg,’ instructed Mistress Pedweg.

‘Yes, Mistress Pedweg,’ parroted Elanor.

‘Good. You may be a foreigner, but you will still be expected to follow our customs. For a start, your skirt needs the hem taken down. And it isn’t really appropriate attire anyway.’ Elanor tugged self-consciously at her skirt. ‘The queen herself is not as strict about our traditions, being a foreigner herself – meaning no offence to her majesty- but they are still important, and are not to be neglected. Stand up straighter. To be a maid of honour is to be many things: a companion, an attendant, an entertainer, an assistant, a secretary. But most importantly, you are here to learn how to be a lady. Yes?’

‘Yes, Mistress Pedweg.’

‘Mmm. Does your voice always sound like that?’

‘Yes, Mistress Pedweg,’ said Elanor with all the venom she could muster.

‘Hmm. Alright then. We ought, it appears, to begin with etiquette.’

Mistress Pedweg was not one to leave a job half done. She spent the better part of the day instructing Elanor on how she ought to dress, how she should wear her hair, what she ought to say and how she ought to say it, how to behave around menfolk, how (with a suspicious glare) to behave around womenfolk, what to eat, how to eat, how to walk, how to sit, what to read – you can read, can’t you? And this finally interrupted the endless stream of lessons as Mistress Pedweg switched to testing Elanor’s literacy. In common she was thankfully very good – which was not the case for all hobbits, but all the Gardner children read and wrote well, and Elanor liked books especially. But her elvish was limited. She knew a fair few words, but her writing was clumsy, which was, apparently, not good enough. ‘Not since we got the new elvish queen, anyhow,’ said Mistress Pedweg. Elanor thought it was rather a stretch to still be thinking of the queen as ‘new’ when she had ruled all Elanor’s life, and it was in any case irrelevant, because the kings of Gondor had always spoken elvish officially, long before Arwen’s time. She considered pointing this out, but Mistress Pedweg was close to finally letting her go, and she didn’t want to trigger another lecture. A tall stack of books on Gondorian culture and tradition were piled upon her, and she was, at long last, ushered out of the door and told to return tomorrow. When she got back to her room she dumped the books unceremoniously onto the floor and collapsed face down into her bed. Being a maid of honour had been a lot more fun from within the safe confines of her imagination.

She perked up a bit after she had eaten a hearty portion at supper, dining with the royal family once more. She had been content to tune out the mindless chatter and glue herself to her plate, until mid-way through the meal something happened to capture her attention. The door to the dining room opened partway, and a girl squeezed through quietly, as if hoping to go unnoticed - though all eyes were on her at once. She was tall and handsome, with tanned skin speckled with little scars and freckles. Her dark hair was cut choppily to her shoulders, and she wore men’s clothing, her riding boots splattered with mud.

‘Ah,’ said Arwen, her tone icy. ‘And here is my eldest daughter, the Princess Fíriel. She has deigned to grace us with her presence, at last.’

‘I apologise. Please, forgive me for my rudeness mother, father, esteemed guests,’ said the princess very sincerely, and bowed deeply. But as she rose she met Elanor’s gaze, and shot her a small, guilty smile. Elanor’s eyes widened, and she stared resolutely down at her plate, which had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. Fíriel came and sat at the empty place beside the prince. Arwen said something to her in rapid elvish, and she looked away a little sheepishly. Then the queen took a deep breath and smoothed her face over.

‘And now we are all here,’ she said.

The appearance of Princess Fíriel briefly convinced Elanor that her trip would have some merit after all. She was not at all the scrawny, spirited child of Elanor’s memory. She had grown into - well, she had grown. But her appearances remained elusive, and when Elanor returned to the school of Mistress Pedweg, any optimism was quickly shattered again. She spent the next few days holed up in the study, being drilled on etiquette, culture, history, court proceedings, and everything else that Mistress Pedweg deemed Elanor embarrassingly deficient in. She wrote lines and lines until her handwriting was up to scratch, she read aloud, she let herself be poked and prodded and lectured at until Mistress Pedweg was blue in the face. Once Mistress Pedweg was satisfied that she wouldn’t humiliate her entire family line if she was let out of her sight, Elanor was allowed to meet the other maids of honour.

There were five other girls, roughly Elanor’s age if not a few years younger, though all, she thought, looked significantly more mature than her. They were pretty, finely dressed, well-educated girls from highborn families, and you could tell that they knew it. Which wasn’t to say that they were snobbish or rude to Elanor – only that it was clear they hadn’t needed quite as much of Mistress Pedweg’s careful ministrations. They smiled politely, introduced themselves, asked Elanor about herself. When Mistress Pedweg wasn’t looking, one said to Elanor:

‘Don’t let the old bird wear you down, it’s jolly good fun really.’ And they certainly did seem to be having fun. They all appeared to have known each other for years, and words and laughter flowed easily. Elanor could not keep up with their familiar chatter, but tried to laugh along in the right places. They did try to include her – ‘Your father, he must be very important where you come from, right?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, he’s the mayor.’

‘The mayor, that’s nice. So that makes you…’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, what position does that give you? Like, my father is an earl, so I’m Lady Arthiel.’

‘Oh, uhh… no, being mayor doesn’t really work like that. It’s an elected position, see. So I’m just… well, nobody I guess.’

‘Oh, right, sorry. Elected, that’s cool, very modern’ – and so on. They weren’t trying to be rude. They were just – quite literally – a different species to her. When they turned from Elanor and returned to their own conversation, leaving her to listen in on the sidelines, it was a relief to everyone involved.

Elanor assumed that now she was prepared (sort of) for high society, she would be spending time with the queen. From all she had learnt about being a maid of honour, their biggest duty seemed to be to stand behind the queen, looking pleasant and being polite. However, the queen seemed to have no intention of appearing. Instead the girls were given trivial tasks – sorting through correspondences, writing invitations, needlework, things of that ilk - or else socialising in the court, which meant standing around while a lot of rich people in nice clothes ate fancy food and talked to each other about things Elanor didn’t care about, while ignoring Elanor once they had asked a cursory question about her father, and then pegged her as not much of a conversationalist. Elanor imagined Fastred, who you would have to physically wrestle into asking someone how their day had been, here with her, being forced to look interested in so-and-so’s ancestry, or diplomatic proceedings in some far off country, or recent trade delays, or the latest scandalous marriage. The thought almost made her laugh in some stranger’s face. For all their talk of tradition, it seemed like an awful lot of modern fuss to her.

‘The cost of peace,’ she thought, ‘is that with no wars to occupy people, they come up with the most ridiculous ways to waste time.’ For some days things continued like this, and Elanor was beginning to doubt that this was an honourable royal position at all, and not just an administrative job that she had been tricked into getting.

That was until one afternoon, when she was informed that the queen desired her personal company. Her stomach went all fluttery at once. She was directed to the queen’s quarters, and after a moment of silent panicking outside, rapped nervously on the door.  It was answered, to her surprise, not by a servant but by the queen herself, and Elanor almost forgot how to speak. Thankfully, she had recently been well-trained.

‘Your majesty,’ she said and curtsied.

‘Elanor. Walk with me,’ said the queen, and set off at once. Elanor trotted after her, wringing her hands. This was a little out of protocol, but she ought to be grateful, she supposed – the official protocol would have required at least half an hour of fawning and pleasantries.

She said no more as they walked through the great house, and then out, beginning the long trek down the spiral streets of the city. After a seemingly endless, silent walk, during which Elanor’s mind went into overdrive coming up with worst-case-scenarios for her summoning, they emerged from the main gate. Arwen slowed her pace, and now the two of them wandered alongside golden fields, across little streams, into fragrant orchards and gnarled old olive groves where swifts darted above the treetops, feasting on fruit flies.

‘They never land on the ground, did you know that?’ said Arwen, suddenly and unexpectedly.

‘The birds?’ asked Elanor, taken a little off guard. Mistress Pedweg hadn’t given her a script for conversations about birds.

‘Indeed. They spend almost their whole lives flying. They even sleep in flight. They only land to nest.’

‘Sounds tiring,’ ventured Elanor.

‘I’m sure it is.’

They walked on in silence, and Elanor was unsure if she was supposed to be saying something more, something insightful or entertaining for the queen. At last, when nothing better came to mind, she blurted out, ‘that’s got to be rather nerve wracking, for a baby swift. You’ve just got to jump out the nest and hope flying’s for you, because if it isn’t, or you’re bad at it or hate it or something, well tough luck, you’ve just got to keep flying forever.’ Then Elanor bit her lip to stop herself saying any more nonsense.

‘Oh, perhaps,’ said Arwen, acting as if Elanor had just said something meaningful and worth replying to. ‘But perhaps they love flying, or grow to love it. Anyhow, I dare say a time comes when a swift would give anything to fly for just a second more.’

‘You think a nesting swift misses flying? Even though it’s the only chance it gets to rest?’

‘Not the only time,’ said Arwen in a rather queer tone, and Elanor felt suddenly ashamed, as though she were disgracing the queen by having this conversation when she was clearly not wise enough for it. ‘But as for that, it’s not so much about missing. In any case, a swift’s brain probably isn’t large enough to miss things. The swifts must mate and nest for swifts to keep existing. It’s a simple choice. And yet… it is only in that moment that they are grounded, and thus not really a swift anymore. It is an exchange. When the world outgrows us, we can either be left behind, or change with the world, and so leave ourselves behind anyway.’

‘That’s… sad.’

‘It is sad. But that does not mean that they wish it any other way.’

The words seemed to fall from her mouth like music, like stars which hung lazily above their heads, caught in the canopies of the knotted olive trees. The effect of elvish speech really cannot be accounted for. We must remember, before judging Elanor too harshly for such romantic thoughts, that elves, ultimately, and regardless of mortality, are not human beings.

‘How are you finding my city?’ pivoted Arwen.

‘It’s lovely, ma’am,’ said Elanor, re-finding her footing on familiarly bland ground. But then, because as I have said, the effect of the elves cannot be accounted for, least of all in any etiquette lesson, Elanor added against the better judgement of all such lessons: ‘But…’

‘But?’

‘But it is not how I expected, is all,’ finished Elanor, slightly pink in the face.

‘Ah, I see. Well that is nothing to remark on, I’m afraid. You will find that many things are not as you left them. The world is changing, after all.’

‘I wish it wouldn’t,’ said Elanor, bluntly and reductively, but truthfully. ‘I wish everything would stay the same forever and ever.’

‘Many wish so. And yet if the summer never ended, we would have no word for it. Change is the only proof we have that anything exists at all.’

‘I know what exists,’ Elanor said sullenly. ‘In fact, I know rather too much of what exists, or has existed, and is now gone. It’s all just more to miss.’

Arwen smiled a little at her gloomy tone, and that in itself was enough to cheer any heart. But also she said:

‘Indeed, I am sure you know what has been lost far better than many who had it while it was here. And yet there are things which you have, that you know not of, and will not until they too have been lost.’

‘That seems a little… morbid. You speak as if these things are inevitable. Are we all just doomed to lose everything, then?’

‘Doomed? No. But will you? Yes. Loss comes to us all.’

They had wandered out of the other end of the orchard, and paused there, silent for a moment, in sight of the great gate of the Pelennor Fields. Elanor said nothing, but fidgeted nervously.

‘Do not fear, fair child. You need not hold on so tight,’ she said kindly, though Elanor was not holding anything. ‘Loss is not always loss. Things may find their way back to you,’ she added, which was riddling and confusing and illogical, as all good elvish proverbs are. And as she said this, a horn rang out, and a great troop of horsemen came galloping through the Great Gate, bearing high Gondorian banners, with several great elks slung over their shoulders. The merry hunt made a great whooping and cheering as the slowed their steeds and trotted victorious along the wide road into the city. At the head of the party rode the king, a deep green cloak flowing behind him, and out of the corner of her eye Elanor saw Arwen smile softly. Then a horseman broke off from the troop and galloped in their direction. As they approached Elanor realised, with a start and a fluttering of her heart, that astride the horse was Princess Fíriel, a simple circlet about her brow, in high boots and weather worn riding clothes all splattered with mud, a tall yew bow slung over her shoulder. Even from a distance she could see that she was breathless, her chest heaving, her face ruddy and windswept and exhilarated. Fíriel raised a hand and waved wildly in greeting. Arwen raised a hand in return, far more calmly, and her eyes twinkled with mirth.

‘Mother! Elanor! Hullo!’ she called, but they were separated by a field, which the farmer would certainly prefer to remain untrampled, so she did not stay, but swung her horse around again and caught up with the party. Once she had turned Elanor raised one hand also, and Arwen glanced down at her.

‘Hmm,’ said Arwen, sounding pleased, but about what, she kept to herself, and said no more.

If Arwen was pleased, Elanor was not. All that talk of losing things had reminded her of her parents’ imminent departure – after which she would be alone here, a thought which now seemed even more terrifying than it had from the safety of the Shire. Still, if the talk had done any good, it was that she felt more willing to serve the queen when she remembered the queen she was actually serving. Arwen made you want to do things for her, even if those things were the endlessly boring rituals of high society. It was worth ironing her dress and standing up straight and engaging in mind-melting conversation about things she didn’t care about, or explaining who she was for the tenth time that night, when the queen caught her eye and smiled at her. And that did begin to happen more often. After that day, Elanor started to see the queen more often, taking up more of what she had expected the duties of a maid of honour to be. Elanor was flung into the world of the royal court, and all the courtiers and dignitaries and noblemen that that entailed. The maids would accompany the queen to royal ceremonies, social outings, diplomatic meetings, celebratory gatherings, and many more things, which really all just meant ‘standing around’. And despite having to meet so many different people, still she saw no elves, nor dwarves, nor anyone, it seemed, but uninteresting humans. It was endlessly dull. Sometimes, if she was lucky, Elanor got to fill the queen’s cup. Sometimes if she was unlucky, this meant dancing, a torment from which she was saved only by the grace of being too short for any partner.

However, though being made to do anything against her will – a concept rather unfamiliar to Elanor – seemed sometimes torturous, she was not, as her complaints might have made one think, being overworked. In fact, compared to the tradition of the past, the maids really were barely worked at all. For one thing, the queen – also contrary to tradition – did less than her position would dictate. It was, people whispered behind her back (‘which is surely some form of treason, by the way,’ thought Elanor) because she was an elf, a foreigner, and thought herself above their culture. Elanor figured that the queen was probably just intelligent enough to know that it was all nonsense, and respected her all the more for it. But for another thing, the maids of honour did not accompany the queen everywhere she went because they were, of course, not her only attendants. They were only the junior division, so to speak, and saw her much less than the ladies-in-waiting. Elanor had seen the ladies-in-waiting soon after her introduction to the court, and her impression of them changed little afterwards: they were older women, regal and refined and very beautiful. Elanor, standing beside the maids of her own age, had thought herself immature looking; beside the ladies-in-waiting her peers seemed suddenly like children – which, she supposed, they were.

Anyway, the point was, Elanor was bored. Being a maid of honour was boring, the city was stuffy, even her free time stretched on too long with nothing to occupy it. She would sometimes see the other maids of honour hanging out together, but she was never invited. Not that she would have said yes anyway, she told herself, but an invite would have been nice. The city was too big and strange and frightening to wander off into by herself. She spent her evenings in her parents’ room, where they encouraged her to get out into the world, have some fun, make some friends. Explaining why this was impossible for her was an equally impossible task; she nodded along, pretending to listen, absorbed in daydreams all the while.

These daydreams featured a new protagonist: the mysterious Princess Fíriel, the rugged half-elven girl who rode with the king’s hunt and wore men’s clothing and disappeared, only to reappear looking like a returned adventurer. She looked out for her wherever she went, but she was never at any of the ceremonies and occasions that Elanor was made to attend, though her brother and parents often were. She was both fascinated by the mystery and extremely jealous, because whatever it was that Fíriel was getting up to, it had to be more interesting than Elanor’s life right now. She was sick of cities. She wanted to be outdoors, to climb trees and swim in lakes and jump in the mud without thinking of her dress. She had asked Mistress Pedweg if the queen ever went on a hunt, and if she might accompany her, but Mistress Pedweg had exclaimed:

‘Certainly not! Such things aren’t for ladies.’

‘But I saw Princess Fíriel on a hunt!’ Elanor had protested. ‘She’s never in the citadel, she just gets to go off and have adventures and do actually interesting things.’

‘The princess is… certainly unconventional,’ she had said stiffly. ‘But she is the king’s daughter, and under no jurisdiction but his own. We mustn’t question how his majesty rules his own children. You on the other hand are under many people’s authorities, including my own, and I say you are to behave properly. You’re not a wild child of the countryside anymore. You are a lady of the court, and you must act like it.’ And for all Elanor’s grumbling, that was that.

In this manner time passed. The winds grew colder and autumn grew on. In the uncanny manner of time, though the days themselves were unending, it seemed barely a moment had passed before it came time for her parents to leave. Despite the king’s insistence, they would stay no longer: they were fretting about their children, Sam had duties to get back to, they missed home. But Elanor, they said, was a big girl now; it would be good for her to have some independence, she’d be fine on her own. She was doing so good here, they were sure she would be glad to be on her own, so she could live an exciting life with other young people in the city, rather than being stuck at home with her boring old parents. All of this was, of course, untrue. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of being left alone here. But she didn’t want her parents to worry, so she said nothing of it. Still, with each passing day that brought their departure closer, she felt a growing sense of dread.

The night before her parents were set to leave, there was a ball in their honour. There was a great feast, with long tables so overflowing that she half expected to see a cornucopia. Not that any hobbit would complain about such a thing. It was a merry meal, with mead flowing and constant song – courtesy of the mead. Even Sam contributed, with some encouragement, for he had always had a great passion and memory for song. It was a little embarrassing, but mostly very sweet. After everyone had eaten their fill, which took a good long while, tables were moved to the sides of the great hall, and lamps were lit, and there was proper music, with a great array of instruments, and there was dancing, figures spinning together into a colourful blur. Elanor, leant against a pillar in the corner of the hall, an empty mug clasped in her hands (and several more beside her), felt as though she were a tree, so big and old that everything flitted past her in the blink of an eye while she stood weighty and unmoving through the ages. She felt as though everyone else were in a different world to her, a different plane of existence, layered on top of the one she was in, so close that she could almost touch them, but separated by a gossamer thin curtain. She looked down at herself, feeling as she did so as if she were moving at a snail’s-pace, and found herself the only solid thing in a room of blurred movement. But when she looked up again she could see, clear and solid, as if the only one in the same world as her, Princess Fíriel. She couldn’t even see who Fíriel was dancing with, everything around her was hazy. Only her face was clear, bright with laughter, her skin golden in the lamplight, her quick feet propelling her through the dance so lightly it seemed she were flying. She was so full of life that it overflowed out of her, splashing to her feet as she spun round, flooding the room with it, honey-golden, as if the dawn was breaking entirely within this hall.

Elanor, a thousand miles away, fancied that she was watching as the ghost world - the world of everyone but her and Fíriel - faded, and in its place there grew the tall pillars of a forest grove, silver-green under the starlight of a star-studded sky, where tall hemlocks swayed in a wind that was more like music.

‘Hullo,’ said Fíriel.

Elanor blinked. She was in the hall once more. The music was only music. Fíriel was standing right in front of her.

‘Hullo.’

‘Sorry we haven’t talked properly yet. You know how it is. Fíriel,’ she said, sticking out a hand. ‘Course you knew that already, but you can’t really say you’ve met someone if they had to be all proper and bow and all that.’ She had a very firm handshake. ‘They aren’t working you too hard, are they? Bloody awful thing to go and get saddled with, a job. I can’t stand being told what to do all the time,’ she said, speaking quite loudly to be heard over the hubbub.

‘Oh – it’s ok, really. It’s not all that bad. It’s not, uh…’ Elanor trailed off uselessly.

‘Good lad,’ said Fíriel, and slapped Elanor’s shoulder. ‘If they give you some time off, you ought to get out more. It’s no fun here. Here in the citadel I mean. I’ll introduce you to my horse sometime, take you for a ride or something. Get out the city for a bit. Oh – Hi! Mae!’ She was waving at someone across the room. ‘Pardon me,’ she said, and then dashed off into the crowd once more. It was a long while before Elanor could breathe again.

That night – late that night, for they did not return to their rooms until the early hours – Elanor found herself staring at the ceiling, unblinking, unable to silence her mind. She tossed and turned and eventually, with a great sigh, heaved herself out of bed. She padded out onto the cold tiled floor, still in her nightdress, and made for her parents’ room, when the sound of her father’s voice stilled her. It was coming not from the room but from around the corner. She crept towards it, and found her father standing on a balcony, looking out at the night. She was about to call to him when she heard another voice – another step forward and she realised that he was not alone. Aragorn was beside him. They spoke in muffled tones, too quiet for Elanor to pick out their words, just the soft murmur of speech. She stood in the shadows, watching them for a moment. Her father said something, then went quiet, and Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder. Feeling suddenly guilty, Elanor crept away. She returned to her parents’ room and knocked on the door, and her mother’s voice answered. She pushed the door open. Rose was in bed, and looked a little bleary.

‘Ellie dear, are you alright?’

‘Yes, I’m okay. Dad is talking to the king.’

‘I know, he stopped by. Strange isn’t it. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Imagine, the king himself coming knocking on our door!’

Elanor nodded, standing dumbly in the doorway. She wasn’t really sure what she had come here for.

‘Oh, before I forget, I darned your mittens. There was a big hole on the thumb. Take them before I forget and carry them all the way home with me. You must promise me you’ll wear them, even when I’m not here to nag you about it. It may not be cold now, but I don’t want you to catch a chill when winter comes.’

To her great embarrassment, Elanor started sniffling right there in the doorway. When Rose got up in a hurry, a concerned look on her face, and gathered her in her arms, she burst into ugly wet sobs.

‘Whatever is the matter dear?’ she asked anxiously.

And Elanor had had lots of very good and poetic reasons to be upset, she was sure of it. But she couldn’t remember a single one of them, so she just cried, ‘I want to go home and I can’t and you’re leaving me and I want to go home!’

‘Oh, Ellie. Ellie, blow your nose dear.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘Hush now. It’s okay. It’s okay,’ said Rose, stroking her hair. ‘You don’t have to stay if you really don’t want to. We would never make you do that. You know that, right?’ Elanor wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and gave her mother what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

‘I know. And no. It’s okay. I do want to stay here, really. I’m just going to miss you, is all.’

‘Oh Ellie, my baby,’ said Rose, sniffling too now. ‘I’ll miss you too.’

The next morning they stood before the gates of the city. A carriage and driver awaited her parents a little way off, but for a moment the Gardners stood alone.

‘Now, we’ve got you a little going away present, for you to hold onto for your time here,’ started Sam.

Rose stepped forward, holding something behind her back.

‘Now – and listen Ellie, this is very important. You are not to carry this around with you. You are not to play with it, it isn’t a toy. This isn’t something you’ll need to use – don’t try to see it, I’m still talking young lady – but your father and I spoke and we agreed that we are going to let you have this, just for now, just for our peace of mind. And as a piece of home. And of – well, you’ll see.’ Elanor was almost vibrating with excitement, and Rose at last revealed what she was holding.

‘Sting!’ cried Elanor. ‘Frodo’s sword! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!’

‘I better not get a letter saying you’ve stabbed yourself waving this around. You won’t need to use this, Elanor. If you were truly in danger, the king would always be here to look after you,’ Rose instructed sternly, though she gave in and smiled when Elanor hugged her.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Sam, smiling also. ‘I can’t see any reason she would have to use it. When has a hobbit ever gotten themselves into any adventures?’

Elanor gripped the sword tight as she watched her parents climb aboard the carriage. Her excitement, just as suddenly as it had appeared, sunk down, deep into the pit of her stomach. She waved until the carriage rolled out of sight, and then turned, and walked back into the city.

Chapter Text

That night, Elanor dreamed.

She dreamed that she stood upon an empty beach, under a dull grey twilight. The sea was black and the sand dark and wet – but, lit by the moonlight, iridescent and pearly, a single white shell stood out against the muddy sand. Drawn irresistibly towards it, she picked it up, and as she did so a sound rung out from it, as if from a bell. She startled at the noise, but almost instantly a white boat, silent and empty, floated out of the gloom and into the shallows of the water. Where before she had startled, now she felt certain. She ran forward, unbothered by the freezing waters, and climbed aboard the ship. At once, unmanned, it sailed itself forth from the beach and into the misty seas. She sailed smoothly on a calm ocean, but in the distance she could see tall, ferocious waves, the corners of some great storm which hadn’t reached her yet. Eventually she saw on the horizon a white shore, all shining with moonlight, as the shell had been.

Now she stood upon the shore, under the tall arms of bony cliffs. The beach shone as the sea did, the moon reflecting on the tip of every wave, and when she bent down and ran her fingers through the sand it seemed to shimmer and sing like a million fragments of diamond, and left tiny cuts on her palm. Upon the cliff face was delved caves, great big arching openings, curtained by damp seaweed, covering the yawning dark within. The wind rattled through these caves and let out terrible, twisted howls, as though the beckoning cave entrances were the maws of some great beast.

She left the beach quickly and hurried to where the cliffs sloped down, until they became a gradual hill up into this new land. Everything lay still under the blue shadow of twilight and the moon’s watchful white eye. White flowers bloomed underfoot, something like bindweed but bigger and more abundant; like the litterings of a shattered star, they carpeted the meadows and floated atop the smooth, glassy lakes. Everything was said in a whisper here: the wind through the rushes and willows which bordered the mirror-lakes; the wing beat of a fluttering moth, big as a saucer and white as the moon; the pattering flow of little streams, crystal clear, leaping down the hillsides; the distant murmur of voices, the faint drum of footsteps, and was that the music of a pipe floating along on the wind? Yet wherever she turned, whenever she chased towards the noise, the sounds quickly faded, and she doubted whether her mind hadn’t been playing tricks on her.

‘Hello?’ she called, but there was no reply. By the side of a lake she weaved herself a crown of reeds and a staff of willow, and standing upon the peak of a hill called out in a loud voice, ‘Why do you hide from me? I am king of this land!Come back, speak to me! Please!’ But instantly she knew, as her voice broke the heavy stillness, that she should not have cried aloud in this land. The blue twilight faded before her eyes and darkness crept in, vast and consuming. She fell to her knees in terror, overcome suddenly by the immense weight of an all-seeing gaze. She crawled like a shrunken, stepped on little insect to the nearest patch of trees, under which she curled, trembling, burying herself in the mould, trying to make herself small, to go unseen. The sky reeled above her, the birds laughed at her shivering form, the insects crawled upon her and spiders spun their webs between her limbs, yet still she dared not move, until it felt like the night had lasted for a hundred years, and the forest had grown over her.

Finally, finally, the sky began to lighten, the first watery pale hints of dawn appearing, but they seemed like blinding light after the depth of the night. Then she leapt up, her back bent and her hair long and grey, and thought only of leaving this horrid land. As she ran the ravens wheeled overhead and cawed-like-laughter and dived at her; the brambles caught on her clothes and dragged her back; the wind blew hard and sharp in her face; now it was snow, now icy hail, and now it seemed that the whole silent land had awoken and once-still waters raged restless and angry and the ground groaned and the sea – over the hill, there, finally, the sea – heaved and spat and churned white foam and there, there was the white boat being tossed upon the surf.

Now the dream moved quickly; the night was almost up. She raced to the boat, and the second the flung herself onto its deck it sped away, crossing the raging ocean in an instant. Down she leapt onto solid ground, back on the real beach, back over familiar lands, back she raced to her own little Shire. But the sun had not risen, hidden by heavy dark clouds, and only a lighter grey in the sky indicated that day had come at all. She was looking for something – her home, she thought - but the streets were empty, the windows shuttered. As it began to rain she ran from home to home, pounding desperately on doors. Whispers were hushed as she approached, lights blown out when she knocked. Inns were empty, doors flapping in the wind. Distant shadows hurried around the next corner when she caught sight of them. In desperation she began to fling things at doors and windows – pockets full of sand, a silent, dull shell. Yet still, and in the way of dreams, this she knew for certain: still would no one speak to her. Never again would anyone speak to her.

Then she woke up. She had this dream every night.

As for the waking world, Elanor began to think that either Fíriel had forgotten about her offer at the ball, or hadn’t really meant it and was just being polite, or else that Elanor had made up the interaction entirely. As time went by and she still didn’t see her, the latter option began to seem more and more likely. But one day, quite unexpectedly, she was proven wrong.

She was leaving a room in which she had been sitting quietly and politely with the queen and several other ladies, doing nothing at all (for doing something certainly wouldn’t be ladylike), and nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Fíriel leaning against the wall, just beside the door.

‘She wasn’t boring you, was she?’ said Fíriel, gesturing into the room. Elanor shook her head, wide-eyed.

‘Did they show you the stables when they showed you round the place?’

‘Uh – only briefly.’

‘You want to meet some horses?’

‘Yes. Umm. Yes please,’ Elanor said, almost wincing as the words left her mouth clumsily.

‘Cool,’ said Fíriel, and without further ado strode purposefully off down the hall. Elanor scurried after her.

The stables were in the sixth level of the city, so they didn’t have far to go. There was none of the prim properness of the citadel here – everyone had a job to do, and they were doing it. City guards, travelling merchants, messengers, people on a thousand different errands rode in and out, and stableboys rushed between them all, hauling and sweeping and shovelling and brushing. Fíriel strode through the chaos, completely at ease, and suddenly it was as though the other half of a picture had been revealed and the whole image at last made sense. Of course she seemed out of place in the sparkling white halls of the palace – it was here that she belonged. She led Elanor through the long halls of the stables without halting, a clear destination in mind. Elanor had to walk close behind her so as not to get swept up or trampled or kicked. They walked almost to the end of the long stables, and halted at last by the stall of a tall bay stallion, glossy and proud, with a carefully plaited mane.

‘The men of Gondor are not riders by trade, but I come from the blood of the Dúnedain and the elves, so I was basically destined to love horses. And this one I love most of all. More than most people. All people. He’s called Nahar,’ declared Fíriel proudly, as she rubbed his nose.

‘Nahar… like the steed of Oromë?’

‘Yes,’ said Fíriel, sounding surprised. ‘Are you familiar with the stories of the Valar?’

‘Oh,’ said Elanor, a little self-conscious, ‘a little bit. I’m no expert. But I do enjoy, umm. Stories. Of all descriptions. I’ve also been, uh, reading from the library a lot recently. The one here is bigger than any in the Shire. Um,’ she ended conclusively.

‘Me too,’ said Fíriel, who possessed her family’s indispensable virtue of pretending Elanor said coherent things worth listening to. ‘My tutors were all very disappointed when my courtship with books began and ended with tales of adventure. But it inspired my naming skills, if it did nothing better for me.’

‘Yeah, I was always pretty rubbish at learning too.’

‘Well, I don’t know about rubbish, just sort of distracted, but-’

‘Oh, yeah, yes, that’s what I meant. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you-’

‘No, it’s fine, I know you didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Right, yeah.’

There was a beat of silence. Elanor’s face was burning red.

‘Umm, so… have you had Nahar a long time then?’

‘Oh yes, since I was a child,’ said Fíriel, sounding slightly relived at the shift in topic. ‘He’s actually descended from the Mearas, so he’ll live a lot longer than normal horses.’

‘Wow, that’s cool! As long as you?’ As she asked the question, it occurred to Elanor that she hadn’t the slightest idea how long Fíriel would live. She wondered if anyone knew.

‘Well… no. He’s quite distantly related,’ admitted Fíriel. ‘But he’ll live a good long while. And really, it just means he’s tamer. Well, not tame exactly, but he’s very gentle. If you wanted – I mean, I did promise you a ride after all.’

‘Oh - I – uhh – I –’

‘It’ll only be a little way. He really is the gentlest horse you could ride, I promise. Here,’ she said, and to Elanor’s great embarrassment, picked her up with ease and placed her on Nahar. She vaulted up after her, and Elanor, suddenly very high from the ground, instinctively wrapped her arms tight around Fíriel’s waist.

‘Don’t worry – I won’t let you fall off,’ said Fíriel. Elanor thanked her lucky stars that Fíriel could no longer see her face, because it was, if it was even possible, burning even redder.

‘Hya!’ cried Fíriel with a kick, and Nahar thundered out of the stall and through the stable, as though charging into battle. For all Fíriel’s promises of safety, several people had to throw themselves out of their way, and angry curses were thrown after them.

‘Should you be going this fast inside?’ asked Elanor nervously, shouting over the wind whipping by her ears.

‘Fifteen years of riding and I’ve never hit anyone and I’ve never fallen off!’ Fíriel called back. Then, after a moment’s consideration: ‘Okay, that was a lie, I’ve fallen off. But no one’s ever gotten hurt but me.’

And indeed, they cleared the stables with no more harm done than some shaken nerves. Still, Elanor was relieved once they were out on the streets and Fíriel slowed to a walk.

‘Whatever tour they gave you, forget it. I’ll actually show you Minas Tirith,’ she said.

They rode through the city, winding back and forth across the levels, passing quickly by the glamorous areas the Gardners had lingered in on their tour. They slowed once they came to the lower levels, where most of the population lived. Children raced across the street, laughing and yelling, and Elanor realised for the first time how quiet it was in the citadel without the noise of children. It was never quiet in Bag End; the noise of children playing had been a constant in Elanor’s life, often annoying, but always there, for as long as she could remember. She hadn’t even realised that she had been missing it until she heard it again.

They rode by rows of narrow houses, tall buildings with washing lines strung between them, doors and shutters painted colourfully with peeling paint. Elanor noticed that large, uneven patches of the walls were built of newer, brighter stone – sections that had been rebuilt much more recently. Following the lines of the new stone, Elanor pictured where the walls had crumbled, how much had been destroyed in the fires of war. Just the image of it was enough to make her feel guilty about how much she mourned the Shire’s few little scars. No wonder the city was so sparkling new. So much of the old had been burnt away.

As they wandered through the streets, many people called out greetings to Fíriel, and she responded familiarly. She knew many of them by name. Some children chased them down, and she paused to let them reach up on their tiptoes and rub Nahar’s nose. Nahar patiently let them pat him for a while, then shook his head and neighed, and they all squealed and ran off.

‘You’re good with kids,’ commented Elanor once they had moved on.

‘Nah, not really. I just have little siblings.’

‘I have little siblings by the dozen and I’m still no good with them. My mother stopped trying to get me to babysit after Bilbo got stung by bees on my watch and went home crying. I was only nurturing his adventurous instincts. If anything I was teaching him a valuable life lesson. But I don’t suppose such things happen to you. Do all the birds and beasts obey the princess - you know, come together to sew you a gown and sing you a song or something?’ joked Elanor.

Fíriel laughed, a wonderful hearty sound. ‘Yeah, right. If you saw half the stupid things I’ve gotten up to – don’t admire me, Elanor Gamgee. That’s rule number one.’

‘Gardner.’

‘What?’

‘My surname. It’s Gardner. Not Gamgee.’

‘Oh.’

‘My dad’s surname is Gamgee but, uhh, all his children took the name Gardner, because he replanted a lot of the Shire after the war.’

‘Oh, right. That’s cool.’

They were still. They had ridden, without thinking, to the great gate, and paused there, just within the city walls, looking out over the world beyond the city, the Pelennor Fields aflame in the light of the setting sun.

‘It is strange though,’ said Fíriel thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I did spend too much time on tales. I set myself up with so many expectations that are never going to come true, and now nothing is as I thought it would be.’ She turned to look at Elanor. ‘You’re nothing like your father, you know?’

‘Yeah, I know. Sorry to disappoint.’

‘I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. It’s just, that’s all I had to go on, when thinking of you. But you’re a whole new person. I’m glad you are, though. It’s nice to meet you, Elanor Gardner.’

‘Oh,’ said Elanor, her heart all aflutter. ‘Yeah, I… I understand. I’m like that too. With expectations. Usually it’s bad but… well, I didn’t expect you, and that’s… it’s nice to meet you too, Fíriel.’ Surprising even herself, she tightened her arms around Fíriel’s waist. A cold breeze blew in from the mountains, and Fíriel shivered.

‘But come, I mustn’t keep you after dark. People might talk,’ she said, her tone suddenly light-hearted again, and they turned from the fields and rode back into the city.

For a little while Elanor replayed the encounter over and over in her mind, regretting everything she had said and cringing at everything she had done. But soon the reigning emotion of her stay triumphed: boredom. Before she had, at least, had her parents to talk to, even if parents aren’t quite the same as friends. But now she really had no one. The big people paid her no mind, and she had little interest in them. Fíriel went back to vanishing. She was too frightened to venture out into the city on her own, big and busy as it was. Sometimes she would go on little walks round the citadel, but as the days grew grey and chill she retreated almost entirely to her little room. Sometimes she would read. Mostly she spent her time dreaming: of running away from the city, of seeing Fíriel again, of going on a proper adventure, of going home. The latter most of all. Elanor didn’t mind being alone – liked it, even – but she was growing sick of her own company. Without the gleam of late summer light, the city had rather stopped looking magical and exciting, like an illustration out of a storybook. Now, it just looked like a big, grey city. And here she was, sat in her little room, looking out the window and dreaming of someplace else. A thousand miles from home and nothing had changed.

Eventually, boredom overcame fear, and Elanor decided to risk seeking out the secret garden that her father had shown her. She longed for the real countryside, grass beneath her feet and clean air in her lungs - or her father’s garden at home, exploding with summer flowers, white foxgloves bending in the breeze - but a quiet spot with some plants would have to suffice.

She felt fairly confident that she remembered the way to the garden, but it turned out, after getting barely 100 paces out of the citadel, that she didn’t. A prominent marker of the route had been a big market – which was not up today, a fact which she did not realise until she had gone far off course looking for it. She wandered around blindly for a while, until she thought she recognised a specific tree, and set off in that direction. She ended up on an empty street, which seemed right, though she still wasn’t sure that she recognised it. But, at last, she came to the unmarked green door. It looked as though it had gotten a fresh coat of paint since last time she had been here; perhaps it did have a carer then. As she pushed the door open, she was imagining some secret magical gardener, maybe a lonely elf, looking after the mysterious garden. With these images in her mind she stepped out of the darkened tunnel-entryway and into the wide light of… a workshop. A craftsman’s workshop, walls lined with tools, a canopy of metalwork hanging from the ceiling, including things that ought to be hung, like chandeliers, and things that certainly oughtn’t, like great sharp spears. Strings of gemstones lay strewn everywhere, spilling out of compartmentalised trays. Every spare bit of space was filled with bits of scrap metal, rusty bronze antiques, lights and lamps casting a mottled orange glow over the room, weapons, furniture, big clocks, faces emblazoned with leaping sheep, toys of all descriptions, and a most incredible array of jewellery. Big heavy rings, silver chains as delicate as spiderwebs, jewel-strung necklaces and bracelets and crowns and girdles, anything that could be wrought in gold and silver and bronze and twisting wire and glass, all glittering in the motley light of a dozen lamps. For a moment, as her eyes adjusted, the creations shone like veins of raw ore in the dark cave-wall of the cluttered, dusty workshop.

There were decidedly no plants.

For a moment Elanor stood frozen in surprise. But before she could gather her wits and hurry back the way she had come, to her horror, a door at the back of the workshop swung open, and someone stepped in, carrying a box and whistling. He was short, with a full beard, and for a moment Elanor thought he was an old man, hunched over, until he turned towards her, and in the same moment she realised that he was a dwarf, and he that there was a stranger in his shop. They stood at a standstill, staring.

‘May I… help you?’ he asked haltingly.

‘I’m sorry. I thought this was somewhere else. I’ll go,’ said Elanor, backing away.

‘Woah, woah, it’s okay, you don’t have to go. Are you lost? Where are you parents?’ he said gently. She realised he must think her a human child.

‘I – oh, no! No, my parents aren’t here. I’m a grown-up. Uhh, an adult. I’m twenty-one. So I can just be on my way, I’m sorry for intruding-’

‘Twenty-one? I don’t mean to be rude, but-’

‘I’m a hobbit,’ she explained hastily. ‘A halfling. So this is, uh,’ she gestured at herself vaguely. ‘Full height.’

‘A hobbit! Oh, well, fancy that! I didn’t know there were any hobbits in Minas Tirith.’

‘Just the one,’ said Elanor, pausing her retreat, for he seemed friendly enough, and inclined to conversation. ‘I didn’t know that there were dwarves, as a matter of fact.’

‘You don’t think men could have built this city on their own, do you?’ said the dwarf, raising an eyebrow.

‘Not at all. But I never seen any of you. I thought dwarves and elves were meant to, like, live in harmony here. Where is everyone?’ Then, remembering her manners, she added: ‘if you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Well, now that you mention it, I am probably one of the last dwarves left in the city. My kinsmen have already left to winter in the White Mountains. And the elves dwell in Ithilien. But they’ll be round again, in brighter days.’

‘Oh,’ said Elanor, disappointed. ‘So there’s no chance of seeing Legolas then? Only, I had rather been hoping to meet him.’

‘Nay, where you find the Lord Gimli you will find Legolas, and my Lord has not been in the city for some months now. There is much to attend to in other lands.’

‘Are there really no elves at all then?’ asked Elanor.

‘Naught but the queen,’ said the dwarf, and Elanor sighed. There went that dream. ‘But enough about dwarves and elves - what are hobbits doing here? More specifically, what are you doing here, in my workshop? You are trespassing you know, young lady, and if you’re a grown-up then you’ll have to face grown-up consequences.’

‘I’m sorry!’ she stammered, remembering suddenly where she was and panicking once more. ‘I really am, I was lost, and I thought this was – and I didn’t mean to –’

‘It’s alright, it’s alright!’ he interrupted hastily. ‘I’m only joking, little one. I can see you mean no harm.’ He smiled, and his stern face at once turned rosy, his dark eyes, set deeply in his brown face, sparkling with a kindly light, like his jewels. ‘I am Lómi son of Lóni, of the people of Lord Gimli of the Glittering Caves.’ He bowed deeply and his beard brushed his toes. ‘At your service.’

‘And I at yours,’ said Elanor, bowing back, feeling immensely pleased that she got to use the dwarven greeting. ‘I’m Elanor Gardner. Uh, Elanor daughter of Samwise.’

‘That would be the Samwise of the war, would it? Companion of Frodo?’

‘Mhm, that’s him.’

‘My goodness! Well then it’s a pleasure to meet you, daughter of Samwise. But he’s not here, you say?’

‘No, he’s at home. I’m a maid of honour here, for the queen.’

‘I must say, you’re awfully young to be such a long way from home without your folks. Maybe one and twenty years are many to the halfling folk, but the dwarves would consider you still a child. But then again, you are a child of the fellowship. I suppose you’re no normal halfling. I’m sure you’re able to handle anything.’

‘Actually, I’m not of age even by my people’s standards. And, uh, I’m not sure about handling anything. It’s kind of… well, lonely, being the only one of your kind around. I admit, I’m rather glad to see someone who isn’t a man, if you take my meaning. I was beginning to think I was the only one.’

‘Indeed I do. It can be hard, to be the only one around who’s different. There is nothing like one’s own people. I myself am leaving to rejoin my people this very next morn.’

‘Oh,’ said Elanor, and they ground to a slightly awkward halt. ‘Well, I like your shop,’ she offered, gesturing about.

‘Oh, thank you my dear. It’s antiques, mostly. I’m a repairman more than a craftsman. My real work is the city itself. A great team of dwarves have been working on rebuilding the city ever since the war, and we’ve made some improvements, if I do say so myself. I am but one worker, of course - but still. I would have been glad to show you around, if I weren’t about to leave.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Elanor earnestly. ‘I would have so liked to see some dwarven magic.’ She really would have liked to see it. The elves had always been the chief subject of Elanor’s dreams, but the work of the dwarves was still a wonder of its own, and the subject of many a story - not least Bilbo’s. This seemed her last chance to see anything worth a proper old story, before she was left the last inhuman creature in the whole city. She wasn’t trying to look miserable, but she also wasn’t trying very hard to hide the look on her face. Lómi looked a little sheepish.

‘Oh, well, I really do need to finish packing up. But perhaps my wife could show you around?’

‘Really!’ exclaimed Elanor, perking up at once. ‘That would be wonderful, thank you!’

Lómi led her through the back door of the workshop and into a smaller room, brighter and homier. Hunched over a desk was another dwarf, peering at the papers strewn across the desk through a pair of small, round spectacles. She appeared to Elanor’s eyes much like to her husband in fashion: she had a beard, into which a string of little white gemstones had been neatly plaited, and wore a similar style of clothes, but in her eyes, as she looked up at her husband, there sparkled some light which Elanor might have described as girlish, though her silver-streaked hair indicated many years past girlhood. Lómi came over to her and kissed her brow.

‘This is my wife, Lynhilda. My diamond, this is Elanor, daughter of the hobbit Samwise. She is here alone, and she should like to see some of the work of the dwarves.’ Lynhilda clapped her hands together.

‘Oh, but you’re so little!’ she clucked. ‘A hobbit, you say? What a fair little girl. I should have thought you an elf child, if any such children still existed. I’ve seen hobbits before, but only males, and they didn’t look a bit like you.’

‘And excuse me for saying so,’ said Elanor, feeling vaguely offended, though she wasn’t sure why, ‘but I haven’t seen a dwarf woman before either. Nor even heard of one.’

‘But I am not a woman,’ she said serenely. ‘I am a dwarf.’

‘And I’m a hobbit,’ said Elanor, a little unsure as to what word-game they were playing. But Lynhilda laughed, and it was a bright and merry sound.

‘Indeed you are, and so the matter is settled. In any case, elvishness at least can be ruled out, if you are taking an interest in our crafts. Meaning no offence to her majesty the queen, or to Master Legolas.’ Elanor chose not to mention that she had rather stumbled into taking an interest. ‘If you would like, I would be happy to show you some of our creations in the city.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ said Elanor, and so Lynhilda packed up her papers and kissed Lómi goodbye, and together they walked out into the city.

Lynhilda led her first to the great forge of the dwarves. The dwarves themselves were absent, but it did not run cold. They approached a great tower of a furnace, out of which black smoke poured like a fire-spewing mountain. Several more chimneys loomed behind, puffing like dragons.

‘Men keep the fires burning,’ explained Lynhilda. ‘We have taught them much of our crafts, in recent times. When there is peace, there is time for learning. Soon I wager that men will outpace the dwarves entirely. Yes, indeed!’ she said to Elanor’s look of disbelief. ‘For this is the age of men now, and dwarves are growing old, and too slow to keep up with the change.’

They watched from outside the forge as men pumped bellows and smote iron. Waves of heat rolled out, warming the brisk autumn air. They walked on, and Lynhilda pointed out the aqueducts that strode long-legged over the buildings, funnelling water through the city and into every home, even heating some of them, the explanations of which fell on deaf ears. She showed her mills and clocktowers and platforms that rose across the levels of the city; she showed her the gates shimmering with mithril and the steel enforced walls which had remade Minas Tirith as an impenetrable fortress.

‘But here is what I think to be the most important project of all,’ said Lynhilda, and led her back to the forge and through a series of corridors, tunnelling further and further into the mountainside that the city was built upon. The walk was long, and as the walls grew darker and shoddier, Elanor grew a little nervous. From afar, there came a loud blast, and the rock shuddered. Elanor flinched and froze. But Lynhilda said:

‘Do not fear! This is what I wanted to show you.’ They emerged at last into a large cavern, smooth and well-lit by torches, from off which many tunnels sprang. Here there were men, miners so it seemed, in helmets, carting great loads of ore around. There was another great boom from one of the further passages, and against Elanor’s better instincts they headed towards it.

‘The wizards were the first to make use of explosives,’ began Lynhilda.

‘Oh yes, Gandalf made wonderful fireworks!’ Elanor interjected, pleased to know something. The fireworks of Gandalf had made a tremendous impact on the people of the Shire, even those who had never seen them, though they were remembered little anywhere else in the world. Lynhilda nodded.

‘Indeed. But Saruman made use of them too, for more nefarious purposes. The fire of Orthanc was a great and terrible weapon in the war. But gunpowder – so we call the explosive powder – is not merely a weapon, but a tool, and no longer a tool of only wizards, for we are learning to master it.’ They halted, for their passage came to an abrupt ending, in a great crater of rock, jagged and smokey-smelling. In the torchlight, something silvery glinted in the exposed rock. ‘We have harnessed the inventions of war for good. Mining has never been so efficient. The city grows rich. The people prosper. Few go hungry in these times. And there are many more uses besides mining! The great roads of old are being restored, and new ones built. This is a time of trade and travel. With gunpowder we may build roads straight and true, carving the rock of the land to our liking, bending even mountains before us. Journeys shall be swift and safe for all travellers. A man of Dale may eat a peach grown in Ithilien the same day it is plucked ripe from the tree!’ Then she turned to Elanor and smiled. ‘But I’m rather getting ahead of myself there. Still, there is much to look forward to in this coming age.’ Elanor returned her smile, but as they turned and began to return the way they had come, she couldn’t help privately feeling some dread at the talk of mountains bowing before men. It didn’t seem right. Elanor liked the world wild and wonderful and dangerous, where there were yet mysteries to unfold and places to discover, a world where it took a long while to get somewhere because there was a lot worth looking at on the way. The thought of laying all the world’s secrets bare to fit everything into a man-made order, to create more rules and order and work, was nothing short of horrifying. But then, she thought guiltily, perhaps she was being selfish. Her life had always been easy. This prosperity was really helping some people. The city now was thriving. More people had homes, less people were hungry, there was no more war. They were trying to make life better, not cause harm, and surely they were smarter than her. She couldn’t decide what was right and what was wrong, so she said nothing.

‘I told you that men may outpace even the dwarves – this is what I meant,’ continued Lynhilda. ‘The dwarves helped with this, but it was the invention of men.’

‘How could that be?’ asked Elanor. ‘Men have never held a candle to your skill before.’

‘Ah, now there’s a tricky question. The dwarves have a long history of knowledge and experience and skill to draw on. We live long lives, and in the manner of the long-lived, we do things slowly, and with great persistence. Some dwarf creations may take many of our lifetimes to complete, and yet we happily dedicate our lives to things we may not live to see the results of. But men live fleeting lives, and they would like to see everything in those lives. Their skill will never rival the dwarves at their peak, but their ambition, their imagination – every man is young, really, to a dwarf, and so all have the bright young brains for making things new, for learning and changing and growing. And the dwarves, in turn, grow only older. We are set too deeply in our ways. So we will be left behind.’

‘Are there no dwarf children then? Like how there’s no elf children?’

‘There are some,’ said Lynhilda. ‘But few dwarves marry, and few children are had. And the war hit us hard. It’s all less of a rush for us, you see. We are an old, old people. Our fathers were carved from stone before even the elves awoke.’ She paused, and then spoke to the sky: ‘I had a son myself, once.’ A cloud of sadness, black and heavy, seemed to come over her, but then passed again just as suddenly, as though the wind had blown it past, and the sun shone out once more. ‘But do not fret about the things I say. These are only the troubles of an old heart. For now, times are good, and the young ought to make the most of the present.’

They passed into the streets of the city once more, and headed back towards Lómi’s workshop.

‘It’s hard to focus on the present when there seems to be so much to fear,’ confessed Elanor, more honest than she would usually be with a stranger, but something about Lynhilda made her trust her. ‘The elves are leaving, the dwarves grow old – it’s an age of men, I’m told, but where does that leave me? I mean, I don’t think my people are fading. I don’t feel like I’m fading. I’ve got a whole life left to live. But I can’t see where our place is in this new world.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell the future, not of the world, nor of your life, little one. But from one non-man to another, even in an age of men, I think there’ll always be room for a few little creatures to slip through the cracks. Men, after all, are not the brightest,’ said Lynhilda, and winked.

They had reached the workshop. At the door, Elanor thanked her profusely for the kindness she and her husband had shown.

‘By the way, one last thing. You wouldn’t happen to know the way to a garden, would you? On a street much like this one, through a door that looks a lot like yours, but it leads to a glass-rooved garden.’

‘I can’t say I do, I’m sorry. That sounds more like the work of elves.’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure. That’s okay though, thanks anyway.’

Lynhilda moved towards the door, then hesitated.

‘I am sorry to have to leave so soon after meeting you. In dwarven culture, children are kept close. We are fiercely protective of our families. As a matter of fact – to address the very first thing you said to me – our women have rarely travelled abroad in the past. But times are peaceful now, and much is changing. Still, it seems wrong to me to leave a child alone. It’s not our way. Of course, it is none of my business. Your own family trusted you to be here. You just seem so young to my eyes. But I’m sure you feel very grown up, and I’m being patronising.’

Elanor laughed. ‘Not at all. I still feel like a little child. It’s everyone else that seems to think I’ve suddenly grown up. But I think I missed that memo. Thank you, Lynhilda. I’m glad to have met you. Everyone who has left the dwarf-women out of their tales all these years has been very foolish.’

‘That’s kind of you to say. But I don’t mind, really. Remember, a life dedicated to work that you never live to see the result of is a worthy life. Goodbye, little one. Good luck.’

The next day, Elanor returned to the dwarves’ home. The door swung open easily, and the workshop inside was cold and empty, hollowed out. So that was that. Elanor shivered in the breeze, shoved her hands into her pockets, and walked back to her room.

Life went on, and nothing changed. Elanor was beginning more and more to hate this city. She had never realised that a place so full of people could be so lonely. Each day she thought of the long miles separating her and the nearest people who cared about her, a distance that was getting longer every day as her parents made their way home. Sometimes she lay awake at night, wondering how long it would take anyone to notice if she died in her sleep. The thought put her into such a panic that she redoubled her effort to try to make friends in the city. She could just about make small talk, but nothing ever went any deeper. She was just so obviously different. She had always been a bit of an outcast, even in the Shire. So what hope did she have here? Anyway, she didn’t want to be friends with any of these strangers. She already had Fastred, and that was all she wanted.

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. She did want to be friends with Fíriel. She thought they had gotten on well on that ride. She thought they might even have some things in common, that Fíriel might understand her. But Fíriel had gone right back to her usual habit, equal parts intriguing and frustrating, of vanishing from the city. She supposed it made sense. Though they might have a few things in common, she wasn’t half as interesting as Fíriel, who must have the whole world open to her. There was no reason for her to want to hang out with Elanor when everyone in the city seemed to want to be her friend. At one point, in a fit of desperation, Elanor asked the other maids of honour about her, and where she might go all day.

‘Fíriel – yeah, she’s cool. We hang out sometimes. I mean, I don’t know her business though. She’s a princess, she’s busy. She’s always off on like, her own adventures, or whatever. Why were you looking for her?’

‘No reason,’ sighed Elanor.

On occasion she would see her across a room, usually if it was some kind of ball or party. She always seemed to be getting along so easily with everyone. Elanor couldn’t understand how she did it. In a few aspects at least, they were similar people! But it just seemed so easy for Fíriel. All of it, life. She seemed to be doing it so well. So why was it so hard for Elanor? What was wrong with her?

After a week of overthinking and despairing Elanor did meet Fíriel again, but it came when she was least expecting it. She had grown a little bolder with going on walks through the city, though she never went far, and stayed on familiar paths. These efforts were not enough to prevent her getting lost. She had been wandering around for half an hour, trying to find her way back to a street she knew, when she noticed that a man had been walking behind her for quite some time. She veered across the street and looked behind her, and still he was there. Down a side street – still there. The crowds were thinner here. She sped up, and the man sped up as well. Then she really panicked. She squeezed her eyes shut as she walked, imagining that the footsteps behind her were an orc, hunting her down over a mountain pass. The thought made her feel braver, until she collided with the soft wall of a body, and hands rose to grasp her shoulders. She opened her eyes with a snap, in reality once more. A scream rose up in her throat, until the hands pulled her back, and she saw the concerned face of Fíriel peering down at her. The wash of relief was palpable, like emerging into the warmth of sunlight after an icy shock of cold. Then her heart sped up again, for a different reason this time.

‘Woah, woah, what’s wrong?’

‘There was – there was a man-’ panted Elanor. Fíriel’s hand went at once to the sword at her side, as she looked over Elanor’s shoulder. Elanor turned back too, and found the street empty.

‘Must have run off. Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Now that you’re here, anyway,’ said Elanor. Then she blushed, and added, ‘because you’re, you know, armed,’ and gestured to Fíriel’s sword.

‘Uhh, yeah…’ said Fíriel, following her gaze down. ‘Actually, could you maybe not mention that to anyone? It’s just, I’m not really meant to carry my sword around openly in the city. Not a princess-y image. And it’s, like, dangerous, or whatever.’

‘Sure, yeah, no problem. I won’t tell anyone. In exchange for…’ began Elanor, rather uncharacteristically, for the sight of the sword (and Fíriel) had given her an idea. Fíriel raised an eyebrow.

‘For?’

‘Uhh… for… I mean to say, would you, maybe… would you teach me how to use a sword?’

For a moment, Fíriel’s face was stern, and Elanor began to regret everything she had ever said. But then Fíriel squeezed the shoulder she was still holding and released Elanor with a grin.

‘I knew you had it in you, pipsqueak. Sure, I can do that.’

Testing her luck, Elanor said:

‘Well... I’m not doing anything right now.’ Fíriel thought about it for a moment.

‘Yeah, alright, why not? Come with me,’ she said, and they set off walking. ‘We’ll have to find you a sword in your size, though.’

‘Oh, no, it’s okay, I’ve got one.’ Fíriel looked at her quizzically.

‘You’ve got a sword?’

‘I’ve got Sting. Uhh, Frodo’s old sword.’

‘Frodo’s sword! Fancy that! Well, that settles it. You’ve got to learn. It would be a waste otherwise.’

They returned to the citadel, and after Elanor had run to her room to get Sting, they set up base in a little-traversed courtyard. Fíriel drew her own sword – a long, elegant rapier - and Elanor, with her stubby blade gripped in both hands, couldn’t help but feel that it wouldn’t quite be a fair fight.

‘Don’t worry – we’ll start with the basics. Grip – uh, look how I’m holding mine, see? Right. And stand more like – yeah. Ok, so I’ll go slowly, and you just try to parry. Oh – whoops! Not to worry, let’s just try that again’ - and so it went. Needless to say, it was not a fair fight, but Fíriel was a good teacher, focusing on showing Elanor the basics rather than having a fight. They went on like this for about an hour, before Elanor gave in and collapsed down onto the floor, chest heaving. Fíriel, looking completely unaffected, came and sat beside her.

‘You did good!’

Elanor gave her a withering look.

‘You did! Come on, it was your first ever time. You can’t exactly compare yourself to me.’

‘You’ve been learning all your life, I take it?’

‘Kind of, yeah. I had fencing lessons as a child, and my father taught me some stuff. Nowadays I mostly just practice on my own though. As a child I tried to swordfight one too many of my tutors, and eventually I got banned from mucking about with swords in the city. Not that that’s stopped me,’ she said, and the skin around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. ‘But what about you? How come you want to start all of a sudden? Not many battles these days, I’m afraid.’

Actually, part of it was shame. Elanor felt somewhat ashamed to have been rescued by Fíriel, who was younger than her - but didn’t look it. Elanor took in Fíriel’s long legs, her strong arms, her sun-browned skin, and felt – among other things – shamefully weak, small and girlish and helpless. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but it was one that had been exacerbated recently. She was no great figure even among hobbits, small and slender and puny, and here, in a city of men, she was seen as a child by everyone. The worst part was that she did feel like a child, naïve and frightened without anyone looking after her. She wanted to be able to protect herself. And, okay, maybe she wanted to hang out with Fíriel as well.

‘Uhh, no reason,’ said Elanor. ‘I mean, I’ve always liked the idea of sword-fighting. I spent my whole childhood pretending to be a hero off on an adventure. Like my father. Our fathers, I suppose.’

‘Our fathers – it’s weird isn’t it. To have someone else whose father was part of the fellowship. It’s always just been me. And Eldarion, or whatever, but who cares about him.’ They both laughed at that.

‘I know what you mean. I mean, back home there’s a few Brandybucks and Tooks but – but it’s nice. It’s like being family, in a way.’

Fíriel smiled at her. ‘I’ve always wanted to go adventuring too. I basically disregarded everything I was meant to learn about being a princess to run off and ride and swordfight and all that – I ought to have been born a ranger, I’ve always thought. But it all just seems so unimportant, all the stuff in the city, all those endless ceremonies and pointless diplomatic dinners and stuff, compared to the stuff in stories. Seeing the world, exploring, fighting, saving people. That’s what a royal ought to be doing.’

‘I’m actually kind of jealous,’ admitted Elanor. ‘It was easy enough to run off and play pretend back home, but here I’m stuck in the city. Tell you what, we ought to go adventuring together. You know, just run off. Get out there and do something real. I want to see magic, real magic, and climb mountains and fight battles and see the world and – and all of it.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Fíriel. ‘Wouldn’t that be something.’

But of course, they did not. When Elanor returned to her little room, the city had never felt more inescapable.

Elanor was still having the same dream every night. It was fitting that sleep brought no relief, or else she might have slept her life away. As it was, the days grew shorter and she often stayed up far into the night, avoiding dreaming, so that when she did sleep she almost missed the dimming light entirely, so early came the sunsets. She began to carry a bone-deep sadness around with her, dogging at her heels like the cold winds that rattled through the city. She was afraid of everything. She didn’t want to go out, she was too afraid of being followed. Every man was an insurmountable threat. She wanted her parents. She felt like a child, lost in a crowd, crying for mummy. She was just so small. She couldn’t face it. She boxed herself in her room. And still she felt paranoid, jumping at any noise, dreading a knock on her door. After working she would hurry back to her room straight away, rarely wasting time on the library anymore. She ate dinner in the great feasting hall, where many of the citizens of the citadel ate each day, but having to sit amongst so many people began to make her feel so sick that she went without most days. The food didn’t taste right anyway; it didn’t taste like her parents’ cooking. She missed them. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go home.

In the same breath, she was also desperately, miserably lonely. Maybe it was her own fault, for avoiding everyone so entirely, but she couldn’t shake herself from it. She felt sick. Spending time with the other maids of honour did nothing to scratch the itch. They were bored of her anyway. She could go days without opening her mouth and no one would even notice. She felt she barely existed at all. She had always thought herself a kind person, to the best of her abilities, but as autumn grew on she watched herself becoming bitter, in a way she was ashamed of. She didn’t want to talk to these people anyway. They were all stupid and vain, they knew nothing, they would never understand her. She hated their city and she hated them. These were nasty, unfair thoughts, and she knew it, but she couldn’t help feeling them. Wanting one thing badly enough made everything that wasn’t it detestable. She applied this theory to lives, places, people, selves. She thought endlessly of sunshine, the promise of her return home when summer rolled around, of long and lazy days in a home that she belonged in. She began to cling to the thought like a shipwrecked sailor does a piece of driftwood, tossed upon a stormy sea.

Her homesickness congealed into sickness. She spent a night and a day hunched over a basin, and then two more lying in bed, groaning. It was the first time in her life she had been sick without her mother standing over her, armed with a wet flannel and a cup of soup. On the third night she had a brief but burning fever, and the dream grew strange indeed. Events happened out of order and over and over again: she rang the bell and the darkness came, she landed on the white shore and found herself in the Shire, she sailed back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Figures danced in and out of the dream, muddled images. She saw Frodo, or who she thought to be Frodo, and chased him through the dream, running between scenes like set pieces of a play, but she could never catch him. She woke up the next morning entirely better, but with the nagging feeling that she had lost something important, and could not find it.

If something had actually been wrong - if there had been a real reason she was so miserable, something she could point to, then she might have done something about it. It was the fact that there was no reason which kept her paralysed. How can you solve a problem that isn’t there? She liked to think she wasn’t entirely useless. If people had been cruel to her, she would have stood up for herself. If the work had been unreasonable, she would have rebelled. If the city had been horrible, she would have left. but none of that was the case. She could plead perhaps a little homesickness, a little foreignness, but that was it. She was utterly miserable, and she had no right to be.

All she did was dream and want. She dreamed she packed a bag and set off into the mountains on an adventure. She dreamed that Fíriel came with her and when they reached the top of the mountain she finally found what it was that she was trying to say. She dreamed the world was young and wonderful and infinite. She dreamed she found the source of all suffering and defeating it was as easy as tossing it into fire. She dreamed she packed a bag and set off homewards. She dreamed she was home, and that it was summer, and that everything was okay. She dreamed she’d knock on her door and Frodo would answer it and say, ‘welcome home, supper’s ready.’ She dreamed that someone would ask her how her day had been. She wanted and wanted and wanted.

She wanted to go home.

But then, despite all odds, like the first ray of sunshine bursting from the horizon after a night that had seemed endless, Fíriel came. Though she surely had hundreds of other friends to attend to and adventures to go on, she sought Elanor out, found her in her room, drew her out of those four walls that were closing in on her. She saved her. She took her out for another lesson.

This time they rode on Nahar through the city and out of it, out through that impenetrable gate, out past those endless walls, out past the Pelennor Fields to the world beyond. They came to a copse of orange-leaved trees not too far from the wall, nestled between tilled fields. They left Nahar grazing on a patch of grass, Fíriel assuring her that he would not stray, and plunged into the woods. It was a joy to be once more among trees, far from the suffocating city bustle. In the clear open air, she felt she could finally breathe.

‘This is my spot, where I come when the city just gets too much,’ said Fíriel. ‘It’s nothing very impressive, but you can almost pretend you’re in the wilderness, so long as you don’t look into the distance.’

‘Yeah,’ said Elanor, breathlessly. She felt she had been allowed entry into another world – Fíriel’s world, where things were like her: wonderful and wild. ‘It’s nice. It’s really nice.’

A little way into the woods they came to an open clearing, enclosed by sweet chestnut trees, the ground littered with their brown leaves and spiky cases, the sky a bright grey circle above. Here they drew their swords and began their next lesson, pacing a circle around the clearing.

‘Legs wider – arms higher – yes, like that. Okay, now try to – whoops. Don’t follow it. You control it, it doesn’t control you.’

‘Yes, right. Sorry.’

‘Alright, try again. Come at me. Lower your body. Come on, give it all you’ve got.’

‘Yes, right away.’

‘Oh – whoops!’

‘Ah! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘Not at all, don’t worry. Try to visualise your swing. It goes where you want it to go, it’s not a wild beast.’

‘Right. Sorry.’

‘Okay, one more try.’

‘…Ow.’

‘Woah, a little too much enthusiasm! Good attempt. Come on, up you get.’

‘I’m sorry. Right away. I can do it, I just-’

‘Okay, just – stop a moment,’ sighed Fíriel, and stabbed her sword down into the dirt. ‘You don’t have to do everything I tell you, you know?’

‘But… you’re teaching me?’

‘Yes but – I mean – I’m not your boss, is what I mean. I’m not your ruler. I’m your friend! You can relax!’

‘Right. Yes ma’am.’

‘Alright, that’s it. Come with me.’

‘Come where?’

‘No more learning until you’ve loosened up,’ said Fíriel, walking backwards to face Elanor. ‘We’re just going to hang out! And my name is Fíriel. Just Fíriel.’

Elanor trailed after her as they left the grove and headed back through the trees, out into the open countryside. They wandered down the side of a field, talking idly about nothing much, though they came back often to the fellowship and their adventures. And Elanor did find herself loosing up. She couldn’t help it. It was just easy, talking to Fíriel; she made you want to open up to her. She didn’t judge or doubt or question anything Elanor said. It was as though she had known her all her life. She seemed to understand everything Elanor said, really understand, and for the first time in a long while Elanor found that she was speaking as herself, not some guise of how she felt she ought to be, some polite, agreeable persona. She found herself grinning as they went back and forth, telling silly tales. She had almost forgotten what a pleasure simple conversation could be. How happy other people could make you. Not many people, certainly. But Fíriel was one.

As they walked, a man standing across the field called out:

‘Is that you, Miss Fíriel?’

‘Good afternoon,’ Fíriel called back, raising an arm in greeting. He was elderly and simply dressed, and leaned upon a stick. He tipped his cap at Fíriel as they approached.

‘Afternoon, lass. You wouldn’t be able to bring the firewood in for me, would you?’

‘Sure, no problem,’ she said, and headed in the direction of a nearby cottage. Elanor scurried after her.

‘Who is that?’

‘Oh, I don’t really know him that well. He’s a farmer. I just give him a hand sometimes, when I’m passing by. His son isn’t well,’ she said, grabbing an armful of logs from the woodshed on the side of the cottage. Elanor took an armful as well and followed her into the cottage.

‘Hi Wil,’ said Fíriel to a small young man, sat by the fire with a twisted leg, as they passed him by. ‘Doing okay today?’

‘Yes, thank you miss,’ he replied cheerfully.

‘That’s so nice of you,’ Elanor continued, when they were out of the house again.

‘It’s nothing really.’ She shrugged. ‘I try to help out anyone round here who needs it when I can. People tend to be harder off the further they are from the city. I don’t know, it just seems fair that I do what I can, considering everything I have.’

They passed in and out of the cottage several times, and then waved goodbye to the old man and wandered off again, following a little country lane which wound between farmsteads.

‘Is that what you’re off doing all day?’ asked Elanor. ‘Helping all these people? Is that your uhh – duties, your job?

‘No, no, that’s just – it’s not really a thing. I just try to be kind to people.’ They stopped and sat together on the edge of a little bridge over a stream, dangling their feet over the water. Fíriel rested her arms on the wooden railing of the bridge, and laid her head on them. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know that I really have a job. My brother will be king, everything rides on him, but me –’ She stretched out an arm, watching the reflection of her splayed fingers in the water, then let it drop. ‘I guess my job is just to be my father’s daughter.’ She barked out a laugh. ‘He is not an easy person to have as a father. I don’t mean he’s a bad father - he’s a great father. He’s a great man. It’s just… most kings don’t deserve their crowns, but he does. He really truly deserves what he’s got. But everything I’ve got, it’s because of him, not because of me. So my only real task is to try to live up to him, to be a good daughter to make up for all he’s given me. Children are meant to be better than their parents. But how can you live up to someone like that? That’s why I try to help people, I guess. But still, that’s not really anything, that doesn’t really balance it out. I don’t know. It’s just hard to have a father who saved the world.’ Then she looked at Elanor, remembering suddenly who she was talking to. ‘But I guess I don’t need to tell you that, do I? You’re one of the only people in the world who’ll truly know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ said Elanor. ‘I don’t know that I’ve ever really talked about it before. I haven’t had anyone I could talk about it to. My dad is so - so wonderful and kind and brave and good, and he sacrificed so much, and what am I doing? Really, what am I doing here?’ she said, and she gestured vaguely all around her, at everything. ‘Everyone expects me to be like him, to be as fearless and strong as he was, but I’m not. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m his child. I don’t know how I could be related to someone so good when I’m so…’

They sat there quietly for a moment, watching the water flow.

‘It’s nice though. Talking to someone who knows how you feel.’

‘Yeah,’ said Elanor. ‘Yeah, it sure is.’

Suddenly, Fíriel sprung up. ‘Come on then,’ she said, ‘you ready now? We friends?’

‘Yeah,’ said Elanor with a smile. ‘I’m ready.’

Fíriel offered Elanor her hand, and she took it, and stood, and together they walked side by side down the lane, back to their grove.

Chapter Text

The enemy was almost upon her. Elanor was fleeing through the forest, heart pounding, branches dashing at her face, glancing backwards to pause and exchange a volley of blows which filled the still air with the harsh clang of metal on metal, before stumbling forward once more. She dodged between trees, ducked branches, leapt over logs, spinning past the enemy in a deadly dance.

‘You’ll never capture me alive!’ Elanor cried breathlessly.

‘Who said I wanted you alive?’ grinned the enemy, baring sharp teeth, swinging her sword. Elanor yelped and stumbled backwards as the enemy advanced ruthlessly, and with one blow her sword leapt from her hand and went sliding across the forest floor, out of reach. She was backed up against a tree. In a moment of panic, she turned and scampered up the tree like a squirrel, and just in the nick of time.

‘Hey!’ cried the enemy. ‘You won’t win a fight like that.’

‘I’ll survive a fight like this.’

‘Not if I do this,’ she said, drawing a bow from out of thin air. Elanor clutched at her chest as she was knocked backwards, toppling out of the branches. As she hit the ground she rolled, and landed besides Sting, which she grabbed up once more. But the enemy was upon her at once, and she stumbled backwards, parrying a volley of blows. Her foot snagged on a root, and abruptly she tripped and fell hard onto her behind.

The jolt shocked her back to her senses. She was sitting in the dirt of a churned road, the forest – or rather the little woods – having ended abruptly. The day was bright, and Minas Tirith loomed to the south. It rather broke the illusion.

‘You okay?’ asked Fíriel, holding out a hand to help her up.

‘Mhm, I’m fine,’ she said, getting up, and looking around. ‘These woods really aren’t that big, are they? Makes it hard to pretend.’

‘I know,’ sighed Fíriel. ‘And the trees are so big – makes me think they were probably part of some big forest, once upon a time. It’s kind of depressing.’

‘The world used to be one massive forest, once, ages ago, I’m pretty sure. I think I read that the Old Forest, near my home, once touched Fangorn. Maybe here too. Now I could throw a stone to the other side of these trees. It’s not fair. I’d do anything to see the world like it was,’ Elanor said glumly.

‘You’ve just got to keep pretending,’ said Fíriel. ‘Close your eyes if the world around you is too distracting. Properly. Okay, picture you’re in a forest. It stretches out for hundreds of miles in every direction. It’s got no name. No one has mapped it. Its deepest dales are as dark and strange as the bottom of the ocean; it blankets mountainsides and its highest trees float among the clouds. Huge creatures lurk in this forest the likes of which you’ve never seen. Old gods stalk in the shadows. Magic is embedded here, deep and tangled like the tree roots, too deep to ever pull out. The trees are ancient and their bark is so thick that no axe can cut it. But there are no people to even try. There’s only you and me.’

Elanor opened her eyes, but the vision set in her mind did not disappear. For here in front of her stood a figure from the old world, a figure from the stories, a figure made of magic. Yes, Elanor could believe that they were the only people in the world.

But she couldn’t say something like that. Out loud, she said, ‘and you’re a poet as well as a princess and a warrior? It’s not fair.’

‘Ha, no, nothing like that. I’m just like a kid playing pretend. Or, hey, I don’t know, maybe I’m not. Maybe it is like that somewhere, still.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I don’t know. The world’s a big place. Could be.’

Elanor smiled. ‘We can find out together. We can –’

‘- Elanor! Hello? Are you listening?’

‘Yes, Mistress Pedweg. Sorry, Mistress Pedweg.’

‘Do you have somewhere better to be than here?’

‘No, Mistress Pedweg.’

‘This is your life, young lady. Your real life. You need to start taking it more seriously.’

‘Of course, Mistress Pedweg.’

They rarely were the only people in the world, though. It wasn’t that Fíriel had an intensely outgoing personality -  rather that everyone who met her seemed to be at least a little infatuated with her. People called out to her as they walked past, everyone from the highest nobles to the farmers’ little children stopping and talking familiarly with her, hardly noticing Elanor at all. But why would they? Fíriel had something glowing inside her. It outshone anyone she stood near. It was addictive. Elanor was just grateful for the rare occasions where they snuck off together, disappearing into their own world. They continued having their lessons in the woods. One morning, when they were both meant to be somewhere else, they crept into the kitchens and stole a basketful of cold meats and soft cheese and big sweet oranges and a floury loaf of bread and a pot of marmalade. They climbed a high tower of the king’s house and clambered out of a window which was level with a roof. They balanced precariously along the slanted roof with their basket until they reached a flat spot, hidden from eyes in high windows by a jutting eave. A flock of crows descended on their food, and Elanor jumped about and waved her arms and roared until they flew off, while Fíriel laughed unhelpfully at the display. They ate everything and talked about nothing, and Fíriel imitated a menagerie of birdcalls, and Elanor recited snippets of silly rhymes Sam had sung to her as a child, and when she went back to her room she felt warm inside, as though she had been sitting in the sun.

But these moments only came here and there. For a whole week, she didn’t see Fíriel at all. When she didn’t arrive to tell Elanor where to go, she didn’t go anywhere at all. The city wrapped around her once more, grey and suffocating. The sun set before supper every day. Elanor lay in bed, unable to sleep until the birds started chirping. It occurred to her then that she might be in trouble. Perhaps hinging her entire world upon one person hadn’t been the wisest idea. Because now, without her, Elanor felt as though she were drowning. Why wasn’t Fíriel there? Had she gotten bored of her? Had she finally realised she wasn’t good enough for her? Was she ever coming back? And what would she do in the future, when she had to leave Fíriel? She couldn’t live her life with her - humans were forbidden from entering the Shire, by decree of the king. But if she couldn’t handle not seeing her for a few days, how could she bear not seeing her for the span of months – even years. Elanor felt torn in two, wanting so badly to go home, and yet not able to bear being away from Fíriel, who belonged to this awful city. Of course, Fíriel would be fine without her, she had plenty of other, better people to occupy her - but what would become of Elanor? Would she be left behind by everyone she loved, her father sailing away, Fíriel off on royal missions, exploring all the kingdoms of the world, she languishing in the Shire, unable to leave, paralysed by fear and alone? And worst of all was the fear of a more permanent separation. What if something had happened to Fíriel, and that was why she hadn’t seen her? What if something did happen to her? She couldn’t bear the thought. She drove herself sick with it.

‘She’s busy,’ she told herself, over and over again. ‘She’s just busy. She’ll come back.’

Dearest Sam-dad,

She wrote one day, having nothing better to do.

I am glad to hear that your journey home was safe, and that everyone is doing well. Please give them all my love.

I’m doing well here. Everyone is so nice. I’m having great fun, and it’s still warm here in the south, so I get out a lot. I’ll try to write whenever I can.

Lots of love,

Elanor

She put her pen down and stared at the paper with dull eyes. Then she shivered, and got up to push the window shut.

Eventually, she even felt desperate enough to ask Eldarion about Fíriel’s whereabouts. She had spoken little to the prince, but saw him fairly regularly, as he was around the citadel often. When she stopped him and asked if he had seen his sister around, he looked rather uncomfortable.

‘Who knows. She’s always wandering off, doing stupid things,’ he said flippantly, and his look rather said that he considered her time with Elanor one of those stupid things. ‘She gets into these little moods, where she runs off and ignores all her duties. Wants to be a peasant girl. She’ll turn up when it suits her. Uhm. Excuse me,’ he said, and hurried off.

So that venture was unsuccessful.

It turned out to be unimportant though, because Fíriel reappeared the next day. Elanor was picking half-heartedly at her breakfast in the dining hall, when someone clapped her on the shoulders, and slid into the seat beside her.

‘Fíriel!’ she cried, unable to keep from grinning.

‘Hullo,’ said Fíriel casually, as though no time had passed at all. She stole a fig from Elanor’s plate. ‘Got anything going on? Fancy a lesson?’

‘Oh! I would, but I’m meant to be looking after Gilraen and Gildin this morning,’ Elanor said miserably. ‘I think their usual nurses have all caught something, or something, I don’t know.’

‘Gil,’ said Fíriel, and scrunched her face up.

‘It’s fine,’ sighed Elanor. ‘It’s not like I’m not used to children.’

‘I forget that you’ve got hundreds of siblings. I don’t know how you cope. I can barely deal with three.’

‘Mmm,’ said Elanor through pursed lips, which meant ‘I cope badly with my siblings,’ and also ‘I cope badly with your siblings too.’

‘Mmm,’ agreed Fíriel, and ate the rest of the figs off of Elanor’s plate.

‘Do you think you’ll be long?’ asked Fíriel, trailing after Elanor as they walked to the little princesses’ room. She was doing the thing she sometimes did, where she tilted forward as she walked, as if trying to get level with Elanor. She wasn’t sure if she realised she was doing it.

‘Not too long. Mistress Pedweg just asked me to fill in until they could find someone better,’ said Elanor. As they entered the room Fíriel spread her arms wide and rushed at Gilraen, grabbing her by the foot and swinging her upside down.

‘Let me go let me go let me go!’ screamed Gilraen, thrashing about. ‘Why’re you here? I don’t want you!’

‘See what I have to deal with?’ said Fíriel, placing Gilraen back down gently - but when she spotted Elanor, Gilraen did not make her escape, but rather clung tightly to Fíriel’s leg. Gildin crept out from behind a chair, where she had been hiding, and hugged Fíriel’s other leg. Both peered out at Elanor with twin wide eyes.

‘Hi, I’m Elanor. Do you need anything?’ tried Elanor in an attempt at a soft voice.

Four big eyes blinked at her.

‘Gil,’ commanded Fíriel, seemingly speaking to them as one nebulous entity, ‘go play with your toys or I’ll let Nahar into your room and he’ll eat you.’ They both squealed and ran off into a corner, to a pile of toys akin in size to a dragon’s hoard.

‘They’re scared of your horse?’ asked Elanor once she was done laughing.

‘I know. They’re a lost cause.’

‘I can’t possibly imagine why they don’t like you.’

‘Oh they love me. They won’t like me when they realise horses don’t actually eat people.’ They both laughed again.

‘Someone else should be taking over here by the afternoon. We could have a lesson after that?’

‘Mmm, I’m meant to be meeting Eldarion later, sorry. You could come though, if you wanted.’

‘That’s okay. I don’t think Eldarion likes me very much.’

‘Oh, don’t mind him. He’s that miserable with everyone. Mother coddled him too much and now he thinks he’s sooo special, just because he’s the crown prince. Sometimes I think he forgets that he isn’t actually one of the Eldar that he’s named after.’ They watched Gilraen and Gildin across the room, lining up toy soldiers. ‘Actually, I kind of think that if he had had the choice, he would have chosen the fate of the elves. If we were properly half-elven, I mean. I think that kind of bothers him, sometimes. Obviously he was born into so much, and he’s lucky, we both are. But I don’t know if it's the life he necessarily would have chosen, if he had had the choice.’ Fíriel shrugged. ‘I mean, I don’t know. We don’t talk about that sort of thing.’

‘What about you?’ asked Elanor. ‘What would you have chosen?’

‘I’m not sure. I mean, no one wants to die, right? But I understand why my mother did it. I don’t know that I’d want to be left alone. I don’t know. Not that it matters anyway.’

‘It may yet,’ said Elanor, and Fíriel looked at her quizzically. ‘It’s just something my father said to me, ages ago, but I’ve thought about it ever since. I told him I would follow him over the seas, and he said that that choice comes to us all, and that we shouldn’t choose too soon. I don’t really know what he meant. It just stuck with me, for some reason.’

‘You think you’d choose the fate of the elves then?’

‘I don’t know. Probably. I mean, it kind of seems like the obvious choice, right? It’s like you said, no one wants to die. Yeah, probably. But I don’t know.’

Fíriel hummed an affirmation. After a moment of thought, she added:

‘What did you mean, about your father going across the seas?’

‘Oh. Well, umm. He’s going to go one day, I think. To follow Frodo. That’s what he said, at least. I don’t know that I was supposed to tell anyone about that.’

Fíriel solemnly placed a finger over her lips.

‘Wow, that’s hard though - knowing he’s going to leave some day.’

‘Yeah, I guess it is.’

Gildin came up to them, holding a book. She held it up and made insistent noises, her lips pressed together.

‘I’m sorry kid, I need to get going,’ said Fíriel. ‘Elanor will read you a story, okay? I’ll see you later,’ she said to Elanor, squeezed her shoulder, and then took her leave. The indents of her fingertips tingled on Elanor’s skin. Elanor sighed. Then she sat down, took the book from Gildin’s hands, and began to read.

The next day they found time for a lesson. It was afternoon and the sun hung low and golden. The air was chill, but once they had finished their lesson they stayed outside, warmed by their movement. They ambled together through the woods, enjoying the red-brown foliage and the faint mist that turned the corners of their vision dreamy, before the season, or at least the day, drew to a close.

‘So,’ began Elanor, finally addressing what had been on her mind, ‘I, uhh, haven’t seen you around for a while. Have you been busy?’

‘Busy? No, I, err – ha.’ Fíriel spoke flatly, and turned her face away. ‘No, not really. I just couldn’t – I can’t handle it sometimes, you know? Just, this place, and everyone in it, and everything they expect of me. Expect me to be. Sometimes I just have to – sometimes I just can’t do it.’

This wasn’t what Elanor had expected. ‘But you – I mean, you’re you. You’re so – so - everyone loves you!’

Fíriel looked at her queerly. ‘Thank you, Elanor, but not everyone is as nice as you. A lot of people want me to be something different. There are a lot of expectations for what a princess should be and I’m – I don’t know. My family love me, but I think I disappoint them sometimes. The people of the city all have opinions on me, the way I look, the things I do. A lot of them are nice, but –’ she turned suddenly to face Elanor. ‘Can I be honest? A lot of the time I’m lonely. I know it sounds silly because I’m saying that I go off to be alone, because I want to get away from people, but even around other people I’m just-’

‘Lonely. All the time. Like you belong to a different world from everyone else. Like no matter what you do, you’ll always just be different.’

‘Yeah. Like that.’

Their walking had slowed to a halt, and they sat together on a fallen tree. In the dying light Fíriel looked honey-soaked, the planes of her skin smooth and rippling like the surface of the sea, like she ought to smell of salt. Elanor noticed for the first time, as Fíriel tucked her hair behind her ear, that her ears were pointed. Not as sharply as elven ears, just slightly. Not quite human. Like Elanor’s. They couldn’t look less alike, but in this one little detail, Fíriel was not one with the people of Gondor. In this, she was like Elanor.

‘I’ve felt like that all my life,’ continued Elanor. ‘No matter who I’m with. Except for – well, it doesn’t matter. It’s just, it’s like something’s missing. I used to think it was Frodo, because what else could it have been? I have everything I could possibly need. But… I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘Do you miss him?’ asked Fíriel gently.

‘I never really knew him. He left when I was so small… I don’t even remember him.’

Fíriel said nothing, looking at Elanor expectantly.

‘…Yeah. Yeah, I miss him,’ finished Elanor.

‘It’s all too easy to miss things you never knew,’ said Fíriel. ‘That whole age, that whole story – I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not that I think it would be easier to live back then. But when you’re in a tale, things just matter. Everyone matters. Anyone can make a difference. Be remembered. Something as simple as love is so powerful that it can save the whole world. I wish I could be in a tale like that. Where I would really matter.’

Brimming with passion, Elanor leapt to her feet and faced Fíriel.

‘How can you think that? I know the world now can be dull and monotonous and hopeless and – and whatever, but out of everyone, out of everyone I’ve ever met, you’re the least like that. You matter so much Fíriel, are you kidding me? In you the three kindreds of the high elves and the blood of the Maiar and the strength of Númenor all come together! You’re heir of Galadriel and Lúthien and Isildur and Eärendil and anyone else who’s ever mattered! You’re like a tale come to life!’

Fíriel shook her head and smiled ruefully.

‘That’s very nice of you Elanor, but I promise I’m not that special. Maybe I come from kings, but I won’t ever be king. I’m the second born child, and a daughter at that. My name probably won’t even be recorded in the annals of history. I know how it goes. “King Aragorn had a son, Eldarion, and daughters.” That’s all that will be left of me in a few generations time. So please don’t think so highly of me.’

But Elanor was not shaken. ‘No, I’m serious, Fíriel. You may never rule, but you are a king, in the way that matters, because you care about people. You deserve to be followed, and so you make them want to follow you. Crown or no crown, I’d follow you anywhere.’ Elanor flushed red as the too-earnest words left her mouth unbidden. Fíriel’s mouth was a round ‘o’. She had spoken too much. There was no going back now – it was all or nothing. In an act as childish, rash, and embarrassing as it was heartfelt, she dropped suddenly to one knee, bowed her head, and held Sting out to Fíriel in open palmed hands.

‘Fíriel daughter of Aragorn, Princess of the Reunited Kingdom, I, Elanor daughter of Samwise, give you willingly my service, in life and in death, for what it is, and in any way it can be, and beg you accept it.’

Fíriel laughed, but it was a kindly laugh. She took Sting from her hands, and tapped Elanor once on each shoulder with it.

‘And I, Fíriel daughter of Aragorn, Princess of the Reunited Kingdom, accept your service, and dub thee Sir Elanor the faithful. Arise, my knight,’ she spoke, in an affected voice, but she was only playing, not mocking. So Elanor rose, and when she stood she was closer than she had been, and now, she standing and Fíriel sitting, she found that they were face to face.

Dear Sam-dad,

I wish you were here – I need very much to speak to you, so this will have to do.

During my stay here, I have become very fond of the Princess Fíriel. Perhaps fonder than is proper. And I don’t know what to do. No one tells you what to do, how to live like this. It can’t be written about in stories. It can’t be said straight, not even here in my own letter. But I know you know what I am talking about. Oh adar, what is to become of me? Please, tell me what to do, because I’m afraid I’m going to do something very foolish and ruin everything. I’m afraid of what this life will hold for someone like me. I’m going crazy, keeping it all inside me, but I’ll have to keep it inside forever. There’s a reason stories aren’t told about people like me. The rest of the world does not like people like me. Even here, I’ve said too much.

I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense, I’m all adrift. I’m afraid you’ve got a terrible fool for a daughter. But perhaps you know something of this particular foolishness, and can help me with your words, which have always been a great comfort to me.

Please give all my love to the family – I miss them dearly.

I anxiously await your response, and miss you most of all.

Your Elanorellë

My dearest Elanorellë,

came the response, when it arrived after a long, anxious wait in which Elanor convinced herself she had not sealed the envelope properly, and that the letter would slip out and be lost, or worse, found.

I’m glad to see that you are having an exciting time. I must say, I saw so much of my young self in your letter that it amused me. I can assure you that whatever foolishness you are up to, I have certainly done worse. I’m probably not the one to be giving you advice, but I’ll do my best, because what else are fathers for.

It's true, what you say about hiding. I wish it wasn’t, but it is, and I’m sorry. I have never been particularly good at such a thing. Before the war, I spent a long time trying to hide. For years I was infatuated by Mr. Frodo. He showed up from Buckland – which was a distant and fantastical land to me as a small lad – a handsome young hobbit with a tragic past, living with the charming and peculiar old Mr. Bilbo, who I was already terribly fond of. He taught me my letters you know, and kindled my love for the magic of this world. Anyway, Bag End now became the sole object of all my attentions. I thought Mr. Frodo was the most wonderful and interesting hobbit in all the Shire, and I wanted more than anything to be his friend, so of course I was always too shy to get really close to him. I was his gardener, after all, not his friend, and I felt I could never really be smart or interesting enough for him. Of course, he was absolutely lovely, and would never have thought such a thing, and if only I had had the courage we could have been proper friends for a long while. But it all felt a lot bigger at the time, somehow, and I was too afraid. It perhaps isn’t how you children think of me, but when I was young I was considered a bit of an odd, nervous lad. Now of course I’m a perfectly respectable gentleman.

And then of course the war happened, and none of my worries mattered anymore. When you could be dead tomorrow, you don’t worry that you’re being too honest, too overbearing, too affectionate. You don’t think about what the people back home would think when he’s talking about the both of you never making it home at all. You don’t think about any of it. You just hold him.

And then the war was over, but of course things couldn’t go back to the way they were before. For one thing, and this was one of the first times I realised how truly different things were now, I discovered, after all the excitement was over, that I couldn’t sleep on my own anymore. I kept waking in a panic when I couldn’t find Mr. Frodo, because for so many nights that would have meant that something terrible had happened to him. So we just shared a bed. It was easier for both of us. And some people – because for a while we were staying with the Cottons, so people saw, and it got around a bit – thought that was strange, and no one said anything to me but I knew they were whispering about it. Which felt bizarre, that people could still care about something like that, after everything that had happened. It was like emerging from a long dark tunnel into light so bright it’s blinding. Because for so long my world had shrunken down to only him, to getting us both through each day alive, and all of a sudden there was the whole world and thousands of people and their opinions and complications and intricacies to consider, and the world was so large all of a sudden it was – well, blinding.

But I didn’t carry him through Mordor to fear my gossiping neighbours. And so much of who I am is Mr. Frodo – it wasn’t something I could hide, not even if I tried. So after that I never was that careful – but even then, there are some things you simply cannot say directly.

But to you, I think it is time to be direct. I have never lied to you, and I know you know this already, but knowing and hearing are two different things, and if this is in my power to tell you, it is my duty to do so. We cannot live forever on hopes and hints alone. Anyway, I am an old hobbit now. Too old for hiding.

Frodo was my best friend, but he was also a hundred times more than that. I loved him. I loved him in the same way I love your mother. I loved him like you love. I promise, you are not alone in this. You couldn’t possibly imagine how not-alone you are. You say people like you don’t get stories written about them – I promise they do. I promise they are there – we are there – and always have been. Our story was a love story, start to finish, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

But you are also right, I’m afraid, that this usually can’t be said aloud. I’m not telling you to throw caution to the wind – this world can be dangerous, and it can be cruel. I’m so, so sorry that this world is like that. But you must remember: for every person who hates you for who you are, I love you more. I love you more than all the hate in the world combined. And that is how you live like this. You love. Do with that love what you will, but never run from it. Hide it when you must, but never hide from yourself. Allow yourself to love passionately, foolishly, absolutely and unreservedly. It is the most important thing in the world.

I miss you very much and I love you very very much and so does the rest of the family and somewhere across the sea, Frodo does too. Good luck.

Love,

Dad

Elanor finished reading the letter. She folded it up, placed it back in its envelope, and tucked it into the inside lining of her coat. Then she lay down in bed and cried so hard that she threw up.

Dear Frodo,

I don’t know why I’m writing this. It’s not as if I can send it anywhere. You certainly can’t reply. I just wish I could talk to you, even if it was only once.

It's just, I’ve heard so much about you my whole life. I grew up on stories of you. You were the hero of every tale my father told. The way he spoke of you – he loved you more than life itself. So then you became the hero of the stories I would tell. As a child I’d imagine I was off adventuring with you so often, you were practically my imaginary friend. You’ve always been there, all my life, this empty hole in our house.

But I don’t know you. I never got to know you. I know I miss you, but what do I even mean by that? What am I missing? I can’t picture your face, nor recall the sound of your voice. What were you really like, not through the veil of my father’s words, but really? What would you think of me? Would you even like me? Of the real me, older than six months and harder to love. What would you say to me, if I could send you this letter? What would you be to me, if you had been in my life? Would it be easier, if you were here? Would you understand?

I keep having the same dream over and over, and I’m pretty sure it’s your dream. I keep hearing the sound of the sea whenever I close my eyes and I’ve read enough stories to know what that means. Does this mean I have your sickness? Somehow, when you held me in the sunlight as an infant, was I infected? Mr. Frodo, I’m afraid. I wish you could hold me again. I wish I could be a baby again. I’m afraid that that was the best I ever was. I’m afraid that when you left you took a chunk of me with you, and it’s a part I’ll never know I’m missing because I was so young when I lost it, but I’m afraid it was the part of me that was happy. I’m afraid that every person that leaves is going to rip more and more out of me until there’s nothing left.

Mr. Frodo, why is it so hard to be happy? You sacrificed so much, went through such suffering, you fought to give me a good and easy and kind world, and it still isn’t enough for me. I want to enjoy this world for you, to make the most of your sacrifices, but I can’t, no matter how hard I try. What’s wrong with me? I’m soft and useless and lazy and selfish and I’m so, so unhappy. I can’t stop grieving – things that are gone, things that I still have, everything. I don’t know how to let anything go. This world, it hurts so much to even be in it. I don’t know how to stand it. And maybe if you were here you could tell me how to stand it. But of course, you couldn’t. That’s why you aren’t here, that’s why you can’t speak to me, you couldn’t stand it, you had to leave. So what hope does that give someone as weak as me?

You stayed in this city once. Did you walk these same streets? Even then, in the dawn of a new age, could you feel what I feel now? Did you know it too, is that why you had to leave? That inevitably, beginnings only mean more endings. I hate endings. I hate beginnings. I wish everything could stay the same forever and ever. I wish you were here. Where are you? Where can I find you? How can you just be gone? A whole person, just gone. They all loved you so much, HOW can you be gone, how could you have left them? Was it me? If it wasn’t for me my father would have gone with you, and you wouldn’t be split apart. And what good have I done in your stead? Was it a worthy trade? You had so much hope for the future, and I’ve failed you. I’ve done nothing with it. I don’t even like it. You saved the world, and I can’t handle a year abroad. I’m not a hero. I’m not an adventurer. I’m a scared little girl.

This is a stupid letter. I’m being so stupid. I don’t know why I’m even writing this.

She put down her pen.

There was, of course, no reply.

Dear Fíriel,

That letter was scrapped immediately.

Elanor realised she was in love with Fíriel on a rainy Thursday, sitting before the hearth, listening to her talk. It occurred to her that not if an army was charging her down would she be able to draw her eyes from Fíriel. She would never move again, would starve to death right here in this chair, if only she could keep Fíriel with her forever. The feeling was much akin to seeing an inescapably tall wave about to crash down on you: a moment of heart-racing panic, then a flash of illogical joy - that this is happening to you, that this at last is proof of what you’ve always suspected: that you are special, that you were destined for something bigger. Then, finally, an inevitable, blue resignation. The fact slotted into her life and she found that nothing had to make way to accommodate it, for of course it wasn’t really a new fact at all. At night she lay awake, bubbling with the immensity of it all.

‘Hobbits aren’t meant to love people,’ she reasoned to herself. ‘There’s simply not enough room in them for it.’

One day - a late autumn day much like any other - they were riding down to their woods like usual, discussing their favourite subject: the fellowship’s quest. They had discovered that each of them knew a slightly different version of the tale, each with more detail where it concerned their respective peoples, and so they would go back and forth, filling in the gaps for each other, and probably inventing a fair amount in the process. Elanor was telling again a favourite part, the meeting of Tom Bombadil, when Fíriel halted Nahar suddenly, and then took off again. Elanor saw what she had seen a moment later, as they drew up to the space where their grove of trees had been. In its place, all that remained was a field of stumps, lined up like cheap gravestones. A draught horse was harnessed and uprooting stumps, and a farmer with a shovel stood beside it. Without a word, Fíriel jumped down and marched up to the farmer. Elanor slid down and hurried after her. When she caught up, Fíriel was waving a finger in the farmer’s face, and her tone was unlike any Elanor had heard from her before. For the first time, Elanor could see before her the daughter of the king, not just of Strider.

‘Have you no respect? Do you know how old those trees were? How many creatures made their home here? This world isn’t yours to destroy!’ Fíriel fumed.

‘Begging your pardon, my lady,’ said the farmer, trembling a bit, ‘but this is my land, and legally-’

‘Legally? Is that what you think this is about? You think some words on a page give you a pass to destroy whatever you feel like? The land has been here longer than any law.’

‘Yes my lady, of course, and I’m very sorry to have upset you, but it’s my land to farm, and people need to eat, and I need to feed my family. Please miss, if you’d be so kind, don’t get me into any trouble.’

Fíriel looked a little astonished. ‘You think I’d - I’m not going to-’ Then she deflated, and her voice grew formal and cold. ‘Whatever. What’s done is done.’ She stalked off to the opposite side of the no-longer-a-woodland and slumped down onto a tree stump, her head in her hands. Elanor cautiously sat down opposite her. Without the trees, the view was clear. Ploughed brown fields stretched to the horizon and the sky was grey. She could hear no birdsong.

‘Maybe you think I’m being dramatic,’ spoke Fíriel finally, ‘getting so angry about one tiny little woodland. But it’s not just this. I’ve watched this happen to place after place, all my life. It feels sometimes like the whole world is ending, one little bit at a time, and no one has noticed but me. Or maybe they have, and it’s only me that cares.’

‘It’s not just you,’ Elanor assured her passionately. ‘I try not to talk about it, because that’s fearmongering and crazy and ungrateful, or whatever. I mean, it seems kind of silly, right? We’re living our easy lives, everything’s fine, it’s not exactly fire and brimstone. But I can’t help feeling it. It’s like you say, it’s everything, piece by piece. The trees being cut down. The cities getting bigger. The Shire is different, the elves are all but gone. Magic is fading. They say it’s a new age but all they really mean is that everything the world has been so far is ending. Winning the war was meant to save the world, but I’m not sure it didn’t just end it in a different way. Like there was no way for it to be saved, really. Like some light was going out no matter what.’

‘Like a plug has been pulled on the bottom of the ocean,’ said Fíriel, ‘and I’m trying to catch it all with only my hands.’ She held them out, cupped in front of her.

‘Aargh!’ cried Elanor, standing abruptly, and kicked a tree stump as hard as she could, then winced back. ‘Does nothing come to anything? All that death and what comes of it but more death? Everything ends and everyone leaves. And I can see it all leaving before my eyes, I just missed it, and there’s nothing I can do but watch. I can’t – I can’t do-’ Helplessly, she held out her hands and cupped them, then pressed her face into them. ‘I can’t hold on to any of it.’

‘There must be some way we can save it, even if no one else will,’ said Fíriel, features formed into a mask of grim determination, still looking down at her hands. ‘More has been done by less. There must be something.’

‘Some adventure we could go on,’ offered Elanor. ‘Someone or somewhere or something we could go to find – I don’t know.’

‘There’s got to be something,’ repeated Fíriel. 

They went silent. Elanor sat back down. She propped her foot up onto her knee and rubbed it.

‘I think I broke my toe with that kick,’ she said.

‘You didn’t break your toe.’

‘I bet I did.’

Without their woods to go to, their lessons lulled. The days grew greyer and greyer. Elanor neglected her duties, even though they provided a welcome distraction. She couldn’t stand to talk to anyone, even though the loneliness was getting stronger and stronger. She spent most of her days sitting in her little room. Though it had been only one little woodland cut down, she felt as though all the wilderness had been razed to the ground, and there was nothing but the city left, sprawling and strangling, a labyrinth that she was trapped at the centre of. It was unbearable. She couldn’t leave. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t bear to stay in that room for one second longer.

After she had skipped work enough times, a summons came - from the queen herself. The time it took to get to her chambers was enough for Elanor to convince herself that she was about to be exiled from the city, bringing shame upon her family, who would never accept her home again. Before the door she took what she assumed would be her last breath of free air, and knocked. A voice called her inside.

The queen’s chambers were lavishly decorated, draped in intricate tapestries and bejewelled curtains. Threads of silver embroidery covered everything, so that the room sparkled as though morning dew had settled upon it. Beside the large window there stood a great golden harp, and it was at this that the queen was sitting, playing notes so subtle and soft that it sounded more as though she were plucking music from the sigh of the wind or the song of the birds than from an instrument. The queen did not look up from her playing when Elanor entered. She listened for a moment, then, regretfully, cleared her throat, and curtsied.

‘Excuse me, my lady. Um, before you say anything, I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry. I haven’t been feeling well. But I’m better now. I’ll start working hard again, I promise. So please don’t tell my father.’ said Elanor, her words squished up against each other in their hurry to get out.

Arwen hummed noncommittally. ‘Come, sit with me,’ she said, voice calm and composed. Elanor cautiously approached and perched on the edge of a big plush armchair, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously in her lap. For a while Arwen said nothing, and did not even glance away from her playing to look at Elanor.

‘Ma’am-’ she started again, eventually.

‘You know,’ started Arwen at the same time, out of the blue, ‘you remind me of Frodo. He had an almost elvishness about him. You have it too.’

Elanor wasn’t sure what this had to do with her skipping work.

‘Well, thank you my lady, but I’m not half as beautiful as any elf.’

‘Oh, but I am talking about a lot more than beauty. Is that all you think of us?’

‘Oh, no ma’am, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Elanor in a hurry. Arwen laughed.

‘It’s alright. But you must remember that we are very old. There’s a lot more to us than meets the eye.’

‘Of course. So you… you think I’m like Frodo?’ Elanor pushed, trying to disguise her eagerness.

‘In a way. You are like him, and like your father also, and yet not quite either of them. You’re becoming something completely new. In fact, I think you ought to have your own name. The Gardner name is stretched thin. Fairbairn, you should be, for indeed you are fair, though that is not why I said what I said. The elvishness I speak of is a certain longing. To be elvish is to want to go home. Do you want to go home, Elanor Fairbairn? You stay in your room, you speak to no one, you don’t work. You do not seem happy. Don’t you like my city?’

Ah – now here it was. Well, there was no hiding it.

‘Yes, I want to go home. I’m sorry. It’s nothing to do with your city, really. Your city is lovely. I’m just no good at being away from home. Everyone thought I was ready, but I’m not. I can’t do it. I mean – I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t want a new name! I don’t want to be apart from my family! I just don’t… I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be left alone,’ said Elanor, losing steam even as she spoke. The queen did not reply, and Elanor was left to contemplate their words. ‘Anyway, why is homesickness something elvish? You’re an elf too, after all. Do you want to go home?’

‘Yes,’ stated Arwen simply.

‘Then – then why didn’t you? If I may be so bold, I’ve wanted to ask you that all my life. Why did you stay? I can’t understand it – how did you stay? How could you give up your life, your family, your home? How could you have left your father like that? How can you bear it?’ Her voice was growing shrill, but Arwen looked at her so serenely that she at once felt embarrassed.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘it isn’t right, to judge me by what it is to be elvish. I gave that light up - though I am not human either. I don’t know exactly what I am, anymore.’ For the first time, Elanor heard in her voice something uncertain – something that sounded almost young. ‘I am something new as well, now. And yes, that is lonely. New things are always lonely. The whole world is turning lonely. So why did I choose to stay, you ask? How can I bear it? You ask this, but you do not really want an answer. You know exactly what I will say to you. You’ve been told it many times before, but hearing is not the same as knowing. You could ask this question to everyone you ever meet, and hearing it would still never be enough. I can’t tell you how to stay. You must learn for yourself your own answer. But I will say this: the world is not always as complicated as it seems. If you can’t stay, then it seems to me that the answer is simple. Leave.’

‘Oh,’ whispered Elanor. She looked out of the wide window at the great big sky. Suddenly, she knew what she must do. Of course. It was so simple.

Chapter Text

She waited until the night was late before she crept to Fíriel’s chambers. She knocked on the door, then slipped in as soon as it opened a crack. Fíriel fumbled for a lamp, and spun around until it alighted on Elanor.

‘Isn’t it a bit late?’ Fíriel asked, and then yawned to prove her point.

‘Not at all. It’s the perfect time,’ said Elanor mysteriously, and grinned. Fíriel squinted at her suspiciously.

‘The perfect time for what?’

‘To escape.’

‘To escape? From where? To where?’

‘Oh, that’s not important. It’s the escaping that matters. Wouldn’t you like to go on an adventure?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘Then let’s! I really mean it, let’s leave, right now! Like we’re always talking about, but let’s really do it, no more just wishing. Let’s see the world before it’s gone for good. What do you say?’

In the dim lamplight, Elanor saw a thousand arguments flash through Fíriel’s grey eyes. Then they cleared, and she stood up straight.

‘Alright, why not? Where do you want to go?’

‘I, uhm. I didn’t get that far.’

‘In that case… how do you feel about seeing your namesake? I have some, uhh, contacts in the area who would welcome us.’

‘Contacts?’ laughed Elanor. ‘You mean your grandfather?’

‘Great-grandfather.’

Elanor could have burst with excitement. ‘Then yes, I would like very much to see the elanor flowers in Lórien.’

‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Fíriel, clapping her hands, weariness falling away. ‘What a terrible, irresponsible plan! I’ll go saddle my horse.’

They regrouped in the stables, swords sheathed and bags packed for a journey. They were both dressed in male travelling clothing, hoods pulled low over their faces, hiding sparkling eyes. Elanor felt inordinately pleased with herself. Now, at last, her life would begin in earnest.

They mounted Nahar and trotted out of the city, alone except for a few tired messengers just getting in, and sleepy guards on the night shift.

Leaning down to Elanor’s ear so that her hood fell covering her mouth, Fíriel whispered: ‘If anyone asks, you’re my son.’ Elanor pulled a face.

‘I’m older than you, you know,’ she said.

‘How many hobbits do you think there are in this city? You’re human-child-sized, so long as you don’t look too closely.’

Elanor tried to muster the energy to feel annoyed, but she was too bubbly with excitement. At the city gates Fíriel, in a deepened voice, began to launch into some nonsensical ruse, but the guard, half-asleep, listened to a few words before waving them past.

‘That was… easy,’ remarked Elanor.

‘Eh, peacetimes,’ said Fíriel. ‘Makes everything boring.’

As they rode the dawn began to break before them, first watery pale, until finally the day shone with a clear, wintry brightness. And with the day’s rising the world began to wake up, the road gradually filling with wearied travellers, farmers at work since dawn, roads like tributaries from every corner of the world joining together with the great river of a road into a city-like-an-ocean. No one paid them any mind, one horse amongst hundreds, and they slipped unnoticed from the city. They looked back one last time, and Fíriel laughed with delight and hugged Elanor tight, her body a wall of heat against her back amidst the cold morning air. Neither needed to put voice to the shared thought: ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’

For the first leg of the journey they rode upon the well-travelled western road. They rode peacefully, travelling while the sun was up, the conversation never running dry, stopping only to share out rations of seeded rolls and little pies and strips of dried meats, and curl up by the embers of the little fires they lit off the side of the road. But though enjoyably, they did not ride slowly. This was the obvious route for them to have taken, and their absence would be quickly noticed. So, eager to be off the road, they made quick and uneventful travel through Gondor and into Rohan. It was nothing exhilarating, but the air was fresh and the company was good, and Elanor felt better than she had in months.

A princess and a hobbit were both recognisable figures, so as they approached Edoras they veered north, off the road and up into the Westemnet, the vast plains of Rohan.

Before, Elanor could have followed the well-marked road easily, but as soon as they vanished into the grasslands she became at once entirely dependent on Fíriel, who was, if not good at navigation, then at least very good at pretending to be. The plains seemed to stretch endlessly, a sea of grass rippling in the wind, hard-packed earth dotted with hardy whin and bilberry. Fíriel, despite a life of plenty, had enthusiastically learnt the ways of the wilderness from her father. At night, when the temperature plummeted, she demonstrated how to make a fire, though Elanor couldn’t quite get the knack of it. She set up bivouacs in the shelter of the strange, rocky outcrops that dotted the plains. She seemed more in her element here than she ever had in Minas Tirith; here was a ranger-girl, in the wild, where she belonged. Feeling at once unfindable in the plains, populated mostly by herds of horses, the pair slowed their pace to a leisurely one, and they took up entertainments. Fíriel tried to teach Elanor to shoot, guiding her arm from behind, but the bow was too heavy for Elanor and her arrows fell dismally short. Fíriel, demonstrating the technique, shot a rabbit clean through the eye, surprising both of them.

‘I’m going to pretend I can do that every time,’ said Fíriel, when she retrieved the rabbit, and then showed Elanor how to cook it. She was less good at that than the shooting, but long days riding, it turned out, made anything taste delicious.

Thus they passed this part of the journey, playing at being wild-men and hunters and adventurers, mock-battling upon the rocks, hiding from herdsmen as though they were deadly enemies. They travelled generally northward, following no map, and for a few days it seemed that the plains, and their joy, were infinite.

Their general direction had perhaps been rather north-westerly: they found themselves approaching very rapidly the hard black line of Fangorn Forest. The treeline was abrupt and looming against the flat plains, unignorable, yet they did not divert their path. It took very little discussion for them both to agree: they would go through the forest.

They reached the forest so quickly that it seemed almost as though it were approaching them at the same time they approached it. There was no gradual sloping woodland edge; the trees opened up to swallow them in, then closed behind them just as quickly.

As soon as they set foot in the forest, they felt a change in the air, as though they had stepped into another world. The forest was densely packed with looming, gnarled trees. They soon found that they had to dismount from Nahar, the trees too close to navigate on horseback, and they walked along quietly, uneasy to break the heavy silence that had fallen upon them. Each crackling step felt somehow wrong, as though they were dislodging something that ought to be left alone. It was all undeniably, overwhelmingly old. Like a pocket of some ancient world, clinging untouched to this last refuge. Here Elanor and Fíriel’s trivial differences melted away – they were both very small and very young.

There was something magic here too, some indescribable sense, slow and old and quiet. It was nothing Elanor could pinpoint, but like the deep roots of the trees, though she couldn’t see it, she knew it was there. She wondered if the whole world used to feel like this.

The bony branches were mostly threadbare, save for a few brown leaves still clinging on, so when there was light in the sky the forest was cold and bright, bereft of its suffocating ceiling. Unfortunately, the already slim hours of daylight were shortened by dark, rolling rainclouds which burst soon after they entered the forest and did not stop, and there was no canopy of leaves to protect them from the deluge. A mulch of fallen leaves carpeted the ground, and each step buried them ankle deep in mud and rot. Trees grew thick coats of moss, ready for winter, and soggy brown bracken drooped to the floor, heavy with rain. Red berries like baubles hung from black-green hollies. Mushrooms sprouted joyfully all around – big white puffballs, clouded agarics clustered in rings, frilly yellow chanterelles, rotten black horn of plentys – and a hundred more Elanor couldn’t name, thriving in the strange, gloomy damp.

It was creepy and bizarre and wonderful. It was easy to imagine how this forest could come alive. It was like they had stepped into an old tale, where trees might talk and forests walk about. And best of all, they were alone for miles and miles and miles. No one to tell them what to do, where to go, who to be. They were free, in a world all of their own.

And that was certainly one way of looking at it. But in another way, it was just very wet. The forest lay largely in a vast low area where the land sloped down before it rose into the misty mountains, and as such the water that streamed off the mountain slopes pooled down into the forest, forming one great collection pool. The heavy rains were unceasing and the girls found themselves sinking up to their knees in mud with each step. It was hard to focus on the positives when your hood was dripping down over your eyes.

At night Elanor sat shivering with her knees tucked under her chin, wrapped in a wet cloak, while Fíriel fumbled with a flint and steel with numb fingers.

‘Well, I can’t do it,’ Fíriel eventually announced in a cheery voice, rocking back on her heels so that she was sitting beside Elanor. ‘We’ll have to cuddle up close,’ she joked, and bumped her shoulder into Elanor’s. When Elanor didn’t react, Fíriel leaned over and twisted her head, peering at Elanor’s face. ‘You okay?’ she asked, softer, upon seeing Elanor’s miserable expression.

‘I’m okay.’ She mustered up a smile. ‘Could be better,’ she added, and held out her arm, which was encased in brown up to her shoulder from when she had tripped and plunged all her limbs deep into a puddle. Fíriel watched her for a moment more, then stood abruptly.

‘What are you-’ began Elanor, but she was interrupted by Fíriel breaking into obnoxiously loud song:

The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,

It and his beard was of silver thread;

With opals crowned and pearls all bound

about his girdlestead,

In his mantle grey he walked one day

across a shining floor,

And with crystal key in secrecy

he opened an ivory door.

Elanor stood too. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.

‘Singing,’ said Fíriel, pausing her song.

‘Yes, but…’ Elanor looked around anxiously. ‘Well, don’t the – the trees have ears or something?’

‘Of course they do. So don’t you think they’d like to hear a little song every now and again?’

‘Well… I suppose…’ she said hesitantly. ‘I don’t know the song though.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Fíriel. ‘I’m making it up. Like that silly song Frodo sung in the inn, right? My father still laughs about that. Only I don’t know the words. He never recounted it to me exactly, just the gist. So I’m making my own.’

Now Elanor did laugh a little. ‘They’re a little… Gondorian.’

‘Northerner,’ said Fíriel, and rolled her eyes, but she grasped Elanor’s hands and tugged on them, pulling her arms up and down in puppetry of dancing. Elanor pretended to resist, but then joined in, and the two of them jumped about, dancing clumsily and un-gracefully as Fíriel began to sing again, even louder this time, and here and there Elanor would offer a line or a rhyme when she faltered.

On a filigree stair of glimmering hair

then lightly down he went,

And merry was he at last to be free

on a mad adventure bent.

In diamonds white he had lost delight;

he was tired of his minaret

Of tall moonstone that towered alone

on a lunar mountain set.

He would dare any peril for ruby and beryl

to broider his pale attire,

For new diadems of lustrous gems,

Emerald and sapphire.

He was lonely too with nothing to do

but stare at the world of gold

And hark to the hum that would distantly come

as gaily round it rolled.

At plenilune in his argent moon

in his heart he longed for Fire:

Not the limpid lights of wan selenites;

for red was his desire,

For crimson and rose and ember-glows,

For flame with burning tongue,

For the scarlet skies in a swift sunrise

when a stormy day is young.

He’d have seas of blues, and the living hues

of forest green and fen;

And he yearned for the mirth of the populous earth

and the sanguine blood of men.

He coveted song, and laughter long,

and viands hot, and wine,

Eating pearly cakes of light snowflakes

and drinking thin moonshine.

He twinkled his feet, as he thought of the meat,

of pepper, and punch galore;

And he tripped unaware on his slanting stair,

and like a meteor,

A star in flight, ere Yule one night

flickering down he fell

From his laddery path to a foaming bath

in the windy Bay of Bel.

As they sung this last line they threw themselves down, collapsing into a heap, like meteorites crashing to the earth, and found that they felt quite warm.

For a few days more their travel resumed in much the same manner, but their journey did not turn out to be entirely uneventful. Their first problem came when they reached the banks of the Entwash – or rather, they reached a little way back from the banks, because they had burst in the incessant rain. A bubbling, marshy floodplain bracketed the great river. The pair squelched past trees rooted in what was now riverbed, mud sucking at their feet, until they reached the main body of the river. It was wide and rushing fast, frothing white foam like a rabid animal.

‘Hmm,’ said Fíriel, with her hands on her hips. ‘I had intended for us to ford the river here.’

‘Is there a bridge?’ asked Elanor nervously. Fíriel shook her head.

‘No one lives here and no roads pass through here. There’d be no point building one, and no one to build it anyway.’ For a moment Fíriel watched the river, thinking, while Elanor tried in vain to come up with anything helpful of her own. ‘If we can’t go forward then we’ll have to follow it along. There’s no point going east, because we won’t reach a bridge until we’ve circled way back into Rohan. If we go west we might find a low point where we can ford the river, somewhere near the foot of the mountains - closer to the source, where it’s smaller.’

It was as good a plan as any, so they waded back to dry land – or as dry as it got here – and began to follow the river westwards.

The next problem came when they found themselves walking along a beaten trail. They had followed animal tracks when they could, but these were little more than indents in the foliage, trailing between trees before tapering off. Along the edge of the river, the foliage had been trampled into the ground, the earth churned underfoot, a clear, wide path. This was the walkway of a being with purpose, a route trodden many times by something heavier than a fox or a badger. They exchanged a look, but said nothing, as though afraid to break a spell if they spoke of it aloud. Elanor lightened her footsteps, but privately she felt a hum of excitement, as if she were once more a child in the woods of the Shire, watching out of the corner of her eye for trees that moved on windless days.

Then, they saw a tree stump. Trees died in many ways naturally, rotten or burnt or blown over, but this had clearly been cut across with the clean, sharp strokes of an axe. Fíriel furrowed her brown and placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, and they continued with more caution than before, eyes darting nervously into the gloom of the trees.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains and they were just thinking of stopping to make camp when they heard ahead of them the sharp snap of a twig. They froze and listened carefully, and indeed, there was the squelch of mud, the rustle of leaves: telltale noises of footsteps through the forest. As one they drew off the path, melting into the shadows of the trees, and not a moment too late, as sure enough, a man came walking down the path. A human man, with a large axe. One of Fíriel’s hands went to her sword, and one to Elanor’s shoulder. They held their breath.

The man passed them by without a second glance.

They waited a long while in the shadows, until the footsteps had long since faded, before anyone broke the silence.

‘No point going further tonight,’ said Fíriel in a low voice, eyes darting. ‘Let’s make camp.’

They crept further into the woods, until they were reasonably far from the path, before setting out their bedrolls in a damp, fire-less camp.

‘You think it was him who cut the tree down?’

Fíriel shook her head, meaning ‘no clue.’ ‘I’m wondering if there are more out there.’

‘You don’t think he’s dangerous, do you?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.’

‘I thought you said no one came here.’

‘They don’t. That’s why I’m being safe. Something’s up. He shouldn’t be here. No one should.’

‘We are,’ pointed out Elanor.

‘Doesn’t count, we’re innocent travellers. And we don’t have an axe.’

Elanor fidgeted nervously. ‘But there’s not –’

‘Look, don’t worry about it, alright? It’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah, you’re right, you’re right. I’m just tired.’

‘Me too,’ agreed Fíriel. But it was a while before either of them slept.

They were still leading Nahar, so it was easier to walk on the open path than through the increasingly dense trees, but they were both alert now, waiting to hear the sound of approaching footsteps again. And their vigilance wasn’t for nothing, because soon enough the footsteps came again. Over the course of the day they twice more ducked off the path, unseen by the men that passed, carrying various tools. They still felt no more certain as to their identity or purpose, and no more inclined to reveal themselves. But eventually the choice was taken out of their hands.

In the rain, the churned path had become thick with mud. The girls trod carefully, but Nahar, being led behind them, was not so agile, and plunged his foreleg into an unusually deep hole, hidden by the sticky mud which at once sucked him in. It was at this inopportune moment that they once again heard the sound of someone approaching. The two of them pulled and tugged with all their might, but they could not dislodge Nahar before the man would be upon them. In a split second Fíriel made her decision. She planted herself firmly in front of Nahar, in the middle of the path. She did not draw her sword, but placed her hand upon the hilt, and rose to her full height.

A man rounded the corner, and stopped short at the sight. His hand twitched at his side, but he made no sudden move.

‘Who are you?’ he spoke, and he sounded like a man of Gondor.

‘You first, stranger,’ said Fíriel in a voice she rarely used, commanding and noble. The man said nothing, but eyed her hand on her sword. Pointedly, she removed it.

The stranger shrugged. ‘I have no secrets. I am Osgardir Tandir’s son, of Gondor. I am working here, with a great company of men.’

‘Working? At what? What work is there to be done in the middle of the forest?’

‘Tell me your name, stranger, and then I may tell you my business.’

‘I am Tuilindil daughter of Erfaron, of Gondor also. This is my little sister, Maewdil. We are travelling from Minas Tirith to visit our relatives, woodsmen who live in the south of Greenwood.’

Osgardir raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you are way off course. And young to be travelling alone such a distance.’ He squinted suspiciously at Elanor, who he had barely noticed until Fíriel named her. Elanor looked at the ground and said nothing. She did not look like Fíriel, nor like a human child, if you looked for too long, and he was looking for too long.

Fíriel bristled, but her words never faltered. ‘I am twenty-four. My father died in the war. My mother remarried and had my sister. She has passed now, and I am bringing my sister to where we have more family. We were set off course by the floods, and got lost in the forest.’

Osgardir looked doubtful still, but was clearly not threatened, and thankfully tore his eyes away from Elanor.

‘Well, like I say, you’re young nonetheless, and this is no place for two little girls. The eastern bridge washed over, right?’ Fíriel nodded, though she knew of no such bridge. ‘We’ve been having to use our bridge in the west, where the river is smaller. I could show you if you wanted, keep you out of harm’s way.’

They wanted nothing less than this stranger’s protection. But it would seem suspicious for two lost travellers to decline, and they didn’t know this man, or how he would react to being told ‘no’. Besides, the men knew they were here now, so secrecy was no longer an option. They might as well uncover the mystery afoot. Both shared these thoughts in a wordless glance, and then nodded.

He helped them pull Nahar free from the mud, and led them westwards down the path.

‘So, if I may ask now, what is the work you are doing?’ said Fíriel.

‘I’m a lumberjack. We’re felling trees for the construction of a great dam.’

Elanor felt Fíriel stiffen beside her, and placed a hand softly on her arm, though it angered her too.

‘And you’re sourcing the wood from Fangorn? One of the last surviving shreds of the forests of the Elder Days? The living forest, which saved our lives in the war?’

Osgardir looked back at her with a frown and shrugged. ‘I don’t choose the location. I just do the job. Got a family to feed.’

As they walked further west they began to pass more men, who stared, but did not stop them when they saw their guide. He seemed to have been telling the truth, or at least some of it, about their work: they passed carts full of timber, men with axes, large clearings of felled trees. Lying amidst this forest so ancient and alive, they looked more like corpses. The lumberjacks swarmed around like an invasive species of insect which descends upon a plant and leaves it stripped bare. It turned Elanor’s stomach.

‘The servants of Saruman felled this forest and paid for it. Even if you didn’t choose the location, you must realise its wrong,’ argued Fíriel.

‘You’re one of those environmental freaks, are you?’ he scoffed. ‘Look, everyone needs wood. Doesn’t make me Saruman. I fought in the war, I’ll have you know, and I don’t appreciate some kid who’s never seen battle getting all high and mighty ‘cause I’m trying to make a living.’

‘I’m not trying to blame you. I’m just saying. This forest is alive. You must feel that, right? And it’s so old, it’s survived so long. Far, far longer than any of us. So what right do we have –’

‘The king’s right,’ interrupted Osgardir. This took Fíriel off guard.

‘What do you mean, the king’s right?’

‘He ordered the construction of this dam. We’re here on his command. So if you have a problem, take it up with him. This is Gondorian land, so it’s his to do what he will with.’

‘Land doesn’t belong to any man – and – and he wouldn’t!’

Osgardir looked at her strangely. ‘And you know him so well, do you? But why wouldn’t he? He’s a good king.’ He sighed. ‘Look lass, you’re young. I doubt you are twenty-four as you say you are. But when you get older you learn, you can’t have everything every way. Yes, it’s sad to have to take from this forest. But I’m not pouring the wood straight into a pit of fire for the simple joy of burning things. The construction of a new dam will mean reservoirs of water, so no one will go thirsty in times of drought, no one will starve because their crops dried up. It’ll prevent flooding, protect people’s homes, create more places for the displaced and homeless to live. With better control of the rivers, cargo can more easily be transported across the land. We can get food to places faster, medicine, resources. You going to argue with me that that’s bad?’

Fíriel said nothing.

‘You didn’t see the third age. Maybe you don’t understand just how much better things have got. But this is a new age, it’s an age of peace and of progress. And that means lots of things are getting better. Life is getting better, easier, for a lot of people. You want that, right? Then sometimes we’ll have to build stuff to make that happen, and things need to be built out of something. It’s good that you’re fierce, that you’re passionate. But don’t take it out on me.’

Fíriel was quiet for a long while afterwards. But for the first time, Elanor piped up, unable to contain herself. She did not have Fíriel’s fierceness, but like all the Gardner family she had a deep love for everything that grew, deeper than for most men, and she couldn’t let it go.

‘But you agreed that it was sad. How can you do it then? How can you bring yourself to just get rid of something you know can’t be gotten back?’

‘It is sad. That don’t mean it’s wrong. You should always feel sad when you kill something. A farmer ought to feel sad when he slaughters his sheep. If you don’t feel sad, you get complacent. You start to forget the value of life. You stop caring. But does that mean the farmer’s doing something wrong? He’s got to eat, his family’s got to eat. But so long as he keeps feeling sad every time then he’ll give his flock the best life they can get, and the kindest death, and take no more than he needs. Does that make sense?’

She could think of no further argument, so she said no more, but still she felt sick to her stomach when she looked at the felled trees and their thousands of rings. But at least she felt sad, she thought. If nothing else, she could give them that.

They walked mostly in silence the rest of the way to the bridge. Once they were there Osgardir pointed out to them the woodsmen’s path they ought to take northwards, to the corresponding bridge across the Limlight, the river to the north. They thanked him, and left with more respect than they had when they had met.

The woodsmen’s work at the moment was mostly south of the Entwash, so before long they had left all people behind, and were relatively alone once more. They passed through excavated clearings until the trees closed back around them, and the woodsmen’s path narrowed until it was little more than an animal’s trail, and nothing stirred for miles.

And yet still, it was not quite the same as before. Even when all signs of the woodsmen had passed, the feeling in the pit of Elanor’s stomach did not abate. They weren’t alone. They weren’t even lost - they had nice clear directions to follow. The forest was stained and shrinking. Mortal. Something – something of the invisible, untouchable magic – had been touched. She kept talking lightly with Fíriel as they walked, playing around, but that faint, brief spark of adventure she had begun to feel deep in her chest had gone out.

That night, after Fíriel had fallen asleep, Elanor found a big tree with low branches, and climbed up high to a fork where she could comfortably sit. It was a wet, mossy seat, and little woodlice scuttled over her feet where she kicked up loose bark. In the canopy the faint glow of fireflies darting about the last still-clinging leaves created a mock-sky of twinkling stars, though the real ones were hidden behind dark clouds. The silence, once she adjusted to it, was alive and thrumming. The almost silent pad of paws through the undergrowth, the occasional hoot of an owl, loud and clear in the night, and if she really listened, the deep, impossible groan of the trees, stretching ever upwards.

Feeling silly, she whispered, ‘You’re not an ent, are you?’

The howl of wind, distant and high up. The strum of a spiderweb like a harp string.

‘I didn’t think so. I always hoped I would see ents, and all the other magical things I’ve been told stories about, but I never really expected to see them. Sometimes I’m not even sure I believe in all the things I’ve never seen. That’s what scares me about them disappearing. It’s already just stories, and those are never going to be the same. So many things just up and vanished right when I was born. People too. Everywhere I go, someone’s been lost. We’re going to Lothlórien but Galadriel won’t be there, so that won’t be real either, not really. And you’ve lost the entwives. And now even you are going.

‘You could wake up. Chase all those men out. Crush them to bits. You could be wild again.’

She sighed. ‘I know you aren’t going to. The ents will never awake like that again. It’s too late now. It’s all too late. And I can’t do – ’ She broke off and made an unintelligible groan, and stuck her knuckles into her eyes. ‘At least in the war – and I know the war was terrible, and I’d never want anything like that to happen again. But at least there was an enemy. There was someone to beat to make it all go away. Bad guys and good guys. Now there’s just… people. I don’t know.’

The only response was the pitter-patter feet of a thousand insects, and the high screech of a fox, and the dappled humidity of the crackling air, and the hoot of an answering owl. Elanor climbed down.

The lumberjacks’ path ran straight, and their journey was quick and unimpeded. They found the bridge across the Limlight with little difficulty, and once they had crossed over the forest began to peter out, until before they knew it they had emerged upon the last low rocky feet of the misty mountains. Their journey through Fangorn was over. Trees still dappled the landscape but they were sparser, misty evergreens sprouting greyish-green tufts above the frost dappled land, the habitat of hawks and heather. They had come out much farther west than they had intended, but it was easy terrain to ride on, so they mounted Nahar and rode swiftly northeast. The closer they got to Lórien, the more excited Fíriel grew. She told Elanor stories about summers spent there, she and her brother daring each other to climb higher and higher up the immense mallorn trees until one of them chickened out (Fíriel insisted she had always won); festivals where the whole forest was lit up with lights and jewels and magic, and tables overflowed with food, and all the last elves gathered together so that the old days seemed returned; her great-grandfather’s endless stories from every age of the world. Her hopelessness dulled a little at these stories, and excitement woke in her once more. For how long had she wished to see the golden elanor growing upon the hill of Amroth, to hear elven singing among the silver trees? – for as long as she had been able to wish, she thought. Everything had always been leading her there. Yes, everything would come together once she was in Lórien. She was sure of it.

Excitement made the ride take longer, but really they travelled very quickly, and soon found themselves approaching the southern borders of Lothlórien. As they came upon the looming trees, they grew silent. They dismounted, and entered slowly and reverentially. She had thought the Shire’s one precious young mallorn the most beautiful thing there could be. That was before she had walked through a forest of them. Where most trees had dropped the decaying brown skeletons of their leaves, the mallorn trees were roofed so abundantly that the crowns meshed together into a solid gold ceiling, like some vast temple, held up by impossibly high columns of silver. The light, filtering through the canopy, grew dim and yet golden, so the forest seemed enshrined in the last fading beams of some golden sunset. The ground was carpeted in gold also, and when Elanor looked closer and saw that it was made up of millions of tiny, star-shaped golden flowers, like the face of the sun shining out through every bud, and buried deeper in the carpet, growing from the same stems, smaller silver blooms, glittering like fragments of some distant star, blooming fragrant and bright long past the season of flowers – when she saw this, she felt something so immense bloom in her chest that she could have cried, because of course they were the elanor flowers, and never before this moment could she have imagined that someone could have loved her so much as to think her worthy of such a namesake.

They walked a while in awed silence, but soon they heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and before they could shake themselves from their trance, two figures astride great white horses rode up out of the tree-gloom. They stopped before the girls and one rider swung down. He was exceptionally fair, and looked young, barely a man – but of course that was no indication of age, because as Elanor swiftly realised as he approached, he was an elf. They were elves. He strode over and Elanor tensed up, but he paid her no mind at all. He barrelled into Fíriel and drew her into a crushing hug, then held her back at arm’s length.

‘Ci cened te maer. Galannog - ci tond! Istannen nevtolathog,’ he cried gleefully.

‘It’s good to see you too, Húrdil. But how could you have known we were coming? We told no one,’ exclaimed Fíriel. The elf – Húrdil – laughed, and replied in common:

‘You are not so sneaky as you think. We have had word of your coming every step along the way. But come – eat, rest, and we can explain all to you. Everyone is eager to greet you.’

‘Yes, of course, at once,’ said Fíriel, hopping about on one foot in excitement. She turned to mount Nahar and saw Elanor still standing beside him. ‘Oh! Húrdil, this is my companion, Elanor daughter of Samwise. Elanor, this is my friend Húrdil.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ lied Elanor.

Húrdil nodded politely, then turned back to Fíriel. ‘Come, come! The day wears on!’ The second elf, who hadn’t spoken, turned and rode off into the trees. Húrdil, mounting his horse again, followed, and finally Fíriel and Elanor upon Nahar, until all faded away into the hazy golden glow of the trees, and the forest was silent once more.

Chapter Text

From a distance, Caras Galadhon, the city of the Galadhrim of Lothlórien, seemed mighty. It wasn’t until you got close that you realised it was a husk.

The city was built upon a great hill, surrounded by a wall, crowned with mallorn trees. At the centre of the hill stood the tallest tree, forming a peak. From afar the hill stood like a golden mountain, huge and breath-taking.

But once you dipped down to cross the river, then began to rise again, passing through the gate and climbing the slopes of the hill, walking under the boughs of the great trees, you could tell that something was wrong. The city stood within and upon this fortress of trees, structures twining amongst the branches, grown into the wood itself. But they stood empty. For all the hundreds of flets perched like nests in the trees, Elanor saw only a dozen or so elves as she walked. Everything was unbearably quiet. Ladders hanging down from the trees flapped pathetically in the wind. The forest floor was tangled with undergrowth over untrod paths. It was as a place struck by disaster or eviscerated by plague, a place abandoned and left undisturbed, a holy relic, where footsteps echoed and grief lay heavy in the air.

And yet as they walked the main road up towards the crest of the hill, the elves they passed leapt up at the sight of them, and cried out in delight. They hurried over to place a hand on Fíriel’s shoulder, or to speak words of elvish too fast for Elanor to recall, let alone translate, to bow to her or to hug her, and joined them on their way, until a little procession of sorts formed, and gladness followed in their wake.

Their party grew until at last they stood before the feet of the greatest mallorn, at the peak of the hill, and here the gathered crowd halted. Before the tree stood an elf, tall and regal, with hair and robes of silver, as if clothed in moonlight. He looked neither young nor old, aside from in his eyes: for those were deep and ancient and very sad. Elanor thought that he looked, more than anything, like the mallorn trees. She had no doubts about who he was.

‘Great-grandfather,’ said Fíriel. The crowd bowed.

‘Gi nathlam hí, hên nín. And your little friend, too,’ said the Lord Celeborn, and Elanor flushed as a dozen elves seemed to notice her for the first time. ‘We have been expecting you. Your father was not pleased with your exit,’ he said, turning to Fíriel once more. She avoided his eye guiltily and stared at her feet. ‘He was not pleased,’ he continued, ‘but he let you go, as he was assured of your safety. Word reached him, and us, of your progress, from everyone from travellers on the road, to lumberjacks in the woods of Fangorn. Did you think yourselves alone and unseen? This world has many eyes, children. It is not so easy to disappear as it once was, so do not presume to do so rashly. You were much observed and recognised, and you are lucky indeed that no danger befell you,’ he scolded. Both girls hung their heads. ‘Yes, you were foolish, two young defenceless girls such as yourselves to wander off into the wilderness without a word to anyone who cares about you,’ he said angrily, but then, all of a sudden, his face lightened. ‘But you are here now, and you are safe. And since you are already here, your father, Fíriel, has agreed that you may stay until Yule has passed, after which you will be escorted safely home. Do you understand?’

‘Oh yes, yes, thank you!’ cried Fíriel, beaming, and threw her arms around Celeborn in a manner so casual that it looked almost comedic against the stiff formality of the ancient elvish lord. But he patted her on the back and pushed her gently away.

‘You are travel worn. Bathe and dress, and then we shall eat and rest, and afterwards when you are recovered we may talk properly. Go now,’ he commanded. Húrdil led Fíriel off and Elanor went to follow, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. It was the other elf who had ridden to meet them, a very tall figure, who Elanor thought was probably female, though she wasn’t sure.

‘Come with me,’ she said, in a heavy elvish lilt.

‘But Fíriel…’ began Elanor weakly, watching her walk away.

‘You will see her at supper. Come,’ she said again, and led her away in a different direction. ‘You are fond of the princess,’ the elf observed as they walked.

‘Yes,’ she said simply, finding no reason to lie. The elf nodded.

‘We all are. She is as much our princess as Gondor’s. She reminds of us our lady, who has left us, and of her mother who used to dwell here and was much loved. And she reminds of us the days when the elves were young, and there were children still. She is…’ She struggled for a moment to find the words. ‘Vi galad o Elbereth… Many stars we see in the sky, they are dead, only their light is still travelling to the earth. That is what the elves are like. But she is as a star, not just its light. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Elanor.

‘Here we are.’ They had passed into a grove of high bushes, where stood a copper tub filled with warm water, shielded by paper screens. There was a heady aroma in the air. The elf waited outside the grove while Elanor bathed until her skin turned pink, scrubbing the forest-grime from her body. When she got out, she found hung over the screen a dress, in elven fashion, but just about small enough for Elanor. It was a pale yellow, patterned with flowers and girdled with a pink ribbon. She dressed and stepped out of the grove, and found the elf waiting.

‘It is a child’s dress, from long ago. It was my daughter’s, once,’ she explained, and a great sadness crossed her face. But then she passed a hand over her eyes and straightened up. ‘There have not been children here for a long time, but we preserve things.’ They set off walking again, as Elanor wrung out her hair.

‘Are there really none at all? Anywhere?’ she asked. The elf thought for a moment.

‘Many of the elves who stayed were younger than many who left, because they were not through with this life yet. Húrdil I think is the youngest here. But even then, even by our standards, they are not truly young. Certainly not children. But I do not know every elf in all the world. Perhaps somewhere. Over the seas, I’m sure there are many.’

‘So are you young? Or, younger?’

The elf laughed, and it was a bright, clear sound, which made Elanor decide at once that she liked this elf very much.

‘Ah, but how can an elf answer such a question? I am older than Húrdil and I am younger than the moon. I am younger than the greatest mallorn atop the hill. I am much, much older than you.’

‘If you aren’t young then, or – or whatever, then may I ask, why did you stay?’

‘Ah, well. Age, time, they are not for us as they are for you. One day I will go to the Blessed Land with my kin, and so I am always there, in a way. And in the meantime… I have my garden here, and my strawberries will be ripe soon. And then my tomatoes, and of course I have my own wine in the middle of fermenting…’ she smiled a knowing sort of smile, as if she were smiling at an old friend who knew exactly what she meant without ever having to explain it. ‘And I couldn’t have such interesting conversations as these if I left.’

Elanor, flattered, couldn’t help smiling. ‘Thank you – oh! But I never asked your name! I’m sorry!’

‘But I already know your name,’ the elf said solemnly. ‘So you cannot give me that in exchange for mine. You will have to do something else for me in return.’

‘Oh, umm…’ said Elanor.

‘I am Ídher. And now you must repay me.’

‘What must I do?’ asked Elanor nervously.

‘Sit down, and eat your supper before it gets cold,’ said Ídher. Elanor realised abruptly that as they had walked they had reached a table laid out with food under the trees, without her even noticing. Her eyes scanned over the seated figures and almost missed Fíriel; she had dressed in a long white gown, cascading over her brown limbs as softly as starlight. Her dark hair was washed and curled about her shoulders, and a star was set upon her brow. She looked the picture of an elvish princess, emerged from a tale of old, still bathed in the light of the two trees. But then she saw Elanor, and smiled and waved the same as ever, and Elanor hurried to sit beside her.

‘What do you think?’ whispered Fíriel.

‘I think I’m hungry,’ she said, and then said no more as both ate more than their fill, with less manners than they ought. Elanor had privately harboured hopes of staying up all night feasting and listening to elvish song, but dinner was a small affair, and both girls found that they were much more tired than they realised, and went soon after to bed.

Elanor was given a flet to herself, since so many went empty nowadays. But balancing high in a tree felt unnatural and lonely, and she tossed and turned for a long while before she could fall asleep.

The next day they explored Lórien, with Húrdil as their guide. He and Fíriel, she discovered, had known each other since Fíriel was a young child, and they reminisced over all manner of old games and jokes as they showed Elanor around. Yet it was not as Elanor had pictured, when Fíriel had told stories on their journey. It was a still, quiet place, and their laughter seemed out of place. In the city the odd elf sat, going about their daily tasks quickly and quietly, fletching an arrow or skinning a buck. In the wider woods not a soul stirred. Any animals slept for the winter. No breeze broke through the trees. It was an old, tired place. There was an overwhelming sadness lying heavy in the air, a melancholy blue that perforated the gold as surely as shadows that grow longer in the light of dusk. And yet Fíriel laughed. Through all the stifling quiet she laughed, piercing as the daylight. There, she pointed, that tree she had climbed, that river she had swum in, it was there that she had gotten in trouble and there she had played as a child. Elanor couldn’t understand it.

They spent the morning this way, and in the afternoon Fíriel was summoned to speak with her great-grandfather in private.

‘I’ll see you in a bit,’ she said to Elanor. ‘Húrdil will hang out with you.’ But once she had dashed off, Elanor and Húrdil looked at each other for perhaps the first time today, and came at once to an understanding.

‘You’re fine, right? You know your way around?’

‘Yup.’

Húrdil headed back towards Caras Galadhon, so Elanor wandered off in the opposite direction. As she walked she thought of her friends and family in the Shire; she wondered what they were doing, and what little comings and goings she had missed. She wondered how Fastred was, and if he missed her. She pictured the trees being hung with silver for Yule, her mother baking a yule log, herself sitting with her father beside the fire, a quilt around her shoulders, listening to his stories late into the night. As she walked and wondered, she found herself climbing the steep slopes of a hill. She paused to catch her breath, and looked back over where she had come. She could see the hill of Caras Galadhon in the distance. It was an unusual day, because the sun was out, and it lit upon the tops of the trees between the two hills, setting them alight like a sparkling golden sea. Elanor stood high upon a hill where the elanors bloomed more abundantly below her feet than anywhere else she had seen, a spring meadow lost in the throes of early winter. The hill was crowned with a circle of leafless white trees, like a circlet, which surrounded an inner circle of tall, kingly mellyrn. With a start, she realised she stood upon the hill of Amroth. She looked down at the grass beneath her feet. Here, the king and queen had plighted their troth. Here too had her father and Frodo come, and looked down on this same view. She looked around, looking for – she wasn’t sure what. She half expected to find their footprints still indented in the grass. But there was no one there. It was only her. She lay down in the elanors, and watched the clouds pass by.

When the sun began to dip in the sky she returned to Caras Galadhon, but she couldn’t find Fíriel, so she wandered in circles until she came across a couple of elves. She followed them to a long table laid out with food, where many were already sat, including Fíriel. Most places were full, so she squeezed between two elves and said nothing as she ate. After dinner, an elf stood and produced a pipe, and another a harp, and one a flute, and so on, and this perked Elanor up significantly. Then, the elven song began.

They sung in elvish, and Elanor did not understand it well enough to follow the story they told - and yet something in the words made tears prick her eyes. It was a haunting sound, beautiful and sad. And yet it was weak, as a river that is deep, and yet runs slowly, almost stagnant, with a lazy current; such was the song of the elves. Their words were as a breeze, or the flap of wings: the air itself singing, and yet easily drowned out, and Elanor felt somewhat disappointed. But she found also that as she listened she began to understand the words they sung, so worn smooth with use they were that the meaning seemed to cling to the air around them. Unbidden into her mind came visions of waves, cold and grey upon a tossing sea, and the call of seabirds, and a distant white shore. And the current, though weak, began to pull something loose. As one small pebble can be picked up and begin a great avalanche, so it was inside Elanor, somewhere too deep for her to notice, and too deep to stop.

Some elves stood and began to dance, twining and spinning and leaping past each other like threads spinning together a great web. Fíriel of course was among them, the first out of her seat, and though in garb and appearance she could almost have been mistaken for one of them, she shone out like a beacon besides them. She had elvish beauty and elvish grace, never missing a step, and yet there was something so human, so unmistakably young and alive about her that no elf had. They were faded, impressions left upon the air, memory clinging to the present, and she was the sun in a sky full of stars. None who did not age could shine so brightly with youth as she did, none who did not die could have the vigour and energy, the fleeting, burning, blazing joy of a mortal life. Elanor thought, as she watched Fíriel’s bare feet carry her as swiftly as flight through the dance, that she understood at last what she never had before: how the gift of men could indeed be a gift and not a doom - and Elanor, who had often yearned to be an elf, wished for the first time that she were a man.

As the night wore on, and the elves’ songs began to dwindle, some began to cry for a song from Elanor, who had sat all the while quietly in her seat.

‘Let us hear the songs of the halfling folk,’ they cried, and nothing Elanor could say would dissuade them. So eventually she stood – but of course this put her even lower than when she had been sitting, so she climbed up and stood upon her cushioned chair, and cleared her throat. But with all eyes on her she felt sick, and her mind went blank of every song she had ever heard. ‘Sing!’ the elves cried, so, stumbling over the words, Elanor began to warble Fíriel’s silly song from the forest, being able to think of nothing else. Her voice was nothing special even by hobbit standards, and most certainly not compared to the songs of the elves, and she felt herself flushing even as she sung, high-pitched and trembling. When she came to the end of her stolen words she felt so ashamed that she puffed up her chest and began a new verse, and continued the song, making up the words on the spot. Here is what she sang:

He began to think, lest he melt and sink,

what in the moon to do,

When a fisherman's boat found him far afloat

to the amazement of the crew,

Caught in their net all shimmering wet

in a phosphorescent sheen

Of bluey whites and opal lights

and delicate liquid green.

Against his wish with the morning fish

They packed him back to land:

'You had best get a bed in an inn', they said;

'the town is near at hand'.

Only the knell of one slow bell

high in the  Seaward Tower

Announced the news of his moonsick cruise

at that unseemly hour.

Not a hearth was laid, not a breakfast made,

and dawn was cold and damp.

There were ashes for fire, and for grass the mire,

for the sun a smoking lamp

In a dim back-street. Not a man did he meet,

no voice was raised in song;

There were snores instead, for all folk were abed

and still would slumber long.

He knocked as he passed on doors locked fast,

and called and cried in vain,

Till he came to an inn that had light within,

and he tapped at a window-pane.

A drowsy cook gave a surly look,

and ‘What do you want?’ said he.

‘I want fire and gold and songs of old

and red wine flowing free!’

‘You won’t get them here,’ said the cook with a leer,

‘but you may come inside.

Silver I lack and silk to my back –

maybe I’ll let you bide.’

A silver gift the latch to lift,

a pearl to pass the door;

For a seat by the cook in the ingle-nook

it cost him twenty more.

For hunger or drouth naught passed his mouth

till he gave both crown and cloak;

And all that he got, in an earthen pot

broken and black with smoke,

Was porridge cold and two days old

to eat with a wooden spoon.

For puddings of   Yule  with plums, poor fool,

he arrived so much too soon:

An unwary guest on a lunatic quest

from the Mountains of the Moon.

Then she sat abruptly down in her chair, and would say no more.

Elanor began to understand the old tales of mortals wandering into fairylands and not noticing an entire lifetime had passed them by until they were old and dying; or hearing elven singing and falling so entranced that they watched, unmoving, unsleeping, uneating, till they starved where they sat; or helping themselves to a mysterious feast in the forest and finding themselves unable to leave. They were only stories – at least nowadays - but the days did begin to pass as though in a dream. The next day dawned, and she wandered under the trees, talked with Fíriel, ate elven food, listened to their song. The next day dawned, and then the next. Sometimes her and Fíriel kept up their old sword fighting lessons, but more and more often Fíriel seemed always too busy: engaged in long talks with the Lord Celeborn, or out hunting with the elves, or spending time with old friends. Whenever she vanished Elanor tried to be considerate, remembering what she had confessed back in the city, about needing to be alone. She tried not to let it get to her. It wasn’t as if it was Fíriel’sfault – it was just bad luck that what Elanor needed was to be with Fíriel.

So, left often alone, Elanor would speak to the elves. Well, mostly she listened. It began with the songs the elves would sing as the worked, simple and repetitive, with sounds and tales older than the mouths that spoke them. Elanor would sit on the outskirts, copying their words into her notebook, to try to translate them – at which she was slow, and no good at doing by ear. Eventually the elves noticed her, and would call her over, and help her with her translation. They were glad to find an attentive listener, and would spend long hours telling stories to Elanor of bygone ages, elven myths, episodes from their own long lives. For her part Elanor made notes all the while, unwilling to let these stories fade away when the elves left Middle-earth for good, though her notes didn’t do them justice by half. The elves for their part did not seem troubled by records: ‘our days are over,’ they said. But Elanor’s were not, so she appointed herself an archivist, and from that point forth went nowhere without her notebook. On one walk she picked a bunch of elanors and pressed them, determined to preserve an entire forest within the pages of her notebook.

The elves’ stories came often to Valinor, the elvenhome, and were streaked with longing. Elanor understood now what Arwen had meant. She felt a kinship with their homesickness, even when – especially when – the home was one that most of them had never been to in the first place. She thought often of her little bedroom in the Shire, a round window looking out at her father, working in his garden in the sunshine. But one day there was a lull in the elves’ talk, and one said:

‘But we talk overmuch, forgetting our guest. You must have tales too, tui. Won’t you tell us of yourself?’

‘Well,’ she began. ‘My father is Samwise Gamgee, and of course he was in the fellowship, and the companion of Frodo Baggins-’

‘We know the tales of the war,’ an elf interrupted. ‘What of you.’

‘Oh, me. Me, well. Well of course I’m from the Shire and it’s… nice. I live with my brothers and sisters in a hole in the ground – there’s so many of us, it’s like a rabbit warren full of kits.’ This amused the elves. ‘And, well, there’s just – uhm – well mostly I read, really. There are some little woodlands around, but nothing to impress a woodland elf, and really I was always just pretending they were some others woods, somewhere else. I have – a few friends – and I just – I don’t know,’ she finished lamely. She felt a deep welt of shame rend her, as she realised how little she had to tell, how little she had lived her own life. How badly she missed the Shire – and yet, what had she ever done in the Shire but yearn to be elsewhere? In longing for a world that was gone, she had never gotten to know the one she was living in. From then on she spoke no more to the elves of herself, but thought more and more often of her home.

One morning, Elanor was eating breakfast at the long table which was always laid out under the boughs of the great mallorn, when Ídher came up to her. The two had spoken often over her stay in Lórien, and Elanor thought of her as the elf that she was closest to being real friends with.

‘I have something to show you. For your records of our history,’ Ídher said. Elanor finished her breakfast quickly, and followed Ídher into the trees. ‘I do not know why you write these things down,’ Ídher mused as they walked. ‘Our history is over already. These after-years are unimportant.’

Elanor shrugged. ‘What other years do I have? Anyway, everyone’s already cornered the market for every other period of elvish history. But I’m the only one recording this bit.’

Ídher beamed. ‘Market? Ae, you amuse me perian-sell. You know, you are the first halfling I have ever spoken to. So many years of my long life, when I could have known your people. It is a shame I did not speak to them when they came here, in the war.’

‘You mean you’ve seen my father? And Merry, and Pippin, and Frodo?’ Elanor exclaimed eagerly.

‘Well of course. They came here only a blink of an eye ago.’

‘You must remember that for me, that blink has been my entire life. But won’t you tell me, what were they like, back then?’

‘Alas, I did not speak to them. There were many more elves at the time, and many more jobs to do done. I regret that I paid little mind to your father. At the time, he did not seem an important member of the fellowship. Of course, I could not have been more wrong. He was the most important of all. But even beyond that, if you are anything like your father, it was foolish of me personally as well, because we would have made great friends.’

Elanor smiled shyly. ‘Oh, I don’t know that I’m much like my father. He’s far better than me. But I’m sure you would’ve liked him very much.’ But she knew her own father, that wasn’t what was really of interest to her – so she repeated again what was truly on her mind: ‘What about Frodo?’

‘Ah, the ring-bearer. He, we knew to be important, so we paid him a little more mind. Still, I did not speak to him. I am sorry. I remember only that I saw him from afar, and thought that he had a sort of elvishness about him.’

Elanor thought quietly for a moment. ‘People say that about me too. Do you think I look a bit like him?’

Ídher smiled. ‘You look like you. But we are here.’

They stopped in a seemingly innocuous spot of the forest, where a few elves were gathered.

‘What is it?’ asked Elanor. Ídher beckoned and they stepped closer to the other elves, who were looking down at the ground. Elanor followed their eyes blankly, seeing nothing. A leaf drifted down past her head, and she reached out and grabbed it on instinct.

‘That is it,’ said Ídher. ‘The leaves of Lórien are falling.’

Now she saw – the forest floor below their feet was littered with golden leaves.

‘I thought the leaves of the mallorns only fell in spring?’

‘And so they have, for springs beyond count. But now, before Yule has passed, they are losing their leaves.’

‘Why? Are they sick?’

‘They are dying.’

‘Dying?’ Elanor exclaimed. ‘How could that be?’

‘They are old,’ said Ídher. ‘Do you know the history of the mellyrn? First they grew in Valinor. Then they were brought to Tol Eressëa, then to Númenor from there. King Gil-Galad tried to grow them in Lindon, and finally the Lady Galadriel brought them here. But they’ve grown only here, and never spread beyond where they were planted. Living things have a natural order, and the mellyrn are not part of the natural order of this world. Whatever insects pollinated them on Valinor, we do not have them here. Perhaps they no longer exist even in the west – it has been a long, long time. A long time for the trees to be away from their home. They have outlived their place in this world. They grew here, but they are foreign nonetheless – like us. Perhaps they grew here only because they are so much like us. When the Lady Galadriel was with us, with the magic of Nenya strengthening this realm, we showered them in magic, cared for them night and day until they grew tall. But the ring, and the Lady, have passed on now. The time of the elves is over. The magic of Lórien is fading. So the trees, like us, are dying. But I will stay with the last mellyrn of Middle-earth, until their final day. Then at last, I will go home.’ Ídher placed a hand on the trunk of the tree, and closed her eyes respectfully.

‘You’re wrong,’ said Elanor.

All eyes were on her at once.

‘I am wrong?’

‘About… I’m sorry, that sounded rude. But these aren’t the last mellyrn in Middle-earth. And even with the ring gone, they aren’t all dying, so it can’t all be the elves’ doing, begging your pardon. See, there’s a mallorn growing in the Shire – just down the hill from my home, actually. And it’s young, and perfectly healthy still, though not quite as tall as all these, and I don’t think it’s dying at all, or not for a while yet at least.’

This news seemed to genuinely surprise Ídher, in a way that Elanor hadn’t seen an elf surprised before.

‘Is that so? Huh.’ She looked up at the thinning canopy of the trees, and then smiled down at Elanor. ‘We forget the value of a young person’s voice. It is a good thing I showed you this, perian-sell. I am glad to have been wrong. I think now that perhaps one mallorn at least, however diminished, will always grow on these shores.’

Then she took Elanor’s hand, and together they walked back to the city.

At home (as Elanor recalled suddenly, during one of her long walks under the trees, where she named to herself as many irrelevant details about her life as she could, as though trying to prove to herself that it was real) she had a toy, something dwarven from out of Dale, probably purchased long ago by old Mr. Bilbo. It was a cylinder, evenly spaced throughout with little slits that you could peer through, if you put your eye up to them, to view the inside of the cylinder. On the inside were tiny, delicate drawings of a green dragon with gold-tipped scales, perched upon a mountaintop. The toy could be spun, and if you did so and peered in, in a succession of flashing images the dragon leapt up and took flight, flapping its little wings and breathing swirls of gold flames, as smoothly as if it had come to life. Being in Lórien felt like looking into that toy. Each day was a drawing, filled with the most wonderful images, and Elanor was the giant, peeking in with one eye open. From image to image, it seemed nothing changed at all. Yet if you picked it up and spun it, you would find that movement, however slow, was still movement, and that despite all odds, time went on.

In this manner winter came, late and slow, but came nonetheless, to Lórien. She began to wake to the ground cast in a pearly shell of frost, steamy air pillowing around her ankles. The nights were long and the days gloomy, and the elves strung lanterns between the boughs of the trees. Yule would soon be upon them, and the thought made Elanor feel sick. Each passing day brought her closer to being back in Minas Tirith, sitting alone in that little grey room. But she couldn’t go back yet – whatever it was that she had been looking for, she hadn’t found it. She did not feel as though she were in a tale here. Lothlórien had become just one more real place, and she felt just the same as ever. She was still the same person. And once she left Lothlórien, would she ever return? It seemed doubtful. And even if she did come back in the future, would it even still be here? Or would all the elves have sailed away and all the mellyrn died? The woods would be silent, the leaves bare, the magic faded beyond memory. Without their protectors, these trees would in time vanish entirely, coming to naught but firewood, or a fancy dam if they were lucky. Fíriel would return to her family, her friends, her duties, her real life, with centuries of freedom ahead of her. And as for Elanor, she’d return to the big lonely city to be small and lonely, and then go home, unchanged and insignificant, to dream about being somewhere else, until she went there and was miserable there too, and over and over again, until she died and was quickly forgotten. Was this it? The end of her attempt at adventuring? Was this all she’d ever get? This couldn’t be it. She was still waiting for something, she could feel it. But the trip was drawing to an end. She was out of time.

One evening, when the ache in her chest got particularly bad, she visited Fíriel’s flet, high up near the crest of the hill.

‘Oh, hi Elanor,’ said Fíriel, who was in the middle of rushing around, looking for something. ‘What’s up.’

‘Nothing much. I was just wondering if you’d want to hang out this evening. I feel like it’s been a while.’

Fíriel paused her activity and ran a hand over her brow. ‘Yeah it has been. There’s so much to do around here, I lose track of time. But, uhh, I’m sorry Elanor, I probably can’t do tonight. Just super busy, you know?’

‘Oh, yeah of course, that’s fine.’ Fíriel turned back to her search, and Elanor shuffled out of the way, standing off to the side a little awkwardly.

‘Do you ever get kind of lonely here?’ tried Elanor. ‘I mean, it’s cool that we get to be here and it’s beautiful and everything but… everyone else is an elf, and they all belong here and I feel like we kind of stick out, right?’

‘Uhh,’ said Fíriel, distractedly, looking over at Elanor as though surprised she was still there. ‘Lonely, umm, I don’t know, I guess? Not really? Sorry Elanor, I’m just, I’ve got so much going through my head right now, I’m all over the place. But we can talk later, catch up, yeah?’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, sure, no problem, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Elanor, and climbed back down to the ground.

That night she couldn’t sleep. She spent a long while staring at the leaves above her, until at last she gave up and heaved herself upwards. Drawing a cloak around her, she climbed to the ground and began to wander aimlessly through the trees. In the silvery moonlight the mellyrn cast deep blue rivers of shadow, and she walked between them, a bizarre voice in her head telling her that she would fall in and drown. She walked for some time, pacing silently through the underbrush, until at last she began to feel sleep tugging at her eyelids. She turned to return to her flet, but then stopped short. She could hear voices off in the distance. It was no crime to be out of bed, but Elanor had no desire to be drawn into a conversation, so she ducked behind a tree as the voices approached. When they were close, out of curiosity, for she often walked late at night and had seen no other soul before, she peeked out the side of the tree to see the figures. There were two of them, dark silhouettes until they stepped into a beam of moonlight and their faces were lit up. One was Húrdil. The other was Fíriel.

Engaged in hushed conversation, they passed Elanor by without any risk of discovery, and faded once more into the night. Elanor stayed frozen behind the tree for some time. Eventually, she crept out, and hurried back up her flet. Then she buried her face in her pillow, and sobbed.

When Yule at last came, it was, admittedly, wonderful. The forest was decked with lights: soft lanterns, tall candles, otherworldly silver baubles, until it seemed the stars themselves had fallen from the sky and caught upon the branches. For days before, the air smelt of the feast being prepared, which seemed excessive until more elves began to arrive – no great numbers, but anyone new was an occasion here. There were elves from the Greenwood, some of Legolas’s people who had kin here, and one or two who dwelt on in Imladris. They were elves who had relations or close friends in Lothlórien, and there were many happy reunions on the days they arrived, for to have any family still left in Middle-earth was a luxury for elves in these days. As a gathering it truly was impressive, not because of any grandiosity or scale, but because they were a people. The last fragments of the firstborn people, all that was left of an entire civilisation, gathered here. They belonged here, together, the last elves – and Elanor. Yet there was such joy and singing and dancing that Elanor could not help but feel merry – helped along significantly by the food and drink. There were days full of games and tales and song and dance, and most importantly feasting. A great roasted stag was the centrepiece, but there were also piles of fluffy flatbreads stuffed with chestnuts; brown-rinded nutty cheeses; honey-drizzled plum cakes with soft cream; mugs of mulled ale and rosehip and apple cider and sweet cherry wines. And there were spiced plums, and blueberry tarts, and marzipan sweets, and little sugary golden cakes, and crispy potatoes, and great big mushrooms and parsnips and carrots roasted over the fire, and baked pumpkins stuffed with grain and fennel and apple and pecan and parsley and pomegranate and – and by that point, Elanor stopped keeping track. Even she, with a hobbit’s stomach, felt sick by the end of it all. And best of all, Fíriel was there all the while, and they talked long and laughed much. Fíriel leapt about, decked in a crown of golden leaves, sprightly and playful as a forest sprite or a fairy queen, and was adored by all. After enough wine Elanor even joined her, dancing between the trees, everything alight and sparkling and dizzy. The nights stretched into each other endlessly, and Elanor almost forgot that soon she would have to leave.

But as all happy times, the days of Yuletide passed quickly. One morning Elanor awoke to a silent forest once more, and the dread flooded back into her stomach.

At breakfast, Fíriel sat beside her.

‘Sorry tui, gramps says we’ve got to go tomorrow. I know, I know,’ she said sympathetically when Elanor groaned. ‘I’m not happy about it either, but my father has already been very generous letting us stay this long, and we oughtn’t antagonise him. Besides, it’ll be nice to go home.’ She stood. ‘I’ve got to dash – got to find everyone and say goodbye – but uh, be packed by tomorrow morning, okay? Don’t worry about food and stuff, we’ll be accompanied. Just your stuff. Catch you in a bit,’ she said, and dashed off. Elanor pushed her eggs around on her plate sullenly. She had rather lost her appetite.

She wandered about for a while, unwilling to start packing. She wanted to say goodbye to Ídher especially, but she couldn’t find her. She thought of Fastred, left in the Shire without a goodbye after she couldn’t find him at the going-away party, and almost worked herself into tears before she stumbled upon her, humming under the boughs of a tree, carving a piece of wood with a small knife. Elanor, though she had been searching desperately for her just a moment ago, grew suddenly shy.

‘Hi. Umm, I just thought I should tell you-’

‘That you are leaving? I know. Sit,’ said Ídher, without looking up. Elanor sat beside her and rested her head on the trunk of the tree, staring up at the glimpses of the sky visible between its leaves.

‘Do you think we’ll ever meet again?’ asked Elanor.

‘We have met,’ Ídher said simply.

‘“Go not to the elves for council” indeed,’ said Elanor, and they both chuckled.

‘But the elves cannot see the future – or this one cannot, at least. I can see only the present. So when you ask me impossible questions, be satisfied with what answer I can give you. But if it is not enough, I will say also: I hope so, tui.’

‘Thank you. But if I may ask, what is that name? Tui – people keep calling me it. It’s not a word I know.’

Ídher laughed, and tapped the side of her nose. She looked down at her hands, then handed her carving to Elanor. It was a little bird.

‘This is for you. Novaer, sell.’

Elanor ran a finger over the rough wood, and then placed a hand over her heart.

‘Annon allen.’

They would leave at dawn, but Celeborn wanted to give them a formal farewell in the evening. All the elves gathered under the great mallorn, and the scene was so much like when he greeted them that Elanor wasn’t sure that all the time in-between had really passed at all.

‘Your stay here has brought us great joy, and we grieve at your leaving,’ said Celeborn. He turned to Elanor first. ‘Elanor, daughter of Samwise, we wish you well, and send good will from our people to yours. Fíriel,’ he then said, moving quickly on. ‘Daughter of my daughter’s daughter. In you the light of our people blazes on. Queen you may not be crowned, yet you are queen of our hearts.’ Elanor knew she was in an especially bad mood, because she actually rolled her eyes at this. He went on for quite some time in this manner, and then of course every other elf needed to say something as well. By the time it came to Húrdil’s turn, Elanor had had quite enough, and slipped out of the crowd. No one noticed as she slunk off into the woods – or if they did, they said nothing.

She wandered aimlessly away from the centre of the city and into the overgrown areas, as the sky above her grew dark. She pushed into a little tunnel some animal had made through the thorny branches of a sprawling bramble bush and crawled through, scraping her elbows, into a little clearing where no one would see her, protected by high walls of scratchy undergrowth. She sat there awhile, her knees drawn up to her chin, trying not to think about tomorrow.

She was brought back to reality when she heard the sound of water. She looked around properly, and noticed for the first time a white fountain at the centre of the clearing, overflowing with water. The fountain was filled with debris – fallen leaves and twigs and accumulated dirt – and the water that bubbled from it spilled over the side and formed a little stream. She followed the course of the stream along, and found that it tumbled abruptly down the slope of a hill, which formed the far end of the clearing – or perhaps it was a garden, unkempt and abandoned. The stream grew wider, and its course swallowed up the flight of stairs that Elanor could now see embedded into the hillside, white stone grown over with algae. She skirted round the side and shuffled sideways down the steep hill, at the edge of the stream. The path led to a deep, high-walled hollow in which the flooded stream pooled, turning all the hollow into a shallow basin of water, grasses still flowing below the surface.

Elanor splashed in. The moonlight caught upon something and glinted into her eyes. Upon a pedestal, its feet submerged in the pool, was a silver basin. Elanor forgot her troubles at once and hurried forward, the hem of her dress dragging in the water. She stood upon the foot of the pedestal, clinging to the top on her tiptoes and peered into the basin. It was empty. So here was the mirror of Galadriel, forgotten for twenty years. She climbed down and looked around, as if expecting to be caught trespassing and dragged away, but the forest was completely silent. Of course, it was Galadriel’s magic that had made the mirror work, not the basin itself, and Galadriel was gone, along with her magic. The magic of Lórien was over, she reasoned to herself as she splashed about the pool, looking in the water for the silver pitcher. That power was lost forever when the rings were destroyed, she explained, as she rooted through the greenery. Empty handed, she returned to the pedestal and pulled the basin off of it. It was surprisingly heavy, and her arms dropped. With great effort she dipped it in the water, and then lifted it up onto her knees as she sat on the foot of the pedestal. The water sloshed about, and then stilled. It was dark and speckled with stars. It reflected Elanor’s face back at her, expectant.

She sighed, though she had no right to feel disappointed. She knew that magic was all but gone from this world. Still, she couldn’t help hoping. She tried to stand with the basin, return it to its place, but it slipped off her knees and into the water. She heaved it up again, but try as she might, she couldn’t lift it above her head to place it back on the pedestal. At last, feeling very guilty about it, she left it on the ground, submerged in the pool, and hoped no one came here to notice.

She turned and began to wade her way out. But then, suddenly, she stopped short with a gasp. The water beneath her feet – the entire flooded hollow – turned silver, solid and luminous like the surface of a mirror. Elanor’s feet disappeared from under her and panic seized her, but she was frozen in place. Images began to appear on the water, and where the water touched her they seemed to suck her in, so that it seemed to her that she stood in the midst of what she saw, more vibrant and real than any image. And what she saw then was the strangest thing she would ever see, her whole life through. Here is what she saw:

In a blink, her own life seemed to pass her by. Time sped past. She saw images of cities growing and crumbling and growing again before her eyes. She saw king after king upon the throne. She saw the land itself shifting beneath her feet. She saw civilisations rise and fall. She couldn’t see any of it, it was moving too fast. Ages of the earth passed by in a flash before the images slowed enough for her to see. Now, great towers rose up, belching smoke into a grey sky. She saw cities, vast cities, blocky and grey, lands of stone and fire. She thought it a work of Mordor, but moving like ants through the land were men, men from all corners of the world, and only men. And as though she were both watching over it all from a height and standing in the midst of it at once, Elanor saw the cities bulge and groan and spread, bigger and bigger until they all seemed to join together into one endless land. And the cities grew upwards as well, in endless harsh towers of metal and glass that brushed the clouds, and there were terrible machines, huge and impossible and roaring, and never anything still, never anything growing. And there were lights so blazing bright that there seemed to be no night, and smoke so thick there seemed to be no day, so that always the sky was a sickly, milky brown, and devoid of any stars. The smoke clogged the sky and the earth below burned, and ice melted and oceans flooded, and yet the fire was not put out but burned atop it all, and things were dying, men were dying but always there were more men, too many – millions, billions,and nothing else. Not one hobbit.

As though pushing a tremendous weight, Elanor with a great struggle managed to open her mouth and cry out: ‘What about me!’ And the vision seemed to understand and respond, because at once she saw the inside of a building, and from behind a stove darted a creature, small and withered and black with soot. Right under the nose of a dumb, unseeing man it snatched a piece of bread and darted off again. Before it vanished, it turned, and seemed for a second to see Elanor. It’s small, sad eyes met hers. They were unmistakably hobbit eyes. Elanor gasped and tried desperately to flee, using all her might to wrench one foot free from the mirror, but then, unbalanced with one foot still stuck, she toppled backwards into the water. As she hit the surface she was swallowed up by the vision entirely, and it burst into motion again, faster than ever. Everything was dark and things were exploding, there was white light and shattered metal and rubble all aflame, and bodies, so many bleeding bodies. Elanor was in the midst of it all, she was running but she wasn’t moving. It was a battle – it was a war, war after war after war. She saw men with blunt metal weapons that shot fire, scorched battlefields, corpses piled in muddy trenches. She saw wars end and new ones start, bigger and bigger, and always more death, until at last she watched an explosion so large that she knew, deep in her heart, that it was the death to end all deaths, that it covered the entire world, that it covered the entire pool, all the surface a uniform grey and then clear –

She sat up in the water, which was only water once more, gasping for breath. When she realised she could once again move, she leapt up and ran from the pool, half-crawling back up the hill, pushing through the bushes, ignoring the branches tearing at her face. She couldn’t think, she just had to get away. She ran and ran, and then, abruptly, she stopped. She wiped her eyes and caught her breath. Then, she walked in a calm fashion back towards the centre of the city.

No one bothered with guards here, nowadays. She marched straight up to the greatest mallorn and climbed the white ladder. She emerged upon a platform of many interconnected flets, forming a palace in the treetops.

‘Lord Celeborn,’ she announced.

‘You should be asleep’ said the Lord Celeborn, sitting in a chair facing away from her, not a hint of surprise in his voice.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but this couldn’t wait,’ she said, with the most assertion she had ever had. ‘I found Lady Galadriel’s mirror, and I saw things in it, I saw –’

Now Celeborn looked up. ‘Impossible,’ he said in a sharp voice. ‘The mirror itself is nothing – without Lady Galadriel it is naught but a water feature. You have an overactive imagination, nothing more.’

‘But I wasn’t imagining sir, I know I wasn’t. I couldn’t have made up the things I saw.’

‘You were dreaming then.’

Elanor shook her head emphatically. ‘I always dream the same thing, and this wasn’t it. I know it was real, I could feel it.’

‘I suppose… I suppose it’s possible that there was some magic still – clinging to it, somehow, a residue. If there was one last burst –’ He muttered to himself in elvish. ‘But then tell me, what was it you saw?’

‘I saw – it was the future, far in the future, and I saw what would happen to the world. I saw war and death, extinction and destruction. A world of men and machines. It was horrible. It was the end of the world.’

‘The visions of the mirror do not always come to pass.’

‘You’re telling me you don’t believe it? You can’t tell me it isn’t plausible. Come on, you’re so clever. You can’t tell me you don’t see what’s happening. Your own people are an endangered species on Middle-earth. Mine will become one too, I’ve seen it. Don’t lie to me, because I’m sick of people pretending everything is perfect now. This world is fading, it’s started now and it won’t stop and you know it.’

‘Oh I believe it.’

‘Then– then you agree! You’ll help fix it! You surely can do something about it. I don’t know exactly what, but we need a plan to do something because no one else realises this is coming and –’

‘The end of the world is not new information, child. Since it began, we have known it must end.’

‘Yes, I mean, eventually, but – but I’m telling you, I’ve seen it and it’s awful and it doesn’t have to end this way, not yet, and you – I mean you’ve got so much power and knowledge, maybe the most of anyone left alive, there must be something you could do.’

‘Maybe.’

‘So… you’ll help?’

‘No. No, child, there is nothing for me to do. The time of the elves is over.’

‘Will everyone stop saying that!’ shouted Elanor. ‘It’s only over because you’re giving up! And maybe you’re fine with that, with, with just handing the world over to men to ruin as they will, but I’m not! Do my people not matter too? And what about the dwarves, or the ents? Can’t you think of anyone but yourselves? How can you just leave? We need you!’

‘I cannot stop the end of the world.’

‘I’m only asking that you try!’

He stared at her, steely and cold, and said nothing.

‘So that’s it? You know what will come of the world, and you just don’t care? Do you feel anything? Any passion, any anger, any sadness, any love? You’re just going to give up – like you gave up on Galadriel.’ It was a cruel thing to say, and she knew it. She was goading him – trying to make him react – and she felt awful even as the words passed her lips. Celeborn stood suddenly and his face was thunderous, but he only turned, and looked out silently over the forest below him. Elanor stood silent too, terrified. When he eventually spoke, his voice was calm.

‘You are young and rash. You do not understand what you say. Do you think of your own father as having given up, for staying in Middle-earth to raise you?’

‘I don’t blame my father for anything,’ Elanor said, which was a rather elvish answer, and so of course Celeborn knew exactly what she meant. He turned away from the forest and looked at her, and his eyes were sad.

‘The Lady Galadriel had her own reasons for leaving, and many of them. But for me, it would have been like closing my eyes and laying down to dream right before the most remarkable sunset. Do you understand? I could not go with her.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Right. Yes. I suppose it is,’ said Elanor, her voice cold, and turned away.

She returned to her flet and grabbed her bag, already packed. Then she found her way to the elven stores, and filled her bag with travelling food, especially lembas, of which there was a large store. She turned to leave, and almost jumped out of her skin when she saw a figure, silhouetted in the moonlight, leaning against the doorway with crossed arms.

‘Going somewhere?’

‘Fíriel,’ said Elanor. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘Seriously though,’ said Fíriel, dropping the mock-stern voice, ‘are you alright?’

‘Oh yeah. So alright you wouldn’t believe it. Just, uhh. I’ve just got to go. Leave. Here,’ said Elanor in a stutter that bordered on hysteria.

Fíriel frowned and stepped closer. ‘Woah, woah, hold up. What’s wrong?’

‘I found Galadriel’s mirror and I saw the future and I yelled at your great-grandfather and now I have to go.’

‘You what? Okay, from the beginning, tell me what happened.’

Elanor recounted the night’s events in more detail. When she was finished, Fíriel took a deep breath.

‘Okay. I understand. That sounds awful. I see why you want to get out of here as soon as possible. We can do that, we’ll leave for Minas Tirith tonight rather than waiting for dawn. I’ll go grab my bag.’

‘No.’

‘No? No what?’

‘No, I’m not leaving for Minas Tirith.’

‘Then where are you going?’

Elanor avoided her eyes, turning back to her bag and reorganising the contents.

‘If no one will do anything, I’ll do something myself. And if no one on Middle-earth is any help, I’ll find someone else.’

‘What do you mean?’ spoke Fíriel carefully, emphasising each word. ‘What do you mean, someone else?’

‘I’ll go over the sea. I’ll find – I’ll bring the elves back! Or I’ll speak to the Valar themselves, and ask them to fix things. Everything’s vanished into the west, so I’ll go find it all, I’ll –’

‘Elanor, stop. This is a joke, right? If you try to sail across the sea you’re going to die. This isn’t a game anymore.’

‘No, no, it could work,’ said Elanor, speaking mostly to herself, pacing back and forth. ‘Eärendil – your own great-grandfather! – crossed the sea and spoke to the Valar and set everything right, it’s been done before.’

‘Look, how about you at least sleep on it, and then tomorrow we can go home, and get some distance from it all. Then you can think it over and decide if you still want to go,’ said Fíriel, in the sort of voice one might use to reason with a child or calm a horse. It made Elanor angry.

‘That’s not my home.’

‘You –’ Fíriel had to take a deep breath. Elanor left the store room and began walking purposefully off. Fíriel followed close behind. ‘Okay, I can see you’re set on going west. But what – I mean, what about me? What do you expect me to do? You expect me to just let you go, to go back to Minas Tirith and pretend you aren’t out there somewhere killing yourself? How could I live with myself?’

‘You’d be just fine without me. You wouldn’t even notice I was gone.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Come on, you can’t pretend to be some poor unloved, abandoned child. You know full well that lots of people would miss you. What about your family, for one? You want me to tell them I just let you go?’

Elanor stopped abruptly in her tracks and spun around, so that Fíriel’s momentum crashed the two of them together. Elanor grabbed hold of her hands.

‘You won’t have to tell them anything. You can come with me! You – you, you’re the key! There is a war on, and no one else will acknowledge it, but it’s a war between men and the rest of the world. But in you the sides are united. You’re everything, you’re so important, don’t you see? We’ve talked about this, about how the world is fading, and now we have a chance to actually do something. Please, Fíriel, come with me. Your family has done the impossible before, you could do it again, save everything, I know it!’

Fíriel pulled her hands away, and for the first time, Elanor saw a flash of real anger in her eyes, and she was afraid.

‘I’m not my family. And I’m not an elf. Not even a half-elf. I’m just a girl, okay? You think I’m this – you think I’m someone amazing, I’m not!’

‘Then you wouldn’t understand,’ Elanor muttered. ‘You want to be a man, fine, you’re a man. That puts us on opposite sides.’

‘There are no sides, Elanor! There’s no war! Men aren’t trying to hurt you, damn it!’

‘They don’t need to try. You’re all just so – so – so big! You just step on things, without even noticing!’

‘It’s not the fault of man that you’re small.’

Hurt flashed in Elanor’s eyes. She took a step back.

‘How could you understand? How could you understand what it’s like to have seen before your own eyes what will become your people, to know that you’ll be pushed out and trampled and hunted until there’s nothing left of you but some shrunken little animal, living in hiding, scrounging for food? You’re at the very start of the age of your people. How could you know how it feels, to know you are coming to the end of yours? To see it all around you, to see every other race fading and knowing that will soon come for you, for your home, for your people? Do you know what it’s like to know that the greatest hobbits that there’ll ever be have been and gone, or will soon be gone? You’re a part of this world, you belong here. But there’s no room left in this new world for my people. For me.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Even if it’s hopeless, I can’t just stand by, not after seeing that. I’ve got to at least try.’

‘The greatest hobbits?’ repeated Fíriel, ‘so this is what it’s about, is it? Who do you really want to find in the west? The elves? Or Frodo?’ There was a pity in her eyes that made Elanor feel sick.

‘Maybe I do want to find Frodo as well, so what? Is that such a crime? I’m sorry I can’t be as selfless as you. I’m sorry I want things, I know it’s greedy of me. I’m sorry I can’t just be content and gracious and happy all the time. But I can’t,okay? I just – I just can’t. There’s something wrong with me, Fíriel. I’ve been telling myself all this time that I want to go home, that it’ll all be better when I go home, but I’m lying to myself. I wasn’t happy there either. I’m not sure I didn’t just make the happy memories up. I spent my whole childhood just dreaming of being somewhere else, and now that I’m somewhere else I still feel like I need to escape, but where to? Because I’m starting to think that all I’m running from is myself. If it’s got nothing to do with where I am, if it follows me everywhere I go, then the problem must just be me. It’s insane - sometimes I’m walking around and looking at how beautiful everything is and I catch myself thinking “I wish I was here.” But I am here, I’ve gotten what I always wanted, and I’m still not happy, I’m still wanting. I don’t know that I’ve ever been truly happy, no matter where I am. This is just what it feels like, to be me. And I hate it! It’s not fair, that for no reason at all I will always just be sadder than other people. Some people, like my father, they’re just good at living, and I don’t mean that their lives are easy, or that mine is hard, not at all. But they’re meant to be here, they have a purpose, and so they push on, they go on living, despite it all. There’s always a way for them to be happy. But me, I’m this – I’m this well of want, this endless longing sucking everything in, and if you cut me open I’d be hollow inside. There’s something missing about me. And I’m going to find it. I need to do this. If I stay here, what awaits me? This same life, for a tiny moment, and then I’ll be gone too, faded away and forgotten in time. I can’t – I’m not strong like you, I’m pathetic and weak and I can’t handle any of it, do you understand? Everywhere I go, everyone has lost people, and there’s this horrible grief, and I don’t understand how they can bear it, and I keep trying to find the answer, but everyone – I don’t know, they’ve all just accepted it. But I can’t. I can’t accept it and I can’t bear it. Don’t you see, I need to do this. Can’t you see how I’m breaking down over the loss of Frodo, who I never even knew? And one day my father will go west as well and I can’t bear to be the one left behind any longer. I can’t stop this horrible dread, thinking about how much it’ll hurt when I lose someone I truly love. What will I do when I lose my father? Or when I lose you!’

Elanor halted her spiral abruptly, breathless. The two girls stood there in silence, looking into each other’s eyes, two shaky-legged fawns poised to run.

Eventually, in a much calmer – or was it more resigned – voice, Elanor spoke again.

‘I have to do this. And I know it will be dangerous, so I’m not asking you to come with me. But I –’ Her voice caught. ‘But I wish you would, because… but if you won’t, if you want to go home, then you can do that, but I can’t. I just… can’t.’

Elanor could hear the wind in the distant canopy like a howl of grief. She could hear the footsteps of ants, walking themselves into a spiral. She could hear her own heartbeat like the drums of war, signalling doom.

Fíriel shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, Elanor. I really am. I can’t. My father is of the race of men. My mother chose the race of men. That is what I was born as, that’s all I am, through and through. I’m a daughter of the earth. I can’t love anything more than that. I’m sorry,’ she said softly.

‘I understand,’ said Elanor, though her heart was being ripped in two.

‘You’re really going to go?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘I know.’

‘I’d go with you if I could.’

‘I know.’

They stood there for a moment longer, but what was there left to say?

They walked together down to the riverbank, to where a flock of small white boats floated. Elanor climbed aboard a boat and placed her bag down, then threw off the rope and took up the oars. Fíriel stood on the shore, motionless. She was barefoot and up to her ankles in the sticky clay of the riverbed. Her dress was plain and russet brown, and no gems adorned her. Her dark hair was plaited simply and waved behind her in the wind. Finally, stripped bare in the moonlight, she looked not like a ranger, nor like an elf, nor like a king. She looked like a girl. Nothing more.

Chapter Text

Though Lórien was no longer magically free from winter’s grasp, it was still sheltered by the natural landscape, by the trees, and by a many-years-strong habit of mildness, which was hard to break in a hurry. It wasn’t until the winding river led Elanor out of the forest to the long feet of the Misty Mountains that she felt the extent to which they had been shielded in Caras Galadhon. While time had been slipping away in the company of the elves, winter had not been idle in the world outside. The mountains rose up sharp and white and barren as she emerged from the trees, startlingly high and howling venomously. The air was biting and the sun, when it rose, shone cold and white and mocking in the clear sky. When the slopes began to rise she pulled the boat up onto the shore and continued on foot across the rocky scramble to the base of the mountains, watching the encroaching jagged peaks out of the corner of her eye all the while, as if approaching a wild animal. She found herself following what must have once been a road, a smooth paved way winding up towards the mountains. Its stones were cracked and rough heather sprung from between them, but the path was unmistakable, marked along the way by crumbling stone columns: a dwarf road, leading to a dwarf kingdom.

The winding road ended on a flat plateau, walled on one side by an imposing cliff face. In the wall, a great arched doorway had been carved. Elanor sat, weary. She had travelled without pause through the night and day, never stopping long enough for her thoughts to catch up with her. But now she had come to a crossroads. Unless she wanted to walk 500 miles in either direction, she had to cross the mountains. And here she sat, before the gates of Moria. From what she had heard, since the end of the war efforts had been made to reclaim Moria. It certainly wasn’t a bastion of safety yet – those tunnels delved deep, and much could hide there for a long time yet - but nowadays there were more dwarves and less orcs than there had been, not to mention the agreeable absence of any balrogs. Nonetheless, she was not eager to enter those halls. Even the name of the place had always been spoken to her accompanied by a shiver and a dark look. Those endless black tunnels with their drum beat of doom had been the setting of many a childhood nightmare, and the yawning door before her did little to dispel that image. The idea of venturing inside and wandering those halls, lost and alone in the dark, starving to death if she was not suffocated under a mountain of rock or skewered by orcs, didn’t bear thinking about. But if she did not go under the mountain, she would have to go over it. Along the Redhorn Pass, over Caradhras the cruel. This had been the route that she had intended to take, but that was before she had looked upon the mountain, seen its sharp, blood-red sides and impossibly high, snow-capped peak. Now that she had seen that, she was reluctant to doom herself to either path. Finding herself no closer to a decision here upon the doorstep, she lay down and rested her head upon her pack, closing her eyes.

She stayed that way, arguing back and forth within her mind, until the sound of a squeaky wheel broke her reverie. She peered over the edge of the plateau and saw below, upon the winding road, a distant figure pulling a handcart. The faint sound of whistling rose through the air and reached Elanor’s ears. She got up and hid, concealed behind a boulder, and waited. In a surprisingly short amount of time, the sound of the whistling and the squeaky wheel grew close. Elanor peeked out, and saw a stout old fellow with a long white beard, pushing a very full cart, but of what she could not tell, because a large cloth covered it. He was, of course, a dwarf. He stood for a while, catching his breath. Then he looked directly at the rock Elanor was behind and said:

‘If you’re here to lure me off the path, to fall upon some jagged rocks and meet my doom, spectre, then you might as well give up now. I know these mountains as well as I know my own two feet, and old Hornbori will be walking these paths for a long time yet, so go haunt some other foolish traveller.’

Elanor was so surprised that she stood up and revealed herself.

‘I’m not a spectre.’

‘Well well, what’s that, a little girl then? Are you lost lass? Where are your parents?’

Elanor scrambled out from behind the rock. ‘I’m not a child either.’

‘Well I never,’ exclaimed old Hornbori, as he called himself. ‘But I see now, as sure as the beard on my grandmother’s chin, it’s a halfling! Tell me, what business brings a halfling lass to the doorstep of Khazad-dûm? They aren’t brewing up another war are they? Though I can’t deny, it wouldn’t be half bad for business!’ he said, and then laughed heartily.

‘No war. I’m just a traveller trying to cross the mountains.’

‘To cross the mountains you say, well indeed, today is your lucky day, for you’ve bumped into old Hornbori, and no one knows the mountains better than he! And some good sense you have too, asking for the advice of old Hornbori. It seems nobody respects the wisdom of their elders anymore, these days. My grandmother always used to say, “respect your elders and someday respect shall come to you.” But who respects old Hornbori now he’s gone and gotten old, harrumph. What was it I was saying?’

‘Crossing the mountains?’ offered Elanor, deciding not to mention that she hadn’t actually asked for any advice.

‘Oh yes, indeed. Well in the matter of crossing the mountains, there’s no better dwarf for the job. I’ve been traversing these rocks since I was a young lad! Young folk nowadays don’t know the mountains like they used to. It used to be every dwarf’s birthright, the knowledge of these mountains. Alas, nobody goes outside anymore! Always digging deeper, getting into trouble. I shouldn’t be half surprised if one day they went so deep, those bairns, that they forgot the way up again! But not old Hornbori, oh no, for I know the mountains. Inside and out I know them. Indeed if only I weren’t so old, and I didn’t have this cart to carry and these wares to sell, I should guide you across myself, and no better guide could be found! But alas, for me those days are over. But I’m going to meet some younger dwarves in these very mines. One of them might be willing to guide you through Moria, though I shouldn’t trust youngsters myself, and the way is dangerous, and not for wee lasses. But no way across the mountains is free of peril, not unless you’re old Hornbori,’ he said, and laughed again.

Elanor found that she was growing rather tired of old people. It was no wonder at all to her that the elves and the dwarves had such a long-standing feud – they couldn’t be more alike.

The offer of a guide through Moria did seem sensible. Underground would be a shelter from the winter weather, and a more direct route. If she took the pass over Caradhras she would risk snowstorms and avalanches. She would have to take a narrow, treacherous path along the edge of deadly slopes above valleys of razor-sharp rocks, facing exposure, starvation, suffocation, and many worse fates. But if she took the pass through the mines of Moria, she might have to talk to more dwarves.

‘Thank you for the offer, but I mean to cross over the top of the mountains. You wouldn’t be able to point me in the right direction, would you?’

‘Over the mountains, hmm, so you want to brave Barazinbar? You’d have to take the Redhorn Pass, and in the middle of winter no less – young people, they are all the same, foolhardy to their deaths. You ought to take old Hornbori’s advice, he knows a thing or two, but who ever listens to old Hornbori? But youth will do as youth will do. It’s a good thing you met old Hornbori, even if you won’t take his advice, for still he’ll try to help you. I have wares for journeys of all kinds, above ground and below.’

He uncovered his cart and began rooting through it, pulling out furs, tools, maps – for all his talk, Hornbori actually was an immensely good person for Elanor to have run into. He found Elanor an outfit designed for harsh climes, of the sort people in the far north wore, according to him. There was a hooded sealskin coat, wide-legged reindeer skin trousers, fur lined mittens and stockings, small goggles carved from bone, and most strange of all to her, a pair of heavy, thick soled hide boots. Hornbori advised against going into the mountains barefoot if she valued her toes, and she was quick to agree. Hobbits are smaller than dwarves, and hobbit girls even smaller, so the clothes all drowned her, but it was better than freezing to death, so she hiked a belt about her waist and laced her boots tightly. Hornbori also gave her a thick blanket, a tinderbox, a length of sturdy rope, and a sharp walking stick. Also, at his instruction, she tied a great bundle of firewood atop her bag. Last but not least, Hornbori gave her a map, on which he carefully marked the Redhorn Pass. She paid him with all the coin she had taken with her, leaving her penniless.

‘Now mind you stick to the route! For I tell you, one foot off that path and they shan’t find your body till spring, and they’d be lucky to do so even then! You wouldn’t believe how many travellers cross these mountains nowadays, and unprepared fools the lot of them. Young dwarves, of course, or men, who are all young and so even worse. They think that now peace has come, no harm can befall them, the fools, ha, but the mountain outlasts any war, I’ll tell you that! So you remember what old Hornbori has told you, and stay on the path!’

‘Yes sir, and thank you very much. But I really must be going now.’

‘Hmph. Bairns. Always in a hurry. Well, I’ve done all I can I suppose. It’s like my grandmother used to say –’

When Elanor finally got away, she was so weary that though it was not yet dark, she lay down under the first sheltered outcrop she came to, and fell fast asleep at once. It had been a very, very long day.

She woke up gasping for air, with no memories other than a vague recollection that she had been drowning. For a moment, lying on the hard ground, she thought herself back in the plains of Rohan. She reached to the side to wake Fíriel – and her hand fell empty. All at once the past month came flooding back to her. She wiped her eyes and got up. Dawn was in the sky. There was no putting it off any longer. It was time to face the mountain.

The Dimrill Stair, a procession of short, icy waterfalls dropping down the mountain, marked the start of the trail. The water had carven a gradual path up the rock, and this Elanor climbed. The ground was wet with the spray of the falls, and her going was slow but steady. Beyond the stair the water cut a rift into the mountains. The path did not continue so steadily upwards, but grew narrow and winding, and any view of the world below disappeared as she rounded a corner. Now she was really on her own.

And then it began to snow.

It began gradually, but did not stay that way for long. No gently drifting snowflakes of the sort one watches settle on the windowsill from beside a fire for Elanor – this was a mountain blizzard, where howling winds picked up huge walls of snow and flung them back and forth, till all the air was drowned out in the thrashing, stinging white. Her snow goggles turned out to be invaluable – as did the rest of her equipment. As she got higher the temperature plummeted, and Elanor shivered to think what would have happened to her if she had wandered into the mountains in naught but her Shire clothes – and then shivered some more, from the cold. At night she found a little nook, barely a cave, but sheltered enough that with her back to the open air she managed to start a pitiful little fire to curl up besides, and tried not to wish there was a warm body besides her. She wrapped herself tightly in her blanket, hiding from the awful howls of what she hoped was the wind. Times were more peaceful now, but orcs are not wiped out as easily as all that, especially in places with so many deep caves and crevices for them to hide. She slept with Sting out of its sheath beside her, hoping that the glow would wake her before something worse did.

On and on she followed the path on its long wind alongside deep gorges, atop spiny ridges, clinging to the sides of impossibly high slopes. Stone pillars marked the way, and on each stretch Elanor would grow panicky that she had been walking too long, that she had wandered off the path in the blinding snowstorm – but always they appeared again, a dark finger pointing up to the white sky. The road was hard and slow. Elanor was young and fit, but only in terms of a comfortable hobbit life, with gentle rambles every Sunday. This was an entirely different matter. For days on end she climbed, her legs aching and sore, her nose about to fall off her face from cold, miserable and exhausted and endlessly hungry no matter how much of her precious rations she ate. She was burning more energy just keeping herself alive than she could possibly get back, and it was making her clumsy. She scraped her knees and elbows when she slipped on black ice and then worst of all, lost a mitten thrashing about in her panic to right herself. From then on she had to walk with one hand stuffed in the pocket of her coat, making her balance even worse, which was a treacherous thing in a place where one slip could send you careening down into an endless yawning chasm. She went even slower, checking her map constantly. For the first time in her life, she was utterly reliant upon herself. All thoughts but survival were pushed from her mind. She could not slip up. No one was coming to save her. She had to do this on her own.

The cold was an enemy in and of it itself, so corporeal it was almost pushing her backwards; turning her limbs numb and stiff as planks, then burning red and puffy with blood, her own body a weary encumberment. She buried her face deep in the fur of her hood and walked on in her too-big boots. But it wasn’t the climb or the cold that stung worst of all; it was the emptiness, the unending grey nothingness. There was nothing to be seen but vague shadowy forms, hazy in the snow, which was always blowing, even when it was not falling from the sky. Looming rocks and their looming shadows were the only sight, the endless crying wind the only sound. No plants grew. No creatures lived here. Not even birds nested this high. She was in the very sky itself - and it was lonely.

The distance across the mountains, as the crow flies, was not all that much. If she could walk straight and unimpeded, it should have taken only a few days. But she could not walk straight, nor unimpeded, and she had no idea how much further she would have to walk. She was losing count of how long she had been walking for already. It might have been days or it might have been weeks. And for all she knew, she could be nowhere near the end. The mountains certainly showed no sign of ending. Elanor was getting worried about food. She should have had enough to see her through the mountains – if only the mountains would ever end. But even then, there’d be no storerooms waiting on the other side, and she was eating at an unsustainable rate. She had underestimated the mountain. Exertion manifested in more ways than she could possibly have imagined; she cursed her own stupidity. She was ravenously hungry all the time, and weak, slow to react, shaky and dizzy. She was getting jumpy too, starting to see shadows moving out of the corner of her eye. Her thoughts were scattered and bleary. Half the time she wasn’t sure where she was going, or why. She knew only that she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

She was stumbling forward, nearly asleep on her feet but pushing on just a little further, when her foot snagged in a crack in the rock and sent her plummeting forward. She landed with her body buried in the snow, but her head sticking over the edge, staring down into the abyss. She stared wide eyed for a moment, trying to process what had happened. Then she scrambled back and leapt up, only to cry out and sit firmly back down again. She scooted away from the edge, and then pulled off her left boot, and winced. Her ankle was red, and she suspected a bruise would soon blossom; trying to spin it made her hiss and stick it in the snow, half expecting it to sizzle, as if it were a blade out of the forge. She sat like that, her head back and her eyes closed, until she felt her toes were going to fall off. Then she, with great effort, for her foot had already begun to swell up, pulled the boot back on and curled up to sleep for the night right there.

When she tried to set out the next day she found that she could not put her full weight on her left foot, but using her spiked walking stick as a crutch she could hobble along, which she did. There was no waiting for healing up here – she had to get out of the mountains at all costs, even if she had to drag herself, or she’d die; simple as that. So on she limped.

Her going was slow, and she was kept moving only by pure muscle memory. She had to keep sitting down and taking deep beaths. It was going to take her a very long time to get anywhere at this rate. If she had had the energy to think about things like hope, it would have started to feel hopeless.

She came to a section of the path that seemed to have crumbled away into the deep ravine to the side of it, leaving only a narrow ledge, tight against the cliff wall. She edged out, impossibly slowly, scrabbling for handholds on the rock, shuffling along without her feet ever leaving the ground. She refused to look down. Inch by inch she moved, and it felt as though she had been balancing on this ledge for miles, that it would never end. She could not let her foot, though it was screaming in pain, tremble for an instant. One slip and she was dead. The wind whipped around her. She reached for her next handhold – and her hand fell through the empty air. The cliff wall curved in, away from her reach, and the path widened below her feet. She was across.

At once, all of Elanor’s muscles turned to jelly, and she collapsed to the ground. She lay there for a long time, trembling, breathing hard, the cold air stinging her lungs. She thought vaguely, after a while, that maybe she should get up – hadn’t she been going somewhere? But her foot hurt so much, and the snow was so soft, and her eyelids were so heavy. And she was so, so tired. She would – she would just lie here - just for a moment longer. It would be so nice, to just go to sleep, to rest. She felt almost toasty warm. Her eyelids began to flutter shut.

At that moment, something miraculous happened. For a rare, brief moment the wind died down, and the blinding snow settled, and before she closed her eyes for good, she saw clearly for the first time in a while. Before her the rocky walls fell, the slope ran downwards, and a vast landscape stretched out to the horizon. She had made it to the other side of the mountains.

She leapt up, filled with renewed vigour, and laughed out loud. She began hurrying and stumbling forward, down the path which quickly widened and smoothed out. After that, her progress down the mountain was comparatively quick and easy. In her exhilaration, she forgot for a moment about her foot, about her weariness and hunger, about everything that ailed her. She had made it! She was alive! She half ran the last stretch into the cover of a dark pine forest which grew upon the lower slopes, and stopped at last beneath the trees. Snow rested upon the ground, but lightly, and it was no great challenge to make a real roaring fire upon a patch of sheltered ground. She stripped down to her underclothes and hung her things upon tree-branches to dry, then crouched herself dangerously close to the fire, letting the warmth seep back into her bones. She ate a piece of lembas, and then examined her ankle. It had turned a mottled purple and swollen up. She grimaced and sat with her foot resting upon her pack while she laid out her supplies, counting and reorganising them.

She was rather proud of herself, and very glad to be past the mountains, but even so, she did not yet realise at the time quite what a feat she had accomplished. She may have spoken differently of her own virtues, and yet the truth was that she had not great wits or cunning about her, nor tremendous courage, nor strength of arms or body; and yet she had a most incredible supply of endurance, a dogged tenacity, and an absolutely indomitable spirit - as hobbits often do, though such a fact continues to surprise everyone, including the hobbits. And indeed she would have need of this endurance many more times before her journey’s end, for a long and weary road was yet ahead of her.

She was pouring over her map, trying to decide the best route forwards, when she heard a peculiar noise. It was a sort of high-pitched whimpering sound, like an injured animal might make, coming from somewhere a little deeper in the woods. She dressed quickly and crept silently through the trees towards the sound. It was a wounded animal. In a small clearingwas a little spotty dog, black and white and scruffy with floppy ears, its leg twisted in a snare trap, whining pitifully. She scanned the surroundings, but no one was in sight. She crouched down just at the edge of the clearing.

‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘What’re you doing out here alone? It’s alright, I’ll help you out of there.’

What happened next was, admittedly, Elanor’s own fault. Perhaps she was overconfident after escaping the mountains. Perhaps she was blinded by sympathy for the dog. But she put all normal caution aside and strode into the clearing, right towards the dog, and promptly stepped straight into a second snare trap. The wire clamped down on her injured ankle.

‘YEEOOWWW!’ cried Elanor. But almost at once she bit down on her fist to shut herself up. Because there had been a reply. A voice called out, and then there was crashing in the undergrowth. Heart pounding, she tugged at the wire without thinking, and hissed through her teeth as it tightened and sliced her fingers. The noises were getting closer. She looked around desperately, pain muddling her thoughts, and at the last moment drew Sting, before three men emerged from the trees. Elanor stood very still. They were humans, heavyset, rough looking types in worn travelling clothes, with weapons strapped to their backs – hunters, probably.

‘And I’ve gone and got stuck in one of their snares!’ thought Elanor. ‘Just like this lost dog. Well, they’ll be able to help me out, at least.’ But before Elanor could say anything to the men, they began speaking among themselves.

‘That’s what was doing all that screaming? Big lungs for a little thing. What is it?’ said one of them, distinguished by a weedy beard clinging to his chin which made him look rather like a goat.

‘It ain’t an orc, that’s what it is, so it’s a waste of time,’ said the biggest hunter, a troll of a man.

‘Looks like some kind of elf kid. Left behind a runt when they all ran off, I’d say,’ said the goat.

‘You dolt! It’s a halfling! Don’t any of you know anything?’ said the third man, who was standing back from the scene, leaning against a tree. He was a little smaller, and his dress was a little neater, but there was a cold look in his eye which made Elanor’s stomach turn.

‘Well what do we want with a halfling or an elfling or anything else? We’re hunting orc,’ said the big man.

‘Now don’t be hasty,’ said the goat. ‘It’s a girl. Kind of a pretty one, I’d say. Seems a waste…’

‘We get paid by the orc-head,’ pointed out the big one. ‘It’s not an orc. End of.’

‘There are lots of buyers out there,’ pointed out the goat in turn. ‘For a lot of different creatures.’

Elanor was absolutely frozen. She couldn’t make a sound. She didn’t remember how to move. She was so afraid that it was making her vision go blurry around the edges.

‘Way I see it,’ continued the goat, ‘orc, elf, halfling, what’s it matter? If it’s not a human, it’s not a human.’

‘Well it don’t matter how you see it, halfwit. We were hired to clean out the orcs and that’s what we’re gonna do. We’re not start chasing pixies round the mountains just ‘cause you’re feeling power-hungry. You don’t give the orders round here,’ said the big one.

‘Neither do you,’ the goat snapped. ‘And I say that orders or not, we already got this one – in fact we didn’t even get ‘er! She walked right into the snare we set out for our dinner! So it’s not like we’re going outta our way, or wasting time, or nothing. And if we can’t have rabbit for dinner, well why can’t we at least have a little fun…’

‘Shut up, both of you’ snapped the third man. ‘You’re both as bad as each other. I’m the leader, and I give the orders, and I say… I say stop being so stinking greedy and focus on the job we’ve got to do, yeah. But,’ he added before the big one could celebrate, ‘If we’re clearing out these mountains of vermin, we might as well do a thorough job. If a mouse falls into your rat trap, you don’t let the mouse go, so it can go fill your house with other squirmy little mice, do you? So let’s just get rid of it so that we can get back to the job we’re meant to be doing, okay?’

The other men looked at each other, shrugged, and ceded. Elanor couldn’t breathe. She adjusted her sweaty grip on Sting. It was useless of course, but at least she would go out fighting. But none of them even drew their swords. Instead, the leader took out something else – some sort of heavy spear, but tipped with a blunt metal tube, which he held under his arm and pointed at Elanor. He struck a match, and held the little flame up to his weapon. Time seemed to slow. Elanor didn’t know what he was doing, but something deep inside her recognised it, somehow, and she knew that it was something terrible. A hot trickle of blood ran down her foot. A flurry of thoughts – everyone she knew, everything she’d ever done, everything she’d never do – flashed through her mind in an instant, and then were gone. She could think only, desperately, that she did not want to die. She felt like a wild animal, clawing and howling, afraid beyond all words.

The man smiled a cruel smile and touched the match to some part of his weapon.

Then his smile fell and his eyes widened. He toppled forward and fell flat on his front, a crossbow bolt sticking through his neck. As he fell, his weapon slipped from his hands and pointed downwards, and from it an explosion catapulted forth in a blaze of fire, landing by his feet, the blast rocketing back into his face, shattering the forest’s quiet in a deafening boom, the ground itself rupturing about them, the air filling with smoke. Elanor’s ears were ringing. The clearing was in chaos. The two remaining men yelled and drew their swords, alternating between circling the body of their companion as if it were somehow to blame; then circling each other, suspiciously; then standing back-to-back against an invisible assailant. The clearing spun. Their heads spun. Their senses were muffled, they were panicked and stupid – so neither managed to dodge the bolts that were shot, from somewhere in the cover of the smoky trees, neatly into their necks. One after the other they slumped, suddenly and quietly.

Elanor had crouched down, curled up tight into a ball with her hands over her head. The noise was all an indiscernible, distant chaos behind the ringing in her ears. She stayed crouched down long after the men stopped yelling, after the forest went silent. She stayed down, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to curl into herself, pretending that when she opened her eyes she would find herself safe in her own bd in her hobbit hole. She stayed down until the ringing in her ears began to lessen. Then, slowly, cautiously, she uncurled herself. The smoke was clearing away, and a small patch of ground that was on fire was burning itself out. All three men lay dead on the ground. It stunk of gunpowder.

Very slowly, and very quietly, she rose. Nothing shot at her. She took a cautious step – and winced as the snare wire cut into her ankle. Right - she was still trapped. She reached to her belt for Sting – no, she had drawn Sting already – it must have flown out of her hand in the explosion. She looked around and found it lying on the ground, a few feet away from her. The blade was glowing blue.

Her breath caught in her throat. She froze once more, petrified, and stared out into the darkness of the trees.

From out of the very spot she was staring, stepped an orc. And this wasn’t just any mountain goblin. This was a fighting Uruk, man-high and muscled – and holding a crossbow. And he just stood there, at the edge of the trees, immense and silent, looking at Elanor with deep, old eyes. Slowly, he lowered his crossbow.

Elanor raised her chin and stared back. She had never been so scared in her entire life. But she understood.

Slowly, cautiously, she nodded at the orc.

He nodded back. Then, he faded into the cover of the trees, and was gone.

Chapter Text

Eventually she recovered enough to get a hold of Sting and cut herself (and the dog) free. Her immediate instinct was to run away as far away as possible as quickly as possible, but she held herself firm, and limped over to the body of the leader to examine what was really bugging her. From the moment she had seen that strange weapon, she had had a nagging feeling that she had seen it somewhere before. In the moment she hadn’t been able to think clearly enough to recollect, but now, as she looked upon it in a slightly calmer state, she remembered at once. She had seen it – or something like it – in her vision in Galadriel’s mirror. The weapon of the future-men, that shot fire rather than arrows, that killed in an instant. The weapon responsible for the heaps of bodies she had seen, mangled and desecrated, lying heaped in muddy pits. Not exactly the same, but the design clearly followed the same principle – used the same gunpowder - it was an obvious precursor. She felt sick. Those hunters, this weapon – it was all proof that what she had seen in the mirror had been the truth. The seeds were already spreading.

She dropped the weapon in disgust, and moved on to the other men. She felt not the slightest guilt stealing from dead men, and rifled through their packs, taking their food, as well as anything that looked vaguely medical – a roll of bandages, and a few bottles of various tinctures and ointments of some sort. Then she left the clearing, and did not look back.

Her foot dragged uselessly behind her, and she had to half hop, but she made it back to the site of her campfire. It had burnt itself out, and her pack was lying undisturbed, so that was something at least. She collapsed down, and once again examined her foot. A sprained ankle was painful and inconvenient, but nothing serious. But an open wound was a genuine danger. The snare wire had cut a raw, red circle around her ankle. Now that the adrenaline was beginning to pass, the pain was catching up to her. She restarted her fire and boiled some water, and then bathed the wound, her breathing halfway to a sob all the while. Then she investigated the mixtures she had taken from the hunters, and applied the ones that looked most natural. It was cooling, and soothed some of the pain a little, so she concluded that it probably had been something medicinal, and not poison. She bandaged her foot tightly, and knowing nothing further to do, sent up a prayer to anyone listening that it wouldn’t get infected.

When she looked up she found, to her surprise, that the dog had followed her. It was sitting a little way off, holding its injured paw off the ground.

‘Come here. Pspsps, here boy, come on,’ she called. The dog blinked at her. She fished about in her bag and held out a strip of dried meat. The dog crept towards her. When it was in arms reach she lurched forward and grabbed it. ‘Stay – stay still – I’m trying to help, good doggy, stay still please, I’m – ow – it’ll make it better, almost done –’ she babbled senselessly, holding the dog in place as she applied the ointment to its leg, while it thrashed about. When she was done she let go and it shot away, but then crept back again, lingering just out of arms reach. Elanor leaned back and, after a moment, threw it the strip of meat. It sniffed it suspiciously, then snatched it up, and a moment later its tail emerged from between its legs and began to wag. And that was also something, she supposed.

After that, everything – her nearly fatal journey over the mountains, the endless events of that day – caught up with her at once, and she fell asleep, and stayed so all night, and most of the next day, and then through the following night as well. She woke up periodically in a panic. She wasn’t happy about staying in the same place so long, especially after all the commotion of the day before, but she was exhausted and there was no way she could push on with her ankle in the state it was. Whenever she awoke she unwrapped her bandages to clean the wound and apply more of the hunters ointments, copiously and haphazardly. The whole area had turned purple and brown, like a ripe plum, and hurt worse than it had the day before. Each time she woke the dog was still there too – perhaps because of the scraps she kept throwing it. The hunters’ supplies had replenished her food stores, thankfully, so she could spare it. Once she had dressed her wound and eaten, she would fall right back asleep.

But one rest day was all she would risk. The following day she set her pack on her back, found a sturdy stick to lean upon, grimaced, and walked on. After consulting her map, she had decided that she would follow the Sirannon as it flowed into the Glanduin, up until it met with the north-south road at the ruins of Tharbad. From there, she could easily follow the road northwards, turning west at the Shire, until she came to the Grey Havens, from where she would – well, that was a long way away. For now, she ought to just focus on putting one foot in front of the other - which was challenge enough. Leaning heavily on her stick, she could walk, but only just. At first she hopped every time she put down her injured leg, but this got tiring so fast that she had to acquiesce, grit her teeth, and put her foot down normally. In this weary manner she walked along the slopes of the mountains until she met with a stream, overflowing with meltwater, rushing downhill. She followed it down, until at last she was truly off the mountains – a relief both to her ankle and to her spirit. In the mornings they still cast heavy dark shadows over her, and she had an irrational fear that they were reaching out to claim her. The sooner they were a blue smudge on the horizon, the better.

As she walked beside the river, she found herself following a clear, straight path. Beneath her feet she began to notice broken stones, grown over, but marking clearly what had once been a road. The old elven road through Hollin, she assumed. Whatever it was, though it was long out of use, it made her passage easier, cutting a clear route through the wilderness. She passed through pine forests, then spacious woods of leafless trees, spindly and naked, till even those were few and far between. The snow went from a thick covering to patchy splotches here and there, and then melted into a pervasive sense of damp, which riddled the ground with puddles. The sun took a defiant stand against the state of affairs and took leave of its duty, and she was lucky if she saw distinct grey clouds, for more often than not all the sky was an indistinguishable, unblemished white, as if it had vanished entirely.

The dog followed her – well, doggedly. She (for she was a she) was a bit of a mystery. She seemed to be a domesticated dog, and would even obey some commands, but the nearest civilisations were miles away, in Dunland at the least. Elanor was grateful for her company though, and fed her from her own supplies. She worried about how long they were going to last, feeding two. But as it turned out, she needn’t have worried, because the dog provided more than just company.

One night as she was chewing dejectedly on a bit of hard biscuit and dreaming of a lovely crispy fried egg, she noticed that the dog had gone. She tried to call for it, and realised that she had no name to call. Well, that was that, she supposed, feeling absolutely rotten, and had consigned herself to a life of loneliness and misery, when the dog crept back of its own accord, and dropped at her feet a skinny grouse with teeth marks in its neck. Elanor leapt up in delight, and tried to hug the dog, but she skittered away and settled down on the opposite side of her campfire. Elanor had no great skill in cooking bird – the Gardners bought their chickens already neatly trussed from the butchers – so she just chopped off the bits that looked gross, gave those to the dog, and put the rest on the embers of her fire until nothing was pink. Her table manners left something to be desired, and she chuckled to think of what Mistress Pedweg would say if she could see her now, tearing at the charred flesh with her teeth, but travelling food couldn’t beat hot meat, and, frankly, she didn’t care.

‘You’re a good dog,’ she said to the dog. ‘You need a name. I was tremendously lucky to find a friend like you out here in the wilderness. So, my lucky charm, how about I call you Clover.’ And so she was called thereafter, to the end of her days.

So, side by side, Elanor and Clover made their way west. The first site of any interest that they encountered was the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil, where their road had been leading them. The ancient elven city stood stark and bare, like the picked-clean skeleton of some immense giant. It was mostly just stones now, lying abandoned on the ground, a haphazard graveyard, but some towers, despite everything, still stood, walls crumbling, filled only with staircases leading nowhere, like great white fingers reaching desperately upwards, disparate and lonely. She walked quietly through the ruins, feeling small and almost sacrilegious. The very stones themselves seemed to respond to her feet passing over them, like freezing creatures curling towards the nearest warm body. The city missed the elves with a potency that took Elanor’s breath away. She brushed her fingers over beautiful, cracked columns, admiring intricately carved marble now lying discarded on the ground, dwelling on a metope, sculpted with an image of a pair of elven maids with linked hands, dancing beneath the boughs of two great trees. She wondered who had sculpted it, and how many long nights it had taken them to perfect it. She wondered if they had been proud of their work. She wondered who the models for the image had been. Perhaps they were the sculptor’s friends. She wondered whether they had struggled to stay still for the pose, balanced mid-dance; perhaps the artist had sketched them first, determined to get their likenesses right if it was to be carved in stone forever. Perhaps they had giggled, collapsing into a heap as they toppled over, the sculptor scolding them, but affectionately, smiling quietly to themself as they captured the movement in delicate strokes of their pencil. And now they were gone, and the stone remained. She took out her notebook, and from out of the pages removed one elanor flower, pressed flat but still golden, and placed it on the stone.

After she passed through Ost-in-Edhil she came to a vast fen of shallow pools and swamps, strung together in a great web by little winding raised paths, along which Elanor walked. The river vanished into the labyrinth of waterways, and Elanor was lost almost from the second she stepped in. The fen was flat, with no distinguishing features to navigate by, no trees at all, and any interesting plants weren’t in bloom in – she realised that she wasn’t even sure what month it was. Whatever it was, it was the season of brown reeds submerged in brown water, and nothing else. Nothing except the swans.

The fen was populated by the occasional water vole or long-legged wading bird with a worm in its beak, but mostly by swans. Great hosts of swans, big and white and ghostly, drifting aimlessly over the waters like waterlilies cut free, unless Elanor got too near, when they would flap their huge wings and scream sharp-toothed screams until she hurried past. They did not make for very good company. Their beaks looked sharp and they were bigger than Elanor was, not to mention outnumbering her in the thousands, so if they didn’t want to be disturbed then she had no interest in disturbing them. Clover tried barking at them once, but after getting a nip on the nose, quickly learnt to leave them alone.

With nothing else to guide her, she walked straight west, into where the setting sun would be if the sun ever shone. If the marshes had an end, she certainly couldn’t see it. They stretched on and on, grey-brown and damp and empty, infectiously so. It felt as though the endless stagnant waters were sucking the colour from the very air. She imagined the swans arriving here decked in feathers of royal blue and fiery red and sunshine yellow, until they got lost in the marshes, and the bubbling noxious fumes bleached them white. She wondered how long it would be before she lost her colour too. She walked a little faster.

A little faster was still not very fast. The sprain hadn’t been that bad in the end, but it never really got any better, the timer for healing resetting every time she set her foot down. She got used to the ache. It was the cut from the wire that really worried her. It scabbed over in an ugly way, and started to look decidedly greenish. The hunters’ ointment had soothed it for a while, but she had run out. She kept wearing her boots, not wanting the dirty water to touch the wound, and tried not to think about it, but her foot was starting to burn up, and it was making her feel dizzy and sleepy. She felt as though she were walking through a dream, each step taking as much effort as if she had been heaving herself through deep mud, the landscape endless and unchanging around her.

But all things come to an end eventually, and after many long days she found that there were buildings on the horizon. They were further south than she had been angling, so she changed her course and, remotivated by the sight, came swiftly to the borders of the marshes. When she looked back over where she had come, she could see the Misty Mountains, small and far away on the eastern horizon. She turned back west.

She was heading (she hoped) towards the ruins of Tharbad, an abandoned ford town still used by travellers crossing the Greyflood. She had passed through it on her journey down to Minas Tirith. The memory of that journey, in brighter days, lightened her heart. She would be able to follow the Greenway north, a road she knew to be easy and safe, heading into familiar lands. She had made it out of the wilderness.

But things were not as she had left them. As she approached Tharbad, the distant noise of many voices reached her ears, and she raised her guard at once. She approached cautiously, keeping behind cover, until she discovered the source. In the centre of the town, scores of tents had been raised, wagons lined the streets, makeshift shacks had been built into the half-collapsed old houses. Everywhere there were people. Children climbed the crumbling walls; laundry was hung to dry between rotting posts; travelling wagons had been converted into stalls boasting fresh produce, which Elanor could see being grown upon caved in rooftops. The town was decidedly not abandoned. The town was alive again.

Elanor holed herself up in a building on the outskirts of the populated area, to decide what to do. She had never been very trusting, and now, after her last encounter with strangers, the sight of people made her heart pound. But she needed food and medicine. She sat for a while, staring out of the window, trying to decide what to do. She watched as a group of children came careening round the corner, vanishing into the ruins without a glance up at Elanor’s window. At the back of the pack came a very small girl. She tripped on a stone lying in the middle of the road and went sprawling, grazing her hands and knees, left in the wake of the other children. She began to cry, loud and ugly. At once, a woman came hurrying round the corner and scooped up the child. She shushed her and stroked her hair until her sobs dissolved into hiccups, then carried her back into the centre of the town, out of view of Elanor.

She slumped down against the wall of the decaying room. It was getting late. She balled her blanket up beneath her head and tried to get comfortable on the hard stone floor. Outside she could hear the noises of the town gradually die down. Her foot was burning again. She tossed and turned. Then she sat up abruptly, and burst into tears. She had to bury her face in her blanket to muffle the noise.

‘Mummy,’ she whispered weakly into the darkness. But, of course, there was no reply.

She spent most of the next day observing the comings and goings of the shanty town. She moved her hiding place to an unused building right beside the central market-place area, and crept up to the second floor, where she could look over the whole square. Thankfully Clover, still following her, was content to nap quietly all day, and did not give them away. From her vantage point she could overhear the chatter of the square, and learnt a lot about the new town. The people had been travellers, journeying along the north-south road to look for a new home. When midwinter brought storms and icy roads, they stopped off in the ruins of Tharbad, and never left. A fair amount of new travellers passing by had also joined their numbers in the months they had been there, until a veritable town had sprung up. There was talk of rebuilding the town properly when the warmer months came around. With its position right on the road and the river, it had the potential to be massively prosperous. There once had been a harbour here where much trade came through, a bridge every traveller had to pay the toll for, a hundred inns and all of them always full. And there were more travellers of the north-south road now than there had been for thousands of years. The town would soon grow large and thriving once more.

More importantly to Elanor, she identified a healer-merchant. Medicine, she decided, was the most important thing right now. She listened carefully to him serving customers, until someone asked for help with an infected wound. She wrote down the medicines he sold them in her notebook, and then watched him until the day was over and he packed up his stall. Then, at last, she crept out from her hiding place, keeping to the shadows, and followed from a distance as he took his wagon back to his home – a little wooden hut near the edge of the town. He parked his wagon in a little garden patch, beside a hungry-looking donkey, and went inside. Elanor waited until the hut was dark and all was silent before she snuck up to the wagon. By the light of a match she rooted about until she found the medicine – a bottle of astringent poultice, not dissimilar to what she had taken from the hunters, but more concentrated.

As she was trying to pack the wagon back the way she had found it, she knocked a bottle with her elbow, and it shattered on its way down. She winced at the noise and stood very still, holding her breath. A light was lit inside the hut. With her medicine in hand she ducked down behind the wagon just in the nick of time, as the door of the hut swung open. Candlelight lit up the little garden. Footsteps, walking around the wagon, nearly at the side she was hiding. The healer bent down and picked up a shard of the broken bottle. Elanor placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her breathing.

‘Damn beast,’ the man muttered, and threw the shard at the little donkey, who was standing watchfully beside him. He stalked back into his hut and slammed the door.

Well, in that case...

Elanor, medicine in hand, took hold of the donkey’s reins, and led it out of the garden.

What her foot really needed to heal, above all else, was rest. Luckily the donkey was sturdier than he looked and small enough to be the perfect size for Elanor. He wasn’t very fast of course, but neither was she, so they got along just fine. At first Clover and the donkey were both skittish around each other, but eventually both concluded that the other had no interest in eating them, and settled into a comfortable routine of ignoring one another. Elanor considered naming the donkey Bill, in honour of her father’s old pony, but settled on Billy to avoid any confusion.

She was soon on the road. The Greenway was well traversed, but not in midwinter, and she encountered no one, settling back into the quiet she had become accustomed to. For all her confidence about familiar lands, it was a very different road to the one she had travelled down last summer. The lands all around were vast, flat plains, frosted white in the mornings, then melting back to the barren brown-grey of winter. It rained often, but lamely, not enough to be exciting but just enough to keep everything damp. The empty road was a pale ghost against the endless grey lands, a sliver of cold moonlight taunting her ever onwards. It felt as though winter would never end. It wasn’t so much the cold, or the rain, but the grey of it all that got to her. She couldn’t tell if the world had gone dark, or if her eyes had. It had been a hundred years since summer. She was grown old.

And yet, there was something so fitting about how miserable the land was. Among other people, in busy towns where life goes on, her fears and miseries felt small and silly, and she was ashamed to feel them. But when she was alone and unsure, the world grew again, strange and mystifying and scary, and all her hopes and fears and wonders and miseries had room to grow too. There was a grim sort of pleasure to feeling hungry and cold and ill, because now there was a reason she felt so bad. With not a soul around for miles, it made sense that she was lonely. On a road like this, at a time like this, no one could be blamed for feeling miserable. It was practically expected. It was like a disguise – though there was no one to disguise herself from but herself. So long as the world was miserable, no one could tell that she’d still be miserable even if she were taken out of it. No one could tell that the real problem was her.

For a long while, nothing changed, so these thoughts were all she had for company. Billy plodded along determinedly, Clover trotted at his heels, and it seemed there had never been any season but winter, never any road but this one. Though her food did not run out, she ate sparingly, and was hungry all the time. The gnawing in her stomach took up most of her thoughts. She was starving and weary and most of all, ridiculously bored. There was absolutely nothing to do, nothing to look at or hear, no one to talk to. She was utterly alone with her own thoughts, and they made for poor company. She was sick of herself. Her body and its aching needs. Her mind, like a parasite, plaguing her with despairing thoughts. Her own idiotic decisions that had somehow brought her life to this point. She was dead weight that she had to lug around, and she was tired of it.

Weeks went by. She reached a crossroads and turned left. The landscape slowly rose into rolling hills, muddy tributaries, familiar trees – she was beginning to recognise where she was. She came to a point where the road was barred by a high gate, with a little guardhouse beside it. She rapped on the door, and after the guard took one look at her she was waved through. She was entering the Shire, and only hobbits could pass beyond this point.

‘If Fíriel had been here,’ she began to think, but then stopped herself. It was a pointless train of thought. She wasn’t here.

From here on the road led to Michel Delving, the Shire’s chief town, tucked neatly between tame chalky hills and chartered little woodlands. She didn’t plan to get that far though: she would turn west, off the road, before she hit anywhere she might be recognised. Yet almost without her own permission, she found herself bearing north rather than west, as though drawn by some magnetic force. She climbed little hills she knew, past thickets she recognised, over rivers she had swum in. It was evening when she at last found herself standing atop a hill, looking down across a wide valley at the lights of Hobbiton. Little orange pinpricks dotted the dark like stars, the lights of warm fireplaces shining out through round windows, and she knew that if she looked through any one of those windows she would see a family, huddled close around the fire, safe within the walls of their own home, and somehow – and in this moment she couldn’t seem to remember quite how – she had found herself on the outside of those homes, looking down on the little lights from a dark hill. And those little lights, each a home, made her so sad that she sat down right there on the damp ground and cried and cried and cried, and in that moment she couldn’t remember why she was there or what she was doing, she knew only that she was out here, in the dark and the cold, on her own, and that she wanted so badly to be inside those little lights, and that for some reason she couldn’t be. For so long she had wanted so badly to go home, and now here she was, but she wasn’t, not really, because now she had seen it all looking very small from a distant dark hill, so it was never going to be the same again. She had walked all this way to get home, but doing so had changed her, and there must be no place for her new shape to fit in anymore, because why else would she be out here instead of in there? She couldn’t go home now, not ever, not really. Her heart was missing, and she had hoped to find it here, hoped that she might have left it here by accident, and could have picked it back up and said ‘there you are!’ and fit it neatly back into her chest, but little pieces had broken off and been scattered behind her everywhere she had gone, and she would never be able to find them all, so it wouldn’t ever be whole again. So she sat on the hill and she cried and cried and cried. And all the while Clover lay her head in her lap and watched her silently with big, sad, brown eyes.

She fell asleep right there in the grass. In the morning her head pounded and she was soaked through, but finally her mind was undivided. She knew now for certain: there was no giving up. There was no going home. There was only one direction left for her.

The medicine, which she had applied routinely as per the healer’s overheard instructions, had cleared up the infection. Her ankle would scar, but it no longer burnt, and her body was well. Being able to rest her foot while riding Billy had also helped greatly with the sprain. There was a slight ache still if she stepped on it too jarringly, and she worried she might have done permanent damage with all the pressure she had put on it, but she could walk at about a normal pace now, so there was nothing else to be done. Where she was going would be no place for donkeys anyway, so she set Billy loose here – a nicer home for a donkey could not be found.

She tried to shoo Clover away too.

‘Go on, go away. You can’t follow me all the way. Go on – shoo!’ she cried. But Clover lay down and would not move from Elanor’s side. Elanor tried to run off, but Clover was far faster than her.

‘Stay! Stay here, you stupid animal! It’s perfect here! Why would you ever want to leave? Why would you follow me? Can’t you see what happens when I love someone? Just leave, before I lead you somewhere horrible that you can’t come back from!’ she yelled. But Clover stayed anyway. Probably because she didn’t understand the common tongue. Well, there was nothing for it, she’d just have to come with her. She had found her in the wilderness, and she would just have to find a home in the wilderness again, when it came time for them to part.

Elanor shouldered her pack and began walking west. And if she looked back, that was her own business.

Chapter Text

Something cold and clammy had settled in the pit of Elanor’s belly. She had a horrible feeling that something terrible was going to happen, as though she were watching a storm looming on the horizon gradually approach. Dread pooled in the footsteps she left behind in the soft earth. She felt sick.

She could hear the sea even in her waking hours now, a constant companion in the back of her head. Calling to her. Over the sea, perhaps, things would be different. Maybe there, this feeling would finally go away.

She passed through familiar lands, and then went on. None of it made any difference. Up the hill and down again she went. Up the next hill, then down again. She couldn’t be bothered to look any higher than her own feet.

She retreated entirely into her own head. She missed Fíriel, and Fastred, and her parents. She missed every single one of her irritating siblings, missed bickering with Rosie and Daisy’s gap-toothed breathy whistling and baby Tommy’s wails. She missed Minas Tirith and its dazzling white walls and leaf-strewn streets. She missed Lothlórien and its beautiful, golden loneliness. She missed Caradhras, so close to the sky she could touch it. She missed the Shire, where no matter how miserable each day was, she went home at the end of it. She missed the third age, a world of stories and magic and happy endings. She missed how hearing those stories used to make her feel, back when she still believed in them. She missed Valinor, across the seas, and each and every elf who had sailed there. She missed everyone who had ever died since the world began. She missed Frodo like she was drowning.

Most of all, she missed herself. Hadn’t she existed, once? What had happened?

Over the next hill. Over the next one.

The world, as all things do, has an end. The road to the end of this world led through deep, wide valleys and high chalk hills, the earth layered white-brown-white: if Elanor had looked up she would have seen bundles of snowdrops peeking out from the thawing earth.

If they continued past the snowdrops, a traveller heading westwards would come to the last row of hills before they crumbled into the ocean, and atop these hills they would find three white towers marking the edge of the world. The elves who built them were gone. They were empty inside, the rooms abandoned, the treasures hollowed out, the stairs collapsing. All that stood now were the immense towers, forever looking out across the sea for what had gone away from them, until one day the water would bear the cliffs down, and wash the white stones away in the tide.

But for now they stood, and Elanor saw them, and knew she had come to the end.

But there was further to go yet. That’s the trouble with life - it’s what makes it so much less appealing than stories. There’s never a neat ‘The End’. There’s always further to go. Epilogues upon epilogues.

So Elanor reached the end of it all, the boundary where the world met the vast, churning grey sea from where she could go no further, and then went on.

The sound of the real ocean synched with the ocean in her head with only a slight echo. It was disconcerting, to see something so long dreamed of for the first time in reality. It wasn’t as she had expected. She had never imagined the sticky saltiness that the very air would carry. She’d never considered the way it would make her hair stiff and her skin raw red. She’d never bothered thinking of the scrubby, brine-fed plants that grew on the coast. She had always just pictured her own homeland, right up until it met the hard line of the sand. She’d never thought to picture all the colours the sea could contain, blue-green-grey-brown-black-orange-at-sunset. It was more alive than could ever have fit inside her head.

She hadn’t hit the Grey Havens dead on. She followed the coastline south for a while, walking along clifftops, buffeted by the wind. She came at last to a long, deep bay. The water of the bay was so still, sheltered by high cliff walls, that a boat would hardly need to be tied up. Built into and upon these cliff faces was a great city, made of the same grey stone as the cliffs, as if it had been chiselled away rather than built up. But it must have been built up, for towers and spires rose high over the cliffs, and then stretched down again, the city perched atop the water, walkways and wharves growing out of the seafloor and balancing upon the waves. Here was the Grey Havens: the harbour of the elves, the way west. And like everywhere elvish, it lay abandoned, the silence broken only by the sound of the waves, crashing against the shore.

And in the harbour, there were ships. Fleets of slim, study ships with great white sails tucked up, bobbing on the water like ducks. It seemed almost too easy. And indeed it was. Invigorated, Elanor began hurrying down a flight of stairs carved zig-zagging into the cliff-face, when she saw, far below, two elves emerge from a building, one carrying a scroll under his arm, absorbed in deep discussion. Elanor ducked down at once. Not abandoned, she corrected. Not quite yet.

She sat down on the steps. This made things a little trickier. There certainly weren’t a lot of elves left here, and the ships were unguarded, but she’d have to walk right out into the open to board one and it would be hard to miss her. What she really needed was a distraction of some sort. She sat there for a while trying to come up with a clever plan, but nothing came to her. For all her journey her only plan had been to keep pushing forward and face any problems when she came to them, which was a fine plan, until she came to the problems. She resolved in the end to merely wait for the cover of darkness, when everyone was asleep - or if they weren’t asleep then she hoped, if she was lucky, that they’d simply be looking the other way. There were plenty of places to look here, and not many eyes. It was a big city after all.

She crept back up the stairs, keeping low, and settled under the branches of an orange-berried buckthorn bush to wait for nightfall.

She woke gasping for air. Her dream slipped away from her, but she was sure that she had been drowning. For a moment she couldn’t recall where she was. It was dark and she was caged in by sharp branches. She felt encrusted with salt. She thrashed around for a moment, panicked and trapped, until she remembered where she was. She must have fallen asleep waiting. She brushed the leaves off her lap and crawled out of the bush. She had an insistent feeling that she had forgotten something, but she couldn’t think what; anyway there was nothing to be done. Night had fallen. It was time to go.

She saw no one as she climbed down the stairs into the bay. It was so silent that if she hadn’t seen proof with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed there was a soul around for miles. She crept along a dock, out from which several smaller ships were floating, of which she selected the smallest. Now came the part of her plan that she had avoided thinking about for the longest: how to sail a ship. It had seemed too far away to worry about, and she had always pushed the thought to the back of her mind, assuming she would think of something on the way. But now she was here. She threw her pack into the boat with a dull thunk, and climbed in after it. Clover jumped up behind her. There was a mess of ropes dangling from the mast, lying on the deck. Rather uselessly she began to struggle with them. She untangled the pile, then began tying them wherever she guessed that they looked right, tangling them once more in the process.

‘Excuse me, but you’ve tied that wrong.’

Elanor almost jumped out of her skin, and spun around. Below her on the dock stood a very old man, tall but bent, with a long grey beard. For a fleeting second, she thought he was a wizard. But upon further inspection she realised - to her great surprise - that he was an elf. His eyes twinkled with a keen, almost youthful intelligence. But she had never seen an elf look so old. She hadn’t even known they could look old.

‘Um. Pardon?’ she said eloquently.

‘I’ll pardon you if you tell me who you are, and what you’re doing on my boat,’ said the old elf.

She couldn’t think of a convincing lie, so she said: ‘You’re Círdan aren’t you. Círdan the shipwright. You were a ringbearer.’

‘I’m well aware. I’m asking about you.’

Elanor sighed. There was nothing for it. It was clear she wasn’t out for a picnic. ‘I’m Elanor, daughter of Samwise. I’m sailing.’

‘You’re not doing a very good job of it,’ he said, unphased. Elanor bristled.

‘I’m – I’m doing my best!’

‘And where are you going to sail then, child – if that’s what you call what you’re doing?’

‘West. I’m going west.’

‘The way west is open only to the firstborn.’

‘That’s not true. Two hobbits have passed west.’

‘For their suffering, they were awarded that respite. What have you done, daughter of Samwise, to necessitate that honour? Have you borne a ring of power?’

‘My point is that it’s possible.’ Círdan had made no attempt to stop her, and he looked so very old, so Elanor began struggling with the ropes again. ‘I’m going to find them. And I suggest you follow my lead.’

‘I should follow your lead?’ he repeated, amused. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t realise I was speaking to one of the Wise.’

‘That’s obviously not what I meant,’ said Elanor, who was in a bad mood. ‘But everyone’s just sitting around, feeling sad and thinking about going west. I know you are too, it’s everyone, it’s the whole world. I know you’ve got something or someone you’re missing. But everyone’s just lingering in the ruins of it all. No one will do anything about it. Well not me. I’m going, and you should too.’

‘We do not choose when we go west,’ he said simply.

‘I’m choosing.’

He did not reply, and watched as Elanor got herself more and more into a tangle with the ropes.

‘Do you need help with that?’

‘No!’ yelled Elanor, throwing down the rope in a huff.

‘Do you actually know how to sail?’

Elanor, under Círdan’s heavy gaze, felt herself feeling suddenly very ashamed. She felt as though he could see all the way through her, and she knew there was nothing worth finding.

‘I’ve sailed little boats, in the river,’ she mumbled. ‘And I’m a strong swimmer. My father insisted we learn…’

‘You cannot swim to Valinor. If you could, I would have done so already.’

‘I don’t understand any of you,’ said Elanor. ‘You don’t need to swim! You have a whole fleet of ships!’

‘I missed my ship long ago,’ he said.

‘And that’s it?’

‘Until another ship comes for me.’

‘And let me guess, that will be the last of them,’ said Elanor glumly. ‘And the last light will fade, and we’ll forget there ever was anything over the sea. And everyone will be gone, and I’ll still be here.’

‘Not everyone has crossed the seas, and not everyone is going to. If you were to leave, what about them? You would leave them all behind?’

Elanor thought of Fíriel standing on the shore.

‘I’m coming back. I’m going and then I’m coming back again.’

‘If it is hard to sail west, it is harder yet to sail east.’

Elanor ignored him. ‘There and back again, that’s what we do. Except they haven’t come back again. But I’ll –’ She registered his words. ‘And even if I can’t sail back, my dad is coming eventually, he’s going west for good and I’ll meet him there. Because if – see, this is it, you think you know my life, you think I’m abandoning people by going west. But I’d be abandoning people by staying in the east too. Because if I stay in the east my father will leave, he’ll go west to Frodo and I’ll be left in Middle-earth, with nothing left but to be miserable forever!’

‘Now, is that any way to speak about your home?’ he said, his voice getting calmer as Elanor’s grew more erratic. ‘It’s got more to offer than that.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve already gotten to see everything. You’re old, you’re satisfied with your life. But I’m starting just as it’s all ending. You have no idea what it’s like to be born into a world that’s ending.’

‘Do you want to know what kind of a world I was born into?’ he asked. ‘None at all. When I was born, there was no moon and there was no sun. There was no winter and there was no summer. There was nothing at all to do but leave. It was my chief desire, my only wish. And what I have never done is leave. I have stayed, through age after age after age. I saw the first sunrise, and I have seen every sunset sinking into the west since, and I have stayed. I will stay until I am the very last of my people, until everyone and everything I’ve ever known has left also. Do you know how many I have seen leave? How many I have loved who are now gone? And yet even now, not all are gone, because here I stay. I must be satisfied with my life, since I am old, you say? Quite the contrary. The older I get, the stronger the yearning in my heart grows. My want is older than the sun itself. And still I wait. And still I stay. Because that is what I must do. You say I have no idea what it’s like to be born into a world that’s ending? Of course I do. The world has been dying since the moment it was born, just like all the rest of us.’ He waved his hand flippantly. ‘Oh yes, we are all dying, even us immortals. As are you, of course. But you are not dead yet.’

‘I –’ started Elanor, and her breath hitched. But then she shook her head. ‘If I go back now, that’s it. It’s like I’m falling, and if I stop, I’ll land, and I know it’s going to hurt when I do, and I don’t want –’ She turned her face from him.

‘When falling from a great height, it hurts just as much to land in water as it does on land,’ Círdan warned gently.

‘Just a little longer,’ she pleaded. Círdan looked sad.

‘Then may I at least show you how to tie those ropes?’

Elanor spent the next few hours receiving the world’s fastest sailing lesson from the world’s greatest shipwright.

‘You are lucky,’ he said, ‘that it is one of my ships. It will do most of the work for you. If any ship ever could carry you west, it would be this one.’

He also furnished her with a barrel of water, and some long-lasting food.

Standing on the deck, ready to leave, Elanor said:

‘Thank you. I’m sorry about some of the things I said. I don’t know when I became so bitter and unkind. I used to be nice.’

Círdan smiled ruefully. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I am more than ten thousand years old, and I still change every day. Twenty-one is not the end of you. You’ve got plenty of time to learn again.’

Elanor thought long and hard about that unimaginable figure.

‘I might be twenty-two, actually. What’s the date?’

Círdan laughed, and it was a young sound. Elanor smiled shyly, for the first time in a while.

‘I hope your ship comes some day.’

‘And I truly hope that yours returns.’

‘So do I,’ she said. And with that she tossed off the rope and sailed out into the open bay.

She was in luck: there was a strong westerly wind. She sailed swiftly, needing little effort. When she was halfway out of the Gulf of Lune, she realised that Clover was still in the boat with her. Despite her words to Círdan, she knew how likely her journey was to succeed, and she would not risk any life but her own. She changed her angle, and sailed close to the southern shore, into the inlet of Harlond, one more abandoned elvish harbour. She got as close as she could to the shore, then picked Clover up, and with a terrible rending, as though she was tearing her own heart out of her chest, threw her overboard. Clover paddled frantically to the shore, but once she reached it she turned around again, edging into the water and then backing out, unwilling to enter the water again but howling dreadfully. And Elanor sailed away. It hurt so much that she threw up over the side of the boat. But she sailed away.

The dread got worse. She felt as though she had been falling for a very long time, and now she was so close that the ground had come into view, and there was no going anywhere but down. So down she went.

She passed out of the Gulf of Lune and into the open ocean. It was unthinkably vaster than she could ever have imagined. There was nothing but water, flat and grey and endless in every direction. Adrift in her tiny boat, crushed between miles of sea and miles of sky, she was the most alone she had ever been. Sometimes the overcast sky and the churning sea were such similar shades of grey that she could see no horizon, as if she could keep on sailing forever, right up into the sky, and never come to any end. She was so impossibly small, one tiny speck in the infinite sea, that she could barely see herself.

This was the longest period of Elanor’s whole life, though there is little to say of it. The span of days was not so many as Elanor would have thought, but time is an unsteady thing, especially when there are no markers but the sun, which seemed always to be setting. There was no other change to the landscape, not a living creature in sight, nothing to do. The seas were still. The only course she set was towards the setting sun. It was almost ridiculous, when she was further from home than she’d ever been, and in maybe the most danger she’d ever been in, but she spent a lot of the time feeling bored. And lonely. Always lonely. She didn’t regret leaving Clover behind, but she did miss her. She spent some of her time looking through her little notebook, which she had carried all this way, reading snippets she had written about times past to remind herself such a world still existed, somewhere, though it seemed hard to believe out here. But most of the time she just stared out westwards, into the endless, empty grey. It wasn’t long before she was running low on water, and it made her head feel tight around her skull. The world lurched to the rhythm of the waves. Each day stretched out into infinity, and each day showed no sign of change from the last. Sometimes she sailed on the sky and watched the sea do nothing forever above her. She felt like she was dying.

When something did appear on the horizon, she almost couldn’t believe her eyes. A dark, raised shape, like a distant mountain peak, rising out of the water. She sailed towards it, heart in her throat.

She approached faster than she had hoped; it was not a mountain, or if it was, it was the very highest peak. It was a tiny island, a small outcrop of rock barely 100 paces across, with nothing upon it. A high, steep wall rose on one side, while the other side sloped down into the ocean, forming a small beach. It was here that she pulled her ship up and disembarked.

The feel of solid ground beneath her feet was dizzying. She lay down, enjoying something as simple as the still earth beneath her. Then she got up and took in the island. The slope was covered in sparse, salt-hardened grasses which clung with long, tangled roots between the rocks. Rock samphire with its umbels of little green flowers sprouted abundantly. There were barnacles and mussels and little red crabs clinging to the lower rocks, and a few seabirds picked on these, slamming hard shells against rock with a rhythmic tap tap tap. She nibbled at some samphire, and looked desperately for a spring of fresh water, but could find none. There were no trees, not even a bush – it was just a rock. The wind buffeted her as she climbed the slope. She wasn’t sure why she was even bothering, until she came to the top, and realised the slope of the hill had in fact disguised something from her view. At the very top of the island there stood a tall, flat, arch-shaped stone. From years of hard ocean winds it had been worn round and smooth, yet if one inspected it very closely, as Elanor did now, they would be able to tell that it had once had writing inscribed on it, faint grooves, long worn away and illegible. It was a gravestone. A gravestone, balanced on a little outcrop of rock, in the middle of the wild, wide ocean. A grave long forgotten, decorated with cockleshells and samphire bouquets. But it had been someone’s grave. Someone had once been real, had been alive, had danced and sneezed and felt ill and hummed and thought about death and wanted things and felt and laughed and suffered, and now they were dead. The strength of the realisation almost made Elanor stumble backwards. She felt a tremendous wash of grief for this person she knew nothing of. She thought about how very few creatures were alive, and how many were dead. How miraculously rare it was that at that second, she was alive. One day she too would have a gravestone, and birds would crack crabs on it, and she would know nothing of it, and soon even her name would be washed away. It wasn’t as if this was the first time that she had realised she would die – but it was perhaps the first time she realised how much she did not want to. The thought made her feel as though all the weight of her life was bearing down on her and snapping her into pieces. To never again see white-finned waves or feel the hard ache of cold air in your lungs or to be able to cry out to the wind – it was an unthinkable, indescribable, inescapable horror, and the worst part of all was that it was mundane, unimportant, it was an everyday fact of every single life, barely worth mentioning. Elanor wanted to help this person somehow, to bring them back to life, even if only through memory. But she knew nothing of them, not even their name, so she placed one pressed elanor flower at the foot of the stone, and hoped her terrible grief could suffice.

She left the island and sailed on. She passed no more land. The sky darkened. Black clouds were gathering on the western horizon, looming and ominous. It felt as though they were waiting for her. They blocked her path like a barricade. But there was nowhere to go but onwards, so the clouds crept towards her, and she met them in the middle. First it rained, a gloomy drizzle, unenthusiastic about itself. Elanor pulled a sodden hood over her eyes and collected rainwater in empty food jars. But this was only the prelude. The rain grew stronger. At last, she entered the storm.

So far, she had needed no great skill to let the wind carry her west over the still ocean. Now, she was tried, and she came up wanting. Her little boat was tossed up and down on the waves like something being fried in a pan. The clouds roared and blackened as if a great fire was burning below them, billowing up smoke. They descended to fill the air with fog, and the rolling black sea leapt up to meet them, so that there was no distance at all between the sky and the sea, there was only the storm. Blindly through the darkness, Elanor sailed on. Sometimes, great waves reared up in front of her and in them dark shapes swum, and when they reached the peak of the wave they leapt, like salmon up a river, into the clouds, and vanished. Lightning struck periodically, great bright arching flashes, and in their light for a moment the world was lit up, and she seemed to be sailing upon the inside of a great twisting seashell, high spiral walls all aglow, pearlescent and shimmering. And then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished, and she bobbed in her tiny ship upon the immense dark ocean once more. She ducked under waves so big that they didn’t brush her, rode atop ones so large that they didn’t notice her upon them, like a flea on an oliphaunt’s back. She scooped water out of her ship again and again, but it was like trying to hold all the ocean in cupped hands. Had she been in the storm for days? Weeks? Years? The spray hit her face like fingertips, or like the feet of ants. Springy white wood splintered beneath her feet or within her chest. She leaned over the side of the boat to throw up, and a herring leapt out of her mouth all in its silver mail, laughing for joy. Bent over the side, she saw in the water below a thousand shiny eyes all looking back at her. No, not eyes – they were stars, lost in the waters or floating on top of the waves. She reached down and one floated through her open palm and filled her mind with blinding white pain, the worst she had ever felt in her life. She opened her mouth to tell the stars how beautiful they were, but all that came out was bubbles.

How long had she been sailing before the lightning struck her ship? She might’ve thought, in that moment, that it had been a hundred years, and that she had grown old and grey, because she could feel death like one can feel their own shadow, or a bug crawling up their leg, or water in their lungs. The battered little boat finally splintered into a million pieces in a terrific blue-white flash. She felt she was inside the barrel of the future-weapon. Sharp shards of wood exploded outwards and impaled themselves in Elanor’s belly, flinging her backwards with the force. There was no splash as she finally fell into the ocean, just a great gasp. The sky pressed down on her, all the infinite expanse of it. The sea pressed down on her, crushing in its depth. Uncountable eons all folded over themselves pressed down upon her tiny little body, flung into the midst of it all. The water was cold in a way which immediately washed through Elanor’s veins until everything was the same temperature and nothing could be felt. She gasped and her lungs filled with seawater. How long had she been having this dream for? At last, she thought. At last.

She waved blindly until her arms hit against a charred plank of her ship, adrift. She clung on. Which way was west? There was no sun, there was no moon, they hadn’t been invented yet. There was no west, nor east, no north or south. There was no up or down. The universe stretched forever, and everything was just clinging on to whatever it could get a grasp on to stop from floating away. All directions were the same direction. She began kicking her legs furiously, but she made no leeway against the current. A wave rose up before her, and for this one moment the wave was all the ocean, and then it crashed down on top of her, inescapable, and swept her under, deep into the mesh of currents which ran in every direction forever, into the death-cold of oblivion, and everything went dark. And then the ocean finished being the wave, and it burst and scattered upon the surface, and the water did not, of course, disappear, though it did, in a way, die.

Chapter Text

When Elanor awoke, it was a bright, clear day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun was prickling her face like a hand gently brushing her awake. She sat up and at once felt dizzy. Mentally she inspected her condition. Her clothes were salt-encrusted and stiff, but dry. Her head pounded, but she did not feel as thirsty or hungry as she remembered being. And – it was here she remembered the wooden shards that had struck her – when she pulled her shirt up, there were distinct scars around her navel, scattered puffy lines and mottled yellow skin, but neatly closed up, as if they had been healing for weeks. It was like… like magic. She spun her ankles in circles, cautiously put weight on her legs – everything seemed intact. Her pack was on her back – she must have put it on at some point during the storm, though she didn’t remember doing so - and Sting, miraculously, was still firmly in its sheath. Suddenly feeling refreshed and confident, she leapt up, and then immediately lurched over again to throw up. She retched until there was nothing left in her stomach, then coughed up bile and saliva, bent over on her hands and knees and panting. Eventually she got up again, slowly this time. She closed her eyes for a few seconds while the world tilted, but she stayed up. Then she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings for the first time. She was standing upon a beach of fine white sand. It stretched out maybe fifty paces across and beyond that – ocean. She was standing upon a tiny, flat island, a sandbar peeking just above sea level, empty of anything. Not one plant or rock or piece of driftwood, nothing. Only the ocean, stretching out forever. Except – except no, that wasn’t right, because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t stretch forever. Far out on the western horizon was a thin blue line of land. Distant, hazy mountaintops and high spires, lit from behind and outlined with a faint golden glow. It stretched north and south as far as she could see. A whole continent – a whole world. Valinor, Aman, Faerie, Elvenhome, the blessed realm, the undying lands, it was right there. She could see it. And she was stranded in the middle of the ocean, her boat shattered and sunk, beyond all hope of help. She would die here, with it in sight.

She spent a good long while cursing loudly and vibrantly, but eventually it dissolved into an inarticulate, keening howl. She beat the ground with her fists and tore at her hair and raged and screamed, but none of it changed a thing. Then she sat down on the sand and covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly.

She stayed that way for a long time – for indeed, where else was she going to go – until she heard a laugh. She looked up, startled, but still she could see nothing on the island, and it wasn’t as if there was anywhere to hide. There was not a living soul in sight, other than a big white gull, which had swooped down to perch on the sand. Slowly, she lowered her face back into her hands, then sprung up at once when the laugh came again. She squinted around suspiciously, and her eyes landed on the gull. It was looking right at her. She raised her eyebrows. Feeling a bit ridiculous, she said:

‘Hello?’

The gull squawked, flapped its wide wings, and then opened its beak, and began to sing:

Across the endless miles she’s come,

From rising light to setting sun,

O’er river, mountain, hill and dale,

And then upon a boat to sail.

Adrift atop the living blue,

Under my skies so old and new,

The little flower floats to sea,

Comes all this way to bother me!

Then it laughed that merry laughter once more.

For a moment, Elanor was too shocked to move, but once she recovered her senses she laughed out loud.

‘You can talk! You can send for help! I’ll make it!’ she cried, overjoyed.

‘Perhaps,’ said the gull. ‘And perhaps not.’

‘What?’ she said, taken aback. ‘Why? Is it too far to fly?’

‘Oh, I can fly there. I just don’t particularly want to.’

Elanor’s sudden spike of happiness plummeted right back down into the depths of despair.

‘But I do!’ she shouted. ‘I’m going to die, how can you be so selfish–’

‘Well there’s no need to be like that,’ sniffed the gull indignantly. ‘It’s not my fault you’re out here. Solve your own problems.’

‘Fine.’ She turned her back. Then she turned towards the gull again. ‘Come on though, it’s not like I’m asking a lot, just fly to Valinor and ask someone-’

‘What do you want in Valinor anyway?’ it interrupted. ‘Ridiculous thing to do, sailing to Valinor. Especially when you can’t even sail. You can’t exactly be surprised that you ended up in this position. I mean, it’s not exactly cruel fate is it? It couldn’t be more your fault.’

‘Hey! I - I’m going to – oh, it’s none of your business!’ Elanor scowled and collapsed back down onto the ground. ‘I’m going to die here explaining myself to a bird,’ she groaned.

‘There there,’ said the gull. ‘There’s plenty to like about birds.’

‘There’s plenty to like when you are a bird. What I wouldn’t give to grow wings right now, and fly away. Like Elwing.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. You aren’t that important.’

It was right, of course, but it didn’t need to know that.

‘Maybe I am. How should you know?’

She didn’t know before this moment that birds could give scathing looks.

‘Please, Elanor, if you’re just going to tell jokes then you can be quiet and stop wasting my time.’

‘What? I didn’t tell you my – oh, I see. So you’re magic then, are you?’

‘Am I magic! What a question to ask a talking bird,’ it exclaimed.

‘Well there’s nothing specifically magic about a bird talking, is there?’ said Elanor. ‘Some birds just talk. Like parrots, or eagles.’

The bird squawked indignantly. ‘You don’t know very much about magic, do you?’

‘I – oh whatever, this isn’t important right now! Will you at least tell me why you won’t help me?’

‘I never said that.’

Elanor planted her face in the sand and groaned.

‘So will you help me, or won’t you?’

‘Maybe I will. Or maybe I won’t. I’ve got nothing against helping people. But its rather a long way to fly. And you haven’t asked very nicely.’

‘Please?’ offered Elanor.

‘Meh.’

‘Oh come on. It’s not like you’ve been the most polite yourself. You know, you could try-’

‘Do you want my help or not?’

‘Yes, yes, obviously yes.’

‘Alright, look, maybe I’ll help you, if only to get you to leave. You’re cluttering up the island awfully. But like I said, it’s a long flight, and I want something in return.’

‘I’m shipwrecked, I don’t have a lot to offer.’

‘I want you to tell me a story.’

Elanor rolled her eyes.

‘Of course you do. Once upon a time a hobbit found a magic ring-’

‘Not that story. That’s cheating. Your own story.’

‘I knew you were going to say that. You know, if you’re a magic bird, then couldn’t you just make the flight shorter, or make yourself faster, or something?’

‘Who said I was magic?’

‘You did!’

‘Did I?’

‘Well aren’t you?’

‘Why are you avoiding the task?’

‘Because I don’t have any stories to tell!’ shouted Elanor. ‘I can’t think of any! I don’t know!’

‘What nonsense,’ exclaimed the gull. ‘You’ve been alive, haven’t you? Then you should have something to tell. And if you don’t then you ought to be ashamed. I’m really not asking a lot.’

‘You – I – Fine!’ Elanor blustered. ‘Fine, alright, you want a story? I’ll tell you a story.

‘In the beginning, there was only music. And from that music, there sprung a world. And this world was remarkable. It was filled with the most wonderful things: vast forests full of life, mountains which scraped the sky, deep cold oceans, and so many flowers. There were stars, and songs, and sunlight, and tiny silver fish and huge stone giants, and dormice who slept in flowers, and insects that glowed. There were noble kings and beautiful queens and men who could make stars appear from their hands and girls who danced in the moonlight. There was magic, brilliant and awful and alive, the world was bursting at the seams with it. And there were terrible things also in this world, fire-breathing dragons and immense battles; the mountains spewed molten rock and the oceans drowned sailors; and there was hatred and evil. But for every bit of hatred and evil, there was good, and love. For this world was populated by all sorts of people: elves, men, dwarves, orcs, ents, hobbits, and many more, all different and complex and wonderful, and they were a part of this world, and its magic flowed in their veins. And all these brilliant, kind, good people fought against evil time and time again, so that no matter how dark and cold the winter was, summer always came again. And you didn’t have to be strong or powerful, only good, for the smallest people could save the world. They had wars and quests and adventures worth telling tales about, and endless tales they did tell, and always with a happy ending, for there was no evil that couldn’t be triumphed, no enemy that couldn’t be defeated, no change that could touch all the world. No matter how great the peril, there was beauty that couldn’t be marred, light that couldn’t be touched, hope that couldn’t be crushed, and always the world waited with open arms for you.

‘And perhaps it really was like that, once. But this world, you see, it grew old. A lot of the people grew old. And the magic grew old. It was old, old and tired. See, the good people – the best people – had given up too much, saving the world, until there was nothing left of them. So it all began to fade away. The magic left the world, left the people. So many wonderful, fantastical things – entire species – vanished from the world. It was an age of men, and there was no room for anything else. And for a while the men were good and strong and brave, for they had fought for this world. But it never takes long for men to fall back into old ways. Time passed, and there came more and more men. Their cities grew swollen and sprawling to make room for them all, until there was less and less of the world that had been so wonderful. Borders were drawn up and walls erected. Maps were filled out to the very corners, and everything was given a name and made sense of. Forests were cut down. They built machines, great and terrible machines, a world of metal. Everyone had a place in this new world – a job to do, until you died, and that was it. And any peoples left that didn’t belong in this world were hunted into hiding, until hiding was all that was left of them. There were no more adventures in this world. Everything belonged to someone. The people thought the world belonged to them, and they did not care what they did with it. They burnt the world – with their machines, with their hatred, with their awful, awful wars. Winters grew warmer – grey and nothingy, with snow only touching the highest mountain peaks. Summers were dryer and duller, and things didn’t grow as they used to. And stories, too, came to an end. This was an age of facts. No one even remembered that once, this world had had magic. And this was a peril so large that there was nowhere left unscarred, and all light was outshone until even the stars were washed away, and not even the smallest sliver of hope could remain, for there was nothing to do, and no going back. Everything had grown far too big for even the biggest people to make a difference, let alone the smallest, no matter how romantic the notion. It was all too late.

‘So the world came to its end, fading away into the waters, burnt in the fires, cut down or killed or shot or starved or sailed away. And everything and everyone was gone. The End.’

Elanor took a deep, shuddering breath out.

‘Nonsense,’ said the gull.

Elanor could have laughed if she wasn’t so miserable. ‘Nonsense? That’s it? That’s all I get? Well, tough luck, because I’ve seen it. I saw a vision of the future, and I saw it all happening. And you can’t tell me the vision was all just nonsense, because I can see it happening now, I can see the magic fading and the age of men beginning. I’ve seen the elves leaving and I’ve met men who begin to hate everything but themselves. So I know it’s true. It’s true and I can’t do anything about it, unless you help me get to Valinor. Do you understand now?’ She wiped her eyes angrily.

‘Do I understand? You haven’t exactly revealed any shocking new information to me. And it still wasn’t really your story. You’ve got about as far as the Ainur did in their first vision of the world – which is not very far. It was about the first thing anyone ever learned, and there’s been a lot more learning done since. Still, good job on figuring it out on your own.’

‘So have I figured out something obvious, or am I talking nonsense? Make up your mind.’

‘Oh well, I didn’t say it was all nonsense. Mostly just the part where you said, “The End.”’

‘Oh really,’ she said, straight-faced and sardonic. ‘Well, what would you have added, if you know so much.’

‘That wasn’t part of our deal. You were telling me a story in exchange for my help. And now you want a story as well? You’re certainly demanding.’

‘Oh, sure. That’s why you won’t tell me. Not because you just don’t know. You talk big, but I’m starting to suspect you don’t actually have anything to tell at all, you just like to pretend to be smart.’

‘Are you trying to goad me?’

‘Is it working?’

‘No.’

‘Then no.’

‘Good.’

‘Great.’

The gull tucked its head into its feathers and closed its beady eyes. Then, it opened them again.

‘Ok, I’ll tell you. But not because of anything you said. I just feel sorry for you,’ it said.

‘Right.’

‘Right. Yes, well, like I said, you got a little bit of the picture. The age of men and the darkness that follows have always been prophesised. The Valar knew this, and they built this world anyway. But what they did not see –’

‘But if even the Valar couldn’t see more than that, how could you possibly have more to say?’ interrupted Elanor.

‘Do you want to hear my story or not?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. I was only wondering, that’s all.’

‘Well I don’t see what there is to wonder about,’ said the gull indignantly. ‘Why should the Valar be any more important than the birds? Perhaps I won’t tell you anything after all, if you’re going to be so rude.’

‘No, I – sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You just don’t hear many birds telling tales, is all. I’m not used to it.’

‘Well that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said so far. Birds have told you a lot more tales than the Valar ever have. It’s not our fault if you’re bad at listening.’

‘Ok, ok, I’m listening now. I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry. You can get on with the story.’

‘Can I now? Humph,’ said the gull, ruffling its feathers. ‘No more interruptions, please. Where was I?

‘Yes, the world will end. The final battle will be fought and the earth will be left scorched. The seas will rise and swallow the lands, and the wastes of water will stretch forever. And then, they will recede. Eventually – and it will take a long, long time – the polluted earth will grow green again. The smoke will clear from the sky, and the sun will shine again. Some small sparks of life will survive, and they’ll grow. Where the music of the Ainur has ended, there will come song once more. Even when many things have gone for good, new things will grow in their places. Even when many people have been lost, more will come, and they’ll love this new world all the more for all the loss it contains. And they’ll grieve what has been lost, even when they don’t remember it.

‘Do not underestimate the world. People will think they own it, and you seem to think that they’ll be right. But the world is much bigger than you can possibly imagine, and it cannot be destroyed by beings so small. Even after the ending of all endings, it will begin again. You see, endings, they aren’t really like they are in stories. There’s never really a neat ‘The End.’ Especially not for something as big as the world.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Elanor, unimpressed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I really mean that, it is a nice thought. But I’m not living a “long, long time” after the end of the world. I’m living before it. Right here, right now. And to get to that rebirth, you’ve still got to go through all that death. And sure, it makes it a bit easier, to think of how life will go on, even when we’re gone, even when everything we know is gone. But not that much easier. I’m glad, truly, that no matter how bad the destruction, new things will one day grow out of the rubble – that was about your point, right? – but I still like the old things, and sorry if it’s selfish, but I don’t want them to go. I don’t want to go. I hate change and I hate death and I hate losing things and I hate endings, I hate them, and saying that they just aren’t real doesn’t help, because it sure feels like they are. Maybe if you’re looking down from the sky you can see the bigger picture or something, but from down here on earth it still hurts. Is “it’ll get better when everyone is dead” the best you have to offer? Because I can’t accept that. I don’t –’ Her voice caught, and she took a shaky breath. ‘I don’t want them to die. I can’t just wait this one out. I have, what, 80 years left at best? Tell me, honestly, since you’re so smart, since you can see the bigger picture, since you can see so much of the future – what can I do in that time? Can I save anything? Is there no option, other than letting this world end? Giving up? Am I – am I going crazy, here? Am I in the wrong? Because everyone else seems to have given up and – am I ridiculous, for caring? For trying? Please, tell me.’

‘You’re right,’ it said and for a moment Elanor’s heart rose. ‘You’re right, it is selfish.’ Right, of course. She didn’t know why she had expected anything different. ‘Lots of people have died. Why should the people you care about be any different? Why should you be any different? You’re upset about the natural order of things – too bad! Things die! Worlds rise and fall, species go extinct, the past fades away, it’s what happens. The flow of time isn’t going to stop for you, just because you’re upset about it.

‘But you’re also right to care. If you didn’t, you might as well be dead already. You’re right to try as well, even if your plan is a pretty stupid one. You could do a lot more to make your world better if you were actually in your world.

‘Another thing you’re right about - I am smart. I’m a lot smarter than you.’

‘Hey!’ she protested.

‘Okay then Elanor Fairbairn, if you’re so smart, what’s my name?’

Not Elanor Gardner – Elanor Fairbairn, it called her. She shut her gaping mouth.

‘That’s what I thought. If I may continue?

‘I am smart, and I can see a bigger picture than you can. So if you really want to know what you can do to save the world, just one small mortal child? The answer is nothing. There’s no easy solution. There’s no battle to fight or enemy to kill or ring to destroy. The gods aren’t going to help you. You cannot stop the end of the world. You can care, and you can try, and you can hope. But that’s about it. This is how things are. It’s the way they were always going to be. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Elanor felt all hollowed out inside, like a pumpkin with the insides scooped out. She felt angry, like a flame was burning in her.

‘You’re telling me it’s just – it’s just hopeless? Then why bother with anything? What’s the point? Of any of it? Should I just lie down right here and die?’

‘“What’s the point?” Must you ask such tedious questions? Oh, well, it’s terribly mundane, but the point is to love, I suppose. I can’t think of anything else worth doing.’

‘Loving won’t fix anything, though. Because of my father, I spent so long thinking that love could save the world. But that’s not true, is it?’

‘It is, sometimes. But not all the time. And if you’re looking for a point, then you’ve got to love all the time, even when it won’t save the world. And I believe you do. I listened to your little story, and you spoke like someone who loves this world so much. And you’re foolish and silly and moody and very, very annoying, but I still like you because of what you’ve told me by accident. You wouldn’t be so afraid of loss if you didn’t love it all so much. You ask me why you shouldn’t just lie down here and die, but you aren’t fooling me; I don’t believe you want to die. I believe you want desperately to live. That’s what’s making you so afraid. And that, above all, is why this quest of yours is so foolish. You don’t want to go to Valinor, Elanor Fairbairn. Think about your world, your home, everything and everyone you’ve left behind. Do you really want to leave that? Even knowing that they can’t be saved, that the world will end, that you can’t have it forever, that they’ll leave you in the end – even knowing that, are you ready to let go, to lie down and die, to never see one more sunrise? You don’t need me to tell you the point of life. You already know it perfectly well. You love being alive, Elanor Fairbairn, even if you aren’t very good at it.’

‘Couldn’t you just say one nice thing without ruining it?’ asked Elanor, though she was wiping her eyes furiously. ‘Yes, yes, alright, you’re right about everything and you’re very smart, is that what you want to hear? I don’t want to die here. I want to go home! But I came here to find – how can I go home without him?’ The tears would not stop flowing silently down her face. ‘It’s not fair! He deserved to live! So much more than I ever have! He deserved it so much, and he – and – and I – what am I good for if I can’t do this for him, do this for my father, for all of them? This can’t be their ending. It’s too cruel to bear. Don’t you understand? How can I leave him?’

‘Oh, I understand just fine. Haven’t you been listening? I’m very smart. Which is why you’ve got to listen to me when I tell you: you can’t get him back. He can’t ever come home. Frodo’s time in middle earth is over. He’s beyond your reach. I’m sorry,’ it said, and it sounded genuinely remorseful, in a way which didn’t match the character it had put on so far. ‘I’m sorry that people go, and that it’s not fair, and that it hurts. But you can’t go back. No one can. We can only go forwards. But, listen to me, just because he’s gone, doesn’t mean you are. You get to live your life now. And just because the world is old, it doesn’t mean you are. There’s still so much for you to see. Do you know how many times a day someone sees the sky and discovers it to be beautiful? We all have our own eyes for a reason. And yes, many roads have already been trod by a thousand feet, but not by yours. Yes, many places have been seen by a thousand eyes, but not by yours. The people who have come and gone, they haven’t used it up, they’ve left it for you. It’s a gift, and it’s one that can’t be used up. Love, you see, is the one thing that can’t be destroyed. It only reforms, again and again and again. That’s why death, endings, all of it – they’re not so big as all that. They’re only passing it on – passing it on to you. You inherit the earth. You can’t throw away that gift, chasing the past. The past is gone. They’re gone. You aren’t.’

‘You make it sound easy,’ Elanor sniffed. ‘“Just enjoy it, just make the most of it, or else you’re letting them down, you’re wasting their sacrifices.” And I mean, it’s not as if I’ve never thought of that before. I’ve been hearing it all my life. But it’s – I’ve tried to live in the moment and appreciate what I have and live on his behalf and all that, I really have. But I – I can’t help it, I can’t stop feeling… like this! No matter how nicely you dress it up, it all still hurts, life hurts, and I can’t stop being miserable and scared and lonely and sad, no matter what I do or where I go. I don’t know how to stop feeling it.’

‘Stop feeling it? No! Never! No no NO!’ cried the gull, and it got so upset that it devolved into squawking for a while before it could continue. ‘Of course it hurts! It’s life! And what a wonderful thing it is, to be alive and able to feel! What an astounding gift, to be able to feel and care and love so much that it hurts! You must not try to stifle it or put it out. At all costs, you must keep feeling it. Because if you’re feeling it, that means you’re still alive. If you’re afraid, it’s because there’s something worth holding on to that you don’t want to lose. If you’re grieving, it’s because there was something worth grieving for. At the end of the day, it’s all more love. So do not wish it away. Cling to that feeling for dear life, cling to it like it’s the only steady point in a tempest of chaos, because it is.’

Elanor took a deep, steadying breath. It was as though a great weight that she had been carrying so long that she had forgotten it was there had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. She felt, all of a sudden, very tired.

‘Is that it, then? Nothing can be saved, sadness is inevitable, time to give up and go back home, to the exact same life, with nothing changed? Do I at least get a pot of gold for my troubles?’ she said with a weak laugh. ‘It’s not much of an ending is it.’

‘Must you always look on the downside,’ sighed the gull. ‘No, it’s not a storybook ending. No one’s going to be crowned, nor executed. You haven’t found treasure or killed a dragon or won a war or married a princess.’ It paused pointedly this, and Elanor blushed. ‘And that’s because it’s not a story. You’re alive. It’s unpleasant, but it’s true. You can thrash and squirm and bite as much as you want but you aren’t in a story Elanor Fairbairn, you’re in your life, and you’re going to have to live it whether you like it or not. You’re not going to be offered any other life but this one. So either you live it, or you live no life. That’s it. That’s the only choice you’re going to get. And if you want some kind of purpose, if you don’t want to give up, then you’re going to have to choose to live it, and to go on living it, after you’ve heard and told many more tales, and they’ve all ended. It's not a glamorous quest or a deadly adventure, but if you really want to save the world, then this is the most important thing you can do: keep telling the story. It’s the only way you can bring them back. You’re not going to be able to stop the age of men, nor any of the darkness that will come, it’s true. That is far bigger than you. But maybe, just maybe, you could stop them forgetting. Stop the memory from fading. Remind them all that once there was magic in the world. Stop Frodo, and your father, and everyone else who’ll be gone from the world from being forgotten. Who else is going to tell their tale? If you go home, in time, you’ll be the keeper of the red book. The keeper of the story. That will be your role, that’s the difference you can make. And you can’t do that unless you go home and live your life. That isn’t giving up. It’s growing up, getting a grip, and doing your job. It’s not a final battle or a neat conclusion. It’s a lifetime of work. And maybe that’s not a happy ending, but it’s not any other kind of ending either. Is that good enough for you?’

Elanor was quiet for a moment. ‘Yeah. Yes, that’s good enough. That’s a job I could do. That would be a life worth – that would be alright, I think.’ For the first time in a long time, she gazed eastward. She could see no land, only endless water. She blanched at the sight. ‘But –’

‘Always but with you,’ the gull sighed.

‘But – is it really only in the telling now? I mean, I’m happy to tell the story, but is there really no chance of being in one of my own? I’ve tried so hard to have an adventure. I’ve crossed the world and sailed the sea. I’ve met elves and dwarves and men of all sorts. I’ve climbed mountains and danced with princesses and heard the singing of the elves. I mean, that’s some real stuff, right? That’s not nothing. So why doesn’t it feel right? I mean, like I always imagined it would feel, to really be in a story? Like it felt to hear my father’s stories for the first time as a small child?’

‘That’s a simple one, at least. That is because it isn’t a story, and you aren’t a child anymore. I am sorry, but that was never real. That feeling you’re describing, that marvellous feeling, that faith, that wonder and amazement, that magic. That was never how the quest really felt, for the people in it. It felt like this. it felt real, and it hurt. There were ugly bits, and real raw grief, and it didn’t end when the words stopped. What you’re feeling, that’s just being alive.’

‘Hmm,’ said Elanor uncomfortably, feeling sort of as though someone had just popped all her bones back into their sockets. ‘I’m not a child anymore, huh? Hmm.’

‘That is how it goes,’ said the gull conversationally.

‘I’m – I certainly don’t feel it,’ she said. ‘And when I go home, I’ll be someone who’s done all this, and then gone home. It’ll be done. I’ll be – I’ll be grown up. I’m not sure I can face that. I’m not ready yet.’

‘Done? Growing up? Bad news I’m afraid, you’ll be doing that until the moment you die. You’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you. You’ve got all your adulthood to discover still. This is a beginning.’

‘And an ending. It means I’m getting older. It means my parents are getting older. It means everything is getting older. It means my life will have to change. I guess I’ve been running from it all this time. I mean, I can’t be blamed for finding that scary, right? All I’ve ever known is childhood. It’s the end of all of that, of everything I’ve ever known. Now I’ll have to learn to be something new.’

‘You really are awful at listening – you still don’t get it. Enough about endings! There’s no such thing! When the words of a story stop, it is not an ending – always there is room for the story to carry on, someday, in someone’s words. Lost lives aren’t ended, because still they haunt us. Love cannot be destroyed, the world cannot end – are you getting it yet?  There’s no such thing as “The End.” It’s a bogeyman that you’ve made up, it’s a monster under your bed. The world is bigger than you. Even when every bird is gone, there will still be singing. That singing is never going to end. You’ve only been reckoning yourself small because you’ve never realised just how big the world is. It’s bigger than you realise, and you’re bigger than you realise. You don’t need to run anymore. You can go home.’

Elanor felt as though a ringing in her ears had cleared, and she could suddenly hear once more. The world came into focus. The ocean lapped at the white shore of the little island, a gentle to-and-fro. It was the sound of water, and nothing more.

‘I can go home. Yes, I can go home. I want to go home.’

She thought of the Shire, of soft golden days and rolling hills and clear streams, of breakfast in her father’s garden, lush with wispy foxgloves, of her little bedroom in her hobbit hole and its porthole window shining sunlight onto her bed. But then she thought of the last time she had seen it, the little lights, far below that dark hill.

‘What if I’m not sure where to find my home? What if I’m not sure that it’ll be where I left it? How can I go home then? Have I –’ Her breath hitched a little. ‘Have I missed it, somewhere? Did it slip out of my pocket somewhere along the road? At some point I lost it, and I don’t know how to find it again.’

‘More bad news, I’m afraid,’ said the gull. ‘Your search has been in vain. No, don’t worry, I won’t tell you something stupid like “your home has been inside you all along!” Or worse, that home is a person. Home can’t be a person, because then people could leave and take your home with them, and home isn’t lost as easily as all that. But I can’t tell you where to find home, because home can’t be a place either, because that can leave you too, can pick itself up and set itself back down differently and leave you wondering when it went away, and how you didn’t notice it happening. Home can’t be a time, because of course time is an ocean, and home can’t be an ocean because that’s an ocean too. Home must, I’m afraid, be an action; and all action is, of course, much like love: it is something that cannot be destroyed, but also cannot be held in the palm of your hand. It is sometimes very hard to believe in things like that. One cannot be blamed for being confused by such things. But they cannot be searched for. They can only be done. You will not find yourself whole somewhere. You will not stumble upon yourself. You must hold yourself together. You must always be holding yourself together, and it will be exhausting, but you must do it if you want to go home. The only thing that can reach into your chest and hold your torn apart heart together is your own hand. It is a choice you must make, day after day. That is where you will find home.’

Elanor placed a hand over her heart, and found, to her surprise, that it was beating. Well, that wasn’t something that she could hang over the mantelpiece, nor hold in the palm of her hand. But it was a start.

‘Things won’t be better if I go back.’

‘Nope.’

‘It might be worse. It will be worse. Lots of times over in my life, things will be so much worse. Nothing’s fixed or changed. It’ll hurt.’

‘Yep.’

‘Yeah, okay. Okay, you win. I’ll go home.’

‘What do you mean, I win? I never told you to go home. You were persuading me to get you a ship. And congratulations, you’ve succeeded, you talk far too much and I want you off my island. I don’t care what direction you go in, though.’

Elanor frowned. ‘Are you sure you weren’t persuading me to go home?’

‘I was answering your incessant questions honestly, that’s all. Now did you still want that ship, or-?’

‘Yes! Yes, yes, yes, I want the ship!’

‘Then stop bothering me. I’m tired of talking. I’ll do it in the morning.’

While they had spoken, the sun had set. Without the sun or any shelter it was cold, and a shiver ran through Elanor. The ocean was as still as it knew how to be, and above her she could see the stars in their billions, slicing the sky in half in a great milky gash, as though a blade had been taken to the sky and opened up a portal to a world of light, which spilled joyously out into their own. The gull had tucked its head into its feathers and was studiously ignoring her. Elanor lay down in the middle of the island, where hopefully the tides wouldn’t touch, and pulled her cloak over herself. She lay there, silent, listening to the water. But her eyes were wide open, and she could not sleep.

‘One last thing,’ she said, after a long period of silence. The gull groaned.

‘It’s never-ending with you. I should have just got you that boat the first time you asked. What is it now?’

‘Yes, you should have,’ she said smugly. ‘But I just wanted to say –’ Her voice got quieter, more solemn. ‘- You saved me, didn’t you? From the – I should have drowned.’

‘Oh, maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t,’ said the gull without looking up.

‘Right. Well, I guess I just wanted to say thank you. And to ask – why? I didn’t deserve to be saved. I mean, it’s like you said, I only had myself to blame.’

‘Ugh. Don’t start talking about “deserving” things. What nonsense. Look, at the end of the day, I don’t really care how righteous you’ve been. It’s not like I’m any kind of martyr myself. Maybe there are some great cosmic scales keeping count of such a thing, I don’t know, but I’m certainly not. It’s no fun. And anyway, good and evil are much like dark and light, or beginnings and endings. They’re nice in stories, but things aren’t as simple as that in real life. In real life, we just help each other where we can. And now I’ve helped you plenty for one day. Goodnight!’ it said, and then would not say one word more. So Elanor curled up on the sand and let the sound of the sea lull her into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke her body was crusted with sand and the sun was on her face and there was a ship floating unmoored just off the shore of the island. It was small and made of some sort of white wood that Elanor didn’t recognise. On board was a cask of water, a cask of wine, and a basket of big golden apples. She took an eager bite of one and found that it was crisp and sweet and filling. It was unfamiliar and yet it was good, and she smiled at that simple pleasure. She mixed water and wine in a large shallow seashell and drunk out of it, and that made her smile too. And then she heard a squawk and the seagull spiralled down and alighted on the top of the ship’s mast, and that made her smile widest of all. She waved her arms wildly above her head.

‘Hullo! Thank you! Did you fly to Valinor? Did you get someone to send this? Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ she cried.

‘Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn’t,’ said the gull, but Elanor was too happy to be bothered by its peculiar way of speaking.

‘You’re the most marvellous bird in the world,’ she beamed. ‘May your feathers never fall out and your ocean never grow tamer and your sky never grow smaller! I’m going to live! Ha ha!’

‘Very good,’ said the gull vaguely, and glided down onto the island where it tucked its legs up under itself and closed its eyes. Elanor jumped back onto the island to throw her pack aboard and push the ship further into the water, then waded after it and jumped aboard herself.

‘Would you like to come with me? There’s lots to see and time to see it,’ she called.

‘No, thank you,’ said the gull. ‘I’m fine right here. I’m not an adventurer, I’m a bird, and perfectly happy to be one.’

‘Then goodbye!’ she called as she let the sail out. ‘Thank you, and goodbye!’ The gull said nothing, but as her boat drifted out into the ocean she heard it, faintly, begin to sing:

In Lórien the leaves are gold,

The elves are wise and fair and old.

In Khazad-dûm lie treasures great,

White diamonds buried in the slate.

Men have sharp swords and tales to tell.

In sunny fields the small folk dwell.

But though these lands are good to see,

This patch of sky’s enough for me.

What followed was the hardest thing Elanor ever did. In her future there would come many hard choices, but really she made them all here, in this moment. She knew now that this was not a sea you sailed twice. She could still see Valinor on the horizon, outlined with a sliver of gold like a promise. Yet more and more the forces that had propelled her across the sea were fading, and the desire to go home was growing within her. There was so much there she missed, and that she had yet to do. But if she sailed east, to Middle-earth, she would be accepting the unbearable pain of living. She knew there would come many times where she felt much worse than she ever had done before. Things would not all be okay as soon as she got home. She would have to face many things that she had long run from. She would never see Frodo. And worst of all, if she sailed east, she was letting her father go. If she didn’t sail west now, she never would. She would be resigning herself to stand on the shore and watch him sail away forever, and she didn’t know if she would be able to bear that hurt. And yet if she sailed west she would never see her mother again. She would never again go blackberry picking in the little woods of the Shire. She would never see her father’s green garden blossom into rainbows under the gentle care of his brown hands and the sun’s yellow ones. She would never see Fíriel’s stormy eyes again, nor ask her forgiveness. She would never feel the sharp, wonderful cold of winter prick her lungs, nor see the green buds of spring, young and delicate, burn away months of death-cold at the mere sight of them. She would never stand in a summer storm after a long, terrible drought and smell the earth come to life again. She would never hold the soft leather of the red-book in her hands as she read the words aloud to someone hearing them for the first time, their heart growing bigger to make room for it, to carry it with them all their life. She would never get to plant a garden all of her own. These things were so small, and yet they were bigger than all the pain there was. They were the biggest things in the world. Yes, she would bear it.

With an older and gladder heart than the one she had set out with, Elanor turned the ship eastwards. But before Valinor faded out of sight completely, she gazed back west one last time. And perhaps some being intervened, because for just a moment, she fancied she could see with the eyes of an eagle. She could see white, sparkling beaches leading up to gentle hills, engulfed in lily-white flowers. And upon the hilltops, she saw trees, crowned in pink blossom, dancing light as flowers in the wind, raising their branches and waving farewell. Elanor waved back, and then turned away, and began the long journey home.

Chapter Text

The return journey was long, but not so long as the journey there, as always seems to be the case. The winds were favourable and the weather stayed fair. The apples from Valinor were each as sustaining as a full meal, and the drink kept her head clear and her spirits merry. When she finally saw Middle-earth upon the horizon it was outlined faintly golden in the sunshine.

She sailed into the Gulf of Lune and stuck as close as she could to the southern shore, watching the beaches for something. And luck was on her side. Lying on the sand, almost exactly where she had left her, was a small, spotty dog.

‘Clover!’ Elanor called, almost falling over the side in her excitement. And Clover heard, raising her head in curiosity, sniffing the wind, then leaping to her feet and barking at the top of her lungs. Elanor pulled up on the shore and jumped down, splashing through the freezing water to grab her.

‘Oh, good dog,’ she cried, and Clover licked her face.

They walked back together, past the white towers, through the hills, and slowly the sound of the sea faded away. In the sweeping grassy valleys, daffodils had sprung up in thick bundles, sunny yellows and oranges and whites, and in all the little woods the trees had sprouted new green buds, and the earth burst with bluebells and wood anemones. It rained often, and the streams overflowed, and the dirt smelled bright and fresh. The ground offered up a feast to her, and as she walked she ate wild garlic and chickweed and hawthorn and little strawberries and ruby red elf cup mushrooms. The sun was up for longer, and the nights weren’t so cold. Speckled fawns pranced through the trees on unsteady legs. Little bunnies scattered at the sight of Clover’s lolling pink tongue. A pair of fork-tailed swallows announced their return with a triumphant song. Though it had happened every year of Elanor’s life, and many, many years beforehand, it still came as a tremendous surprise when she found that while she had been away, spring had come.

Most of spring had been spent on slow rambling by the time she began to pass once more into familiar lands. She shed her coat and rejoined well-trod roads. Wilderness became farmland. Lambing was in full swing, and crocuses bloomed along the side of the road. Painted signposts pointed her to Michel Delving, then to Hobbiton. She began to get strange looks, and thought for the first time in a long while about her appearance – a little, golden-haired hobbit girl, mud-splattered and weather-worn, in northern furs and big dwarven boots, a sword at her waist – and the image made her laugh out loud, much to the alarm of everyone else on the road. She was pretty sure the top layer of her skin was permanently encrusted with dirt, to say nothing of her salt-stiff hair, no matter how many rivers she had tried to bathe in. She thought of having a warm bath in a proper bathtub filled with soapy bubbles, and sped up her leisurely pace, impatient now to get home.

It seemed to Elanor that she had been waiting half her life to get back to Hobbiton, and yet somehow it still felt too sudden when she found herself walking the well-trod lane up to Bag End. The sun was out, which was still a rare occasion, but it had made a special effort for her homecoming. The light made everything look so starkly real. This wasn’t the hazy home of her dreams. It had changed. There: a brick wall had been erected where one hadn’t stood before, dividing a perfectly good field in two, and she frowned at it, to let it know from the start that they weren’t to be friends, and so it needn’t bother trying to tempt her with any sparrows nests or scuttling woodlice hiding in mossy cracks. There, also: rows of twiggy little aspen saplings that hadn’t been there before lined the road, wobbling back and forth gaily in the breeze. She had planted them herself, last summer. She had forgotten all about them.

The door to Bag End was rarely locked these days, but Elanor hesitated in front of it anyway. She settled on knocking. Her father opened the door, and upon seeing his face, lined more heavily with wrinkles than she remembered, she felt an immense wave of grief almost swallow her up. But then the wave, like all waves do, receded.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m back.’

Her return caused quite a stir. It seemingly hadn’t been until Fíriel was back in Minas Tirith that anyone had noticed Elanor was gone, and by that time she was over the mountains with a considerable head start on them. Some riders had been dispatched to try to find her, but she was a very small hobbit in a very wide wilderness, and no one had seen sight nor sound of her west of the mountains. Eventually, the king had sent a calm letter to her parents explaining the situation, and they in turn had tried to keep it quiet, mostly so as not to frighten the little ones, or get too many unhelpful neighbours turning up at their door, bothering them. So, naturally, every hobbit in the Shire knew, and wanted to see her once they heard that she had returned. Her parents actually locked her in her room at first, and didn’t let her out of their sight, but eventually they realised it would be a worse punishment to make her talk to the constant stream of worried (and nosy) visitors. Elanor felt awfully guilty, and accepted any and all harsh words wholeheartedly. She didn’t want to worry her parents any more than she already had, and as for the neighbours and relatives, it was none of their business, so here is the story she found herself telling hundreds of times over:

‘Me and Fíriel – that’s the king’s daughter – went to visit her great-grandfather, Lord Celeborn – he’s the lord of Lórien – that’s an elven city – yes, he’s an elf – no, Fíriel isn’t an elf – no, not even a half-elf – can I continue with my story? Thank you. We went off to visit him, and then while we were there I felt rather homesick, so I just walked home, only I got a little lost – oh, I just ate the food I had packed – no, I wasn’t too hungry – and eventually I found my way home – no, nothing very interesting happened – no, I wasn’t in any danger. I’m sorry to have worried everyone.’

To her siblings she told a stream of increasingly improbably adventures. The younger ones believed every word of it, and the older ones none of it. The truth was somewhere in the middle.

She told the closest version of the truth to Fastred. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed him, until one day when she had been enduring repetitive lectures and entertaining near-strangers for hours. When there was yet another knock on the door, she had stomped up and flung it open, and, upon seeing Fastred, hugged him so tight that she lifted him off the ground. Then, she had put him down and rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly; hugging wasn’t something they did.

‘Alright?’ he had said casually, as if it had been only days since they had last seen each other.

‘Yeah, you?’

‘Alright. Been rainy,’ he had said, and after that they had slotted right back into each other’s lives. To him only did she tell of her journey over the sea.

‘Blimey,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ she agreed.

‘So Minas Tirith was pretty rubbish then?’

‘Eh. It wasn’t that bad. Would’ve been better with you. How was, uh, working with Thain Took?’

‘Meh,’ he said. ‘Would’ve been better with you.’

Elanor hummed an assent, and idly kicked at his legs. He kicked back, and Elanor smiled to herself.

For a little while Elanor was the talk of the town. But after they had poked and prodded her, and gotten all she was going to give, they moved on with their lives. In the Shire, a party with a pointed lack of invitations, or a tastelessly decorated garden, were just as dramatic and important fuel for gossip as some youth who went gallivanting off on another silly adventure. ‘Just as you’d expect really, coming from that family,’ people whispered, and that made Sam proud. So people moved on to new pastimes, busy with the beginning of summer, which had, despite all odds, arrived.

Actually, it was a rather rainy summer. It was rarely very hot, and sunny even less of the time. Sam’s garden was very green, but with few flowers, and too wet to sit in most of the time. It wasn’t particularly stream-wading weather, nor picnicking, nor exploring. It wasn’t as she had imagined summer would be. But it was better than winter. It was a lot better. And though it wasn’t very much like last summer, the grass was, quite literally, greener.

She did her best to pick up the pieces of her life, though she didn’t always fit perfectly back in. Everything was almost the same, so unchanged while she had changed so much, that she could almost have thought it one long dream, and that no time had passed at all. Almost, but not quite. There were all sorts of tiny, inconsequential changes which reminded her that she had been away. Little details: routines that she had no place in. References she didn’t understand. Sometimes, without even looking, she would open a drawer that had stored plates for as long as she could remember, and pull out a candlestick. Sometimes she would slam straight into dressers in rooms where the furniture had been rearranged so as to let more light in. That’s what she felt like: furniture that had been rearranged. All day long she was slamming into dressers in her mind and getting bruised all over. But every day she got a little more used to it. Every day she got a little better at dodging the sharp corners.

Another stark reminder of the time that had passed was the younger children; they grew so fast. Her parents had not had any more children while she was gone, which was a relief at least. They told her, when she made a joke about it, that their family was the perfect size. She was glad of it, but also a little sad in a way, because if they were done having children then that sort of marked the end of a generation. They’d all only get older from here on out. Baby Tommy, who she’d left swaddled in his cradle, toddled around clumsily, babbling nonsense. He didn’t know Elanor. For that matter, she wasn’t sure that Robin remembered her either. He would run to Rose and cling to her skirts whenever he saw Elanor. If it got her out of babysitting, she was fine with it – but it did somewhat sting, to be a stranger to her own brothers, in her own house. Her parents were punishing her for worrying them, but she knew that this was her real punishment, for her real crime: almost leaving them behind.

Sumer crept on. She didn’t do much. Sometimes she walked Clover, who had stayed with them, much to the delight of the children - but the two of them had done plenty of walking, and mostly they both agreed that time was best spent asleep, Elanor in her bed, and Clover in her favourite spot: inconveniently right upon the doorstep. She sat beside her father in his armchair, in companionable silence. She talked with Fastred about nothing much. She climbed their mallorn and collected its small silver nuts. Perhaps they really wouldn’t ever grow again without elvish magic. But then again, perhaps they would, one day. They were worth holding on to, just in case.

Mostly, she wrote. She wrote detailed accounts of everything that had happened to her. She felt like a bit of a failure for just telling everyone easy lies, when on the island she had been so committed to telling the story. But she would tell people, she promised herself. She just wasn’t up to it quite yet. In the meantime, she found herself writing quite a lot of poetry; not very good, she thought, but she held onto the sheets of paper anyway. She hoped, privately, and perhaps foolishly, that one day, when she was dead, someone might read them, and all the things she had written about would be brought back to life again. And indeed, a few of her poems did survive for a very long time, and you may still read them, if you know where to look.

It was often very hard, just being alive, that summer. In an odd twist of fate, she sometimes found herself missing the winter. It is, after all, very easy to be miserable. It takes no skill at all to be lost. It’s much, much harder to try, every single day. It gets exhausting. And there are so many more factors to juggle, in an easy life. When you are very lonely, you forget how hard it can be to talk to people. People did not always behave as she wished, they expected things of her, they gave her responsibilities or bothered her or disliked her or any number of other personal intricacies which make one think, it would be so much easier if only I were alone. It was easier, somehow, when she was so preoccupied with just surviving that looking past the next day was folly. She did not like thinking about the future, and people were always trying to get her to think about the future. Yes, it was undoubtably easier to just give in to loneliness, to accept the misery. This life was so heavy, she practically got rope-burn just holding onto it all. Still, she held on. And every morning that she awoke and found herself still alive in this world, she was filled with such an overwhelming joy, and a crushing grief too, and such intense fear and such bursting passion, and she found herself so overcome that she could’ve burst into song for the love of it all - and at last she understood the singing of the elves in their forests, and the birds in their trees.

Midsummer, with its twinkling bonfires, had passed, and summer might even have been described as ‘late’, so long as you weren’t sentimental, by the time it all came spilling out, and Elanor confessed everything to Sam. They were sitting together in the woods at dusk, watching a badger set, saying nothing, all the world still and calm. But Elanor was burning with guilt. She felt as though she was tricking him, acting as if everything was fine, when really she had turned her back on him and he didn’t even know it. And more pressingly, she had turned her back on Frodo. How could he ever forgive her for that? She didn’t deserve to badger-watch with him. Not without confessing, at least. So at last it burst out of her, and she told him the whole story of her journey, all the way across the sea and back again. He listened very quietly, and when she was done he said nothing still, kept his eyes trained on the badger-set. Elanor thought she might throw up if he didn’t say something soon.

‘… Dad?’ she said hesitantly, after some time had passed.

‘Yes, dear?’

‘I’m… I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? Whatever for?’ he asked, surprised.

‘That I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t save Mr. Frodo for you. I wanted to give you a happy ending. I know how much you miss him, and –’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sam. ‘I hope it wasn’t me telling you how I missed him that made you feel as if you had to go and do that. I should be apologising to you. I’m sorry, dear. I must not have explained myself very well. You never had to do that for me. It wasn’t your job to fix. You’ve already given me a happy ending, just by being born, you know that don’t you? I’m so glad you came back.’

‘Do you think that Mr. Frodo would forgive me? For leaving him behind?’

‘Oh, my dear child,’ said Sam softly. ‘But I suppose you never met him, so you couldn’t know how much he loved you. If you had known him, such a question would seem too obvious to even ask. You would be able to hear the answer even now. I can always hear it, all around me. Of course, of course, of course, he would say. Of course, I will always forgive you. I love you.’

‘How can you be so sure? Have you never once questioned if you made the right decision?’

‘I’m sure because – because it was him. I’ve never doubted anything about him. He was – oh, I don’t know how to explain it properly. I won’t do him justice at all. It’s – well, here, I’ll tell you this story, and maybe it will help you understand.

‘We were in Ithilien, very soon after the ring had been destroyed. In those first days, it felt like nothing bad would ever touch us again. A great many people, both friends and strangers, had wanted to talk to us all the time, as the new saviours of the world, so we had spent a lot of time doing that, and we were very happy but very tired and overwhelmed, and it all got a bit much. So one afternoon, Mr. Frodo took my hand and led me away from the camp and the crowds, and we walked through the woods and across a stream, to a meadow absolutely bursting with flowers. There were primeroles, anemones, asphodel, lilies, roses, irises, briars, hyacinths – anything you could imagine, it was beautiful.

‘He said, “I thought you might want a good look at all the flowers, without anyone bothering you, since you couldn’t appreciate them properly the last time we passed through here.” In those days he wouldn’t stop doing lovely things like that for me. I suppose he felt sort of guilty that I had looked after him for so long. But of course he needn’t have felt so. Looking after him was the best thing I ever did. But it really was a lovely meadow, so he sat down – he was still very weak at this point – while I wandered around picking the prettiest of the flowers. Eventually I came to sit beside him, and for a while we were quiet, enjoying the sunshine and the peace. Mr. Frodo was looking down, fiddling with the grass. Then he reached out and took my hand in his, and then he tied a blade of grass around my ring finger, and he smiled at me like he hadn’t smiled in such a long time.

‘“Thank you, Sam, for coming with me,” he said.

‘I was terribly flustered and I wanted to return the gesture, but of course his ring finger was gone, and the stump still looked so raw and horrible, and though you could almost forget it in that lovely meadow, it was a reminder of all that pain poor Mr. Frodo had gone through.

‘So I, still holding his hand, said, “Oh but Mr. Frodo, it really is so horrible that you had to lose your poor finger,” and he looked at it for a bit, and then said, “Well, I suppose it’s no matter to lose a finger, if it saved the rest of me.”

‘“But what if you want to get married!” I said, and then blushed bright red, for it was of course a rather foolish concern, in the grand scheme of things. But he smiled at me, and said, “I wouldn’t worry Sam. I don’t think I’m really the type. Anyway, I don’t suppose it matters, even if I was. I’m more damaged than just the one finger. Who would marry me?” Which was an unfair thing to say, when he knew full well that I knew the answer to that, and could not say it. So I just said, “Oh, Mr. Frodo, don’t say that. You’ll get better.”

‘But he said, “It’s alright, Sam. It’s like the finger. It’s alright if a part of me has to be lost, for the rest to be able to live on. That’s like you and me. You’re a part of me, Sam. You’re the biggest part. If I have to be – if I’m – whatever happens to me, it’s alright. Because it will have saved you.”

‘The only people I’ve told about that are Mistress Rose and Master Gimli. I told Master Gimli because I asked him for something.’ Sam raised his hand, and upon his ring finger was his wedding ring, as it always was. Elanor had seen it many times before, but now she really looked at it. ‘A simple band is more traditional, but I’d had enough of simple gold bands. So I asked Gimli to make me this.’ the ring was silver, with a small ruby indented in it, and a thin strip of green oxidised copper that ran all around the middle. ‘The ruby for my Rose. The green strand for Frodo’s grass-ring, from that day. You see, that’s what Mr. Frodo did. He didn’t only destroy the ring forged in hate. Because of him, rings are forged for love once more.

‘Here,’ said Sam, and leaned down to pluck a blade of grass. He tied it clumsily around Elanor’s ring finger. ‘There, you see? That’s how easy it is to forge a ring now. Whenever you feel like he’s too far away to reach, just reach down and knot a blade of grass around your finger. That is how easy it is to find his love. Do you see? How could I ever doubt, when he’s that close. No matter how much I miss him, I’ll always be able to bear it, because his love is still right here.’

Elanor twisted the grass around her finger, and it felt as real as anything. This is how the grass Frodo had touched had felt, too. He had been real, she realised, almost with a start. He was a real person, and his love was real too. And all that stuff the gull had said, about death not being real, about love lasting forever – it didn’t feel hypothetical anymore, it wasn’t just a nice idea. She understood it. Here was his love, here was his forgiveness, she could feel it as solidly as the grass beneath her feet. Elanor did not need to be faultless. There was no scale to balance. There was nothing she needed to earn. There were real people who loved her, and who would forgive her, just as she would them, without question. Of course, of course, of course, chorused the world. It was so natural to forgive, to love. She got started right away.

One morning she woke up and found that the clouds had cleared, and the sun was falling warm and bright onto her pillow, and she felt very much like going on an adventure.

She told Fastred that afternoon.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot, all summer,’ she explained, ‘and the way I left was very rude. For one thing, I ran away from the king and queen, and they seem like people to be on good terms with. And there were… other people I… I wasn’t fair to. I don’t want to leave it like that. I want to apologise. I’m going to go back.’

‘I see,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘And is this something else that you have to do alone?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. You aren’t busy, are you?’

Fastred grinned and scrunched up his nose. ‘Eh. I could probably make time for it.’

This time she told her family she was going well in advance. They planned a route carefully – safe, but not too safe – and packed more than they would need. Her parents, for all their fussing, were quite pleased. It was time she got out and about a bit more, they agreed.

Ironically, now she was planning to leave, the sun came out and stayed out, gilding everything in perfect gold, as if to tempt her to stay. Almost overnight her father’s garden exploded into bloom, so lush and verdant that the plants were practically climbing in through the windows. There were poppies, tulips, purple sea hollies on brilliant purple stems, big heady roses, tiny little forget-me-nots. And there were strawberries and black raspberries and tart gooseberries and redcurrants, bright and round and shiny, dangling in bunches like little clusters of rubies nestled in the greenery. Little spiders scurried over dew-damp leaves as big as saucers, their webs beaded with dew like pearls threaded upon a silver string. Fat, sleepy bumblebees, drunk on nectar, filled the garden with a heavy buzzing. It was quiet and bright and so beautiful she could have cried. It felt almost too cruel, to have to leave it when it was so perfect. But no one can stay in their garden forever, after all.

One day, when their planned leaving date was fast approaching, she walked down to the old oak tree, the one she always used to read under. She felt a tremendous wash of relief when she found it unharmed and as she had left it – albeit with one more ring. She sat down and grasped the gnarled roots beneath her fingertips, let the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves fall on her face, smiled, and then burst into tears. She sat there and she cried and cried and cried a years worth of tears, because the tree had survived another year, and so had she. Actually, she was terrified to leave again. Would it survive the next year? Would she? She knew just enough now to know how little she knew, and how much she had to learn, and how much all of it was going to hurt. She took a deep breath, and listened to the thud of her heartbeat. Above her, a robin trilled as it flew down into its nest, where its chick sat waiting, feathered and just about ready to fly.

So the day finally came, very nearly a year since she had last left the Shire, when Elanor and Fastred were ready to leave once more. The sun was high and hot, and every tree shone a different shade of golden-green under its light. Elanor swung a heavy pack onto her back and took a walking stick in hand – her ankle had never been quite the same. Elanor did not beckon her, but with a sigh, Clover lifted herself up from her spot, curled up under Sam’s armchair, and padded over to Elanor’s feet. Rose straightened Elanor’s collar.

‘Be careful. And when you’re there, you ought to stay a while. Try to make some more friends this time. You’d be happier. And remember your manners. And –’

‘I will, mother,’ said Elanor.

‘I’ll see you soon, Ellie. I love you.’

‘I know. I love you too, mummy.’ And then, in a very rare action which rather surprised Rose, Elanor pulled her in and hugged her tightly.

She didn’t say goodbye to Sam then and there, because he walked with them for a good long way - nearly to the borders of the Shire. They spoke little, but the weather stayed fair, and the walk was slow and very pleasant. Then, abruptly, halfway down a path through an innocuous field, he stopped.

‘We’re leaving Shire lands. I should be off home now. Goodbye my dears,’ said Sam, and then turned, and began walking back the way they had come.

‘Wait!’ cried Elanor in a sudden panic.

Sam stopped and turned around. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I-’ Elanor faltered. She had nothing really to say, only that a sudden impulse of her body had repulsed at watching her father walk away once more, in the same way it would if she had tried to walk back into fire after getting burned. She couldn’t do it again. She was so, so scared. What she wanted to cry was, ‘I was wrong! I’m not brave at all! Take me home and look after me and stay with me forever!’ But she couldn’t say such a thing, and everyone was staring at her expectantly. So, plucking words randomly from her mind, what she said was:

‘Foxgloves.’

‘Foxgloves?’

‘There, uh. Weren’t any in the garden this year. They were particularly pretty last year, I remember. That’s always how I imagined the garden when I thought of it. But there weren’t any this summer. Did they die?’

‘Foxgloves, eh?’ said Sam, bemused. ‘Well, foxgloves live two years. In the second year they bloom, set seed, and then die – and the seeds grow up in place of the old ones, of course. This is just an off year. They’ll be back next summer. You can see them then. They’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Oh,’ breathed Elanor. ‘Right.’

‘Was that it?’ asked Sam.

‘Yes. Yeah, I’m – yes. That’s good. I’m good.’

Sam smiled fondly. He slapped Fastred on the back, and patted Elanor’s hand.

‘Make the most of it,’ he said, and without any further fuss he turned away and walked back down the path, humming to himself as he went.

‘Can we have lunch now, since we’re already stopped?’ asked Fastred.

‘There’s a long way to go yet,’ said Elanor. It wasn’t quite noon, and she was endlessly anxious about rationing food, even so near to the start of the journey. She had been so hungry for so long on her journey. But then: ‘Actually, yes, lets. Why not?’

So they sat atop a haybale and ate sandwiches with meat and cheese and apples, and drunk bottles of cider, and it was very nice.

After lunch they hiked their packs up onto their backs and walked on. They were at the feet of some great hills, which they battled up under the midday sun. When they reached the peak they paused to catch their breath, and then stayed a little longer, quietly awestruck at the view. This first hill was the highest in a range of them, and with the sky as clear as it was, they almost fancied they could see the distant white glint of the misty mountains already. For a while they watched the shadows of fluffy white clouds as they floated over the lands, like great old fish, swimming slowly through the boundless sea. Elanor looked back west, over the Shire lands that she loved, and thought, as she often did, of what she had seen in Galadriel’s mirror: their lands crushed under the human cities, their people diminished into scared beasts. That vision was one thing that she had not told any hobbit about. It wouldn’t be fair.

Perhaps it really would come to pass. But it hadn’t yet. For now, the Shire still stood, as sleepy and lovely and alive as ever. And thus it would stay, for a great many years yet. Elanor turned back eastward and slipped her hand into Fastred’s.

‘Don’t let go,’ said Elanor, in a voice low enough to be a whisper. Although it wasn’t phrased like one, there was a question in her voice.

‘Stay on land,’ Fastred whispered back, and Elanor laughed, a loud, clear, musical laugh. The sound echoed out into the endless world spread out beneath their feet.

‘Deal.’

Chapter Text

On the evening of September 22^nd, in the year 1482, the study at Bag End lay empty. The study belonged to Frodo Gardner now, as did the rest of Bag End, but today was not a day for studying. A few months previously, on midsummer’s day, Rose Gamgee had passed away at the respectable age of 98, leaving behind her husband, thirteen children, and so many grandchildren that everyone had stopped keeping count. They had had a big funeral which most of the Shire attended, with a great deal of weeping, and a great deal of ale, to help with the weeping. She had been a much beloved hobbit, and would be missed for a great many years - far past the lifespans of anyone who had lived to know her.

Samwise Gamgee, still lively at 102, was terribly upset, as is to be expected. But he had also started acting strangely recently - stranger than grief accounted for - in a way which (most of) his children couldn’t make sense of. A few months later he had packed a bag, put his dearest sapling into a big pot which he hiked up under his arm, announced ‘I’ve had a lovely time, but now I must say goodbye. Goodbye everyone!’, hitched a pony to a cart, and drove himself off west with little further ado, never to be seen again. It could only have been more of a scandal if he had disappeared in a puff of smoke, which some claimed, for a while, that he had indeed done, though eventually it was decided, in the collective memory of the Shire, that he must have passed away quietly from grief - and the fact that no one could remember seeing his body was a mere coincidence. What had actually happened was that he had driven over the downs to Undertowers, the hobbit village nestled in the shadow of the great White Towers beside the sea, and come to the door of his daughter, Elanor Fairbairn. He did not say anything to her, but she knew at once that the time had come. She had said goodbye to her family and climbed up onto the cart beside her father. Her daughter, Fíriel, who had just recently celebrated her twenty-first birthday, ran alongside the cart for a while, waving, until they rounded a corner and left her with one final call of ‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’

They had driven all the way to the Grey Havens, where they had been met by a very, very old elf, whom they had greeted as an old friend. He had taken them to a ship –hobbit sized, and very sturdy. He had placed a hand gently on Sam’s shoulder.

‘Goodluck, my friend, and goodbye. It seems I have won – I will be the very last ringbearer left on Middle-earth. But it will not, I think, be long now before we see each other again,’ Círdan had said. Then he had nodded solemnly to Elanor, and left the two of them alone.

And now they stood together, upon the shore of the sea, in the dying evening light. The sea sighed and splashed up against them. Seabirds circled and cawed above.

‘You think you’ll find him?’ asked Elanor. Her hair was streaked with silver, like a shimmer of moonlight upon the waves.

‘I’m certain of it. There’s nowhere he could go that I couldn’t follow,’ said Sam, and then winked. ‘Even if it takes me sixty years.’

She chuckled at this, and then stood there, out of words. Now, upon the brink, they were hesitating.

‘You’re certain you want to stay?’ asked Sam.

‘Oh yes, definitely. I’ve been off these shores before, and I’m afraid I don’t think I shall ever want to leave again, not even when I’m as old as you are. I love it too much.’

‘Old? Why, I’m in the prime of my life!’ exclaimed Sam, and they both laughed.

‘You will give him my love?’ said Elanor.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And you’ll be safe on the journey? And look after yourself?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Alright, well. Good.’

‘Yes. Well, I mustn’t forget–’ he said, and took from his bag the Red Book. ‘Perhaps I needn’t have taken it all this way, but I felt it deserved some ceremony. Here you go. It’s yours now. Take good care of it. The pages are all full, I’m afraid, but feel free to slot some more in at the end, or start a new volume, if you want to add something of your own. I know you’ve got plenty to write about.’ And indeed she did.

‘Thank you,’ said Elanor, and took the book.

‘I am sorry that I have to leave you my dear, really.’

‘Oh, nonsense. You’ve nothing to be sorry about. You’ve waited long enough.’

Sam looked out to sea, and his eyes glinted a little. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘Only-’

‘What is it?’

‘It wasn’t too bad, was it? The waiting?’

‘Oh, my dearest Elanorellë,’ said Sam, his face soft with love. ‘I’ve had the most wonderful time in the world.’

‘Ah,’ said Elanor, through tears. ‘That’s good, then. That’s good.’

He hugged her tight, as if she were a girl once more.

‘I love you very much, my Elanorellë,’ said Sam, and kissed her forehead gently.

‘And I love you too, Sam-dad,’ said Elanor. ‘So, so much.’

And that was that. There was nothing else to say.

Elanor helped Sam into his ship, which had been prepared for him. He took one last look at Elanor, and at all the world behind her, and smiled big and bright, though he was crying too. But then he turned towards the sea, and when he looked west there was a light in his eyes which Elanor had never seen before, and he seemed suddenly a young hobbit once more, as if, perhaps, he had left a younger self here, sixty years ago, and had found it again, right where he had left it. He looked, for the first time in a long time, like it was the easiest thing in the world to be whole. He sailed out from the harbour and into the beckoning sea.

Elanor stood a long while on that shore and watched the ship until it was only a white speck. It glinted one last time upon the waves, then disappeared entirely. And still she stood there, unmoving, for before her was the most remarkable sunset. The whole sky burnt in deep blood oranges and satin pinks and glittering golds. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She watched until the last ray of sun lay down in the west. Then, with the red book tucked under her arm, she turned, and went home.