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Chapter Text

East Ithilien, Last days of June 2931

Ithilien had once been a land of beauty and prosperity; in the Second Age, its communities flourished amidst lush, verdant forests and vibrant, flowering gardens, even under the looming shadow of Mordor. The land was a jewel in Gondor's domain, where sunlight filtered through ancient trees and brilliant blooms painted the landscape in hues of every colour. But as the Third Age progressed, this once-sweet land fell into darkness and decay, its people driven away in dismay, increasingly so after the loss of the Tower of the Moon, Minas Ithil, in the year 2002. Every attempt to reclaim the land over the centuries had proven fruitless. By 2901, almost all good folk had abandoned Ithilien to travel to safer lands, leaving behind only the most stubborn of farmers and dedicated rangers.

The constant dark clouds of Mordor frequently brought caustic rains that ate away at walls and statues and withered all but the hardiest plants. Under Mordor’s shadow, the once fruitful, serene woods grew into twisted, eerie shapes, overtaking the remnants of abandoned settlements, their grotesque snarled branches clawing at the sky. The many gardens were left to become overgrown with creeping vines, suffocating undergrowth, and unnatural rot. Yet despite all that Mordor afflicted upon it, Ithilien clung to a rugged beauty; a lingering, melancholic shade of its former radiance and a testament to what once was.

Perhaps that lingering, stubborn beauty was why some farmers remained, in defiance of the constant threat of orcs, Haradrim and Nazgûl. These resilient souls dwelt in small, close-knit hamlets, surrounded by high timber walls encircling their fields and even taller barriers protecting their homes of lumber and thatch. These walls, though modest in their defence, were all they had; for stonemasons refused to work in such dangerous lands regardless of high payment the farmers couldn’t afford offer. Rangers guarded these isolated farms with fierce loyalty, treating these tiny villages as sanctuaries in the desolate lands, though their suspicious gatekeepers often need to be convinced that the rangers were allies, not enemies. The rangers who walked in Ithilien would grow familiar with the various farms, trading with them and escorting their caravans to safer markets.

Gandalf stood in solemn sorrow, gazing at the grim decimation before him, just beyond the uncharacteristically formidable ward he had set up. The ward was a fearsome construct of fire, designed to quickly incinerate the village of Sarnridh to ashes. Such levels of destructive magic were not in Gandalf’s usual repertoire, but to create a ward of this magnitude – encapsulating an entire settlement, fields and all – rendered it capable of only a fast-burning fire rather than a raging inferno. Nevertheless, fire was fire, and it would fulfil its purpose.

The cluster of buildings that formed Sarnridh had never been prosperous, and a few months ago Gandalf had never heard of it but in passing, a mere footnote in archives of forgettable places. It was not lauded like Minas Ithil had been, but honour came in many forms and respect could be earnt in many ways. The inhabitants of Sarnridh had been hardworking and vigilant, deserving of honour and respect for eking out a living in eyeline of the Dark Tower – for all that Sauron currently dwelled in Dol Guldur. Now, they would not receive even a burial.  

The rangers who had guided him here, arriving too late to do more than prepare the ward, had wept at his instructions but not argued. Already their tears were drying, replaced with prayers for the dead, grim resolve and calls of rage at the injustice of it all. They had formed friendships with many of these farmers, deep bonds forged in the harsh reality of their lives. The settlement had no survivors, and among the dead were children they had played with, babes they had helped bring into the world, and three rangers who been the first to offer aid months ago.

It was not an attack in the conventional sense of the word, but Gandalf could only hope this sickness was not a scheme of Sauron, but a tragic byproduct of living in Arda Marred. The swift spreading illness resisted even the most potent tonics crafted by the experienced hands of those three now deceased rangers, using Ithilien’s famed wild-growing medicinal herbs. At the very least, once the fever set in, the afflicted died quickly. Its ferocity ensured the sufferers, delirious and shivering, were unaware of the searing heat within. Their bodies could withstand the fever for only a few short hours before their souls departed. In some ways, it was almost a merciful disease; and that gave Gandalf hope that this was not a new weapon in Sauron’s arsenal.

The ward was ready to ignite the hamlet turned graveyard, ensuring the eradication of disease and preventing its spread, and with a decisive knock of his staff, the settlement was set alight. The nauseating stench of rotten food and vegetation, mingled with the pungent odour of animal droppings and the sickly-sweet reek of carrion, was gradually replaced by the arid smell of smoke. The timbers of the settlement’s walls internal buildings produced a somewhat sweet aroma, masking the chilling scent of burning flesh. The creaks and groans of lifeless homes, the whisper of wind through overgrown grasses and weeds, and the overwhelming silence of what had once been a small but lively hamlet were replaced by the crackling sound of the vast, low burning fire. The flames kissed along the edges of his ward but could not escape its confines. Even heat could not radiate through his wards, so despite the glowing wood and steady red and orange flames, Gandalf and the rangers were warmed only by the smattering of sunlight managing to pierce through the sullen clouds above.

Raising his head from where he had bowed in grief, Gandalf peered above the walls and rooftops as they were consumed by flames to see the distant peak of Barad-dûr. He wondered how his once-fellow Maia would view such a thing, had he dwelt still in Mordor and not Mirkwood. Would his eyes fill with malevolent amusement? Or perhaps such a tiny place would be entirely beneath his notice.

Could Sauron have orchestrated an attack here from his fortress in Dol Guldur?

No, or at least Gandalf did not think he would choose here to attack. Gorthaur would not have devised a disease that killed after anything less than a long, slow torture. Annatar, even Mairon, would not have chosen something as subtle an instrument of harm as a disease to do his bidding. Or was this merely a test, and there was something worse to follow, even now lurking behind the mountains of Mordor on the horizon?

His dark worries were interrupted by the thundering sound of an approaching horse. “Gandalf, Gandalf!” cried out its rider, his voice drawing the party’s attention from the flames and devastation. Several of the party had been dispatched only hours earlier to investigate neighbouring farms. The returning ranger had wild, frantic look in his eyes – he bore no good news.

“Simagyel – what news do you have?”

“It’s spread – this plague, it has reached the next village along; Loewridh. I did as you bade and did not enter, but already three are sick with the same initial symptoms: a raised sore, flux, and confusion”.

“If they were alive when you left, then there is still hope. Make haste,” the wizard instructed the rangers, who were already preparing their horses. “And remember what I told you; do not touch anything, cover your mouth and nose with whatever handkerchief or alike you already have, and take nothing from the village out of it. No food, no water, not even a scrap of cloth. Diseases can spread in many ways, even as vapours. Inform me immediately if you notice any symptom upon yourself or another.”

Climbing onto his borrowed horse, he looked back at the scout. “Was there any indication of how the disease travelled there?”

“Yes, I remembered the questions you instructed us to ask” the ranger almost smiled aside for the worry clouding his eyes. “The gatekeeper told me that Loewridh received a pigeon from Sarnridh a month ago, warning them to keep clear. Since then, Loewridh first noticed several birds and a cat dying suddenly without warning. Then their pigs were hit hard, and after the last swine died, people began falling ill. Two of the three afflicted are the swineherd and her husband.”

“Excellent work Simagyel – did everyone hear that? It is animals that are spreading the disease, likely by smaller carriers like fleas. Space is imperative – even brushing your cloak against one harbouring a disease-carrying flea puts you at risk. Carrad – you are the fastest rider, correct? Good lad, now ride ahead and tell them the following instructions-”

Diseases such as these were wretched works of Melkor and Gandalf would not claim any expertise in combating or understanding them. However, he had walked these lands long enough to recognise the power of fire, hot water, and soap in battling illness, and any farmer worth his salt knew at least a handful of methods to kill fleas and similar pests. Sarnridh was lost, but Loewridh could still be saved, perhaps even the those currently ill.

Hope briefly flickered anew, but as the party was joined by several other scouts, many with harried expressions, Gandalf quietly despaired. He would not be returning to Imladris any time soon.

Sarnridh had sent pigeons to all its neighbouring settlements, unaware their messengers carried the disease in their feathers.

Carrad turned his head as he rode away to glance back on the flames consuming Sarnridh. The once-cherished hamlet, now engulfed in a ruthless fire, was soon to be nothing more than a smouldering ruin. His heart was heavy with sorrow, another piece of the land he had sworn to protect now beyond saving.

For as long as he, and his father, and his father’s father before he could remember, the dark clouds of Mordor had hung low and oppressive, casting a perpetual twilight over Ithilien – today was no different. The fire Mithrandir had conjured was relentless but controlled, purging the land of the disease as flames licked hungrily at the remnants of homes and fields he had once been welcome in. Carrad had seen many battles and endured countless hardships, but witnessing the aftermath of painful death of an entire settlement at the invisible hands of sickness was a different kind of torment. He could not fight a disease with his arrows nor sword, and had he arrived a month earlier he too would have perished – his skill in apothecary no greater than Relrod, Anacyaru or Remmion, may they rest in peace with Eru Iluvatar.

Even as the ranger turned away in momentary grief, he could hear the how the fire crackled and roared as it consumed the settlement in a cleansing yet mournful dance. The blaze would soon consume the last vestiges of Sarnridh, burying the lives so abruptly extinguished in gentle ash. The loss was profound, and the burden of their duty weighed heavily upon the ranger; as did all his loses he had endured in his many decades. He would ride to Loewridh as swiftly as he could coax his faithful stead to muster, determined to protect it from the same fate. With a deep breath and a resolve as steely as his blade, Carrad turned back towards the horizon. The path ahead was ill-used and a difficult trek to make at the best of times, but he knew that their efforts could still make a difference.

As he rode off, the clouds above of Ithilien seemed to close in, but he pushed forward, heartened by the hope of saving those who might still be spared.

Quietly, he harkened, his voice ill-suited for songs but long accustomed to laments:

O Sarnridh, Valient Sarnridh
Cleansed too late in fire’s grief,
We ride hard as the embers glow,
To save what still, might yet live.
Dear lost friends, guide us on we go,
Help us save what still might yet live.

Rivendell, Last week of April, several weeks prior to the events in Ithilien

“I think I’ve found the worst smelling place in Imladris,” Minastauriel muttered, wrinkling her nose at the pungent odour of manure filling the air. At least the stench was so overpowering that it distracted her from the intimidating presence of the horse towering before her.

Minastauriel knew horses were large, but standing before one now, she was struck their sheer size in comparison to her own. The horse’s head bobbed high above her, its breath teasing the shorter strands of hair framing her face. Its dark eyes unnervingly reminded Minastauriel of the beady stares of dogs, rats and spiders. She twitched, her imagination running wild as she pictured how a single blow from the horse’s powerful legs could easy crush her ribcage or crack open her skull.

And she needed to learn to ride them... At least Gandalf had improved her eyesight; riding would be so much scarier if everything was still blurry, as opposed to a gradual dissolving into haze beyond five or so yards. She still would have tried to learn, though.

Minastauriel stood with her cousins in the innermost, and smallest, of Rivendell’s stables. Despite the warmth of the day outside, the stable was pleasantly cool. Two of its walls were carved from great slabs of speckled basalt, their cool, expertly smoothed surfaces contrasting with the old wooden beams of the rest of the building. The stable sprawled out from these two perpendicular walls, its expanse well-insulated and devotedly maintained, situated near a spacious grazing field.

Even with its current size, the architecture at the edges of the building suggested it had once been even grander. Presently, twenty horses lived in this stable, one of four such places the valley had under Elrond’s command. Despite their age, the walls were solid and reassuring.

‘It’s so peaceful here in the valley,’ Minastauriel thought, gaze lingering on ancient architecture. ‘It becomes easy to forget this was once a key stronghold against the rise of Sauron. This valley’s walls once guarded armies.’ Her eyes trailed over the carved stone, wondering if the crafts-elves responsible still lived West of the Sea. The horse in front of her gave a sudden snort, immediately refocusing her attention of the on the large animal.

“Cousin… you have seen a horse before, have you not? Or do you not remember?” asked Elladan, amusement clear in his tone as he noticed her nervously tugging on her sleeves. It was harder for Minastauriel to do than in her usual gowns; her outfit more form fitting than usual, her tunic and breeches perfect to wear whilst learning to ride. The twins wore similar outfits; long knee length garments with hip high slits over dark sheep-skin leggings.

“I-I think I have see, um, seen them before, but from a distance. Not - never this close…” She stammered, her voice struggling to reach above a whisper whilst the horse shook its mane.

“Our horses are gentle, elven trained,” soothed Elrohir. She peered a little closer at her cousin whilst also moving slightly further away from the horse and noted the tiny green leaves adorning his tunic. A glance to the left, when Elladan poked her shoulder just before she stepped on his foot, let her see the blue stars embellishing his collar.

“They are very tall.” And that was compared to the twins, let alone herself. Even wearing her riding boots, she felt like a teacup placed in a forest of young birch trees.

“Littlestar is very calm. We learnt on her forebears.” The twins greet the horse in soft tones, stroking its warm chestnut flank and the white starburst patch on its forehead.

 “Little?” She asked pointedly. “Aren’t horses usually between five and six feet tall? All these horses completely loom over me – and I’m not that short for an adaneth. Lurlosel even thinks I’m growing taller.”

Elladan smiled broadly, displaying dimples and a flash of canines. “Between five and six to its withers, not the head.” He demonstratively patted the ‘shoulders’ of the horse before Minastauriel could query about the term ‘withers’. “And if you are getting taller… we can get you a larger horse if you prefer, sweet cousin?”

“No! Ahem – um… a saddle?” she replied quickly, her cheeks flushing slightly.

Elrohir gestured to a tall cupboard. “Every lesson will begin with caring for Littlestar: brushing, feeding, and saddling. Eventually, you’ll learn more complex tasks too, like replacing a shoe.”

 The lordling continued to explain whist he began fetching various items. “These activities build trust – it’s crucial to develop this before you start riding.”

‘Good idea,’ Minastauriel thought in agreement. ‘I don’t want risk spooking this ‘little’ horse and get thrown!’ Recovering from any injuries would only waste time, particularly that of her cousins who had freely offered an hour every few days to teach her once they had heard she would be learning on Littlestar.

Privately Minastauriel wondered if the brothers were missing their sister; perhaps they had taught Arwen to ride too?

The woman mentally shook that thought away – such comparisons made her feel queasy with the pressure to live up to any the expectations. She had been looking forward to learning to ride, but standing here now, her nerves were only building, without adding the pressure of other expectations.

A hand on hers brought Minastauriel out from her thoughts. “Have you foreseen travelling then?” Elladan asked as he led her to pat the mare’s flank.

“No, not too soon – but I am planning on it. In the future.” She focused on keeping the pressure of her hand steady, and willed herself not to flinch too much when Littlestar turned its head to look at her. ‘Far too big!’

“Where will you go?” asked Elrohir from the other side of the stable, as he rummaged for a specific brush, muttering about finding ‘the best’ one for Littlestar’s fur.

She raised her voice before remembering the keen ears of elves, and offered a vague reply as she tried not to panic when Littlestar took a couple steps back and forth and nearly gave her a heart attack. “Everywhere, I think. From Minas Tirith to the Blue Mountains.” Elladan snorted at her panicky behaviour but bade Littlestar stand still with a few clicks of his tongue. Then, he turned back to Minastauriel, brows raised in surprise. “Quite the traveller then, that is your plan?”

“You are not planning on travelling those distances soon though, yes? Or travelling alone?” Elrohir suddenly appeared at her shoulder, making her jump and squeal, which then startled the horse and had Minastauriel clinging to Elladan.

Before she could calm down enough to even remember either of Elrohir’s questions, a twin – she was too flustered to tell which - continued. “It is not safe for a woman to travel, even in a group. Father will assign guards, or we will escort you ourselves.”

She glanced between the two brothers, as a static tension abruptly developed in the stable bay. Both twins were frowning where they had been smiling a moment before; eyes thundercloud grey. Their eyes were on her but both pairs were looking through her and Minastauriel didn’t need foresight or ósanwë to know what dark memories were troubling her cousins. One twin’s hands were white knuckled as he held out a wire brush for her to take, and the other’s hand shook as he took over combing the mane. A glance at his neck as she passed over the comb let her see a shimmering galaxy on the dark cloth of his tunic, resting against his nape. She could see tendons in his neck standing out even in the dim light of the stable.

Minastauriel, who had foreseen orcs, trolls and worse, bit down a ridiculous ‘I can look after myself’. She had picked up a stick earlier and awkwardly swung it around – she definitely was not hiding any martial training; if she had ever had any then it was long lost with so many of her memories.

Her gaze softened at the twin’s severe expressions, her voice gentle as a flower petal. “I will travel those distances one day, but not until I am ready. Until then, yes, I will ask for safe escort, do not worry.”  

She let the words sit in the air whilst she brushed Littlestar, mentally listing skills she would need to travel independently: foraging, hunting, and cooking in the wild, basic healing and remedies, how to set up camp. She would certainly try to include arms-training at some point, particularly defensive maneuverers. Was it worth learning hand-to-hand?

She knew she wouldn’t need any such skills by the time the War of the Ring arrived. If she still lived after the long passage of time where the Ring hid in the shire, she would be far too old to travel. But beforehand, even with Gandalf leaving before she could speak to him, she could build up to travelling the world and helping where she could. And, in terms of large events, though she was effectively useless in terms of the War of the Ring, she might prove helpful in the Battle of the Five armies. How brilliant would it be to save Thorin and his nephews? Should she try to join the Company when they pass through Imladris in a decade’s time?

How long did it take to master a skill? Eight years? She would surely have gained some combat skills by that point.

‘But,’ she thought as Elladan guided her in brushing Littlestar’s coat nearer to the horse’s head where she had been avoiding approaching, ‘what good was any training going to be in the hands of a woman against the strength of orc-armies, giant spiders and a dragon?’ The simple fact was she was never going to be as strong as a man.

‘But neither was Bilbo, and he was – will be - critical in the success of the Quest for Erebor.’ She reassured herself. There would be a way to save Thorin, Fili, Kili and the many people of Esgaroth. And she had years to figure out how to achieve such a thing.

Slowly, the twins’ dark worries subsided, their expressions brightening and the tension easing like smoke dispersed by a northern wind.

“Has our dear cousin foreseen us in the future?” one twin finally asked.

She thought for a moment. “Not Seen, in my memories at least. But I know some things about your future so I must have Seen at some point. I know you will –”

She cut herself off. She had intended to comment on them leading the Grey Company during the War. But was that wise? Perhaps not yet, not until she could speak better. Maybe she should discuss it with her uncle first? “-be close friends with Aragorn, as he grows.” She finished instead.

“We often make friends with the Dúnedain, particularly the Chieftains and their sons.”

“Aragorn will be different,” she argued with confidence. “He will bring hope.” She carefully used the Estel form of hope, rather than Amdir.

“So dramatic. You remind me of our grandmother!” Elrohir laughed, poking her cheek. “So – Aragorn will bring hope. What will you bring?”

Smirking slightly, she offered, “Questions? Such as do you have the hmm... Power of Water song?  With the Bruinen and make water horses? Can I see?”

“An excellent question with an exciting answer. Once you can ride, we will take you to a good place and demonstrate the water horses for you.”

“Nice and slow – good, there you go,” praised Elladan, his voice warm and encouraging as Minastauriel slowly guided Littlestar around the pen at a measured pace. Littlestar’s steady gait was as calm as was promised. Dressed as she was in breeches, the twins hadn’t needed to be told that she was not there to learn side-saddle. Afterall, her plan was to build up to long journeys across wild terrain, for which side-saddle would not be suitable for; riding astride being far more secure than merely sitting on the horse. That said, no-one would describe her as a natural at horse riding. From her elevated vantage point, she was acutely aware of considerable distant between her head and the hard stone slabs that covered the stable yard.

“Sit a little further back in the saddle – you don’t need to brace like that unless you’re cantering,” chimed Elrohir from his perch on the fence. His voice was playful, his countenance relaxed as he casually wove a flower from blades of grass.

“You’ll feel more comfortable too,” added Elladan, who stood in the centre of the pen, turning elegantly as Minastauriel made her way around him. The twins’ presence were her steady anchors, though Littlestar’s easy manner had already quashed much of her fear.

Horse riding wasn’t as difficult as she thought, at least in terms of directing Littlestar’s path. Of course, the horse was impeccably trained and follow her commands with ease. Still, it was very odd having her legs so far apart and partially holding her weight on her thighs. Minastauriel imagined that trotting or anything faster would certainly make them ache.

Currently she was riding around the pen, stopping or starting when Elrohir or Elladan gave the prompt. The sun was gently peeping out from behind the trees, casting warm, dappled light over the stable yard. The air was fragrant with delicate scent of blooming flowers, mingling with the earthy aroma of horse, and the faint hint of rain on the breeze.

Abruptly, Minastauriel had a thought. “Do you have foresight?”

Had the sons of Elrond had inherited his gift? The twins were largely absent from her knowledge, for all she had Seen or simply knew of their father and sister.

“To an extent – more than many, but rather less than the new standard you have set,” teased Elrohir, twinkle in his eyes as he flitted his gaze up at her, the grass-made blossom already twirling in his fingers.

“Can you do... other elvish things?” she asked, a little sheepish at the personal query.

The twins shared a knowing look.

“Elvish things, dear cousin? Whatever do you mean?” Elladan asked, whilst his brother pressed his lips together to withhold a laugh at his cousin’s blunt question.

“Well – I mean, things like healing things with songs, or talking to trees – not anything odd” she hastened to add, turning in her saddle to show the twins the genuine nature of her curiosity.

“Facing forward” Singsong-ed the twins in unison, voices effortlessly harmonising. As soon as she turned around, one twin responded.

“Of course we can. Elrohir is particularly gifted in Songs of Healing. And though few trees are awake enough to speak in these Ages, those that are - we can speak to. Most of them can be found in Elvish lands.”

“So, you can really talk to trees?” She laughed; her eyes wide with disbelief. “What do they say?”

“Some trees – many never will awake. As for what they say, it depends on what you ask them, and how old they are,” replied Elrohir. “Many don’t reply in words. They communicate usually in waves of feeling… it’s difficult to explain.”

Minastauriel couldn’t believe this was a real conversation. “What about that tree?” She carefully pointed out the solitary tree lining the yard that hadn’t yet bloomed, whilst holding on the reigns tightly in one hand. Most of the other trees already had leaves starting to burst out from their tender buds. “Can you ask why it hasn’t bloomed? Look at all those flower buds.”

“Certainly. Come over here – guide Littlestar to stand beneath the boughs.” Instructed Elladan. The elder twin bade her guide her horse to a spot beneath the tree’s lazy boughs and then rest her hand on its rough bark. “Think ‘Good day’,” he advised.

Feeling a little foolish, she did as she was told and waited, pressing her hand firmly against the silvery-brown bark.

“I can’t hear anything,” Minastauriel eventually announced, disappointment evident in her voice.

“Listen with your mind, not your ears,” suggested one twin from where he stood to the left of her and her mount.

Pressing her hand harder against the bark of the tree, Minastauriel loudly thought the greeting and waited a response. Still, nothing came.

She sighed. “Sorry – I just can't hear it.” She shook her head in frustration and sat back in her saddle, deflated.

Elladan moved his hand to exactly where hers had been on the tree’s bark. “That's a shame, dear cousin, but don't worry. The tree is very happy to make your acquaintance. Also, you should drink more water. The tree thinks it's why you are so short.”

Minastauriel peered closely at Elladan’s face, searching for any sign of jest. “Really?” she asked, tone flickering between scepticism and hopefulness.

He nodded solemnly. She narrowed her eyes then glanced at Elrohir for confirmation.

“In your defence, the tree thinks all of us are short and need more water,” Elrohir added with a grin.

A moment of stunned silence passed. Then Minastauriel burst into giggles, before bubbling into a full-on laughing fit. She clutched tightly onto the reins lest she topple off her horse, her mirth echoing far beyond the stable yard. “A tree – hahaha, a tree gave me, hehe, advice, health advice – hahaha!”

The same day, with Glorfindel

Golden ringlets bounced in time with Glorfindel’s strides as he made his way across a courtyard, his gaze methodical and watchful. The courtyard, bathed in the soft light of midspring, exuded a serenity his mind was frequently bereft of. Glorfindel had long since been accustomed to this routine; an ingrained habit from his days in Gondolin. Even when not on sentry duty, this walk was a ritual of sorts, a way to maintain a semblance of vigilance in a time of apparent peace. All seemed well.

Peals of bright, carefree laughter abruptly interrupted his focus. The sound was bold, frank and distinctly mortal in nature, sharply contrasting to the quiet of the resplendent valley. Drawn in by the sound, the captain’s eyes settled on the scene unfolding outside the inner stable. There, in the light of midday, Elladan and Elrohir were uncharacteristically occupied in teaching a young woman to ride. It was rare for the heirs of Lord Elrond to immerse themselves in the daily life of the valley, and rarer still for them to be so engaged with someone who was not their kin or a comrade in training. Though, he supposed, this girl apparently was their kin, as he could only assume she was Lady Minastauriel, the supposed Princess Tindómiel.

The captain’s steps faltered as he found himself opting to observe the trio from a distance. His keen eyes took in the awkward posture of the woman, as the twins guided her in dismounting Littlestar.

Glorfindel’s natural inclination was to avoid such covert observation; spying on Lord Elrond’s kin was beneath him, dishonourable and factitious. And yet he did not move away; an inexplicable pull to the yard kept his feet in place. At least, he argued, his concentration was not on the twins but firmly on the enigmatic stranger who was now attempting to remount Littlestar independently. If Glorfindel was being unkind, he would describe her movements as utterly graceless, but he would commend her efforts. She kept trying – and there was a charm in her perseverance if nothing else.    

Since speaking to Erestor, Glorfindel’s mind had consumed with questions about this mortal stranger, and with ways he could introduce himself to her so he could begin to uncover her purpose, and therein hopefully put to rest his gnawing worries. To his eyes, the woman appeared exactly as described to him upon her appearance in the wood at the start of March – clumsy and harmless. And yet, even as he observed her innocuous interactions with Elladan and Elrohir, his careful instincts - honed through countless battles and diplomatic engagements - bade him look closer. For what, he couldn’t guess; what elusive mystery could this child of Man possibly hold that could evade Lord Elrond or Erestor? What danger could she possible represent that shrouded itself from all others?

Not for the first or last time, Glorfindel considered her presence may be little more than a coincidence; a warning of the changing wind. Perhaps she was not a threat in herself but a harbinger of change; a symbol of the shifting tides of fate; an omen of the darkening times. Again, his thoughts circled in restless contemplation. For all her apparent innocence and vulnerability, the captain couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to her than met the eye; a dissonance in the accepted narrative that the girl was Lord Elrond’s niece, leapt forward six millennia to the present day. Every time he thought such a thing aloud, it only sounded more ridiculous.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Glorfindel resolved to continue his walk and faulted himself for yet again wasting time considering what to do instead of actually doing anything. The captain also reminded himself the girl hadn’t done anything (yet) deserving of his suspicion. Soon, he promised, soon he would introduce himself to her and learn more about her directly. On Varda’s light, may Minastauriel be as harmless as her appearance suggested; if not then all the better he become close to her and be there to act quickly. With a final, lingering glance at the woman, he moved on and tried to steer his thoughts away from questions unanswered.

“Really? Just like that?” Minastauriel asked, bouncing on her heels in excitement. Her eyes sparkled in anticipation; her gaze fixed on the lazy tree she had tried speaking to earlier.

“Yes; it has already agreed.” Elladan nodded, his smile widening as he sat in a branch near the tree’s trunk, his demeanour radiating warmth and confidence. He had done this before, and hoped it would delight his cousin as much as it had his sister “And you’re sure this is what you want? We could still show you the water horses if you prefer.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Minastauriel shook her head, her voice filled with palpable enthusiasm. “I have Foreseen the water horses, and I hope to see them in person one day. But this-” she gestured toward the tree with unfiltered anticipation “-this is something I’ve never seen before.”

“Ha, alright then!” Elladan declared with a grin that matched her excitement. “Ready? Here we go!”

He and Elrohir began to sing softly, their voices weaving a harmonious melody directed at the yet-to-bloom tree.

Bractha, Bractha, (Awake, Awake)

Ortha, (Arise)

O mellon, O mellon iaur, (O friend, O dear old friend)

I celair menel, (The skies are brilliant)

I bain ceven, (The earth is fair)

Goianna aen ((you) should join with)

Lúthgen aglar (Blossoms radiant)

The air around them hummed with a tangible energy as the twins’ song took hold. The branches of the tree trembled, and then, at the song’s command, began to blossom. Pale pink flowers erupted in a surge of delicate petals, transforming the tree into a vibrant display of nature’s splendour. It was as if a sunset cloud had been gently draped upon the branches of a slumbering tree.

Minastauriel stood in entranced delight, her mouth slightly agape as the tree’s transformation unfolded before her. The once bare branches were now adorned with thousands of blooming flowers, creating a breathtaking spectacle.

As the song continued, it shifted in tone; the hopeful, sweet melody becoming bold and ascending. The twins’ voices grew more powerful and dynamic, spurring the creation of fresh leaf buds on the tree’s branches. The petals thus fell like a gentle rain, enveloping Minastauriel in a shower of blossoms. She was caught between cooing in amazement and laughing in sheer astonishment.

Without missing a beat, Elladan leapt down from where he had been standing and took Minastauriel’s hands, guiding her in a joyous spin through the falling flowers. Elrohir, meanwhile, attempted to coax her into singing along, playfully persistent in the mirthful atmosphere.

Petals have brought joy to all,

Now is time for verdant grace!

Hurrah! Hurrah! The petals fall,

Seek the sun, thy roots embrace!

Hurrah! Hurrah! The petals fall,

Emerald leaves take their place!

25^th April (the next day)

Minastauriel slept heavily that night, her body worn out from the horse riding, impromptu dancing, and various lessons. Such a splendidly spent day meant she couldn’t feel even a twinge of disappointment over not meeting Glorfindel (again! And she was sure she had caught a glimpse of his famed golden hair not once, but twice that day). She slept like a log, a deep sleep, the kind that leaves fabric marks on your face and drool on your pillow – and if she had dreams then she did not remember them.

It had been a gorgeous day, so it was not surprising when she awoke the next day and was disappointed to see grey clouds and rain outside her window. She peered outside, seeing the garden filled with puddles. The breeze, though giving her room the delightfully fresh scent of rain as it crept in through the slightly opened window, was unseasonably cool and unpleasantly crisp. Still, as she stretched to the sounds of Rivendell awakening in the soft drizzle, an ambient symphony of sheltering birdsong, delighted frogs and the gentle patter of rain, Minastauriel felt strange pang in her chest. Like something was amiss just out of her memory.

She dressed and went about her morning routine, her thoughts stuck in circles, wandering over what exactly she had forgotten. As Turiel combed her hair, Rilma entered with a tray of breakfast. The sight of steaming tea, cut fruit, and freshly baked buttered bread comforted Minastauriel against the miserable weather nearly as much as her maids’ warm smiles. “Good morning, Lady Minastauriel,” Rilma greeted her, though the woman noticed her maids share a knowing look as she did. “I hope you slept well – you were very busy yesterday.”

“Yes, thank you, Rilma,” Minastauriel replied, seeing no need ask what Rilma was trying to convey to Turiel. It was hardly her business – though she did wonder what the elf maids clearly wanted to gossip about… Maybe a certain golden Captain of the guard?

‘Ahem!’ She thought to herself, taking a seat at the small table by the window. Minastauriel looked out at the rain-soaked landscape, then refocused her eyes on the droplets forming rivulets on the glass. Even with the weather being as it was, it was still glorious to be able to see it again in such crisp detail.

A few moments passed as Minastauriel tuck into her morning meal whilst ensuring her maids had already eaten and were they sure they didn’t want a slice of apple?

Now ready for the day, she quickly grabbed the tray with her crockery before Rilma could attempt to take it to the kitchens. "I’ll pop this down to the kitchens after I clean my teeth. Thank you again for bringing me my meal, and Turiel thank you – you made my hair look particularly lovely today. Oh, and before you go, could you tell me what today's date is? I feel like I've forgotten something significant." Minastauriel charmed, whilst twisting her waist to ‘subtly’ put the tray out of Rilma’s reach.

She watched as Rilma's sweet face twitched with a barely concealed grin, even as she looked morosely at the tray. You would think Minastauriel wasn’t trying to help. "Oh, well today is the 25th day of Gwirith..." Rilma trailed off, expectantly.

Rilma’s expectant look was aptly used! As soon as the date was said aloud, there was a beautiful flicker of memory in Minastauriel's mind. Her birthday - it was her birthday! And oh, that knowledge came accompanied by precious titbits of other memories. Her parents adored celebrating their children's birthdays, often spreading the day over an entire 'Birthday-tide' week. She couldn't recall a single specific day or gift or word of salutation, but she remembered how loved they made her feel and how she enjoyed taking part in planning and celebrating the birthdays of her brothers and parents in turn.

Childishly, her heart skipped a beat. 'If Rilma knew it was my birthday... then surely Uncle Elrond must do too. Though… it would be so horribly awkward if I spoke to him about it, and it turns out he didn't know or wasn’t intending to make an occasion out of it; he would probably feel bad about it and then stress about trying to put together a celebration I don't need. Or even worse, thought I was so entitled to expect a gift-’

“Hey!” she yelped, broken from her thoughts as Rilma grabbed the tray from her distracted hands and scurried off without another word, Turiel giggling as she followed.

Minastauriel watched the door shut in bafflement. ‘They really didn’t want me going to the kitchen today… No! Do not get your hopes up.’ She sniffed in self-directed derision. It was unfair for her to put any expectation on anyone in Rivendell – as sure as she was of her developing friendships, it would be gauche to expect anyone to throw a… twenty-year-old? Maybe thirty?... throw a grown woman a birthday celebration. She knew, more than her parents’ faces though she had been working on recalling such familial details, that elves measured time in bouts of 144 years. Celebrating a birthday every year, or even every decade, would surely seem ridiculous in the long lives of elves.

‘Though uncle has fostered so many generations of Dúnedain… and both he and his parents were initially mortal…’

Having lost her chance to do one of the few chores she was typically able to keep, Minastauriel dismissed her thoughts with a sigh and headed directly to her lessons, using her shawl to protect her hair from the humidity. The rain subsided, leaving the air fresh and the ground glistening. She walked slowly, both to savour the serene beauty of Rivendell in the aftermath of the rain and so she could best avoid the many puddles.

To her surprise, Erestor was waiting for her outside the library. Her stoic tutor wore a rare, charming smile. “Good morning, Minastauriel. I have news for you, and a message.”

“Good morning, Erestor…” she replied, curious about his unusual demeanour, and rather suspicious of it too. She hadn’t pranked him recently and then forgotten about, had she?

“You have the day off from your lessons,” Erestor announced, his eyes twinkling with a knowing gleam. “And Lord Elrond has asked to see you, in his quarters.”

Minastauriel blinked in surprise. “The whole day? Has something important come up?”

‘Don’t get your hopes up, don’t get your hopes up! Adult – you are an adult!’

Erestor offered no clues at all, merely nodding then striding off without another word. Awkwardly, she called out a ‘thank you’ at his departing form.

Her curiosity thoroughly piqued, Minastauriel made her way back through a misty drizzle to Elrond’s study. She knocked softly and entered when beckoned.

“Good morning, Minastauriel,” Elrond greeted her warmly, rising from his desk to clasp her hands in greeting. “Thank you for seeing me so promptly – Erestor was timely in delivering his message I see.” The lord peered closely at her expression, even more expectantly than Rilma had.

‘I am so certain they all know about it! But what if pointing it out makes me sound like a child; I must be far too old to make such a song-and-dance over a birthday. And... it's not like I'm celebrating it with my parents. Tch... oh I'll just tell him in a blasé manner, like an adult.'

Minastauriel took a deep breath and tried to adopt a casual tone. “Ah, heh – is it about… well I thought it might be because it’s my birthday,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Elrond's face lit up and he laughed. "And here I thought we were going to end up surprising you; you gave no indication you knew it was coming up at all. Or did you only just realize today?"

Minastauriel felt a flush of warmth spread across her cheeks, though she managed a small, amused smile. “I only remembered it this morning, when Rilma told me the date,” she admitted.

Elrond’s grey eyes sparkled with amusement and understanding. “Well, I hope you will forgive the assumption but we – Erestor and I that is - have a little celebration prepared for you,” he said, guiding her out his study through an inner door. “It’s not much, but we hope it will make your day special.”

They arrived at Elrond's private morning room, decorated carefully to create a cozy and intimate space that seemed to envelop Minastauriel in warmth and comfort. The room, adorned with elegant tapestries depicting scenes of elven lore, was garlanded with fresh flowers, their scent adding a delightful fragrance to the air. On a side table was a small cake, charmingly decorated with icing and sugared violets.

“Valin Nostae, Minastauriel,” Elrond said gently, his voice full of affection.

‘Oh…’

Minastauriel’s eyes blinked rapidly to prevent any tears from leaking, but the trembling smile on her face and the way she clasped Elrond’s hands made it clear they were not tears of sorrow. “Thank you, uncle,” she whispered, shaky with how full her heart felt. “Silly me, getting so emotional, heh, but I’m really glad, even if I only remembered my birthday was today half an hour ago.”

“I am sure my brother would give me an earful if he ever found out I let his only daughter’s birthday pass without celebration. And you must remember you are in Imladris – we delight in any reason for revelry. And this is a very good cause for celebration.” Elrond’s words and his expression – a notched eyebrow followed by soft smile – had Minastauriel nodding in agreement with a watery chuckle of her own.

Before she could sit, they were joined by Erestor and her twin cousins. “Valin Nostae!” Elladan and Elrohir chimed, quickly joining Minastauriel by the table. Minastauriel felt a surge of delight for her maids; her dress matched the blues worn by both twins and Elrond perfectly. She hadn’t taken particular notice that her gown has slightly more embellishments today than usual, but she could see now the gown’s stars mirrored on Elladan’s sleeves and around Elrohir’s collar. Unlike usual, the twins were wearing circlets – gold with silver stars, the same design as the brassy toned one Elrond wore that day.

Erestor, looking more distinctive than ever in his grey and red robes, stepped forward with a small bundle. “Valin Nostae, Minastauriel – I hope you enjoy your begetting day. Here is the first part of my gift”. Unwrapping it carefully, she smiled at the elegantly crafted organisers for her notes. After Minastauriel thanked him for the practical gift, Erestor continued with a far more teasing tone and a pointed look at his liege. “The second half of my gift is your uncle’s undivided attention – I am taking on all his paperwork for the day. Please appreciate my sacrifice.” He finished with a short bow.

“May all of Arda know of your martyrdom,” Minastauriel bowed in return, cheeks pinching with her wide side. Eager to get started on his larger than usual list of administrative duties, Erestor gave a brief goodbye. Now Elrond drew his niece’s attention and presented his own gift, an elegant circlet of gold he had commissioned the day he heard her sing the song from his brother’s letter.

Minastauriel held the circlet of gold up to the light in awe, the bands intricate filigree catching what little light coming in through the windows, delicate patterns of stars and flowers glinting brightly. As he took it from her hands, Elrond brushed away her protests of wearing such a fine item with a soothing hush. “This small token symbolises your place in our family,” he assured, gently placing it on her head. The hairstyle Turiel had meticulously arranged flawlessly complemented the headpiece, and the gold of the metal highlighted the warmer undertones tones in her dark hair.

Elladan and Elrohir followed with their gifts, a pair of mithril hair combs, each adorned with tiny jewels amid the engravings. “We thought these would look lovely in your hair, though Ada was right, gold suits you better,” Elrohir explained. His brother added, “We worked on the finer details ourselves; though had we known you enjoyed flowers so much before making them, we would have incorporated them in the design.”

Minastauriel, not at all prepared for the wealth of gifts bestowed on her, least of all gifts made of gold and mithril, nearly choked on her gratitude. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You have been far too generous.”

With the gift-giving finished, the rest of the morning unfolded with lively, light-hearted conversation, the rich aroma of delicious cake mingling with the fragrance of fine spiced tea imported from the south. When they enjoyed all a slice of cake, the twins eagerly led Minastauriel aside to play card games. The lady did her best not to look too smug when she quickly displayed her incorrigible luck in cards, despite her terrible poker face.

As midday approached, a beautifully presented luncheon was served, featuring a variety of her favourite dishes, arranged with particular artistic flair. Alongside the meal came a selection of wine and cider. Elladan, with a gleaming smile, explained that such fine beverages were reserved for only truly significant occasions or events. “And this, your first birthday with us, is an important occasion indeed!” Minastauriel, accustomed to drinking small quantities of alcohol with her afternoon meals, enjoyed the luxurious drinks without overindulging... the twins easily outpaced her twice or thrice over, which made sense given their elven, or rather half-elven, constitution. Even Elrond partook, savouring spiced wine whilst making small jokes and anecdotes, occasionally calling out one or both his sons for cheating when they tired of Minastauriel’s relentless winning streak.

After the meal had settled, the atmosphere become even more lively – despite the rain thrashing down outside - as Elladan and Elrohir decided it was time for a dance lesson. “You simply cannot be left having forgotten how to dance. This must be remedied – on our pride as Imladrion!” Quickly clearing a space in the room, the taptaptap of the rain outside only serving to emphasise the warmth inside, and then the twins were up on their feet demonstrating the dance steps. As would be expected, the twins showed the sequences with flawless grace, each movement fluid and effortless. Minastauriel took to the activity with gusto, regardless of her frequent trips and stumbles, her laughter mingling with theirs as they twirled and moved together. At one point, she finally managed to execute the dance sequence perfectly, and looked so shocked that Elrohir was able to pop a heaped spoonful of cake in her mouth.

Deciding she had learnt the steps well enough, Elladan pulled out a pipe and grinned, grey eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now let’s see you do the steps in time with the tune!”

“Oh no!” she laughed, her eyes widening as she scrambled to match the rhythm with Elrohir.

During a brief break, Minastauriel caught her breath, and her cousins effortlessly continued; keeping perfect time as Elladan maintained the tune on his little silver pipe and Elrohir drank from a goblet without spilling a drop. In this time, the servants replaced the drinks with something stronger. Minastauriel was introduced to the best tasting mead she was sure she had ever had, its rich honeyed flavour heady and otherworldly. Even with her sensible drinking, the mead quickly gave her the face and confidence to join in other another bout of dancing, this one even faster and with more specific footwork.

Amidst her trying to keep pace with the twins and appreciating how each took turns helping her with the steps, Minastauriel – ever one to get lost in her head even in company – considered how very lucky she was. The celebration was one thing, but their patience with her was touching; be it the endless help with the dancing, the including her in small jokes or the deliberate manner they spoke in even to each other so that she could follow on. They didn’t need to have done any of that, and who would have blamed them if they hadn’t. The twins had only known her a matter of weeks, so there were several times when their interactions naturally felt strained as they got to know each other. And yet, to her surprise, Elladan and Elrohir repeatedly demonstration a genuine desire to build a closer kinship with her. Any such bond takes years to form; but the fact that they, elves thousands of years older than her who must see her as so very young and silly, were trying meant a great deal. Yes, she was very lucky.

As mid-afternoon approached, they gathered around a smaller table by the window. The rain had finally stopped, and even a few beams of sunlight shone through patches in the cloud cover. They decided that if the clouds held off another deluge, then they should go for a walk. Whilst they waited to be sure the rain had stopped and discussed where to venture, Elrond’s expression grew more serious as he recalled something he had intended to bring up earlier, and he drew his niece to the side for an illusion of privacy.

Minastauriel listened intently as Elrond informed her, voice low and solemn. “I have formally acknowledged you as my niece in letters to Lady Galadriel, Círdan of the Havens, Turgon Steward of Gondor, Fengel King of Rohan, and several other dignitaries.”

Thoroughly taken off guard, Minastauriel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Um, thank you for letting me know but… did they need to be told? I understand letting Lady Galadriel know, but I didn’t even think Rivendell was in contact with Gondor or Rohan at all. Is my arrival so… important?”

Elrond explained, gaze deep, “It is to create an official reason for your presence here, rather than in Númenor six thousand years in the past. Officially, you were sent here by Eru in response to your father’s prayers for your safety. Try as we might, we will not be able to keep your powerful Sight a secret; eventually it will be known, but we can control how widely known its magnitude is. By declaring your presence now under this explanation, we prevent other, potentially more dangerous explanations from spreading. Such as the truth that your power in Sight is a very real threat to Sauron; one he would have desired to claim or destroy in the early years of the Second Age, and now in the Third.”

The weight of Elrond’s words settled on her, popping the happy bubble she had been enveloped in since she had entered the room. Minastauriel didn’t know what her expression was, but it must have shown her concern as Elrond's expression softened. He patted her hair gently, adjusting the shorter strands to better frame her face. “I do not tell you this to frighten you, but to be honest with you of what I have done. You are my niece, and I, along with everyone in Imladris, will protect you.

Minastauriel nodded, taking in his words but still off kilter. “Thank you, Uncle Elrond,” she said softly, hoping her voice reflected her appreciation and not just the depth of her rising fear. “I understand… I didn’t realise how much thought had gone into my appearance her, and my safety.”

In her own mind she continued, her internal dialogue more frantic than that she allowed herself to speak with aloud: ‘I didn’t even think of the potential dangers my Foresight would attract! Of course, Sauron would want to seize someone with my gift. Oooooooh that is scary, deep breaths deep breaths.’ It was not a pleasant reminder to receive, and a sobering contrast to the sweet celebration she had been enjoying. She wasn’t sure if would have chosen the same time to tell her if she was in her uncle’s position, but she could appreciate his concern for transparency.

Elrond winced at her pale face and moved his hand to rest reassuringly on her shoulder. “We all have roles to play in the grand tapestry of this world, Minastauriel. Yours, for now, is to be here with us, and for us to ensure you are well-protected and embraced as part of our family. The defences here are strong; Sauron has never breached these walls – I trust you know how well these defences have stood the test of time?”

Minastauriel nodded. “Thank you – for keeping me safe, even after my sudden arrival.”

With a touch of humour, Elrond reassured her. “As if I could do anything less. We may not be able to completely shield you from the world’s challenges, but we can ensure you are surrounded by those who care for you. Let this day mark a new beginning in your life; I do not pretend the family and safety I offer you could ever replace what you once had, but I offer them to you openly, in hopes you will live a second chance with all the joy my brother will have hoped you left Númenor to live.”

Minastauriel’s heart had had one too many emotional upheavals that day, and she took a sharp breath when a little sob came up her throat. Wordlessly, Elrond opened his arms. The twins were pretending to be busy looking outside the window, so Minastauriel almost fell into her uncle to covertly weep in his arms.

She did not need long for her tears to dry up and she felt all the more lighter having released her worries so protected. Minastauriel took a deep breath, patted her face, and smiled up at her uncle. “Thank you… I needed that.”  Then she rejoined her cousins, who turned to her with sweet smiles and worried eyes that she promptly ignored in favour of the former, “I think we should risk the rain anyway – Elladan, you mentioned a grotto best visited when the weather is wet?”

And off they set, darting in and out from under trees to avoid the sporadic showers, despite their fancy attire being entirely ill-suited for the weather and laughing heartily regardless of it all. 

As Elrond walked behind the younger trio, he watched his sons with a mixture of profound relief and heartfelt pride. For centuries, Elladan and Elrohir had maintained a façade of cool detachment, suppressing their pain and rage deep within. Recently however, something remarkable had unfolded. The twins, usually so reserved and distant, had shown moments of genuine joy. Their laughter, like today, could now be heard occasionally filling rooms and gardens with a warmth Elrond had not heard in decades and decades. Watching them welcome Minastauriel into their fold with such sincere affection and make every effort to ensure she felt welcomed and cherished, moved him deeply.

Elrond knew all too well the pain and rage that still lingered beneath the surface; in both his sons and himself. He carried the sorrow, the ache of losing Celebrían; the weight of that irrevocable loss every day. Yet seeing Elladan and Elrohir, who too often buried their emotions under layers of seriousness and reserve, setting aside their usual distance to embrace a cousin who had entered their lives so abruptly—how could he not be overwhelmed with pride? Their mother would be proud too.

It had been years since they had celebrated a birthday with such enthusiasm. The absence of Celebrían had left a void, and the idea of celebrating in her absence had seemed unbearable. Elrond had feared his sons might refuse to participate or only stay briefly – something he would not have fought them on, but their willingness to fully engage in the festivities exceeded his expectations.

The sun began to filter through receding clouds as the rain showers slowly ceased, casting a gentle glow over his family and he quickened his pace to rejoin the group. The conversation drifted here and there on light topics, and Elrond’s demeanour further softened, as he began discussing the rest of the evening’s plans with a hint of mischief.

“We still have a few hours left to enjoy your birthday,” Elrond suggested, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Though first you should all change into drier clothing. Let’s end the day with more games and dances. I am certain Elladan and Elrohir will be eager to show off tales of their latest endeavours.” Leaning in conspiratorially, he pretended to whisper in her ear, his sons were listening. “Once my sons finish their fourteenth bottle, their interpretations of ‘popular dances’ are truly extraordinary to behold.”

Minastauriel chuckled, all earlier anxieties melted away in the warmth of the moment (and mead). “I look forward to it!”

As so the day ended, and by the time Minastauriel’s head hit the pillow she was too tired to worry about the potential threats targeting her and her Foresight, beyond a sleepy acknowledgement that she definitely needed to have some self-defence training before going anywhere without an escort.

The following morning, Turiel and Rilma exchanged knowing glances when they saw Minastauriel bright-eyed and chipper, a stark contrast to the usual aftermath of a day and night of revelry. “You take after your uncle,” Turiel laughed. “I don’t think Lord Elrond has ever suffered a hangover. And here we were, bringing you a remedy, thinking you’d be in the same boat as your cousins.”

Minastauriel joined in the laughter. “Dear Turiel, that knowledge is the sweetest gift I could have received. I shall have to tell my uncle that I have inherited such a powerful trait.” she said with a grin.

Given that her cousins were feeling the effects of drinking sixteen bottles each, Minastauriel was pleasantly surprised to be invited to another riding lesson later that day in between two of her lessons. The morning sun was high as she arrived once again in the stables and saw Elladan and Elrohir, who were visibly less energetic than usual. The twins were still handsome, dashing even, but their skin had a slight greenish hue that betrayed the lingering effects of all the drinks they had revelled in. Minastauriel, particularly bubbly after a very successful lesson with Lurlosel about common knowledge, tried not to let on just how unaffected she felt.

“Good morning, cousins!” she called out to them cheerfully, before whispering an apology when the slightly pained expressions of their fair faces twinged deeper with her bright greeting. ‘Ooh they do not look good. Why did these poor elves organise a lesson if they are feeling so rough?’

“Morning, Minastauriel,” Elladan replied, his voice rougher than usual. He managed to return her smile, but it lacked its usual warmth. Elrohir was not doing any better, leaning against a post and rubbing his temples as he squinted in the sunlight.

“Ready for another riding lesson?” the younger twin asked, trying to sound enthusiastic but failing to hide his discomfort. Minastauriel nodded but was quickly feeling dubious about the lesson continuing any further. They were both making an effort on her behalf but even just from that brief interaction, Minastauriel was certain their patience was going to be a lot shorter today. As she saddled her horse, she tried to do so with minimal guidance, not wanting to burden her cousins or worse, irritate them.

As she rode out in the yard and then the field, Elladan and Elrohir took turns giving her pointers whilst the other drank from a skin. From the pinched face each pulled after taking a swig, Minastauriel wondered if it was the remedy Turiel had been excited to give her earlier that morning.

“Keep your heels down, cousin,” Elladan advised, his voice tightening as he spoke, in response to the volume of his own speech. He rubbed his forehead, pressing his fingertips in hopes of momentary pain relief.

“Um… have you taken willow-bark extract? I don’t mind stopping so you can-”

Elrohir cut her off as he came up and adjusted her posture. “It is already in Lurlosel’s remedy. And remember to relax the grip on the reins. Your horse can feel your tension; they will become nervous.” His words were clipped, spoken through his teeth at points.

Wordlessly, she nodded whilst reminding herself that the twins were not angry at her, but in pain. It was difficult to keep reminding herself of, wanting so desperately to return to their easy comradery of yesterday. With her focus split between the lesson and her concern, it was only a quarter of an hour before Elladan called for a short break.

Minastauriel dismounted, silently pleased that she had done so independently, and walked a little way off from the twins, giving them a moment to themselves. She wasn’t far away enough to not be able to hear a few snippets of their conversation, however.

“We shouldn’t have had those last few bottles – my sleep last night was wretched.” Elrohir groaned, his voice low.

Elladan took another grimacing gulp of hangover remedy; a watery mixture of willow-bark extract, juice from the tiuyayáva (a crop Erestor had told them originated in the gardens of Lorien across the sea), honey and a pinch of salt. “I feel wretched. And our cousin is definitely noticing it.”

“It’s good we’re helping her settle in; do you think it’s working?”

“It’s hard to tell; she tries hard and is always so grateful for everything – if anything we should be more patient. Speaking of, did you see her face when you spoke to her about her reins; she looked like she was going to cry. Try and speak a little softer with her today Elro’ - she does not know how terse you get when you’re hungover.”

Minastauriel heard Elrohir groan and mumble something under his breath, before slapping his forehead and swearing. Or, she thought it was swearing; funnily enough no-one had thought to teach her any expletives yet, but ‘Muk’ did feel like a rude word. Watching out her peripheral vision, Elladan – far away enough that he was slightly fuzzy – hit his brother over the head, supported her theory. It also helped her come to a decision.

‘Right, no more – the last thing we three need is them accidentally snapping at me and then me bursting into tears.’ Taking matters into her own hands, she walked back to them, warm smile on her face as if she hadn’t been eavesdropping.

“Elladan, Elrohir,” she started, in a tone of sweet concern, “are you sure you feel well enough for this lesson. Begging your pardon, but you look green.”

Before either of them could argue, she continued.

“And I am sure standing here in the warm sunlight, around the smell of manure and horse,” Elrohir took a breath and actually coughed, suddenly aware of the odour, “watching me riding around and around in circles,” Minastauriel swayed pointedly on her heels as she spoke and watched the elder cousin turn almost grey, “is not conductive to your recovery.”

She smiled reassuringly at them, and this time they did not try to argue with her but instead focused on not vomiting. She resumed speaking, kind but firm. “It’s alright to hold off this lesson until another day – it was brilliantly kind of you to offer to teach my today despite our festivities yesterday, and I still was able to practise putting on the saddle under your expert eyes. But I think we can end it now.”

The twins exchanged a glance – relief mixed with guilt. “Are you sure, cousin? It is not your fault we… overindulged.”

“I am sure. Please – go and rest. Nantuil is still in the stable, he can help me take off the saddle and everything if I need any.”

Both twins sighed, their shoulders relaxing already at the thought of returning to their beds.

Elladan then looked up at her in realisation, before groaning. “You heard us. I apologise if we hurt your feelings – we have underestimated the hearing of edain before. We wouldn’t have discussed you if we had realised you would be able to hear us.”

Both twins looked horrified and completely embarrassed, and there was a brief moment of them offering up further apologises even as their skin developed a blotchy pallor.

Deciding the conversation was getting far too awkward, Minastauriel shook her head and held her hands up to reinforce her point. “And I should have walked further down once I realised that I could hear you. One could say I am in the greater fault. Now, let’s call it a day – I look forward to our next lesson.”

“We’ll make sure it’s a lesson worth remembering. Um – water horses; we’ll show you water horses,” Elladan offered, overcome by a sudden yawn so un-elvish that she almost saw a fleeting resemblance between them as blood relatives.

Elrohir nodded and smiled – if a little wan and perhaps a touch rough. “Rest well, Minastauriel. We shall see you later.”

As they parted ways, Minastauriel felt a surge of mischief. ‘Bet I could make Elladan laugh!’

Just as her cousins were about to leave the stable, she shamelessly called out, “Oh before you leave, what does ‘Muk’ mean? I haven’t come across that word before.”

Elladan turned around in shock and barked out a laugh so loud it echoed across the stable yard, whilst Elrohir looked back at her in sheepish embarrassment. The younger twin saw her smirking face, then glanced at his twin in consideration. He then suddenly shook off his awful hangover and looked at Elladan with a manic glint in his eyes. With all the passion of a brother who had once been blamed for the other teaching their sister her first swear word, he whispered, “I’m. Telling. Ada.”

‘Telling him it was you who taught her the word’ he left unsaid in favour of running off, Elladan scrambling to catch up. “Hey no – Elro’ Elrohir! Ughh,” he groaned as the bright light of day hit him as he darted out of the shaded stable. His groan was suddenly cut short by a wave of nausea, the result of his abrupt sprinting exacerbating his hangover. Despite the discomfort, his determination as the elder brother spurred him on, and he pressed forward, his steps uneven but persistent.

Feeling very satisfied with herself, Minastauriel began carefully removing the riding gear from Littlestar, who still felt very tall to the mortal, but whom she now trusted not to suddenly kick out or bite her.

Catching Nantuil’s eyes, they exchanged a smile. Through the stable door, they heard a distant, echoing shout from the main house: “Elladan! Did you really just throw up on me?!”

Minastauriel glanced at the stable hand again, and they both burst into raucous laughter. “Oops.”

Early May

Days passed and Gwirith turned into Lothron whilst Minastauriel continued to improve her various abilities. She attended all her lessons diligently and devoted herself to her first tasks as Erestor’s apprentice. Her increasingly long walks around the valley, enjoying the warming weather, provided refreshment in between her studies and gave her skin a sun-kissed glow and streaking her hair with lighter hues that caught in the sunlight and fascinated her maids and cousins. Among her many pursuits, it was in reading that she had made the most significant strides: the more she read, the more proficiently she could read; and the better she could read, the more she wanted to read. Her bookcase steadily filled with new volumes. She began with short stories, barely longer than the children’s tales she had originally learnt using. Gradually she acquired books and tomes, covering a range of topics both fiction and non-fictional. Gifts, study materials, and copies of rare works from the library filled her shelves, but many books were borrowed temporarily, and she liked to have multiple works ‘on the go’ to dip into throughout the day.

Minastauriel savoured works of fiction, immersing herself slowly into their details and emotions. In contrast, she devoured non-fiction books with an efficiency of a scholar, absorbing encyclopaedias, medicinal texts, botany and so on quickly. A leather-bound tome became a vessel for meticulous, if somewhat messy, notes capturing key ideas and useful information for her lessons and work assisting Erestor.

Her vocabulary expanded though there were days where she felt as if she had forgotten everything, particularly when she began learning the basics of Westron. She spent many evenings contemplating a trip to Bree, with the precise details of her commission causing more than one charcoal stick to snap in exasperation.

Her role as Erestor’s apprentice added a vibrant variety to her days. Managing household tasks and planning events contrasted sharply with the monotony of her lessons. Often Erestor and she worked in the library but did on occasion utilise her day room. She started with small tasks, Erestor asking her to calculate their grain needs against current stores and predicted harvests. As she examined the accounts, Erestor doing his own work close by, her mind raced happily through calculation after calculation as they shared a pot of honey-sweet woodruff tea, its delicate fragrance accentuating the subtle scent of the polished applewood of the desk and table; creating a comforting atmosphere in which to work in.

She sat at her desk, a sturdy piece of furniture with intricate carvings along the far side, her focus by the neat rows of figures laid out before her. Erestor was sat to her right, working diligently at her table, occasionally glancing up from his own tasks to mutter at the ceiling during mental arithmetic. The soft rustle of parchment, the scratching of their quills and the irregular clink of their teacups provided a gentle backdrop to her own mental sums.

‘The apple harvest was excellent last year,’ Minastauriel internally mused as she read the accounts, ‘So we have an excess of cider – twice the usual amount. Typically… where is it? I just read it – aha! Typically, the valley uses about two thousand gallons a month when they have 350 inhabitants. The surplus can be traded for grain from Rohan. Erestor mentioned that most realms prefer to trade instead paying with bulk amounts of coin, so this should be favourable. Now I need to check if any other expenses need addressing… The valley’s own produce is substantial, but they definitely favour trading in wine from Gondor and metals from Lindon.’

She wasn’t surprised, having now seen the accounting books, why dealing with coin was less desirable. Imladris required about three and a half thousand bushels of grain annually, amounting to between two and four and a half hundred castar, depending on harvests. Thankfully, elvish cultivation ensured yields were significantly higher than those grown by men, reducing their need for external grain to about a hundred castar annually.

‘And this year, they’ll likely only need to spend seventy – and they’ll make up half the difference selling the cider, assuming their wine demand remains steady. I’ll check that first but I’m sure that’ll be correct; there’s only about fifty occupants living here this season.’

As she scribbled her notes, the scratch of her quill filled the quiet room. The sounds - Scratch scratch dip scratch scratch skritch. Scratch scratch dip – were relaxing until the interruption by a sudden Plop!

“Blot that ink spot up quickly, your highness.” Erestor chimed without looking up.

Grabbing the blotter with a resigned smile, she singsong-ed her reply through gritted teeth. “Thank you, your lordliness’”.

“Technically, I am not a lord anymore.”

“And then nor technically am I a princess anymore.”

“A princess is defined as a daughter of a king or one who is married to a prince. That first applies to you inherently.”

“Kingdom gone – no more princess.”

“Grammar.”

“The kingdom is gone – I am no longer a princess. You help rule Imladris – you are a lord, my Lord Erestor.”

“And your father was a king, Princes Tindómiel. The kingdom no longer being among us does not change that.”

Minastauriel quietly huffed and returned to her work, her quill returning to scratch diligently against the parchment. Erestor was impossible to argue with, even with her verbal communication skills steadily improving. She wasn’t sure when the title became habitual, but all at once it seemed like everyone was referring to her as ‘Your highness’ and ‘Princess’. The only people who didn’t were her immediate family. It wasn’t like she was going around wearing her circlet – that she kept as her cousins did; for formal purposes only.

Flicking the quill across her gaze, she considered her options, her brow furrowed. Without a second though, she stretched her neck, turning it side to side until she heard a satisfying crack. The sound echoed slightly in the quiet room, causing Erestor to visibly shudder in disgust. Elves, with their graceful and nearly soundless movements, did not have joints that could ‘crack’ and could be very squeamish about such noises.

Hmm – She turned her attention back to the task at hand. The cool, dusky light filtering through the room’s windows from the inner garden made the cream hues of the walls gleam in contrast to the rich accompanying blues.

The light of sun was momentarily triumphed by the bright gleam of her Foresight. As soon as her normal vision returned, Minastauriel’s mind raced, and she quickly grabbed her quill.

There was going to be a particularly cold winter in the north of Rohan this year. If Imladris prepared a stock of willow-bark, ginger, feverfew, and woodworm tinctures over summer, these could be traded with Rohan later in the year. It would benefit both peoples; a practical solution she eagerly added to her document.

With a final full stop, she finished her work and turned to Erestor. “Please, can you confirm my calculations and give your judgement on my plan, Erestor?”

Erestor fluidly shut his book and stood, moving as gracefully as a leaf on a slow river. He approached Minastauriel and despite his air of practiced composure, the elf’s eyes twinkled with amusement as brilliantly as the jewels on his ears. “Certainly, Princess Tindómiel. Let me see if your calculations are as impeccable as your enthusiasm.”

‘Ohh, these elves!’

Then she had an idea, and she had to smirk inwardly at Erestor’s elegant and oh-so detached response. Handing over her work with utmost care, ensuring the ink would neither run nor smudge, she chirped back with an air of faux innocence, “Thank you, Princess Erestor.”

Erestor’s eyebrows shot up, and he let out an exasperated sigh. “Is this some new tradition? I’m not a princess, Minastauriel,” he said, looking through the stack of papers with a mix of amusement and mild irritation. “Why did you calculate the feverfew yield when I only asked for grain requirements?”

Shrugging, Minastauriel responded with a cheeky grin, “Oh I stumbled into that research by chance. Once I found out how much wheat, oat and rye we’ll need and how much they’ll cost; I remembered you mentioning earlier about trading being favoured over coin. So I looked into areas of produce we could use in trade.”

He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips as he flipped through the pages, “I suppose your thoroughness is not entirely unwarranted. I’ll review your feverfew findings, though I’m still not convinced it was necessary.”

Minastauriel nodded vaguely, distracted by Erestor’s initial confusion and then grumpiness when being referred to by her title. That… would need repeating—often. Until she got her way.

“Princess Tindómiel? I’ve come to collect your dining plates. May I open the door?”

“Oh yes please. Thank you, Princess Rilma.”

“Princess Tindómiel – why are you looking so intently at the well?”

“No reason Princess Lurlosel. I was just thinking about recipe for cement formulations. Though – it doesn’t look like any was needed for the well… Do you think Princess Erestor will have a book on brickwork?”

“A star shines on our meeting and so does Arien. How can I be of service, your highness?”

“I’m taking inventory of the current stores from last autumn, your highness.”

“Princess Tindómiel?”

“Yes Princess Tatharon?”

“Your highness, I bring a message from Lord Elrond.”

“Ah, thank you, your highness. Let’s see what it says. Oh, an invitation for dinner? Princess Ambalan, please let my uncle know I shall see him then.”

“Princess Tindómiel.”

“Princess Laeg, how can I help?”

“I… have the studies on cultivating athelas you requested. As you will see, Princess, though the valley boasts wet soil from the river, athelas prefers boggier yet than our fields provide.”

“Hmmm – I’ll have a look anyway and see if I remember any methods from… from Númenor that may be of use. Thank you for getting these Princess Laeg. I’ll return them directly to you once I’ve taken notes.”

“Would Princess Tindómiel care for more wine?”

“I would, thank you Princess. Princess Erestor has an empty cup too – please allow me the honour of filling his too.”

“Your highness?”

“Yes, your highness?”

“Your highness?”

“Yes, your highness?”

“How can I advise you today, your highness?”

“Princess Erestor, can you read my plan for the new herb garden, particularly for athelas. If we build it vertically up the south wall of the current garden, Princess Erestor, and have the planters angled at 45 degrees towards the horizon, I think it could be very productive for the space – who do you think I should speak to about the irrigation, Princess Erestor?”

“Princess Erestor.”

                “Princess Erestor.”

                                “Princess Erestor.”

                                                “Princess Erestor.”

Erestor gave in, formalities cracking in favour of finally returning to normal conversation. “Lady Minastauriel,” he said, exhaling deeply.

Beaming at her tiny victory, eyes twinkling with mischief, Minastauriel curtsied. “Thank you, Erestor.”

Early May (Still)

On the eve of the first day of Summer, about a week into Ethuil, the elves would celebrate the festival of Tarnin Austa. As part of her apprenticeship, Minastauriel was entrusted with creating the menu, budgeting the resources for the feast, and reporting the details of such to Erestor so he could organise its provision. She had enjoyed the task so much it hadn’t hardly felt like work. She found great fun in discussing previous meals with her maids, Lurlosel, and the many other elves with whom she also building friendships.

With the abundance of apples on hand, Minastauriel had set herself the little challenge of incorporating the fruit into as many aspects of the meal as possible. Her menu featured apple and walnut-stuffed mushrooms, creamy cheese tartlets with apple slices, and a main course of roast pork with apple and sage stuffing. Sides included apple and fennel salad, and roasted root vegetables with apple slices and rosemary. For dessert, she planned spiced apple cakes with cinnamon whipped cream, apple galettes with honey and toasted almonds, and beverages like mulled cider with summer berries, white wine with cloudy apple juice, and cold tea infused with mint and apple slices. Even the cheese and cold meat course had apple relish.

As she explored endless ways to use apples in different dishes, Minastauriel also learnt about the other elven festivals. Even the next few months were full of celebrations: after Tarnin Austa in about three weeks’ time, there would be Austalende, the midsummer festival of Nórui; then the Lammas Festival at the start of Urui; follow by the weeklong Shooting Star night festival less than a fortnight later; and finally the Harvest Festival in Ivanneth, which included the tradition in the both Eldar and Edain realms of giving handmade gifts or baked good to parental figures.

The Harvest Festival, in particular, intrigued her. She was determined to give Elrond a gift for his parental-like support. Knowing she would likely still be banned from the kitchen even once Ivanneth arrived, she had taken up embroidery as a potential gift. “Ssssss.” She hissed and winced as the needle pricked her finger.

‘Ow.’

Despite the occasional pain, she really was getting the hang of it. Slowly. The act itself was relaxing, until she became so absorbed in her work that that she forgot to watch the needle. Her hands were tired from a day of lessons and accounting for the feast. Not that she would let any complaint slip from her lips. She was as acutely aware now as ever of how generous all her tutors were their time educating her, and she felt honoured to be trusted with organising the feast. Yet, in her mind, she allowed herself the occasional moan, wishing she had the vitality of the elves; surely Turiel or Rilma would not be tired after a day like hers. They likely accomplished thrice as much without difficulty.

“Ssss-ouch!” Minastauriel sighed. There was nothing else for it – it was time to rest, or she was going to ruin the beautiful blue fabric of the cloth book cover she was embroidery with athelas; either with a mis-stitch or her own blood. She set aside her work and instead pulled over her leather tome that served as her accounting book. She wanted her gift for her uncle to be as perfect as she could make it. Elrond deserved nothing less. And there was no rush – she had months to complete it - but just because she was too tired to continue her embroidery, didn’t mean she was going to stop working just yet. From her slightly opened window, she could still hear Lindir singing an ode to Tillion. She had been using the end of his nightly performance as a cue for bedtime, a routine recommended to her by Rilma after Minastauriel explained she preferred to take some evenings independently.

She would like to say it was because she had learnt how to undress from most of her more complicated gowns (true) and take down her hair from most styles provided they weren’t too intricate (also true), or that she wanted to give Rilma and Turiel more free time (true as well) – the initial reasoning was she worked best once Arien had dipped below the horizon. Minastauriel didn’t want her maids – as lovely as they were – interrupting her to change her clothes for bed or brush her hair or bring her chamomile tea. They meant well and never said anything outright, but they definitely thought she should go to bed earlier and… this was the easiest solution.

You would have thought she was trying to live off only a few hours a night instead of nearly seven hours most nights. Yes, occasionally it dipped down to five when she was close to finishing a task for Erestor or got really engrossed into a good book – she was currently making her way through a fantastically gripping account of Finrod Felegund – but she also slept seven and a half hours on other nights. Yet her maids were very sure that edain needed exactly eight hours every night.

Minastauriel smiled, recalling their concerned faces; their advice came from a place of genuine care, but she honestly felt incredibly well-rested on her current sleep schedule. And frankly, the idea of sleeping so long every night made her feel prematurely guilty; she was already achieving far less work than anyone else. Yes, part of that was because she was still a new apprentice with an average of three hours of lessons a day, but it was also because elves only needed about four hours of sleep or ‘meditative trance’ a night.

So… if she needed sneak more time here and there to get certain tasks done then so be it.

Remembering that she was going to be paid for her work assisting Erestor had only made her more determined. The sum was considerable: Ten silver tharni. She hadn’t understood how much money that was when her uncle had first mentioned it during their discussion about Erestor’s offer of apprenticeship. She had simply smiled and thanked him, his own demeanour giving nothing away; Elrond had even said it was just a small sum and she could request more as a monthly stipend whenever she wished. It wasn’t until she started working with Erestor and learning about currency that she understood the value of her wage. Coinage was one of the few aspects of mathematics she needed to be taught. Erestor’s lesson on the subject had been more engaging that one might expect, with each coin taught revealing to Minastauriel a piece of history or culture through its intricate designs.

Every coin bore the Winged Crown on one face, a lingering symbol despite the broken line it now represented, and the words “Do Not Clip” etched along the sides to safeguard the coins value against counterfeiting. The reverse side of the coins showed their worth and an illustration. The names and values varied slightly across regions (Gondor, Rohan etc) but in Eriador the system was as follows:  

The smallest denomination, the Copperlings or Farthings, were tiny bronze coins, no bigger than the print of her forefinger. They also came as quarter sections of a Copper Penny, neatly broken off along etched lines. The coins featured simple designs like an apple or a crossed pair of arrows. Erestor had placed a handful before her and asked, “What do you think can be bought with this small coins?” The woman considered only briefly before answering the easy question. The images were there for more than just decoration. Farthings bought a small portion of food, like a piece of fruit, a handful of nuts, or a small item like a short candle or cheap wooden arrows, the kind not metal tipped. Four Copperlings equalled a Copper Penny.

The bronze Ha’Penny came next. They also bore different designs – either a loaf of bread, two apples, a pumpkin, or a tankard - depending on the year of mint. Erestor had shown her examples of all four, and when she expressed particular delight in the pumpkin design, he had humorously gifted her a ‘patch’ of six pumpkin Ha’pennies to commemorate her joy. She’d laughed at the gesture and was still smiling whilst she correctly identified the coins were used to buy simple items. “A loaf of bread or a pint of ale at a tavern,” she had suggested. “Or a few sheets of paper, or a pumpkin,” Erestor had added with a little grin.

The Copper Pennies, or Buttons, were true to their value, being about four times the size of a copperling. They featured a stalk of wheat crossing a spade, forming the ‘X’ the coin could then be split along into 4 traditional copperlings. Erestor had demonstrated this by striking a coin against the edge of his desk with one firm motion of his palm. “And these?” he asked, pointing at the larger copper coins. “What do you think can be bought with these coins?” Minastauriel had not needed any time to think, “For day-to-day needs, like a bowl of stew or stabling of a horse overnight at a basic inn.” Erestor had nodded in agreement but added that stabling a horse with feed would cost more, and more so still if it were a nice inn; even as much as a silver penny. He also mentioned small items like a short knife or a wooden spoon, or getting your own knife resharpened by a blacksmith, would also cost about a Copper Penny.

It was not said, but from Erestor’s tone Minastauriel had gathered he thought it unlikely she would have much need for copper coins.

The brass Three-pence Piece had a distinctive golden hue and a highly symbolic image. Erestor had explained the origin of the three interlocking circles with a torch intercepting them, as ‘Recognition of one of the most important coins in the day to day lives of the common person’. Seeing the princess’s blank face, he had happily elaborated. “Three pence will buy enough food for a modest meal with including meat, bread, cheese, and a drink. It can purchase a simple tunic or cover a night’s rest in a shared room at an inn. For many who live on their wages day-to-day, having a three pence coin means one of their needs will definitely be fully met.”

Next was the Sixpence, the highest value among the copper-based coins, with a striking hexagonal shape. The copper was alloyed with enough nickel and zinc to appear silvery, and it bore a shield as its symbol, marking it a sturdy and reliable coin. “This one,” Erestor had said, holding it up for her inspection, the coin glinting in the light alongside his earrings, “can purchase a pair of durable shoes of moderate quality.” He continued, “For many labourers, the Sixpence is the highest value of coin they might every see. A sixpence could be enough grain to feed a family of six for a week, or a tool they might need. A pitchfork, a set of needles, a hammer for example.”

Twelves Copper Pennies made a Silver Penny. These pentagonal coins, made of silver with a bit of copper to enhance durability, featured a rearing horse with its rider holding a sword aloft. Erestor had clarified that a Silver Penny was the standard wage for horsemen in times of war. “Otherwise,” he noted, “you could stay the night in a good room at an inn or buy a simple piece of clothing with one such coin. A farmer could buy a full outfit made of sturdy but unadorned fabric with a Silver penny.”

The Silver Tharni was worth twenty Silver Pennies and known by many as a ‘Star’ due to its design. These beautiful coins had a starburst pattern of seven stars, each with seven points, and tiny etchings of the lunar cycle forming a border around the edge. Made from highly refined silver alloyed with a touch of gold, the heavy coin had shone brightly when Erestor handed her one to inspect. “Tharni are rare,” he had said, “and often served for larger transactions. Most farmers, herders, labourers, and tradesman pay rent each week, maybe each month, they rarely need to see one of these; but a modest cottage will cost a little less than two tharni a year in rent.” He had then quirked an eyebrow at her and smirked, “In contrast – your fine silk gown cost a little more than three.”

Minastauriel had gaped but Erestor simply shrugged. “Such is your life, and such is theirs.”

Finally, there was the Castar, ­the highest value coin in circulation, worth four Silver Tharni. This coin, which Erestor had taken her to vaults to find one to see, was nothing short of dazzling. Made almost entirely of gold, alloyed with a little silver, the sparkling coin was huge, nearly as wide as her thumb was long. Its ornate borders were decorated with stars and sun motifs, and in silver, the coin displayed either the White Tree of Gondor or a pair of large, seaworthy ships. “Technically, your wage will be two Castar and two Silver Tharni; but such coins are cumbersome to trade with, so I recommend you take your wages in a few tharni and then various numbers of the smaller silver coins, as we do.”

Minastauriel hadn’t connected how much she was being paid until that precise part of the lesson. For some reason, she had felt that coins were the cheaper form of currency. When she had carefully voiced this to Erestor hoping for explanation, he had rolled his eyes, albeit with a smile. “Yes, Princess, I rather imagine your highness went to shops in Númenor’s Capital and bought things on tab, as is done in Minas Tirith.  Ladies of your rank,” Erestor had continued to tease, “would never carry coin, but only the name of their family and the address to which the bill could be sent.”

There had been no judgement in his voice. For all his teasing, there was also a level of sincerity – that would have been what was expected of her life when she still lived in Númenor as only daughter of the King.

But that wasn’t her anymore.

Now, as she sat alone in her chambers, she thought back to it. She knew her uncle was not offering her that amount of money to manipulate her; Erestor had told her plainly that such a wage for some of her standing; a princess living in the house of her uncle, a Lord in his own right, would of course be highly compensated for ‘deigning’ to work at all. But by Varda’s light she wanted to work hard enough to deserve the wage as the months trailed on. Especially with her estimate of costs for her first commission – one she had researched and realised that here is Arda it would be one of a kind, and so was likely going to cost a lot. Potentially multiple Castar.  A shame given she knew the technology had once existed before – she remembered in part being taught about them when she was younger. A shame on Númenor that they had never shared such invention with the Mainland.

So, she was going to complete every task Erestor gave her with 110% effort and deliver the work early whenever possible. Erestor had also hinted at the always appreciated role of an additional book-copier, albeit with a bemused tone. Her so-called obsession with doing jobs was still a running joke in the valley, more so now that her heritage had been declared and there being the expectation that she would just take the offered stipend. It wasn’t that she would mind receiving such favour, but she liked the idea of earning money herself. Money that would be truly hers, for her to with use as she pleased.

As she worked later into the night, her candle was burning low both literally and figuratively. Her brain throbbed in time with her pulse as she tried to calculate the cost of the wine for Tarnin Austa. The inconsistency in bottle sizes and gallon measurements between Eriador and the other realms worsened her confusion.

Minastauriel sat a little straighter in her armchair, her spine creaking in protest. Lindir’s ode had ended, replaced by wordless melodies, amidst her annoyances over the changeable size of a Esgaroth gallon – it was time for sleep. She had to leave her progress for the night, but she still had many weeks to finish her preparations and have achieved enough that day to report to Erestor in the morning.

She removed her dress, its delicate décor highlighting its high-quality dark blue velvet and pale peach silk, along with her stays and the overlayer, her long socks and garters. She kept on her final layer, her chemise, as her nightgown and kept her shoulders warm with a soft dressing robe. After a few breaths of night air, she pulled shut her window. She brushed her hair until it shone, then cleaned her teeth; feet pattering desperately across the cold tiles as she regretted not sparing the effect of putting on her slippers. After applying some gently scented oils and lotions, she finally settled into her soft bed.

As she snuggled into her head into cloudlike pillows, the distant lullabies and the darkened sky created a cocoon of calm, and she slowly began to drift into slumber.

.

.

.

‘Does Imladris have distillation equipment?’

    ‘They have spirits… so they must do. I’ll ask them tomorrow.’

         ‘I wonder how they condense the vapour.’

               ‘Do they use irrigation connected to a modulated source from the river?’

                     ‘…How do they temper the glass?’

The next day

It was the turning of the ninth hour when Erestor appeared at her door, precisely on schedule. To his own surprise, he was there before she was. She often spent an hour after breakfast reading, but today’s morning sunshine had enticed her outside. Despite the cool breeze, she had ventured to the stables to greet Littlestar as Nantuiel brushed and fed her, and even found   moment to compliment the leaves of the tree from her first riding lesson. Though again she heard no response, she still sent it her hope for its good health.

As she looked up at the counsellor, Minastauriel wondered if it was just her imagination or if Erestor did look slightly pleased to see her.

“Good morning Erestor. I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.”

Erestor waved off her concern as she led him into her parlour room. “Not at all. Let us review the key points for this week; did you manage to speak with the orchard farmers?”

Minastauriel proudly held out her work and quickly - Erestor favouring straight to the point language more than any other Elf she knew - gave a summary.

“Yes, I spoke with them. Here are my findings and calculations. We have enough extra cider to trade for most of the grain we need. By prioritising the sale of poultices through the Dúnedain and using our entire grape crop to replace some of the wine for the festival, we will still have a comfortable surplus of coin for unexpected misfortune. I’ve budgeted for the wine for Tarnin Austa. If we allocate forty tharni on the higher quality southern wine for the toasts and main courses, we can use thirty tharni for plenty of mid-grade wine for the remainder of the event. This will ensure an abundance that’ll last through the night.  I also spoke to Laeg of the valley; twenty percentage of the athelas seeds have sprouted already.”

“Excellent work. It was a good idea to use the grape crop for the wine and to balance the budget. And the new jars from Gondor? Oh - what about the new schedules for the kitchen? And have you spoken to the leatherworkers?” Erestor said, flipping through her calculations with a look of satisfaction. The delicate braids securing Erestor’s hair swayed in the breeze as he shot her questions one after another.

“Yes, that’s all arranged. I consulted Ereg and Mótamelcan on who they thought would best take on their duties in leathers. They recommend Cannar, who worked with leather before. Mótamelcan also agreed to train Langël before they go West to Lindon. Here,” Minastauriel turned a few of the pages in Erestor’s hands to reveal the relevant sheet, “is the new kitchen staff schedule. Cannar and Langël will still be able to contribute there without being overcome with tasks. Oh – those new jars from Gondor, the ones I commented on late last week? They form better seals, so food, poultice and ointments will last longer. I’ve coordinated with a couple of apothecary herbologists to assist with the kitchen herb gardens. They’ll use the new jars for storage going forward. Everything is detailed here, color-coded with different inks, and I’ve included some seasonal suggestions.

Erestor examined her garden plans with an approving nod, before scrutinising her draft schedule. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Was it a stylistic choice to give everyone at least one and a half days devoid of duties?”

Minastauriel nodded enthusiastically. “Wouldn’t it be good? I feel so much better after that amount of rest you’ve given me at the end of each week. With a group of Sindar from the Southern Eriador woods joining us, the overall number of duties will decrease, allowing for more free time. You mentioned that Ñoldor become more creative when rested; perhaps we’ll see some new inventions!”

“Hm.” Despite Erestor’s youthful appearance, attractive features, well-groomed full head of thick dark brown hair, and svelte physique, he still managed to give off the impression of a crotchety old man. She fiddled nervously with the light pink embroidery embellishing her bodice and watched in horror as Erestor reached for his quill.

Had she made a mistake? She had double checked everything! She had been so confident. Biting the arrow, she weakly asked, “Oh, I made a mistake in a calculation?”

“No. Your calculation are excellent.” Erestor said, taking the opportunity of her smiling so bright her eyes closed to write a few words on a spare sheet of parchment. “However, you used the Quenya version of serval words throughout your schedules. Not everyone in the kitchen speaks Quenya, and it’s crucial to be perfectly clear when introducing something new.”

Minastauriel’s shoulders relaxed as she smiled. “It’ll be done by lunchtime,” she promised.

“I know.” Erestor’s smile brightened his face like a flower blooming.

Then he turned to look at the menu she had designed, and she had to bite her lip at his expression.

“An… apple-themed feast?” he inquired; tone as curious as it was sceptical. “You have certainly put a lot of thought into this.”

Minastauriel nodded eagerly, eyes filled with mirth “I thought it was a clever idea – practical with our abundant store of apples and fitting for the season. By Tarnin Austa, all our apple trees will be growing the next crop.”

Erestor gave a soft noncommittal hum, his gaze retuning to the parchment. After a moment, Minastauriel watching his expression carefully, his lips twitched upwards even as he tried to keep a blank face. “I must admit, it’s rather inventive. It reminds me of a Turuhalmë festival – one of our oldest traditions, you should recall - that Lady Celebrían organised whilst pregnant with Lady Arwen. Half the dishes included lemongrass. And I will commend you for considering the resources we have on hand.”

Minastauriel beamed at the praise, but Erestor continued, wry amusement creeping into his voice. “But not all our guests may share your sudden enthusiasm for apples in every course.”

“Of course – I’ve made sure there are a variety of flavours; apples lend themselves well to a range of palettes and will not overpower a dish’s other flavours.”  She defended her menu quickly, nodding at her own arguments.

He looked at her and sighed, though it was more out of resignation than any displeasure. “Very well, we shall proceed with your menu. I shall ensure everything is prepared as you have fruitfully envisioned.” He met her gaze with a look, half-admonishment and half-affectionate amusement. “But should anyone develop a sudden aversion to apples after this, I will know who to thank.”

Minastauriel couldn’t hold back her laughter, “Would you like to make a wager that everyone will love the dishes, and several will become staples in the kitchens for the Iavas season?”

Erestor’s eyebrow piqued at the idea before he rolled his eyes. “You’ve Foreseen the response to your menu?”

She laughed again. “I wouldn’t present it if I wasn’t confident it would be well received.”

Erestor shook his head with a bemused smile. “Very well, I shall trust in your Foresight – used as it was for such a demeaning reason. I do hope your predictions are correct.”

Minastauriel stuck her nose in the air with false haughtiness. “I have every confidence that it will be a feast to remember. And if not, I suppose I will be the one to deal with the complaints,” she added with a wink.

Erestor chuckled softly, his stoicism momentarily giving way to genuine warmth. “I believe this will be an event to remember, indeed, even if it only as the Great Apple Feast of 2931. I shall still ensure a few extra dishes are made without apples; in case any rangers visit with an allergy to the fruit. The dishes will be labelled accordingly.”

As he began to gather the papers, Minastauriel leant back in her chair, savouring the moment of approval. “Thank you, Erestor. I appreciate your trust and support - you won’t regret it.”

“Very well,” Erestor said, adjusting his robe with a practiced motion and swishing his long sleeves as he stood. “I will take my leave so you can attend your Westron lesson. And remember, if anyone complains about an apple overload, I shall only smile and send them your way.”

Minastauriel laughed again, her joy echoing in the room. “I will take that as a challenge.”

With that, Erestor nodded politely and made his way to the door, pausing just before exiting. “Oh, and Minastauriel?”

“Yes?” she responded, turning to face him.

“Do try to avoid turning every event into an apple-themed one. As delightful as you will find planning them, I would hate to see what you come up with for the Shooting Stars Festival if you take this as your template.”

Minastauriel's eyes widened with mock horror. “I assure you; I have no intention of turning our festivities into an endless parade of apples. They would cease to be in abundance if I did so – I would use other fruit.”

Erestor chuckled again, shaking his head – deciding she was joking and not actually planning to remake the precious Shooting Stars Festival into one for athelas - as he exited the room. Minastauriel, left alone, looked up at the soft cream ceiling with a satisfied grin. The anticipation and the light-hearted banter with Erestor had brought her as much joy as she had found in finding the recipes.

With a glance at the sun’s position, Minastauriel gathered her things and hurried to her Westron lesson, which had replaced the majority of her lessons with Lurlosel; now down to only two ‘Common Knowledge’ lessons a week.

Later that day in the Southern Flower Garden, Minastauriel’s POV

After her Westron lesson followed by the writing and literature lesson with her uncle – something that had evolved once Erestor had decreed her handwriting ‘good enough’- Minastauriel joined her cousins in the Hall of Fire for lunch. The two were in far greater spirits than when she had last seen them, though she thought Elrohir still looked a little tired despite the vitality of his bloodline. Elladan eagerly organised their next riding lesson and reminded her of their promise to show her their ability to invoke the Bruinen into water horses. Remembering what she had overheard them say the other day, she tried not to appear obnoxiously grateful (even though she was – water horses! – she was so excited!) and focused more on eating her meal of slice ham, olives, stuffed breaded mushrooms and crackers dipped in melted butter as quickly as she could do so politely. She had intended to get the schedule re-written between her two lessons, but time had run away from her, so she needed to get it done soon before the hour was up, and she risked not keeping her word.

By the end of her luncheon time, she corrected the schedules and only needed to hand them over to Erestor. Something she was about to do; catching him walking in the sunshine through one of the bountifully flowering gardens. At his side was an elf she had not yet been introduced to. He stood half a foot taller than the already tall scholar, and whilst Erestor was notably broad for one who stayed in his library so often, the elf was almost beefy. His handsome face contrasted with his impressive build, and Minastauriel had to admit that while her uncle and cousins were certainly the most beautiful elves she had ever seen, this elf (who could only be the legendary Glorfindel) was the most attractive person she had ever seen. She resisted the urge to hide behind a nearby pink flowering bush to giggle at the butterflies fluttering in her stomach just from looking at him.

She gave herself a mental shake. ‘Get a grip! You need to give the schedule to Erestor and do so without making a fool of yourself. He will never let you live it down if you embarrass yourself squealing at Glorfindel.’

That was what she told herself, then Erestor noticed her and beckoned her come over and Minastauriel had to pretend to recheck her work, so she didn’t get distracted by indigo eyes and a charming, dimpled smile, and risk tripping over her skirt hem.

As she approached, she steeled herself. Facing Erestor first, she greeted him, forcing her voice to stay level instead of trailing into the high-pitched, girlish tone it threatened to become. “Excellent timing Erestor – I have the amended schedule here. I will not keep you, as you seem busy,” she said, turning to give the captain a polite nod in greeting (protocol allowing nothing more) biting the inside of her cheek to keep her smile genteel and not too eager. She remembered from earlier etiquette lessons that when meeting someone of rank, it was proper to wait to be introduced; something she was grateful for at the moment as she was struggling to meet his eyes without her polite smile turning into a beaming grin. He was just so handsome! And also, very tall and broad, which made him a little intimidating, but the gentle way he was smiling at her made up for it.

She was happy to leave now she had given Erestor her work, feeling to flustered to even look at Glorfindel now she was finally in close proximity to him, but when she turned to say goodbye to her tutor, she knew from his slightly arched left eyebrow and little smirk it wasn’t going to be that easy. Perhaps she was too obvious when she mentioned wanting to meet the famed Glorfindel.

“Oh, Lady Minastauriel – you wouldn’t leave us so soon without letting me introduce you to our dear Captain Glorfindel, would you? He searched so diligently in the Rhudaur for your trail when you first appeared too…” The menace didn’t even pretend to be subtle in his tone, for all that he spent his words whilst checking her new schedule and placing it in his satchel.

‘You little... Muk!’

Smiling sweetly, she demurred in a way she hoped made him fear for his library’s organisation. “On the contrary, I would greatly appreciate being introduced; I only thought you two seemed in the middle of an important discussion and I didn't want to extend the interruption.”

Erestor’s dark grey eyes met hers, and Minastauriel pretended she could read him well enough to say his expression said, ‘I can fix any rearrangement you impose upon the library, but you will never recover from your embarrassment if you mess up now.’

At any rate, Erestor smiled suspiciously warmly at her before opening his mouth, Glorfindel watching their interaction curiously. “Well, seeing as you would ‘greatly appreciate’ the introduction, then I am honour bound to do so in the proper manner.”

Minastauriel’s face gave a noticeable twitch at those words, and she saw out the corner of her eye Glorfindel raise a tanned hand to mask a little chuckle.

Ignoring both their responses, Erestor continued with excessive flourish. “Your highness, Princess Tindómiel – please let me introduce my friend and the Captain of the Guard here in Imladris, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.”

If Erestor thought being in front of someone as mindbogglingly attractive as Glorfindel would make her less shameless, then he had severely underestimated her. She shot a quick glare at the scholar before turning to face the captain.

The elf bowed gracefully, as if he were not wearing broad shoulder pauldrons and a chest plate, low enough that his head dipped below her own height. “Your highness, it is an honour to meet you, as it is an honour to serve your uncle as I once served your great-great-grandfather, King Turgon in Gondolin.”

Minastauriel was glad the captain could not see her face from his position, as watching the breeze play flirtatiously with his golden curls brought a moment of flush to her face. ‘I am so glad I attended all those etiquette lessons; after this display there would be no way I could think of something say!’

As instructed to do in her lessons, she warmly responded – returning any high words with similar words and kind praise, “Please, rise Captain Glorfindel. It is I who is honoured to meet you. My cousins have spoken highly of your strength, valour and wisdom.” Then, as instructed not to do, she gave her own small curtsy before continuing with cheerful smile, “And, please, call me Minastauriel. I have no need for such high formalities; as Princess Erestor knows well.” Her smile turned as a sickly sweet as the saccharine of her voice, her final words directed at her tutor.

Glorfindel, who had been receiving her response with a polite smile and a reserved manner, entirely acceptable for such a legend in front of a mere princess, abruptly snorted at her final words – something that seemed to surprise and embarrass him as much as it delighted her. He paused as if in shock and then tried to cover his face a little with his hand.

‘Perhaps he isn’t reserved at all – but shy?’ His reaction was so endearing, she immediately wanted to make him blush more. She glanced at Erestor as if to say ‘Watch this’ and felt her earlier nerves melt away in the fun of it all. “I almost didn’t expect Erestor to introduce you to me as our Captain Glorfindel. When I saw you walking with him, I could have mistaken you for an apprentice of Aerion, come here to teach us the meaning of ‘radiance’. Even the flowers seem more beautiful in your presence.”

Delighted with herself at both the creeping blush on Glorfindel’s face, his slightly slaw-jawed expression, and the sight of Erestor trying hard not to laugh, she waited until the flustered elf composed himself before teasing further. “Though from the perfect pink your cheeks are turning, perhaps you could be one of Yavanna’s Maia? I am fortunate indeed to meet someone so handsome who can wear such a fuchsia pink so exquisitely.” Dizzy with her own gumption, she decided to go before her confidence failed her, and so on the fly she made up an excuse to quickly leave.

“But alas – I must go now for a meeting.” Bobbing her head at the speechless, nearly magenta, Glorfindel, and then Erestor, who was just about keeping his composure, she shot a wink at the scholar as she turned away. Leaving the garden, smiling so broadly her cheeks pinched and the tiny, tiny dimple of her left cheek appeared, she heard Erestor finally erupt into laughter in a manner that had several passersby look over in alarm.

‘What a glorious day.’

And she didn’t even have a meeting to go to – but whilst Erestor finished up whatever he was originally speaking to Glorfindel about, she would be swapping a few books around on their shelves.

The Southern Flower Garden, Imladris. Glorfindel’s perspective

Glorfindel strolled peacefully through the finest of Rivendell’s flower gardens, enjoying how the familiar sounds of Imladris in spring soothed his mind after another night of troubled sleep. The soft rustling of new leaves, the scattered hum of insects, the distant murmur of the Bruinen and faint symphony of waterfalls harmoniously blended with the scent of blooming flowers and fresh, wet earth. By chance he had encountered Erestor whilst returning from another rigorous training session and welcomed the chance to catch each other on recent developments since their last conversation a few days prior.

The midday sun cast a soft glow on the world around them, in stark contrast to the lingering shadows of Glorfindel’s troubled dreams. He had intended to ask Erestor on how the girl had so quickly earnt his trust, something that had been apparent when they had spoken last week, however a movement at the edge of the garden caught it vigilant eye; a young woman with long dark brown hair and a mortal grey gaze that flickered between curiosity and apprehension. Glorfindel recognised her as the one he had seen learning to ride the other day. When Erestor called her over, Glorfindel was able to observe her in more detail for the first time. She moved with a mixture of grace and nervous energy, clutching a sheet of parchment she pretended to read whilst clearly watching her own feet pad towards them. Seeing her up close gave his heart an uneasy lurch as he was struck with the memory of her face as it had appeared in his shadowy dreams. His instincts, borne and sharpened by millennia of battle and diplomacy, warned him to tread carefully even whilst he reminded himself that dreams so often were nothing more than echoes of a restless mind’s anxieties. ‘But some dreams are much more. Some were warnings,’ he thought, keeping his expression polite but neutral, masking his distrust as it simmered beneath the surface, as it had when he had first realised the similarities of her arrival with that of Princess Aredhel and Maeglin.

As she drew nearer, he watched how she hesitated, her gaze flitting between him and Erestor. For one brief but telling moment Glorfindel (far better at reading emotions hidden beneath the surface than she was at controlling her expressions) saw how she steeled herself before greeting the scholar. As he saw a faint blush on her cheeks and the way she was very deliberately not looking at him, Glorfindel once again reminded himself that she had not done anything to earn his distrust save for her arrival in Imladris in a manner that reminded him that of one that had happened thousands of years before. Even his dreams could be no more than his mind processing this repetition of history.  

Still, the small smile he saw tugging at the corner of Erestor’s lips deepened his unease. In a matter of months, his cautious, almost prickly friend had not only began trusting the woman, but had even become a bit fond of her. Perhaps this shouldn’t have surprised him; given the positive manner Erestor had mentioned her a few times in their frequent chats, but Glorfindel hadn’t interpreted those comments as indicative of a budding friendship.

As she handed the parchment to Erestor, her eyes flicked briefly to Glorfindel again, before darting away as if she could sense his scrutiny. There was a subtle tension in her shoulders, but Glorfindel would admit she was doing well in maintaining her composure despite her obvious nerves. It wasn’t the best day for them to meet; Glorfindel’s dreams that night had been particularly draining, filled with ominous twists and turns, ending with the girl appearing (as she had done so in several of his dreams by now) at the edge of a great storm that hung threateningly over a bay he remembered seeing south of the Havens. It would have been fairer to meet her on a better day, one where he could smile and put her at ease.

But such was not his decision as Erestor had already chosen not to let her escape. Glorfindel could see the familiar twinkle in the scholar’s eye, the kind that meant mischief. He would know, having been on the wrong side of it, many times before.

“Oh, Lady Minastauriel – you wouldn’t leave us so soon without letting me introduce you to our dear Captain Glorfindel, would you?” Erestor teased, a challenge lacing his tone, “He searched so diligently in the Rhudaur for your trail when you first appeared too…”

Glorfindel almost winced at the overt teasing, but managed to maintain a polite smile, curious to see how Minastauriel would react. Erestor wasn’t one to frequently make jokes, though he certainly had a sense of humour, but Glorfindel suspected there was a reason for Erestor creating this situation. He must be counting of the girl doing something more than standing there like a daisy.

And the girl did not disappoint – her eyes narrowed with something like annoyance, before her face transformed into a berry-sweet smile, the kind with a tart burst of flavour on the tongue. “On the contrary, I would greatly appreciate being introduced; I only thought you two seemed in the middle of an important discussion and I didn't want to extend the interruption,” were said sweetly with a flash of matching challenge in her eyes, words said boldly as if it were not obvious that she wanted to leave immediately.  

His lips twitched up into a slightly more genuine smile at her wit before they returned to their usual bland curve. Even now, something in him grew more concerned, not because he could see any sign of deception in her aside her willingness to stay out of politeness, but because he felt uneasy even in face of her utterly ordinary nature. Truly, the child of man seemed harmless for all that his dreams seemed to portray her as a figure heralding a dark change in the winds of fate.

 Erestor gave the kind of formal introduction he would normally despise giving in any genuine manner, his tone dripping with mock pomp as much as his flourishing hand gesture. Again, seeing the unguarded way Erestor could already act with this stranger made Glorfindel feel like hewas missing something.

“Your highness, Princess Tindómiel, please let me introduce my friend and the Captain of the Guard here in Imladris, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.”

‘Right, ’Glorfindel reminded himself, ‘she’s a princess.’ Lord Elrond’s niece and daughter of King Elros, and great granddaughter of Princess Idril. Glorfindel bowed deeply, as much out of habit and respect for her lineage as it was to disguise how his smile wavered remembering the last time he had seen Princess Idril. “Your highness, it is an honour to meet you, as it is an honour to serve your uncle as I once served your great, great grandfather, King Turgon in Gondolin.”

Erestor had given the impression in earlier conversations that the girl preferred more familiar manners; but Glorfindel wasn’t about to presume he would be offered the same favour. As he rose, he saw the tail end of her curtsy, a returning sign of respect he hadn’t been expecting. The princess outranked him by bloodline, her heritage entwining with nearly every noble lineage possible, so her formal response was also surprisingly generous. ‘Or perhaps she is just really pleased with my face?’  He mused, noting the blush that had coloured her cheeks when she first saw him.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, her smile turned from polite to cheeky as she added, “And, please, call me Minastauriel. I have no need for such high formalities, as Princess Erestor knows well.”

Glorfindel couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped him, remembering the exact incident she was referred to. He had listened to Erestor venting his frustration for days over losing a silly game of wills with the girl. Erestor cared little if she went by the title herself or not, but he was certainly put out when she insisted on calling him ‘Princess’, and Glorfindel thought, if it were not for his worrying dreams, that he might have found the girl’s exercise in stubbornness charming.

Abruptly he realised what he had done. He hadn’t snorted in front of someone he did not consider a friend before, and he found himself quickly raising his hand to cover his face, something he immediately regretted as Minastauriel’s eyes gleamed with mischief. He could see why Erestor had warmed to her so quickly; far from the jumpiness she had displayed earlier; she now exuded an unanticipated, playful air. It caught him off guard, making him feel as if he had exposed a side of himself that he shouldn’t have. But not as much as her next words took him completely by surprise.

“I almost didn’t expect Erestor to introduce you to me as our Captain Glorfindel,” she teased. “When I saw you walking with him, I could have mistaken you for an apprentice of Aerion, come here to teach us the meaning of ‘radiance.’ Even the flowers seem more beautiful in your presence.”

Glorfindel was at a loss for words, feeling a rush of heat rising to his cheeks, and inwardly cursed at his obvious reaction. The woman would have to be blind not to see it. Glorfindel was no stranger to admiration, to compliments; odes were sung of him – of his beauty as much as of his deeds - even here in the valley, but her playful, almost flirtatious words were too bold, almost indecent... and possibly heretical? He felt almost as if he’d been propositioned. ‘‘Teach the meaning of radiance’ sounded like it could almost be…no, I am grasping at straws here,’ the blushing elf thought, dismissing the notion. What did he know of how such things worked in the Mannish courts. No, she hadn’t meant it like that – and he could see Erestor struggling to keep a straight face out the corner of his eye. He was enjoying every moment of Glorfindel’s discomfort.

Princess Tindómiel, or Minastauriel as he corrected himself, either failed to notice his mild distress or chose to ignore it, continued with a bright smile as her own happiness brought a light blush to her face. “Though from the perfect pink your cheeks are turning, perhaps you could be one of Yavanna’s Maia. I am fortunate indeed to meet someone so handsome who can wear such a fuchsia pink so exquisitely.” she added, her voice practically dripping with playful innocence.

In response to the relentless and audacious tease, which toed the line of mockery, Glorfindel’s emotions flared in a brief but intense mixture of amusement, disbelief, and exasperation. ‘What is she playing at?’  For a moment, he saw a hint of pride in her eyes, a mischievous glimpse, almost too fast to catch, before she returned to a more innocent expression.

Glorfindel attempted to regain his composure, but since her arrival in the garden he had felt wrong footed. When she had joined Erestor and him, he had feared seeing a threat, or a hint of darkness within her, yet he saw none of these to explain his bristled instincts. Instead, he met a witty young woman with a quick, playful spirit and a frankly ridiculous level of brazenness that again, explained why Erestor was forming a quick friendship with her. Not that everyone would be charmed by such a manner, but hadn’t she behaved differently before Erestor had invited it? Though it had been at his expense, her actions had absolutely been intended to amuse Erestor – someone she evidently considered a friend and could read well enough to know what he would find funny. And Erestor was certainly fond of blunt humour as much as he enjoyed clever jokes and wry jabs. And she had not insulted him, only complimented Glorfindel more daringly than anyone had ever had dared to do.  

Apparently satisfied with bringing Erestor to the point where he was twitching with supressed amusement, Minastauriel gave them each a nod, offered a short farewell and turned to leave. As she departed, Erestor finally broke, letting out a rich, amused laugh. Glorfindel found himself joining in after a few moments.

Eventually, their laughter died down, and Glorfindel spoke still catching his breath. “She certainly is something. Unexpected is the word, more than any other.” He chose his words carefully as he ran a hand through his golden hair, cheeks warm now with a comforting flush from laughter. She was disarming, and Glorfindel could accept how genuine she seemed, for all the dark clouds that hung over his thoughts.

Erestor, still chuckling, tapped one of Glorfindel’s pauldrons. “Yes, that tends to be everyone’s first impression of her. Like you don’t know quite what just happened or how you lost control of the conversation. The longer she has been here, the more she is coming into herself, remembering who she is – I for one am rather looking forward to seeing what she is like once she is whole. I want to witness her meet Thrandruil.”

Glorfindel laughed in agreement, then offered his own suggestion, “Or Lady Galadriel?” This made Erestor pause in thought. “Oh yes – they would get on very well, but her preference against formalities might annoy Lord Celeborn. Not that she would disrespect the Lady of Lothlórien; she only just stopped calling her uncle by his title. But she is still relearning etiquette. And on that note, I promise you my friend,” Erestor grinned, “she had no idea how outrageous she was with her compliments. She is going to be so embarrassed when I tell her.”

He looked so delighted at the prospect, and so entirely smug with the situation that Glorfindel had to ask. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? That’s why you began the conversation that way; because she often compliments people so… bluntly?”

Erestor barked out another laugh, shaking his head, and continuing jubilantly, “No – she’s never done anything like that before. But she has been reading a lot of the great tales and has expressed an interest in meeting you several times. I wasn’t expecting her to shower you with more praise about your looks—your vanity hardly needs more encouragement. But I was counting on her saying something shocking. I thought she might ask you for sword lesson, and when you questioned why, she’d give another heartfelt spiel about helping people,” Erestor cackled and quickly added, “but this was so much better.”

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. “That little flirt wants to learn how to use a sword?”

“Hardly little, you great lump,” Erestor retorted, not arguing with his other comment, “And whilst she has managed to grow taller since being here, we are certain she is of age, if not older. Lurlosel thinks it is a latent growth spurt from living off elven food. And yes, that is what the twins mentioned to me. Minastauriel wants to travel and thinks she should be trained in defence before attempting any journeys alone.”

Glorfindel frowned, his worries of what the girl might represent as a danger taking a backseat as he considered the very real dangers a woman could face travelling even in a convoy, let alone by themselves. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am. But she is young and still remembering much. However, I am very much in agreement that she needs training lessons. And perhaps a spar with you, a reminder of inexperienced she is, will motivate her in acquiring guards for whatever trips she wants to go on, even after she receives training. Her uncle would grant her guards easily, and after she is introduced to the Dúnedain, perhaps she may travel here and there with the Grey Company? Freedom across lands, but well protected by seasoned warriors – and her Foresight would be a welcomed asset; that is reason for her wanting to travel in the first place.”

Glorfindel gave his friend a considering look. “You want me to teach her?”

Erestor shrugged elegantly, making Glorfindel roll his eyes, resisting the urge to jostle his prissy friend, particularly when said friend said, “Well, if you are offering, that would be good.”

Glorfindel was eyeing the flowers for a suitable place to shove Erestor, hopefully somewhere with thorns or an anthill, when Erestor coughed and caught his attention. Levity faded with Erestor’s serious face. “I am not asking you to trust her blindly, and I do trust your instincts. I also do not think she means any harm. I have spoken to her often enough, and consider myself a good judge of character, to by now know her intentions. Mithrandir’s approval of her, his reasonings to explain her appearance, and his confirmation of her lineage have eased much of my worries and reinforced the building trust I have in her purposes.” Glorfindel was about to sigh – he didn’t need his own suspicions dismissed as needless – but Erestor continued in a different tone. “But you are not usually a suspicious person. Something about her is unsettling you, and even by Mithrandir’s conclusion; we should fear what is coming. We know the darkness in the East will spread – this is more proof of it. By the power of Eru, this woman has been brought to us. That kind of action by Iluvatar is no small thing to be dismissed,” Erestor’ voice was quiet now, spoken low so naught else but they could hear. “We know even more assuredly that something is coming, so we must get ready. And Minastauriel may be here to help do exactly that. We should not avoid preparing for trouble in favourr of enjoying our current peace; our enemy will not be sitting idle.”

“Sauron” Glorfindel spat under his breath.

“Exactly. He will be gathering strength in Mordor even as he lurks in Dol Guldur. But now we have a Seer determined to help, with a precision to her visions even Lady Galadriel cannot claim...”

Glorfindel quickly understood Erestor’s point. “You think I am correct in what I sense, but that I have it the wrong way around. What I fear is not brought by her, but whatever is coming has resulted in her deliverance here.”

Eresor nodded solemnly, looking at the flowers around them as if they were pieces on a war board.

“And my dream? I know my dreams and this one – seeing her in the West by a great storm – is not a ramble of my restless worries; I can tell it means something.”

Erestor smiled hollowly. “We are likely a few centuries, perhaps only a few decades, from another war for Midde Earth. With a Seer handpicked by Eru – one can only assume the ‘storm’ you foresee her bringing, whatever it represents, is how the current tide will change against our enemies.”

“’Storms’ are indiscriminate in their attack.”

“All the more reason to train her then” Erestor quipped back. “I’ll suggest to Elrond that she receives archery lessons too.”

At Glorfindel’s puzzlement, Erestor smiled wryly. “So that she can better aim whatever storm she is bringing towards Mordor.”

A correction from previous chapter. I forgot that 'Hobbit' is also an English word and if she used it with Gandalf, he would not understand the term but would immediately know the term ‘Tuk’ so he would be fairly sure who she was referring to. So here is a little redo of that scene:

Gandalf paused for a moment, leaning forward in the day-room chair, eyes a-twinkling and a smile tugging on his face. Minastauriel rather thought he was looking forward to his next words, though they puzzled her in turn. “And there is another point to consider. You remember small amounts of another language. I recall you mentioning a name before, of a ‘hobbit’. Mind you repeat the name for me and company?”

“Belladonna Took?”

“Yes – and you believe I know this person?”

Minastauriel blinked. “You don’t know her? That’s not possible – not if Aragorn has been born. You certainly know her, and her son. And Lord Elrond – you’ve met her too.”

“Indeed?”

At the sight of Lord Elrond’s surprise, she couldn’t help but exclaim, in moderately polite tones: “Yes! She stayed here. In Imladris.”

Elrond glanced at Gandalf, who was smiling like a canary-fed cat. When Gandalf did not deign to explain anything, Elrond rolled his eyes in theatrical exasperation at his old friend, and then turned back to Minastauriel.

“It seems our guest is being difficult; who would have foreseen such behaviour? My dear, Minastauriel, could you tell us the meaning of this person’s name, should you know it. And describe what you mean by ‘Hobbit’.”

“But… you already know the hobbit’s name?”

“Humour me.”

“Well Belladonna is a plant with poisonous berries. It also means beautiful lady. Tûk I am unsure of a meaning for. Hobbits are Halflings – they live in peaceful lands near Bree.”

She watched Elrond’s face as a look of realisation washed over him.

“I believe we now have the name of Banqimi Tûk translated into whichever language you once knew. I did indeed know a Kuduk known as Banqimi Tûk, who has also visited Imladris in the past. Since her marriage she was known Banqimi Labingi.”

“Kuduk? Banqimi Labingi – this is Westron?”

“Exactly – whilst the terms Belladonna and Hobbit are from a language yet unknown to us, but one you evidently once knew. Few kuduk ever leave the Shire in these times, but Banqimi was not the only one to ever reach this House. I am interested to find out if there are any other names you know only as a translation… and why you only knew the translation of Banqimi rather than her actual name.” As Gandalf’s question sank in, the table was cleared, bar one plate of remaining pastries, the tea set replaced with goblets of water and a sparkling water pitcher, and there was a repose whilst music played.

A couple more nots that I cannot fit in the actual section below.

Regarding MInadtuairel interactions with her hungover cousins: I wish I had understood social interactions as well as I and Minastauriel do now – my school life would have been so much easier T^T

Horse height – Minastauriel recalls the theoretical height of horses but has forgotten that horse heights are measured to the withers (roughly where the base of its neck meets its torso). So, she does not expect horses to tower over her as much as they do. And these are elvish horses so I’m envisioning them being even taller than ones bred by Man.