Feud

by erobey | italics indicate thoughts |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd Echui (Awakening)

Days rolled by, dawn melting into dusk, crimson sunsets replaced by golden, glinting mornings; Ithil grew, diminished, and vanished then waxed toward fulness again. Snow showers filtered through the air and coated the brown earth white, weighed down the branches of evergreens as ice clothed the spidery limbs and twigs of the naked trees. The Solstice arrived unacknowledged; Winter claimed the Woodland Realm. Tawar slept in the dense, immobile silence of flinty winter nights beneath skies embedded with hard, clear sparks, minute and cold and distant. The Wood Elves brought forth fur cloaks and sturdy fleece-lined boots, surrounded their abodes in layers shielding curtains of silk and wool. Every talan was shrouded in layers of silk and wool; hidden braziers exhaled heat, light, and thin, vermiform ribbons of grey-blue smoke, a thousand thuribles perfuming the heavens to beg the strength of Tawar for Tirno and peace for Greenwood. To all Legolas was insensible.

Erestor soothed a cool cloth over Pen-rhovan's feverish face, the Tawarwaith so pale he resembled nothing so much as a taper diminished by constant use, a transparent, waxy quality to his skin, lips dark maroon and cheeks sunken and stained with blotchy vermilion circles. The sound of his affliction was quieter today, Erestor thought, less punctuated by piercing screams and convulsive flailing than by shuddering gasps, hoarse and grating moans of sullen and plaintive tones, strained attempts at speech that came forth broken and unintelligible or profane. Legolas was rattled by a continuous, faint twitching of the limbs and often presented a truly grotesque expression of wretchedness, a mask sufficiently repugnant to rival those sported by dwarven soldiers of the First Age. He drifted in shallower seas of suffering, buffeted by fewer gales, tossed by gentler swells, but remained unable to raise his consciousness above this tide of torment and misery.

But he is quieter today.

The seneschal had not left his mate's side since Thranduil's summoning and remained adamant that complete recovery was possible, having come to an internal decision to accept no other option. He would not allow anyone to speak in negative terms, insisting Legolas was able to hear them now and would be influenced by whatever was said. Discussion of his state of health was relegated to the healers alone. All others must find some other topic on which to expound and he demanded they address Legolas as though he was conscious and could respond to them. If they could not do this, then song or silence were the only other options permitted. Tears and mournful recollections were forbidden.

"You are resting easier today, Pen-rhovan," he murmured softly and dipped the cloth again, swabbing over the long neck and bony shoulders, carefully, lightly soothing an ugly, ragged gouge that nearly circled the left nipple. "You are healing here, too." He forced his voice into a steady, even tone, for this injury always brought him near to tears, though there were many made by claws and teeth. The skin surrounding the enflamed node was crusted and sealed at last, and he offered yet another silent prayer that this would leave no scar. He soaked the rag and squeezed out the excess, softly dabbing at fading bruises left by stones or other blunt weapons. Never had he known contusions to heal so slowly. He gingerly patted at a nasty lash that still fought against their efforts to purify it. The contact made Legolas groan feebly and he began trembling. Erestor shushed him. "Nay, do not fear; it is just me trying to cool the fever all these infections have let loose upon your body."

The wild-elf calmed a bit and a heavy sigh worked through his chest; his hand clutched convulsively at the bedding beneath him. His eyelids fluttered briefly but did not open.

When the fever was high, he raved incoherently and fought invisible foes with feeble and abortive motions; every contraction of a muscle unleashing a torrent of excruciating pain. These episodes left him whimpering and trembling, though these were not the atrocities endured within the white void or the black pits, but ordinary nightmares wrought by illness. Only minimally less horrendous for that, the sickness seared him until sweat ran from his body, mixing with the oozing pus of the worst of the lashes and lacerations from whips and claws and teeth. The fluid stank of decay and stained the pallet on which he lay. The mattress had been removed and burned after the third day for it was adding to the unclean environment and abetting the recalcitrant infections. Gladhadithen had reverted to simple pallets of soft moss beneath plain cotton sheets, layering blankets atop that when the ague seized him; these could be easily replaced as needed.

Erestor completed the gentle washing, pleased to note that the disgusting scratches at the tip of the penis were completely healed, the new skin still pink. He cautiously wiped the lax genitals and inner thighs, sighing in relief that this provoked no noticeable reaction. Legolas had not endured another sexual fantasy since the removal of the false ring and the seneschal was convinced this was because Legolas knew his mate was near, watching over him and protecting him. The broken leg he barely touched, leaving this to Aragorn or Gladhadithen for they had impressed upon him how serious the threat was. He might yet lose it.

That would be terrible. I will take him over sea before I let them take his leg.

He drove the idea out of his thoughts immediately and carried away the basin, dumping it over the side, shivering as a blast of icy air hit him when the curtains parted. He returned to Legolas side, scanned the naked body and its many wounds, sighed and forced a smile. "You are certainly better today and you must be thirsty," Erestor avowed. This was his other regular chore: force feeding his ailing mate life-sustaining fluids. He gathered a ewer of clear water and a clean reed and settled beside Legolas, carefully gathering his head onto his lap. Another gulping groan exhaled from the Wood Elf's lungs and he struggled against Erestor's careful hands.

"Nay, be still, Pen-rhovan, be still," the seneschal exhorted gently, trying to get Legolas to ingest more than one swallow. "The water will soothe your throat and ease your thirst; drink. Come now, another sip or two for me," he cajoled and pushed the tube between Legolas' lips, thumb firmly sealing the upper end. He trickled a few drops onto his tongue. Legolas grew still and gave a convulsive swallow and Erestor let more of the water flow; smiling to see the throat working rapidly to take it in.

All the water in the tube was gone and Erestor praised the wild elf. "Well done, well done. Another would help you tremendously. Once more, then." He sucked cold water into the thin reed from the carafe at his side, sealed it with his thumb, and worked it between the dry lips, watched the fluid disappear. "That's fine, Legolas, excellent," he encouraged, certain Pen-rhovan listened to him. "If we keep this up, it will all start coming back out soon," he joked lightly, though it was not really funny.

Legolas' body was not functioning well and Gladhadithen had produced a second tube to be used for emptying the bladder when it filled. That was seldom, for the stricken patient was sweating away nearly every drop he swallowed. Erestor filled the conduit a third time and inhaled a sharp breath when Legolas sucked it up greedily and sounded a satisfied grunt. The waxy eyelids fluttered, lashes parting for a second. "Oh!" the seneschal cried and quickly offered a fourth drink. Again it was consumed avidly and this was repeated several more times. Legolas stirred, hand half lifting as his head jerked, eyes rolling behind their covers. Erestor was nearly beside himself, soothed eager fingers over the feverish cheek, clasped the hand tight.

"Legolas, do you hear me? I know you do, Pen-rhovan, and that was wonderful, wonderful. I am here, right here beside you. We're home in the talan in the clearing. Do you think you could open your eyes for a moment and…"

"What is happening, Erestor?" Aragorn was on the lower platform and scrambled up in seconds. He hunkered down beside the patient and ran a critical eye over the emaciated form. He thought there might be a hint of change and raised a cautiously inquisitive expression to Erestor.

"He drank at least seven tubes of water, sucked it up himself!" Erestor announced. "He almost spoke; I am sure he was trying and his eyes almost opened. And he reached for me, Aragorn! He hasn't done that before, has he?"

Seeing his unbridled joy, Aragorn hated to dampen such happiness, but he had witnessed this phenomenon, too. "Aye, he has," he admitted, settling a comforting hand on his old tutor's shoulder. "It is just reflex, Erestor, not necessarily a sign of healing."

"Ah, a reflex. Of course." Erestor felt as though he'd been kicked and sighed heavily. He ran a tender caress over the stubbly golden hair, trying to gather hope from the slick skin that had replaced the cuts on the scalp. There were several bald patches there but he could feel a downy soft fuzz growing in. Like a new-born babe's hair. No elf ever looked less like an elfling and suddenly the seneschal gasped out a noisy sob. He snatched Legolas up and held him close, hid his streaming eyes against a bony shoulder and wept in long, convulsive heaves. "Please," he wailed. "Ai Elbereth, please!"

It had been so long since Legolas left him to find Lindalcon and the seneschal was beyond his breaking point. How much longer could Legolas hold on? The fevers rose and fell, nightmares and hallucinations plagued Pen-rhovan, infections were battled into submission only to flare up anew and set back all the hard work done. The Tawarwaith was reduced to skeletal dimensions though all his friends took turns dripping nourishing broth, water, and milk with honey down his throat. They bathed him often and the stench of decay had finally relented. Yet, there was little to distinguish between the earlier state of captivity and this intractable wasting illness. Erestor had begun to wonder if his mate realised he was free or if all their efforts had failed, if he would remain trapped in that mental hell, slowly fading into death.

Should I try the enchanted waters? Am I being cruel to ask him to keep fighting?

"Lay him down, Erestor, lay him back down," Aragorn was trying to pry the Noldo's arms off his patient for Legolas was clearly in agony from this abrupt shifting and the tight compression against ghastly wounds, no matter the genuine love behind it. "You are hurting him, mellon; can't you hear him?"

Erestor froze, stunned and horrified to register the thin whistling cries escaping from Legolas' clenched jaws. "Ai, forgive me, Pen-rhovan!" he whispered and softly kissed the tear-streaked shoulder as he carefully settled his mate upon the pallet. "Is he all right? Have I done harm?" His anguished countenance beseeched Aragorn.

"Nay, nothing major," consoled the Man, working quickly. "Roll him toward you; one of the lashes has broken open again." He was actually pleased to see and smell clean crimson blood instead of the rank, yellow pus of earlier days. While he was at it, he cleaned and dressed all the sores, changed the bandaging on the hand where the finger was pink and swollen but not putrid, and examined the damaged leg. He was still concerned about it, but Legolas was able to move it and the archer's blood still made it all the way to his toes, which were healthy if somewhat cracked and scaly. There has been improvement.

"Eru's arse, how can I be such an imbecile?" Erestor berated himself and actually struck his thigh quite hard with his fist.

"Nay, be kinder to yourself, mellon vrûn. You are holding up well and need not resort to physical punishment. And you are not wrong; there has been a change. The fever has not broken yet, but I think he may have turned a corner today." Aragorn smiled and held up the cloth he'd used to blot up the blood. "See this? There is no odour of putrefaction in it, no rotted flesh upon it. And look: the wound has clotted on its own and sealed, just as is normal for the elven folk."

"Aye, you're right," Erestor let a grain of relief seep into his heart and felt an uncertain smile fleet across his face. He bent low and kissed the forehead damp with sweat. "Did you hear that, Legolas? Soon you will have to leave this long sleep behind you and look upon the world. I am waiting here beside you and I grow impatient for my mate to return to me." He stroked the downy yellow fluff and his mouth worked in worry. He bent toward the pointed ear and whispered: "Not really. I am patient, Beloved. I will wait as long as necessary and when you are ready, when you are strong enough, know that I will be here when you wake."

Aragorn patted his shoulder kindly; he felt terrible for Erestor and wished he could do something to relieve the suffering husband's anxiety. All he could manage was a distraction. "We might as well change this bedding now."

This achieved two goals: providing a clean environment for Legolas and a chance for Erestor to hold his mate for a few minutes. Aragorn waited until he was established against the little cupboard near the thick trunk and then gathered Legolas up and laid him in the seneschal's open arms. Subdued groans protested the movement and the long legs twitched, but the unconscious elf fell quiet once his ear settled against Erestor's chest. A shuddering breath lifted his ribs and emptied his lungs and the uninjured hand jerked to touch the long black hair, latching tight to the inky tresses. Aragorn and Erestor's eyes met, both faces beaming.

"Did you see?"

"Aye!"

"He's not done that before."

"Nay, nay he has not and that is no reflex, Erestor."

"Let me hold him a while, Aragorn."

"Yes, he is easier in your arms. Listen to his breathing."

They exchanged these words in whispers and paused in breathless delight to hear a semblance of more normal respiration commence.

"I think he might be cooler, too," Erestor ventured and watched avidly as Aragorn tested the idea, his palm burrowing into Legolas' underarm for a moment.

"Perhaps a little," the Man would not concede more at this stage, but was really quite pleased. They had saved the finger, both he and Gladhadithen agreed on that, and it had been a great victory. Perhaps that had been the precursor of a more general cure. The infections had not invaded his blood or bone and that was an even greater triumph, though individual wounds remained stubbornly putrid. Definitely turned a corner. "Legolas is incredibly tenacious," he chuckled. "He intends to recover his strength and then relieve those 'Shadow-slaves' of their rings, just as he promised."

"Ai! Don't bring that up in my hearing," admonished Erestor, "especially those rings. I do not want him returning to patrol those woods again. He is to be Greenwood's prince and that is more than enough of a job for any elf."

"Erestor, your mate is a warrior," reminded Aragorn.

"Aye, but he has earned a rest, don't you agree?"

"I do, but it depends on what he wants." Aragorn had thought this before, that Legolas and Erestor were fundamentally ill-suited as mates: one a rugged, durable warrior accustomed to extreme conditions, the other a statesman and counsellor in a protected realm eternally at peace. How would Legolas fit into Erestor's life; how could the seneschal adapt to the ways of the Wood Elves?

"He has a husband now and these things will be determined together," Erestor announced as he smiled down at the archer's placid face, the lines of pain erased for the first time he could recall. "Isn't that the way it should be, Pen-rhovan?" He sighed and raised his gaze to the Man's. "He is so beautiful to be such a ferocious warrior!" he exclaimed and joined in when Aragorn laughed.

"Valar! There is the proof of your devotion, if I required it," he said. "Beautiful is not the word I would use today, or for many days to come."

"But he is beautiful, Aragorn, and that is exactly why the day will dawn when his outward form will exemplify that truth. Even the oldest scars will diminish to nothing under the balm of our love," Erestor insisted, scowling darkly for this bordered on the kind of negative talk he did not permit. He cocked a cautionary brow at his former pupil and saw realisation spread through the Man's eyes.

"Aye, you are right, Erestor. Do not pay any attention to me," Aragorn smiled. "Besides, I agree with you; he is worthy and true-hearted. I am fortunate to have his friendship." The Man busied himself discarding the old bedding, which was immediately carried off and burned by Thôngolf [Pine-branch], one of the loyal silvan soldiers who never left the ring of beeches defining the glade.

Since the war's end, all the warriors who had attacked the King during the debacle in the Council Chamber had gathered themselves into a cohesive unit and assigned themselves to their prince. Thranduil had seen fit to officially commission these ellyn as his son's personal guard, citing their exemplary service in the Battle of the Elf Path and their spontaneous affirmation of loyalty to their King. The decree endeared him to the citizens who were now engaged in continuous cycles of prayer on the Tawarwaith's behalf and every day that he lived was counted a victory, precipitating much gladness and inspiring fresh hope. Legolas would awaken to find a large contingent of Greenwood's best defenders, silvan, Sindarin, and hybrid alike at his command and every elf in the realm staunchly supportive of his cause. A new era was coming to flower in the ancient forest though spring was months from unfurling its slender shoots and bursting buds.

Aragorn stuffed dry moss into a fresh pallet as Erestor sat softly singing, gently rocking to and fro as he held Legolas, the words enveloping them both in serenity, the notes filled with the essence of Erestor's devotion, a protective shield of Music to shelter them. It was the best medicine he could imagine and he felt real hope for the first time since rescuing Legolas. Elladan arrived to relieve the Man and they shared smiles at the sight of their old tutor so tenderly cradling the invalid archer. Aragorn informed his brother of the changes and left to enjoy a break from the harrowing duty of care-giver, for the Tawarwaith's unique family had agreed to work in shifts just as one stood the watch during battle: at least one on hand in addition to Erestor, who refused to leave Legolas' side. Even Thranduil took a turn. Aragorn passed Fearfaron on the path to the glade, a brace of grouse slung over his shoulder, and spread the good word, eliciting a joyous shout of triumph from the carpenter.

Fearfaron hurried inside to see for himself and could not help feeling somewhat disappointed, for to his eyes there was no visible difference since last he'd been here the day before. Erestor, however, was radiant and related the tale in words packed with love and certitude: his mate would awaken before the next day's dawn. A swift glance passed between Fearfaron and Elladan, confirming mutual scepticism and unwillingness to dispute their friend. Together they re-established Legolas on the pallet, the seneschal once more taking up the soaked cloth to wipe the Tawarwaith's perspiring brow, singing sweet and low. With a faint sigh, the Spirit Hunter retired to the tiny kitchen to prepare another batch of broth from the fowl, listening as Erestor's singing gradually became erratic and garbled. Elladan's quiet voice interrupted.

"You need sleep, Erestor. Lie beside him and rest."

"Nay, I do not want to be asleep when he wakes." But he did not really resist when Elladan eased him down on the pallet next to Pen-rhovan. He sighed and turned on his side so to peer at the wild elf's wan face, gently stroked the sunken cheek, remembering the first time he had done so on the talan in the southern woods. That had been a cruel trick to play on a lonely, isolated ellon suffering grief and privation. "I'm sorry for that, Beloved, but you stole my heart that night. I am so sorry, but so glad I came here, so glad."

He leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss against the feverish face, dismayed to feel the unnatural heat still radiating from the pale skin. He cautiously snuggled closer and leaned his forehead against the Tawarwaith's temple, entwining his fingers in those of the uninjured hand. He started another song, only humming, and though he had not meant to, Erestor sang himself to sleep, too exhausted to remain conscious a moment longer now that he was convinced recovery was imminent.

Elladan watched them, two drained and diminishing elves slowly dwindling into nothing, slowly and with intense and unrelenting anguish. Though he tried to stifle such thoughts he could not. It was difficult to look upon them; indeed, it had become physically and mentally painful to observe what was happening to them all: he and his brothers, the carpenter and the healer, the wizard, and even the King, all dragged down into this suffocating mire of despair with Legolas, on account of Legolas.

Adaren's doing, the whole of it from the very beginning. Did Nana know about the unhappy fate to which her husband doomed Legolas? I wonder, did that figure in to her decision to sail?

It was not something he had ever considered before, but she certainly she knew Ningloriel's claims, for Celebrian was often in Lorien and her mother would tell her all. What painful knowledge to hold in her heart. Elrohir's romantic notions of rescuing his 'muindor dithen' no longer seemed so farfetched.Did she share them? Celebrian was gentle hearted and would not want a child to suffer and now Elladan wondered if his negative denial of this extra brother had affected his mother's decision. Would she have demanded Elrond claim the babe as his own? Had they argued about it at all? There was no means of finding out, for only Elrond would know and Elladan no longer trusted anything his father might tell him. He sighed and shoved such futile considerations aside.

I must concentrate on the future. What can I do to amend the harm Adar has wrought?

Legolas twitched and uttered an abbreviated complaint, shifted nearer to Erestor and stilled anew. Elladan reached over and covered them over with a light blanket, for the sickly ellon was shivering, but also because it was so hard to look upon that battered body. The elder Twin had seen much in his lifetime, all the atrocities rampant on the marred world, all the sorrow and pain and misery and death wrought by evil in every form let loose by Melkor. These two, the Tawarwaith and the Counsellor, he found to be the hardest to gaze upon. Erestor was not only an old friend and tutor but a kinsman, someone he respected and loved. To see him struggling against the grief that had taken hold of him, to watch his efforts to summon words of love and comfort whenever Legolas was wracked by nightmares, was second only to the agony of watching his mother slowly lose her mind.

How many days has it been now? He no longer knew for certain; grey mornings blurred into icy nights that blazed into frigid dawns, cycles unending. More than once, Elladan had felt on the verge of fleeing the scene and held himself tightly in check for fear of dishonouring himself by doing so. As long as Erestor was determined, he could not abandon his kinsman, though the outcome appeared inevitable. The long decline, this approach to death in minute increments of monumental aguish, was taking its toll on them all, but Erestor would not budge. If he could sustain hope then Elladan was compelled to stand beside him to the bitter end, and he did not doubt the end would be more bitter than gall, the seneschal's assertions notwithstanding. Yet Elladan did doubt it. Legolas was doggedly hanging onto life against impossible odds.

Why does he still live? If he would just expire, he would be free to go to Mandos and all this would be over for everyone.

Yet that meant Erestor would follow, and there he admitted the futility of his judgements, for if Elladan was unwilling to contemplate seeing his kinsman perish, so much more must the seneschal be prepared to deny the demise of his mate. Besides, Elladan knew the answer to his question. Few people could endure this kind of sickness and he believed Legolas refused to die because he feared Mandos.

Or, more accurately, he fears what would happen to his spirit if he could not find Mandos.

As long as he fought, Erestor would encourage him. As long as the care-givers fed the archer's ailing body, Legolas would continue fighting. Thranduil was not so far from the truth; if he had not died by now, Legolas was likely to survive. This was partly the province of nature, the way Eru had designed the First-born: durable and endurable, as strong as the stuff of the world itself.

Yet even the mountains wear away and rivers dry up. And what if he does defeat this illness and the body heals? What of his mind?

What they were asking of Legolas was cruel; what was demanded of Erestor was a punishment none deserved. Who, he wondered, was behind these unholy measures to sustain lives that should have been set free long ago? Didn't they deserve the peace and rest promised by Námo? None deserved it more and he was as much a part of denying them that rest as anyone. He could not pretend, not to himself, that he didn't want Legolas to live, no matter his morbid internal ramblings. The archer's death must fall upon the House of Eärendil, and he did not want to shoulder such a burden. Yet more than that, Elladan so keenly wanted to know Legolas, to befriend him, to hear his voice and the bold, brash, defiant laugh Erestor had described, to gaze into 'eyes that are both gentle and piercingly perceptive', to meet this Tawarwaith who might have been his brother and was now his kinsman-by-bond.

Legolas jerked suddenly, a faint and pathetic whine escaping him as his eyes popped wide, bright with terror, staring at the snug canvas cover high above him. A convulsive swallow worked his throat and the eyes snapped shut, long lashes crinkled into crooked grooves. Elladan blinked, not sure the eyes had really opened, then moved closer, reached out his hand, gently touched the bare shoulder, dipped a cloth in cool water with the other. "Legolas? Be still; you are safe at home now. Erestor, or Berenaur as you call him, lies beside you." He blotted the pinched face and furrowed brow carefully and saw the tension slowly relent. The rigid muscles relaxed and a deep, shaky breath moved the archer's ribcage. Another swallow and then a dark red tongue poked out and dabbed at dry lips. Elladan frowned and filled a reed with water, fed it into a mouth that sucked it down with desperate greed. A plaintive moan followed and then Elladan had the shock of his life when the eyes opened again and trained that piercing blue gaze upon him.

"Elrohir?"

The word was so faint he almost did not believe he had heard it, but then it repeated. He could not say how much time elapsed before he managed to respond, but he drew a hoarse breath and answered:

"Nay, I am Elladan. Legolas, do you see me truly? Do you know where you are?"

"Know?" the word was laced with horror and violent trembling broke out, the eyes darting around the talan frantically. "Please, not that, not…no…"

"Nay, nay!" Elladan quickly reassured him and tightened his grip on the shuddering shoulder. "Be at peace, you truly are home now. This is your own home, Legolas, and your mate lies there beside you." He took hold of the arm attached to the hand Erestor still gripped and raised it to show the wild elf.

Legolas' eyes scanned the connection between them and he gasped out the painful breath he'd held, seeing his grandfather's bonding band there on Berenaur's finger where he had placed it. "My ring," he rasped and made an effort to return the hold, tugging so faintly that at first Elladan did not sense it, but then he understood and helped bring the clasped hands to Legolas' lips, felt his heart twinge as the Tawarwaith kissed the golden band. "My Berenaur," Legolas whispered, too weak for tears, and promptly lost consciousness again.

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Chapters

• Bauth ar Awarth
• Tadui Lu Thel
• Namië
• Leithad-en-Maethyr
• Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sír
• Naeg ar Annad
• Laithad en Maethor
• Manadh an Annaldír
• Tûr ar Torthad
• Pelol
• Idhren teriais, ar ÿr eden.
• Echui na Rûth
• Edair, Ionath, Gwenyr
• Tirn-en-Tawar
• Mael nuin Daedelu
• Dolen enath útummen
• Nasto naith lîn born, tharn nedhnîn!
• Aniron isto; úcíriel le ross?
• Abross
• Gwedh Saer
• Thang Helch
• Cardh Delu
• Iaun a Dambeth Um
• Introspection
• Caro Nad Tîr
• Gwain Gonathras
• Onnad Pannen-bant
• Trenared Balch
• Mellyn Evyrn
• Gwain Erthad
• Gwaedh O Gwend Uireb
• Buiad Úbara
• Dagor Minui: Auth dan Yngyl
• Agar Mael
• Thavron ah Aran
• Gûr Gweriant
• Na Falas
• Bronwe Talt
• Tadui Dagor: Maeth dan Yrch
• Trenared Teithannen
• Aderthannen
• Thranduilion
• Gwaedh o Gwenyr
• Gûr o Iarwain
• Tôl Bar Crebain an Idh
• Lond o Rîn
• Min Gannen, Min Dolen
• Legolas thêl amarth o noss tîn
• Legolas and Meril
• The Sons of Elrond
• Amarth od Erestor
• Dregad Trihant
• Govadel o Erebor
• Prestad Dhaer vi Eregion Dithen
• Tiriathach?
• Amarth o Maltahondo
• Caro Meleth Enni
• Thranduil sui Adar
• Ben'waeth
• Thranduil ar Meril
• Ithil'lî vi Talan?
• Gwedhel Istar
• Gwanun Ûl Gâd
• Fîr Úgerth
• Galadhrim ar Brannon Ûbrand
• Athrabeth 'oeol
• Celeborn Hortha ar Eringalen
• Minuial o Rhîw
• Bardolel Mereth
• Legolas Nestannen
• Loss Talt bo Iûl
• Cared Dengwith
• Cast of Feud and Erebor Facts
• Gwedeir ar Gwedeir vi Gwaedh
• Cuil o Erestor addelia nedhnî hin tî.
• Díhenad Vreg
• Adechui o Erestor
• Osp Erin 'Waew
• Sigil ar Edron
• Na Ennyn
• Dambeth od Erebor
• Ben Gladhadithen
• Coll o Gweth
• Gladhadithen Trenar Tolad
• Tangadad Buiad
• Ind-en-Erestor
• Ist Thurin
• Aderthanen
• Gwaeth Aer
• Iâr, Acharn, Guruth
• Lindalcon ar Meril
• Nedhan Dor Nîr ar Naeg
• Elrond Hecilo
• Amarth o Meril
• Amarth od Elrond
• Baul Gellui
• Erin Fen-en-Gûr
• Anc-en-Gurth
• Baudh-en-Lindalcon
• Auth-en-Rhîw
• Him Vraig
• Amarth o Rochendil
• Awarth
• Gwaedh-en-Fael'ur
• Gwanath-en-Lindalcon
• Leithian
• Adel Annon 'Lan
• Abauth
• Said Duir a Cyfn
• Echui
• to be
• to be
• to be
• to be
• Epilog