The usual suspects

Chapter 2: In the souk

“How long will you be away?” asked Legolas.

“It is two days’ journey to Rihat on horseback,” said Faramir. “So, depending on the woman’s condition we could be back in five days…”

“Or not,” said Legolas.

“I will not go if you need me here.”

“Of course you must go. The man has been very good to us. Will you take Berengar with you?”

“If he is willing.”

Legolas smiled. “Oh, I am sure he is willing! When do you leave?”

“Tonight at dusk. But I must speak to Oliel this morning.”

…

Eowyn had been trying to find the djinn a new home since they had returned from the Land of Kuri. Though she was sure that the kettle she had found for him was perfectly serviceable, it seemed that the djinn had more refined tastes. She had spent hours examining lamps of all shapes and sizes—earthenware lamps glazed with pastoral scenes, brass lamps chased with calligraphic patterns, enamelled lamps that shone with a subtle lustre, silver lamps with jewelled lids… Nothing seemed to meet the djinn’s exacting requirements. Today’s visit to a rather disreputable part of the souk, where Hentmirë had heard of a man selling novelties from the east, was a last resort.

“Look, Eowyn,” cried Hentmirë, “there he is! Over there—and he has hundreds of lamps! You are sure to find one here. Take us closer, Rimush.”

But the constant stream of people in the narrow street had suddenly coalesced into a procession, with musicians sounding trumpets and banging drums, and acrobats turning cartwheels, and groups of black slaves carrying cages of wild animals. “I cannot, just now, my lady,” said the attendant.

“It is the circus,” said Hentmirë.

“I shall go on foot,” said Eowyn.

“Are you sure? Remember what you promised Legolas—”

“I shall be fine,” said Eowyn patting her hand. “I do not want this to take too long—Legolas is looking forward to seeing the gardens.” But Hentmirë still looked unsure. “It is just a few steps,” Eowyn insisted. “And I am a warrior, remember.”

“I remember… Do you mind if I stay here? The water sometimes makes my legs shaky and I do not think I could manage—”

“Of course.”

“Please do not get lost, Eowyn. Legolas would be so cross with me…”

Smiling, Eowyn climbed down from the palanquin. Legolas would never be cross with you! She waited for a break in the river of people. Just after those striped cats, she thought. Gods, they are big! I wonder if Legolas would like to see the circus? No, he could not bear to see animals confined. He might even set them free… Imagine the uproar.

Seeing her chance, she stepped into the crowd, twisting and turning to avoid colliding with the acrobats, and she had almost reached the other side when a giant of a man—one of the performers—suddenly caught her round the waist.

“Come, pretty lady,” he laughed, “this way. I shall make sure you get a good seat.”

“Let me go!” she cried. “Please! Please!”

But her protests were swallowed up by the beat of the drums and the roar of the tigers—and within seconds she had left Hentmirë and Rimush far behind.

…

Gimli joined Legolas in the courtyard, washed and brushed, and wearing a robe of midnight blue silk that one of the maids had found for him—and which probably, the elf thought, belonged to Hentmirë. It was a trifle long.

“Ah. You look much better elvellon. Sit down. I have had the servants bring you some food.” Gimli perched on a floor cushion, beside the low table. Legolas poured him a goblet of the local wine. “Help yourself.”

The dwarf picked up a chicken leg. “It is good to see you, you crazy elf,” he said, taking a bite. Then he shook his head, grinning. “Only an elf could get himself bought by a woman. ‘Property of a lady…’” He took a swig of wine. “No match for ale,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“Hmm.” Legolas smiled. “I think you will find it much stronger than ale, Gimli… ”

“Where is Eowyn?”

“Out shopping with Hentmirë. They are looking for a lamp… Valar, Gimli, there is so much to tell you!” He settled back against the wall. “You will like Hentmirë, elvellon. She is like—not a mother, or a sister, exactly—more like a mother’s sister. I am very fond of her.”

“What does Eowyn think of that?”

“Eowyn loves her too. She is coming back to Eryn Carantaur with us—just as soon as the wind picks up. Quite a few people are.”

As Gimli ate, Legolas described how Valandil and Wilawen had been snatched from the slave ship by the roc, and how, in the course of rescuing Figwit, they had fallen in love. “Valandil plans to marry her. Figwit is still undecided about his future—whether to continue on to Valinor or to return with us to Eryn Carantaur, so Valandil and Wilawen have taken him back to the island for a few days, hoping that he will find it easier to make a decision in familiar surroundings.” [*]

Then, with a grin, he described how Camthalion and Orodreth had been bought by the brothel keeper, Arinna, and how they seemed to have fallen completely under her spell. “She must be a very inventive woman, Gimli,” he said, “because in Mirkwood they both had reputations I envied. She will be coming with us, too, if they have their way.” [*]

Finally, Legolas described the djinn. “You will need to see him to believe him, elvellon.” [*]

“How is the March Warden?” asked Gimli.

Legolas frowned. “In truth, Gimli, I am not sure.”

“It is a pity that Eowyn does not have a sister.”

“Gimli!”

The dwarf shrugged. “We naugrim are a practical people,” he said.

…

Faramir was packing a change of linen into his small travelling bag. “He could arrive in Rihat to find her already dead and buried,” he said. “If that happens, he will need someone to make the necessary arrangements—and to make sure he gets back here safely.” Berengar’s face was slightly averted. “You will come with me?”

“Of course.”

“What is wrong?”

“You like this man.”

“I do—his dedication to his purpose; his refusal to give in, no matter how long the odds. He reminds me of Boromir in so many ways.” Faramir did not see the relief that suddenly lit up Berengar’s face. “But there is something that worries me. For seven years he has done nothing but search for his wife—his every thought, his every action, has been dedicated to that purpose. The search has taken on a life of its own. I do not know how he will cope when it ends.”

“So, even if there is a happy ending it may not be happily ever after?”

Faramir nodded.

“He is not your responsibility, Faroth,” said Berengar. “You are doing everything you can for him. More than anyone else would do. You cannot save the whole of Middle Earth.” He sighed. “Your father has a lot to answer for,” he added, softly.

…

By the time Eowyn had managed to free herself from the giant’s arms, she was completely lost.

There is no need to panic, she thought. Just find the Great Royal Road. From there you can easily walk back to Hentmirë’s house.

Gods, she will be panicking. I just hope that Rimush managed to stop her running into the crowd after me. If anything happened to her Legolas would break his heart!

I must ask for directions.

She scanned the nearby stalls, trying to find the most trustworthy-looking stallholder, and suddenly caught a glimpse of someone familiar…

Gods!

She slipped behind the nearest stall and peered out from under a swag of embroidered cloth. Gods! Wolfram… Still alive and… walking again—though, she noticed with some satisfaction, moving with a pronounced limp.

“Beautiful isn’t it?”

Eowyn jumped.

“Silk from Chipangu,” said the stallholder. “The colours are exquisite—see.” He reached towards the fabric, intending no more than to draw it into a better light. But Eowyn—her nerves on edge—instinctively shrank back, knocking over a bale of cloth. The first bale dislodged another, and that pushed over two more, and all the beautiful silks tumbled down onto the dusty cobbles. The stallholder swore loudly.

Wolfram turned towards the commotion.

Eowyn threw herself to the ground and—ignoring the irate stallholder and the other people milling around her—crawled away. After several yards she found a doorway, a back entrance to something. She came up on her knees and tried the handle—Unlocked. She pushed the door open and fell inside.

For a few moments she lay with her back to the door, legs splayed, catching her breath. Then she rose to her feet and carefully turned the key in the lock.

“Can I help you, lady?” The voice was not particularly deep, but it had a commanding quality that might have made Eowyn nervous had she not been so relieved to have—so she thought—escaped from Wolfram unseen. She turned. Her interrogator was a smallish man, middle-aged, but handsome, and still very attractive.

“I apologise for trespassing, sir—I—er—I was being followed,” she said.

“That can hardly be a new experience for a pretty lady like you,” said the man.

“This person is—” How much should she tell a stranger? “I think he is dangerous.”

The man nodded, sagely, as if weighing some complex argument. Then he gestured her to follow him. “Come.” He led her down a narrow corridor and into a large, marble-lined chamber.

Like a white Mead Hall, thought Eowyn, taking in the tables, the barrels of ale and the bottles of wine and spirits.

“Sit down,” said the man. Eowyn perched on a stool before the marble counter. The man poured out a large measure of spirits. “Here,” he said. “You look like you need this.”

Eowyn accepted it gratefully. “Thank you.” She took a sip—it was strong!—and, because she felt slightly uncomfortable drinking it alone, she added, “Will you not join me?”

“Sure. Why not.” The man poured himself a glass. “What is a blonde doing wandering through the souk on her own?” he asked.

Eowyn gazed into her glass. “I was not on my own. But I got separated from my friends. I was trying to find my way back to The Great Royal Road when—”

“He started following you.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes.”

The man knocked back his drink. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll get one of my barmen to take you home.”

“That is very kind of you sir, but—”

“No buts. You walk into my bar, you’re under my protection.”

Eowyn smiled. “I am sure that is not the general rule, sir,” she said.

“It’s my rule.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see if Cyllien has something you can put on—to cover up that golden hair—”

“Cyllien?”

“She sings here.”

…

“Why are you helping her, Rib?” asked the elleth.

“I like her,” said Ribhadda. “She’s got class.”

…

Captain Oliel looked up from his map. “Faramir. What are you doing here?”

Faramir spread his hands. “I thought it was time to repay you.”

“That is not necessary, my friend—”

“I know you would not ask for it,” said Faramir, “but, whatever happens, you will need help.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Transporting an injured woman will not be easy. Berengar has some skill at healing.”

Oliel glanced at the secretary. “You are looking on the bright side,” he said, “but thank you. You too, Master Berengar.” He turned back to the map. “I was just looking at the caravan route. This is Rihat. This is the Silk Road—it passes through the oasis and then continues east.”

“Why does it meander so much?” asked Berengar.

“It runs from well to well—here—here—and here, and passes through the only gap in the Ripaa Ridge, here—”

“That looks dangerous,” said Berengar, pointing to the far end of the narrow pass, “perfect for an ambush. On the way here, Gimli and I heard much talk of bandits—though we did not encounter any.”

“Bandits are always a threat in the desert,” said Oliel. “But they’re less likely to attack a caravan than three men travelling on their own. Have either of you ridden a camel before?”

“No,” said Faramir.

Berengar shook his head.

“They are harder to control than horses—but you will soon get used to it.”

…

“Legolas! Legolas!” Hentmirë jumped from the moving palanquin, and collapsed into a heap as she hit the ground.

“Gwendithen!” Legolas was by her side in a second. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I have lost her! Someone took her away. We looked and looked but we could not find her. You must come back with me—”

“Eowyn?”

“She was caught up in the crowd. The circus. But when we got to the arena she was not there…”

Legolas turned to Rimush. “I do not think that the man who took her intended to harm her, Master Legolas,” said the attendant. “He thought that she wanted to join in. I am sorry, sir, I should never have let her get out—”

“I shall fetch my knives,” said Legolas. “Then you will take me back to where you lost her. Hentmirë, you will stay here. Gimli, will you join me, elvellon?”

“Of course.”

“Bring your axe. And bring the March Warden. Do not worry, gwendithen,” he said, lifting Hentmirë into his arms and carrying her swiftly indoors. “We shall find her.”

…

Hearing the sound of a door closing, Eowyn looked up from her still-full glass of spirits. Walking towards her, carrying a dark mantle, was the loveliest elleth she had ever seen—tall—taller even than Arwen—with a statuesque but slender figure, long sable hair, a beautiful, child-like face, and such an air of sadness! Rejection, thought Eowyn. But, then, she may be the only elleth for hundreds of miles. It must have been such a comfort to speak to Haldir last night. No wonder he did not have a chance to ask her about Vardamir.

She smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the mantle. Then she rose and draped it over her shoulders, and raised the hood.

“Almost invisible,” said the elleth.

Eowyn—quite wrongly—took her comment as sincere and assumed that it was an offer of friendship. “I believe,” she said, “that you spoke to one of my companions last night—Haldir? He is an elf, like—”

“Yes, I know Haldir,” said Cyllien.

“My name is—”

“Eowyn.”

“Yes! How did you know that?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

“I suppose Haldir mentioned me.”

“You could say that.”

“Will you sit with me for a while? I shall not keep you long, but I do need to ask you—Haldir should have done so, last night, but I can understand why he did not—”

“Can you?”

“Have you ever met—or heard of—an elf called Vardamir?”

“Vardamir!” For the first time since the conversation had begun, Cyllien dropped her supercilious manner. “That orc! Why do you ask?”

“He is wanted, in South Ithilien, for attempted murder—”

“Murder!” The elleth shuddered. “I should have known. He is so—strange.”

“Do you know where we can find him?” asked Eowyn.

“No. He used to come here regularly. But I have not seen him in weeks. And, now that I know what he is, I never want to see him again—”

She was interrupted by Ribhadda, who emerged from the back room with another man in tow. “This is Hiram, my lady. He will take you home.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Eowyn, clasping his hand. “If there is anything that I or my husband can do to repay you—”

Ribhadda shook his head. “The pleasure was all mine.” He led her to the main doors.

“Madam,” said Cyllien, as he was drawing back the bolts. “Is Haldir staying with you?”

“Yes,” said Eowyn.

“Then I shall come with you. I need to talk to him. I’ll be back before opening time, Rib.”

…

“I tell you, it was her.” Wolfram threw himself down in a chair. “And she was this close.” He held out his hand and—in his mind’s eye—closed his fist around a hank of golden hair. “I could have had her… In her tiny little bodice.”

“Then why did you let her get away?” asked Vardamir. He handed his accomplice a goblet of wine.

Wolfram took a swig. “When will you get us something decent to drink?” he asked.

“When will you get us some money?”

“You can steal a bottle of wine!” cried Wolfram, in exasperation. He set the goblet down with a clatter. “I didn’t let her get away. You know her—she’s resourceful. She threw a pile of cloth in my way and, by the time I’d got past the stall keeper, she had disappeared. But the only way she could have gone was through the back door of The Silk Road… So I went round the front and climbed up to one of the windows. And there was old Ribhadda making her welcome—plying her with spirits so he could get a good look at her titties. Did I tell you—”

“You saw her wash them.”

“Like ripe melons…”

“Is she still in The Silk Road?”

“How should I know? There are limits to how long a man can hang from a window ledge unnoticed—especially with his prick standing to attention.” He smiled at Vardamir wolfishly. “But you can go in there and have a good look—this afternoon, as soon as it opens. Even if she’s not there you may be able to find out where she’s staying—Ribhadda has always had a soft spot for you. And it will give you another chance to see your elleth. Who knows, today may even be your lucky day.”

…

Eowyn and her escorts had reached the Great Royal Road without incident, left the souk behind them, and had just begun the long, pleasant walk past the private villas lining the sea shore, when—

“Melmenya!”

“Is that really Haldir,” asked Cyllien, “with a dwarf and—oh Valar!—the Prince of Mirkwood? Why is the Prince of Mirkwood running towards us? By Eärendil, he’s beautiful!”

“Yes,” said Eowyn. “He is.” She lowered the hood of her mantle. “Lassui!”

Legolas swept her in his arms, lifted her into the air, and whirled her round. Then he set her back on her feet and began kissing her, very thoroughly.

Gimli blushed under his beard. “Wait until you get her indoors, you crazy elf,” he mumbled. Then he bowed to Cyllien. “I am Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service, my lady. My friend over there is Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm—and that lady’s husband—and this is March Warden Hal—”

“Haldir and I have already met,” said Cyllien. “I am pleased to meet you Gimli, son of Gloin. I am Cyllien, daughter of Eluchíl, formerly of Imladris; and this is Hiram, son of Hanno.”

Legolas gave Eowyn one final kiss and turned to greet her escorts. “Thank you, Mistress Cyllien, Master Hiram, for returning my lady to me,” he said. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head. Then, with elfling-like impetuosity, he seized the elleth’s hand and kissed it.

The effect was remarkable. Cyllien melted into girlish embarrassment. “Oh—I—oh—your Highness—”

“Please,” said the elf, treating her to one of his most potent dimpled smiles, “call me Legolas. May I invite you both to take some refreshments with us?”

“Thank you, your Highness,” said Hiram, “but I must be getting back to The Silk Road.” He turned to Cyllien. “And so must you.”

“I should be delighted, Prince Legolas,” said Cyllien.

…

“Why did you come here?” hissed Haldir. “You were not concerned for her.”

A quick glance at Eowyn showed him that she was not looking in their direction—in fact, she was sitting beside Legolas, watching with amusement as Hentmirë tried to referee the conversation between him and Gimli.

He pulled Cyllien towards the study. “In here.” He closed the door behind them. “What is all this ‘Yes, Prince Legolas, no, Prince Legolas’ nonsense?”

Cyllien drew herself up to her full height and looked him straight in the eye. “What was all that ‘Eowyn, Eowyn, oh, sweet Valar, Eowyn’ nonsense?”

“What?”

“Why, exactly, do you like to imagine you’re doing the Prince of Mirkwood’s wife?

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night. You kept calling me ‘Eowyn’, you stupid orc.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Manwë’s balls! That is not supposed to happen!”

“Well, quite.”

“No—you—I had no idea…” He pulled up a chair. “Sit down. Please—I really did not know. And I am sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “And you deserve an explanation.”

“I know.”

“Where do I start?” Haldir pulled up a second chair. “You have heard of the Battle of the Hornburg,” he said.

“At Helm’s Deep.”

“Yes. I was wounded there. Twice, in fact—first in the arm, and then in the back—and the second was a grievous wound, all but fatal.”

Cyllien’s manner had softened. Haldir smiled; she smiled back—and the elf felt a sudden stirring of the desire that had overwhelmed him the previous night. He lowered his gaze.

“The casualties were heavy on that part of the wall—elves, orcs, men. By the time it was all over I was buried beneath a pile of bodies.” He shook his head. “I could hear them getting closer—”

“Who?”

“The Rohirrim. They were searching for survivors and finding none; and they were dealing with the bodies of elves with as much care and respect as they could muster, but…” He looked down at his hands. “I knew that they would not recognise my condition. I knew that I had to tell them, somehow, that I was still alive. But I could not: I could not move, I could not reach them…”

“Valar!” whispered the elleth.

“They had built a huge pyre. I could smell the flesh burning.”

“Oh…”

He turned to her. “They were burning orcs, Cyllien, but I did not know that.”

“You must have been scared.”

“I was,” said Haldir softly. “I was very scared. Hopeless. And then I felt her little hand on my face. I felt her hair brush my skin as she bent over me. ‘Here,’ she cried. ‘I think he is alive!’”

“Who would have thought it,” said Cyllien.

Haldir turned to her questioningly.

“She seems so…” A slight change in his expression warned her not to continue.

“She dragged the orc off me herself—I am sure of that,” said Haldir, “and had me carried to some sort of healing room—a tent, I think. The elven healers said I was beyond saving. ‘Let him go with dignity,’ they said.” He smiled. “But she would not! She may look like a faun but she is made of mithril. She fetched a human healer—someone she had no trouble intimidating—and, together, they cleaned and dressed my wounds. She helped him herself…

“I do not know how long I lay in healing sleep. Or how much time she may have spent at my side—perhaps none.” He shrugged. “But when I awoke she was sitting beside me. She was pale and tired, the way humans are, sometimes—the way she gets now when she is pushing herself too hard to keep pace with Legolas—he does not always see it…

“It is strange. I can remember thinking how beautiful she was, but I cannot remember how it felt to look at her—is that not strange? She had become an obsession, a dangerous obsession, and so I—”

“How did she come to marry the Prince of Mirkwood?”

“Legolas? He says he fell in love with her the moment he saw her. But she only had eyes for Aragorn—King Elessar—”

“She preferred King Elessar to the fairest elf in Middle Earth!”

“Aragorn was our captain, the only one who could lead her people out of darkness. That is the reason she fell in love with him.”

“You really do worship her.”

“No. I had that removed. That is why last night happened.” He turned to her. “I had a magician remove my love for Eowyn from my heart and mind. And it must have worked—for you are the first person I have desired—other than her—since I met her.”

“You’d not… since before the Battle of Helm’s Deep?”

“No.”

“Well, that explains the sex!” said Cyllien. She rose to her feet. “You will never have her, Haldir, and you need to get over her—by yourself, not by magic. Growing up in Imladris, I dreamed of finding that somebody—that companion for eternity… But this is not the time of the Eldar, Haldir. This is the Fourth Age. And if we elves are to survive amongst humans we must learn to live like them.” She sighed. “You know were to find me if you want me.”

Haldir watched her walk towards the door. He admired the light on her black hair, the subtle curve of her waist and the sway of her slender hips. She was not Eowyn and she never would be, but—in a way—her charms were more real to him than Eowyn’s had ever been.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Cyllien turned and almost smiled. “You’re an arrogant orc, Haldir, but you do know how to pleasure an elleth.”

Haldir reached for her.

…

“He is limping,” said Eowyn. “But he is just as dangerous as ever.” She had waited until Hentmirë had gone upstairs for her nap before telling Legolas about Wolfram.

“So now we must find both of them,” said Legolas. “And find Wolfram before he finds you.” He took her hands in his. “I know that you dislike my saying this sort of thing, melmenya, but I am going to say it anyway—”

“You do not need to,” said Eowyn. “I shall be careful. I was scared Lassui…”

“In future, I want you to take the djinn with you where ever you go. Then, if you get into trouble, you can just rub the lamp—the kettle—no, that kettle is far too big for you to carry about. You will have to persuade the djinn to use one of Hentmirë’s lamps for now. Just until our friends are under lock and key.”

“Do you think they are together?”

“I think it likely, melmenya. Two criminals, both from the North, in a city this size—yes, I think they will at least have come into contact.”

“Perhaps the Hatja could help us find them.”

Legolas shook his head. “Faramir and I did consider asking him to help us find Vardamir. But I think that a search by the Hatja’s men would only drive them further into hiding.”

“Then what are we going to do? And without Faramir?”

Legolas smiled. “Are you trying to make me feel inadequate, melmenya?” He wrapped his arm around her. “Tonight, your second husband is going to The Silk Road to have a long talk with your new protector, Master Ribhadda—”

“Legolas!” She snuggled against him, grinning. “Yes. I am sure he will help us. But be careful, Lassui. People notice you. You are very conspicuous, my darling, especially here in the South.”

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet. Then Eowyn said, “Would you still like to see the Turquoise Gardens, Lassui? When Hentmirë has finished her nap? ”

“I should like that very much,” said Legolas. “One of the serving girls has told me all about it. They were built by the Hatja’s great grandfather for his wife—a woman of the North who missed the trees of her native land.”

“What a lovely gift,” said Eowyn.

“The girl thinks that Hentmirë has a book about her. Come, let us have a look.”

…

Hand-in-hand they walked to the study. Legolas opened the door and, for a split second, they both stood transfixed. Then Legolas closed the door again.

“Did they see us?” asked Eowyn.

“No, melmenya.” He looked at her anxiously. “Are you alright, Eowyn nín?”

“No. I shall be blushing for a week.”

Legolas smiled. “Come.” He led her back into the sitting room.

“Do you think that we look like that?” asked Eowyn.

“No,” he said. “We are more beautiful.”

Eowyn giggled. “You are, Lassui fain nín.” She came up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “And bigger.”

“Melmenya!”

“Ceber daur chîn,” she whispered. Their eyes met.

“Caro!” gasped Legolas. “I certainly am now…”

…

Next episode: The Turquoise Gardens

…

[*] These stories are told in The strange sea road.

And, just in case anyone is wondering how Berengar and Gimli managed to find their way to Hentmirë’s house (as I suddenly was, driving home the other night ;-): Faramir sent word of his plans to Berengar before leaving South Ithilien and left messages at several points on the journey. Berengar and Gimli simply followed his trail. Once in Carhilivren, Berengar used his considerable charm to question the locals—and tracking down two elves, a man from the North and a beautiful blonde, all living openly in the city, wasn’t too difficult.

…

Chipangu was a mediaeval name for Japan (as used by Marco Polo, etc).

I wanted Berengar to have a nickname for Faramir. According to Ruth S Noel (whose book is apparently a bit out of date) Faramir means ‘Jewelled Hunter’. The Dragon Flame dictionary lists three Sindarin words for ‘hunter’: Faron, Faroth and Feredir. I liked Faroth best but, of course, it turns out to be the one with the least secure meaning ;-)

Lassui fain nín means ‘my beautiful Lassui’.

Naughty Elvish. Ceber daur chîn means ‘your huge wooden stake’.
Caro! means ‘Do!, Make!’ (and, therefore, ‘Fuck!’ or similar).