Barad-en-Elei (Fortress of Dreams)

~ Part Two: Nenuial ~

The land tumbled down into the basin of the lake, ancient mountains weathered and eroded into soft hills, a thick cloak of soil and living green hiding their stony hearts. Once long ago before even the elves awakened perhaps they were high, pointed peaks set here by some whim of the Valar, but what remained was this cluster of nubby mounds encircling the pristine font. It was lovely and dreamy but not spectacular or magical, not like Cenedril Rim (Mirror Mere) cloistered at the feet of Caradras. He had his reasons for preferring this little pool to all others, yet today the place evoked nothing of the serene and peaceful joy he had hoped to feel. Instead, it looked as common and humble as Ael Annan (Long Lake), the mighty city ringed about it as coarse and tawdry as Esgaroth's huts and crude houses.

Elladan frowned at the white walls of fair Annúminas, Tower of the West, the Seat of the Dúnedain in the northern reaches of Eriador, tracing its turrets and its towers with critical eyes that scorned the best these faint echoes of Elros could accomplish. Flags flapped and fluttered in the wind, tilled fields skirted the lake's perimeter, herds of cattle milled in the meadows, humans scurried with appropriate and predictable bustle and bother about the streets, Arantar sat in his court and ruled. The elves had moved on and men were here now, and while Elladan's heritage included mortal blood, today he found the Lesser Children of Iluvatar more blight than blessing. The tableau irritated him; the everyday urgency of human frailty somehow stung his heart. He turned from the city to survey the valley in which it was cradled.

Desiring to know the land as it must have once been, he sought to erase the imposing structures of mortar and stone, the farms and their fields, the people and their crude stab at civilisation and gentility. Surely it must have been special, a uniquely uplifting vista exuding a strong note of welcoming peace, else why would Galadriel choose it? Here his mother had been born and reared, and desperately Elladan tried to see it all as her elfling eyes had done, to experience what it must have been like to play at the water's sandy edges and run amid the lush grasses and wild flowers. The illusion would not come. A soft sigh left him and his arms folded up across his chest.

~So, then I will see it for what it is, removed from my history entirely.~

For the first time he noticed that the depression resembled the imprint of a thumb, as if Iluvatar had come and pressed his finger down deep into the skin of the earth and left the resulting bowl to slowly fill with rain and runoff. Yet, it could as easily have been Melkor's evil mind at work instead. The toe of the Betrayer stubbing out something beautiful made by Yavanna, smashing it cruelly into the bowels of Arda just to spite Aulë. There were no legends concerning its creation, no stories that identified this as the scene of some pivotal battle in the wars between the Ainur. It simply existed. Whether scarred by violent revolt or dimpled by the touch of Eru, the land cupped the lake, jealously guarding it in quiet seclusion, resenting even the trickle that flowed away with the Baranduin into the broad plains of Eriador.

Despite its beauty and abundant resources, elves had not settled here in the Elder Days; at least, not those of the Sindarin folk, not those who kept records. Who could say if wayward Avarin tribes had ever roamed these gentle swells of earth and grass? Who would care? But for a brief span of years when Celeborn and Galadriel had made this place their home, the lake's history belonged to the Second-born of Iluvatar, to men, and thus its relevance was now equally young and just as ephemeral. Surely, though, the High Elves knew of it and named it Nenuial, the Twilight Water. And men? They just called is Evendim.

It was not Cuiviénen, but to the Children of the Elder Days Nenuial was perhaps its distant sister: the first marking the beginning of life itself, the second pointing the way to a new beginning. After the long traverse of the Great Journey took them through countless valleys, across rivers, hills, and mountains, the host of the Vanyar arrived and stood here upon this ring of mounded earth and stone, even as he stood now, staring down upon the shining water at dusk, a thousand stars reflected in its smooth, still surface. What other name could they bestow upon it? Even so, it seemed an uninspired designation, just a means to mark the place for those lagging behind the van, a conspicuous geographic feature for which to aim as feet grew weary and hearts grew sore with fatigue.

He could hear the messengers exhorting the straggling Teleri people: 'Just there beyond the low and rolling hills is Nenuial. Hasten hence; rest beside the twilit waters and be refreshed. The Blessed Land is nigh.' Would that be enough to bolster their resolve and prevent them from turning back, from rejoining the kin left behind in the wild forests of Nan Anduin? It must have been, for Thingol made it over Ered Lhuin before a diversion of an entirely different sort stalled his progress for ever-more, and never went Elu back to Aman again in life.

~What withering misfortunes are wrought upon us by the curse of love.~

Elladan thought, and then he remembered: there was no one here who could receive that thought.

"Nenuial, Hîren," spoke the elf beside him, his tone forced and grating, mimicking the uneasy mood that had haunted the journey from its first moments, a spectre that mocked and sneered and pointed at the small group's leader with malicious glee. 'See?' it laughed. 'He is lost, bereft, frightened. Alone, he is nothing.' There could be no denying this spirit was the palpable misery of Elladan's dejected soul.

Elladan glared, eyes cutting sharply as a stinging rebuke rose in his throat, for of course it was Nenuial. Was he a green recruit on his first journey away from the Vale of the Bruinen? Before it passed his lips he swallowed it down, granting the advisor a curt nod instead and a swift motion of the hand to indicate they could go down.

"The horses are glad for the rest," continued his companion, casting a sidelong look in Elladan's direction. As before, no reply was given to Enerdhil's simple comment and a short sigh left his nostrils. The trip had been arduous despite the lack of enemies to fight or hardship to shoulder. Ever known to be the least outgoing of the twins, Elladan had become sullen and silent of late, the absence of his voice more stentorian than the brusque barks of irritated malaise he used when need forced him to speak. "As am I," Enerdhil added and, because he was disturbed by his Lord's foul mood, continued. "No doubt Arantar will be pleased to greet you again, Hîren. How many years has it been since you visited the King's city?"

"I frequently ride to Annúminas," snapped Elladan, coming to a halt and turning on Enerdhil, knowing this was but a means to draw him out yet unable to rise above his black despondency. "Elrohir and I lend aid to his Rangers when needed."

"Yes, but that is work and hard work at that," smiled Enerdhil, encouraged by any reply of more than one word. "Your efforts will no doubt be rewarded with magnanimous splendour by King Arantar, now that he has the opportunity to host you as his honoured guest."

"No doubt. We will probably be subjected to a feast." Elladan ground out his response as if the words were coated with foetid bile.

'Feast' was the twin brothers' code word for the standard practice among the Dunedain (and not beneath the manners of elves, either) of presenting an eligible maiden, some niece or cousin or daughter of the King, for their approval and possible union. The twins had come of Age over two centuries ago and remained unattached, thus their long deceased uncle's distant progeny did not hesitate to broach the idea of marriage whenever the two visited Arnor. They had become adept in obstructing these felicitous but unwanted attentions, confusing the poor ladies by alternately pretending to be one another and switching personalities as swiftly as they downed their wine. The damsels invariably gave up before the night was half done, preferring the company of men who were not appalled to escort them to the dance floor. Elladan realised as soon as he said it that Enerdhil did not know the code.

"What say you, a feast? That sounds absolutely abominable! What prompts the King to such woeful lack of consideration for his kin?" he said, gazing covertly at Elladan's stiff, straight frame moving ahead along the path.

His not so innocent sarcasm earned him a scathing, searing glare more worthy of the sons of Feänor than the sons of Elrond, but at least no biting retort accompanied the stare. Enerdhil exhaled a lungful he didn't remember retaining as the gloomy twin resumed the march, glancing to the warriors to share his exasperated relief. The looks answering warned him to stop now before they were all ordered to lodge in the stables rather than the sumptuous quarters King Arantar customarily made available to his elven relatives and whatever retinue they had in tow.

When they had crossed half the distance to the gracious city, the elves spied a grand party of armoured soldiers galloping up the hill to meet them, standards of both Arnor and Imladris waving impressively in the wind. Elladan called a halt and waited for them, watching as they drew to a stop with fitting military precision and the captain of this elite guard dismounted. He made a stiff bow and raised his visor, teeth gleaming as he grinned beneath his thick, dark moustaches. Elladan had to smile in return for it was Arantar himself.

"Mae-govannen, muindor iaur (older brother), " the King enthused, laughing lightly and circling the tall elf who had spent many hours with him both on the practice fields and in battle defending the borders of Arnor. Like all the princes of the North Kingdom, Arantar had fostered at Imladris through his youth. "Why are you afoot? Have your wearied your horses in your haste to arrive at my halls? You must have heard the rumours." In truth, he wasn't surprised to find the elves dismounted, their horses trailing along behind them, leisurely nibbling the grass as they went.

"What rumours, muindor laes (baby brother)?" This was standard stuff from Arantar and Elladan played along, though the expected rejoinder was anything but amusing to him.

"The fair Lady Cordoff has consented to spend the season at Annúminas. She is eager to meet you again," explained Arantar.

"Is she the one with yellow hair who boasts of elven blood far back in her ancestry? Avarin ties are not necessarily something to put forward as an asset. I suppose I must dance with her at the feast?"

"Well, no one will force you, muindor iaur," Arantar chuckled and fell into step alongside Elladan, who marched on around the mounted soldiers and down the trail. The King removed his helm and shook out his hair, still a rich chestnut brown but sporting a distinctive streak of grey here and there. Nearly as tall as Elladan and not in the least intimidated by his presence, Arantar cast a shrewd eye over his foster-brother, judging his temper vile and harbouring no misunderstanding as to the cause. "She makes no claims but her Adar insists his great-great-great-great grandfather was a Sindarin warrior."

"Probably some deserter from Denethor's forces fleeing home after the First Battle," jibed Elladan. "I hardly want to court such a person seriously."

"Then you are hoping to court someone?" Arantar inquired directly and went straight to the heart of the matter. "I know of the happy news from Imladris. Elrohir has chosen a fine mate in Echuil'laer (Spring Poem) of Lothlorien. Though I have not met her, I was honoured to be introduced to her brother, Erchiel, a noble warrior who volunteered his aid to me when it was sorely needed."

"Aye, I have not lost my faculty of memory, Arantar. I was there, too," growled Elladan. The event in question had occurred some eighty years past when Arantar was newly crowned; a chance encounter that in retrospect now seemed the crucial moment when Elrohir's future resolved from hazy obscurity to cold, hard, inescapable reality. Had they not encountered Erchiel, mayhap they would not have met Echuil'laer and Elrohir would not have lost his heart to her. Elladan's scowl deepened just considering the notion.

"Your twin has chosen his fate upon sealing this betrothal, of course, yet yours is still before you."

The King's words invaded Elladan's internal, rambling rant and he stiffened, stopping dead on the path, icy fury infusing his clear grey eyes as they flashed upon Arantar. "My choice was decided for me as soon as he made his. Never would I abandon Elrohir." ~As he has abandoned me.~

"Ah. I see. You will remain among the elves." Arantar was visibly disappointed. Long had his people desired to gain another of Elros' lineage to rejuvenate the fading strength of the kings. With Numenor fallen and the people of Elendil divided between Gondor and Arnor, the glory of men looked to be waning.

"Yes."

Behind him, the warriors of Imladris shifted about and shared their surprise in quiet glances of upraised brows and wide eyes, for this was news to them, and while they were happy for it they had not expected their Lord's admission to be so filled with bitterness. Elladan was already underway again, leaving no time for anyone to comment about his revelation. His feet struck the ground as if he wanted to punish it for being there to witness his abrupt announcement of such an important decision, something he hadn't even shared with his parents. ~or with Elrohir.~

Arantar glanced at the small contingent of elves, mutely questioning Enerdhil, but received only a bewildered shrug for answer. The King of Arnor hurried to catch up with his distant cousin, waving his captain to bring his stallion as striding along in full armour was neither to his liking nor his comfort. He mounted and the elegant war horse minced daintily alongside the silently fuming elf.

"I will ride ahead and make ready the city for your arrival, muindor iaur," he said simply and nudged his horse for speed. He cantered away with his soldiers around him, banners whipping and snapping as the rumble of hooves faded with their diminishing presence.




Annúminas displayed all the grandeur and pomp appropriate for the capitol of the most powerful realm of men in the North lands. The connection to Imladris was long-standing and well-honoured, the welcome accorded Elrond's son fitting in its refinement and cordiality. The citizens, from Lords and their Ladies down to humble peasants of the fields, lined the road and bowed low before the small troop of elves marching to the high-walled citadel beside the cool, clear lake. The First-born were not a novelty here yet even so many gazed in awe at the Noldorin warriors moving through their town.

Oblivious to all their guest's fey humour, the people of Annúminas wished to exhibit that deference, that sense of obligation and unity they felt for the elves of Imladris. Arantar's subjects were Elf-friends, the Faithful Ones, and if the Dúnedain were waning now still they could look back with pride and remember when their might had salvaged these very lands and spared the lives of many elves who called Imladris home. Their King shared the lineage of the prince gracing their streets today and the citizens could not help but hope to impress Elrond's son. The festivities that commenced were modest, clearly pared down from their original scale, but sumptuous: a carnival in the streets for the commoners and a ball in the palace to which the nobles of the King's court were invited. The music was sweet, the wine sweeter, and the fellowship warm and genuine.

All of it was lost on Elladan: the finery, the fawning, the subliminal dread he inspired. He sat in grim forbearance in the seat of honour beside the King, aloof and forbidding, filling his monosyllabic responses with curt condescension whenever some unwary guest made the mistake of attempting to engage him in conversation. He did not dance or sing; he ignored the fair Lady Cordoff and every other maid in attendance; he glowered at empty spaces in the air and acknowledged pleasantries and polite greetings with minimal, disdainful glances. He shut them out, unaccountably angry over the generous welcome, wanting no part of this secondary, inferior kinship when the one he should be closest to in all of creation would turn from him.

King Arantar excused him at the earliest possible moment, following shortly after to chastise the elven prince for such surly and rude behaviour, forestalling Enerdhil's efforts to do the same.

"It isn't like you," he said calmly, real concern edging the words. "Has Elrohir's good fortune found so little favour with you?" It was exactly the wrong thing to suggest, no matter how right his insight proved to be.

"I have never begrudged my brother anything," spat Elladan, looming up nose to nose with Arantar, hands tight with fisted menace at his side. "For you to say it shows how little you value my friendship."

"It is from friendship's necessity that I speak," rejoined Arantar, holding his ground and meeting the unsettlingly tormented elven eyes squarely. "What have you against the Lady?"

"Nothing!" thundered Elladan, turning sharply aside, pacing away to the fireplace, finding it easier to face the glowing flames than his cousin. "She is perfect; have you not heard? All Imladris lauds her; Adar and Naneth cannot stop smiling. I have listened to Elrohir singing of her beauty, her intelligence, her strong character, her gentle heart until I am sick with the very sound of her name! Speak of her again and we will part in conflict, Arantar."

It was not an idle threat and Arantar knew Elladan well enough to appreciate that. He sighed, understanding what was wrong; the twin brothers had been inseparable in all the years he had known them. Now Elrohir was in love, a love fully requited, by all accounts ecstatic and mesmerised by his new-found joy, and walked a good half-metre above the earth's surface these days. He would establish a bond with Echuil'aer more potent than the one he shared with Elladan. That left little time and less thought to spare for his twin. While Arantar was not surprised by Elladan's jealousy, he was stunned by its depth and the real pain that lay beneath it. Elrohir was not in Mandos, after all, nor lost to his brother through the Gift of Men.

"I will not bring discord between us, muindor iaur," Arantar said, approaching and clapping a hand upon the tense shoulder, squeezing in support and sympathy together.

What more could he do? If he expressed genuine commiseration for Elladan, that would be perceived as pity and his muindor iaur might really disown him. He would become just another distant, removed cousin rather than a true brother. While none could usurp Elrohir's place in Elladan's life, Arantar liked being his 'muindor laes', not quite equal but loved and respected all the same. They were friends and the King's heart went out to him, saddened to see this rift forming between the sons of Elrond, inevitable though the separation was. Perhaps Enerdhil would succeed where he had failed.

Arantar offered a tight smile that never reached his eyes. "Stay for a time," he coaxed. "It would please me well to spar against you again. My counsellors will not permit me to do anything dangerous and I am growing old and soft. Tarcil would like it, too."

"I doubt that; your eldest has become such an arrogant sort I hardly know him. You should send him off to live among the Rangers, that would cure him of his haughty manners," smiled Elladan, relaxing and returning the friendly gesture with relief.

"Oh, I already did that. Lad came back more foul-mouthed and insolent than ever."

Now, this complaint about Arnor's prince and heir was a running joke shared between them spawned by an incident in the boy's adolescent years. Now Tarcil was a man with a child of his own and the King was long past his prime. Sadness gripped Elladan's heart and his expression gentled. It was difficult to see them come and go so quickly when he cared so much. Had he not grown up alongside Arantar's father? Yet already Eldacar was one hundred years dead and for his sake Elladan had learned to love his son, even as now he must find means to befriend Tarcil in turn. He suppressed a grimace, wondering how his Adar managed it, especially having watched as his brother aged and perished.

"Muindor, old mayhap you will someday be, but not yet," he added, hoping the lie was not challenged. Arantar's serious blue eyes filled with wry and kindly dissent and Elladan swiftly broke from them and turned. "Nay, I cannot abide here for I am expected in Mithlond. Erestor has gone suddenly to the wilds of Rhovanion to meet with the elven King of Greenwood. Adar would not say what initiated that drastic step, but it must be something dire as we have not heard from the Wood Elves since the Last Alliance. At any rate, I was chosen to be Erestor's replacement at Hîr Círdan's council."

"So what will you be doing there; drafting the next report on emigration to Valinor?" Arantar let loose a hearty laugh and slapped Elladan hard on the back. "Not exactly your preferred occupation. Oh, I do not envy you this task! One thing is certain, you will be greatly appreciative of Lord Erestor upon your return from Lord Círdan's court."

"Hmm, perhaps. Your sympathetic, brotherly camaraderie is quite touching, muindor laes," growled Elladan, but he was grinning now. "It can't really be that bad. Besides, I've spent time with Círdan before."

"Not like this you haven't," warned Arantar, "not as a delegate to his council. You will be under the old tyrant's thumb this time. The year I fostered there was utterly abysmal. The only saving grace was the sea. I urge you to get out from the city and sail, for only thus will you escape the tiresome bickering of the Haven's counsellors and the perpetual disfavour of Círdan's baleful green glare."

"I have noted that Erestor takes a ten-day off duty after this conference's completion, retreating to Lothlorien to recuperate," Elladan remarked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Mayhap I should remain here and send Enerdhil ahead. Let him bear the brunt of this tedious task; I will arrive in due time and settle the squabbling, thus earning Círdan's respect and gratitude."

"What dreams you spin!" laughed Arantar, shaking his head. "There's no getting out of it, Elladan. If he expects you and someone else arrives, he'll simply send his warriors here to collect you. They will brook no resistance and carry you back to their Lord by force if necessary."

"Nae! You make them sound barbaric. They are Telerin elves, mostly Faladhrim and Sindarin people with a few Noldorin folk as well; such is beneath them. If they failed to take you to their hearts, it was probably due to your uncouth manners."

"They are a strange lot," Arantar said cryptically and then moved the conversation to the main point. There were words he would say that Elladan had no desire to hear from anyone, much less his human foster-brother, but the King was no coward. "They will not be sympathetic to your plight. You will be expected to deport yourself as Elrond's representative and the other delegates will be eager to test your resolve. Your father's reputation casts a weighty shadow, Elladan; do not let your brother's absence make it even heavier."

"You think I'm not up to it," Elladan was genuinely shocked and had no words to counter his friend, doubt clouding his view of himself. Many were the obligations imposed by his father, all of which he accomplished to Elrond's satisfaction, but this was the first time he'd undertaken any duty or task without Elrohir beside him.

"No, I have faith in your skill and Erestor's training, having benefited from it myself. You must focus on the matters before you and leave Elrohir where he is, in Imladris with his betrothed."

Elladan reflected a moment, gazing at Arantar with renewed respect and appreciation. He'd just been told to stop acting like a pouting child in terms that left his dignity intact. "You are a worthy friend, Arantar, and a great diplomat. Mayhap you should go down to Mithlond and let me linger beside Nenuial, ruling in your stead."

"Oh, you'd like that. Nay, I am done being referred to as 'henechil' (human boy). I am a King, after all, and while I have respect for my elders, especially one who is such a staunch ally, there is not sufficient deference in me to win Círdan's approval. I will stay here where I am loved and honoured," Arantar grimaced around the words. "Yet write to me, if you will, and I will answer. I am eager to know your thoughts on the sea, especially if you take to sailing, and while I am not Elrohir, I am still your muindor laes."



Poised with his troops upon the western rim of Emmyn Uial, Elladan smiled as the conversation replayed, peering westward upon a hazy horizon that melted into a grey and shimmering sea.

~Mayhap I will sail upon it this time.~

He had not been to Lindon since his elfling days when, at the age of thirty-five summers, he and Elrohir had gone to fulfil the required five years' internship in Círdan's court. The sea had not captivated either of the twins then; neither one had taken to sailing its choppy surface. What the Faladhrim found so beguiling they couldn't fathom and had shared amusement over the Telerin obsession with fishing from the foaming shore, distaste over the strong scent of salt and decay redolent in the wind, curiosity over the little boats darting though the waves, and titillation over the naked bodies frolicking in the saline water.That had been enough inducement to make them try it, yet the powerful currents and pounding surf made it impossible to progress to anything more amorous than swimming, diving, and surf-riding. The twins' purity had not been sullied in Mithlond despite their efforts to explore the possibilities their maturing bodies recognised.

One important difference had been uncovered then: Elrohir was attracted to the soft curves of the female form while Elladan could discover no beauty that was not male. It had been a surprise, each stunned to learn the other's preference was unique and distinct from his own. It was the first time they couldn't share their innermost thoughts, for Elladan's desire, invading Elrohir's mind, cancelled his brother's lust instantly, and vice-versa. They found a way to barricade these urges from one another and thus achieved for the first time independence in thought.

~If fantasising and self-indulgence can be said to incorporate thought.~

Still, they were but on the cusp of adolescence and other pursuits diverted them from carnal curiosity most of the time. The Grey Havens was an amazingly colourful place filled with exotic foods and strange customs, offering a cross-section of elven societies prevalent at the time. Together the sons of Elrond had explored the walled city, roamed the marshes and the salt flats, scampered over the plains of Forlond and hiked the foothills of Ered Lhuin.They pretended Lindon was Sirion and fought against the cruelty of the last kinslaying, sometimes wandering far north along the shore to gaze on Himling, Maedhros' fortress of old before the War of Wrath. Then it was called Himring, a flat-topped mesa in the tailing spur of the Blue Mountains and the castle he had built there still stood in ruins upon the stranded island.

Often they debated: had their father and uncle ever lived there? The sons of Feänor were not a topic Elrond would discuss willingly and his sons had learned early not to bring their questions to him. Their mother was only a little more forthcoming, having no good words to say of the murderers who had held her husband and his brother hostage in their youth. Erestor offered them more, encouraging the elflings to study all aspects of the Feänorian Oath and its effects upon the fiery Noldo's seven sons.

Yet Mithlond had been their father's home, that was fact, and Nowë Círdan, unwed and unattached, had taken responsibility for raising the twin sons of Eärendil more than any other. Elrond harboured great respect for the ancient elf and this same regard he tried to instil into his sons' characters. Elladan had strongly rebelled against it; Elrohir had complied willingly. Fostering in Lindon, this had been immediately obvious to the First-age Elder and the two were quickly divided in Círdan's favour. Elrohir enjoyed his stern approval, which took the form of regular and public correction of errors in virtually every thought, word, and deed. Elladan earned invisibility and was grateful for it.

~What manner of welcome awaits me now?~

He scanned the dusky green ocean, its surface mottled and dappled with the golden glint of Anor. His sight travelled inland through the deep cleft of the gulf of Lhûn into the narrow neck of land where the Havens straddled the brackish flow of the river on either bank. A bright spark of fleeting golden radiance glinted through the early morning air; the twinkle and shimmer of sunlight winking through the facets of the famed crystal tower, Elostirion. Surrounding the heights of Emmyn Baraid sprawled the city of Mithlond, its growth having exceeded the limits of the walls long ago. Every year, it seemed, the population of elves shrank in other realms only to swell here with folk hoping to leave for Aman, waiting for their ship to be built. It occurred to him that he might meet some he knew and many who would surely know of him.

"The spires of Lindon, Hîren," Enerdhil announced the obvious, smiling benignly when Elladan turned harried eyes upon him.

Without a word, he nudged his horse into motion and led the way down the defile to the flatlands. He took the road unseen by any save elven folk, following the banks of Lhûn Sîr, and passed amid the outlying fields and clustered homesteads. The people looked upon him and greeted him warmly but he did not stop to chat, turning aside all who would share his company. The group lodged in a simple inn and Elladan retired to his room at once, isolating himself again from everyone, fellows, friends, and foreigners alike, caring not what Enerdhil and the others might choose to do. The next day brought them to the gates of Nowë Círdan's city of refuge.

~ Next ~

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.