legolas and eowyn

“Please, Tithen Dúlinn,”—Haldir looked up from the bow he was carefully re-stringing—“do not smoke in here.”

Cyllien, who had just emerged from their bedchamber looking pale and sickly, threw up her hands in anger. “Am I smoking?” she demanded. “Am I?”

“No.” Haldir smiled sympathetically. But I know you, he thought. I know what you need when you look like that. Still, he laid down the bow, and held out his arms to her. “Come here,” he said, gently.

Cyllien hesitated, clearly surprised by his sudden show of affection. “Why?”

“I just want to hold you. You look so—”

What?” The elleth ran a hand through her dishevelled hair. “What do I look?”

Broken, thought Haldir. “Fragile,” he said. He held out his arms again—and, this time, Cyllien came to him, kneeling before him, and snuggling against his chest. Haldir stroked her damp, matted hair. “You need a change, Tithen Dúlinn,” he said, gently. “We both do. I have been thinking that I might ask Legolas for a leave of absence.”

“And then what?” Her voice sounded small, but hopeful.

“I would take you somewhere,” said Haldir, “wherever you wanted to go. Just the two of us.”

For a moment—a mere heartbeat—he saw her face light up. Then the glow vanished. “It’s not that you want to be with me,” she said, pulling away from him, angrily. “You just want to miss the Harvest Rite. You just don’t want to see him fucking her!”

“Oh, Cyllien…” A profound weariness came over him. He let her go.

“Why didn’t you stay with her?” she cried, stamping her foot. “With that other Eowyn?”

“She did not want me,” replied Haldir, simply. He sighed. He could see that she was choking on the insults she wanted to yell at him, but she bottled them up and, pulling her sleeping robe closed, she staggered over to the dresser and began throwing things here and there, searching for her pipe. “Cyllien, please.”

“I am going outside!” she shouted.

Haldir picked up his bow.


Eowyn’s hands gripped the bed head, and her hips rose to meet his thrusts—“ah, ah, oh, oh, Legolas, Leg-, Leg-, Le-, aaaah!”—and a million stars burst inside her head, sending shards of fire into every extremity—

But it was not over yet, for her elf had yet to come, and he thrust, and thrust, and thrust again (his lovely face, hovering above her, frowning with need). And she felt the promise of another climax, somewhere deep inside her, felt his penis—His beautiful, wonderful, oh—“Oh yes! YES!”—and he touched that secret part of her and, instantly, her vital spirits rushed down to him, and her body devoured him—grasping and holding, grasping and holding—

“Oh,” he sobbed, “oh, Valar, melmenya.”

He collapsed into her arms, and she felt his lips move against her cheek, and knew that he was smiling.

“My elf,” she sighed, hugging him, “my own elf. Do you think—”

No, Eowyn nín,” he replied, tiredly. “I know that it will be you. When the moment comes, when the Mistress of the Ceremony asks me to choose, I shall choose you. There is no other possibility.”

“Good. But that is not what I was going to say.” She stroked his hair. “I was just wondering how we will bear the next three days.” (Since the Harvest Rite required the Celebrant to observe a period of celibacy before the Ceremony, Eowyn was planning to stay with Hentmirë for three nights). “I will miss you so much.”

Legolas raised his head. “You could stay here with me, melmenya,” he said, “as long as we did not make love—”

“Legolas!” Smiling, she reached up and stroked his face. “We both know that that would not work, my darling.”

The elf kissed her hand.

“I must pack a bag,” she said. “I will need my nightdress and my dressing robe, my new gown and slippers—”

“Surely, you can come back here to change your clothes, melmenya?”

“No,” said Eowyn firmly. “We must do this properly, Legolas.”

The elf sighed. “As you command, my Harvest Queen.” He kissed her mouth, gently. “We will do it properly.”

Haldir knocked on the bedchamber door. “I am about to leave for the Council Meeting,” he said.

There was no answer.


The door opened. “I heard you.”

The transformation was breathtaking—she had brushed her hair until it shone, and caught it back in a jewelled headband, she had applied rouge to her lips, and subtly painted her dark eyes, and she had put on a close-fitting gown of midnight blue silk. She looks, thought Haldir, who had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, absolutely entrancing. “You have remembered, then,” he said, “that King Thranduil is due to arrive this afternoon.”

“I will be there.”

“Good.” He kissed her forehead. “You may even enjoy it, Tithen Dúlinn.”

She nodded, stiffly, before closing the door on him.

With a sigh, Haldir picked up his ledger and—taking a final glance around the chamber to make sure that Cyllien had not left her pipe, or the splint she used to light it, smouldering somewhere amidst the chaos—he made his way to the door and opened it.

A square of parchment was lying on the threshold. Haldir picked it up, unfolded it, and read the words scrawled upon it:

your elfwoman is fucking Heral the carpenter

Calmly, he re-folded the letter, and put it in his pocket.

“Good morning everyone,” said Legolas, calling the meeting of the Inner Council to order—Eowyn and Gimli, Lords Fingolfin, Caranthir, and Lenwë, March Warden Haldir, and Captain Golradir of the Palace Guard, all turned to face him, expectantly.

“Before we finalise the arrangements for my father’s visit,” he said, “I have pleasant task to perform. At our last meeting we decided that, since the colony now has more than a hundred human citizens, we would invite them to elect a spokesman to sit on the Council. I am very pleased to be asking Master Bawden,”—he gestured towards a man waiting at the chamber door—“to take his seat.”

Amidst the quiet applause of his fellow Council members, Master Bawden—a small, vigorous man in his late fifties—sat down in the empty place between Haldir and Golradir. “Thank you, my Lord, my Lady, sirs,” said the man, diffidently. “I shall do my best to serve the colony well.”

“Welcome Master Bawden,” said Legolas. “Now, to less pleasant business.”

Two hours later

Legolas stood before the double doors of the new guest apartments, examining their intricate decoration—carvings of sleek, galloping horses interwoven with curving branches and curling leaves—in the style of Rohan. “Magnificent,” he said. “My compliments, Master Bawden.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” said the man, shyly.

“Allow us to show you the interior, my Lord, my Lady,” said Master Amdír, the chief craftsman-builder, lifting the ornate door latch and pushing the doors open.

Legolas and Eowyn stepped inside. The entrance hall was light and airy, panelled in pale, carved wood, its wide, frosted windows hung with gauzy drapes.

“It is lovely,” said Eowyn.

“Beautiful,” agreed Legolas, smiling, “my father will be very comfortable here.”

“This is the main bedchamber, my Lord,” said Amdír, opening a door leading off the hallway.

Like two inquisitive children, Legolas and Eowyn peeped inside. The bedchamber was darker than the hall, panelled in deep red rosewood, and hung with crimson velvet. “Since your father is used to dwelling in a cavern, my Lord,” explained the craftsman-builder, “we thought that he would find these colours most comfortable.”

Beside the canopied bed, an open door led to what appeared to be an indoor garden, filled with fresh greenery. “It is also the bathing room, my Lord,” said Amdír.

“I see that you have made a study of my father’s palace.”

“We have, my Lord.” Master Bawden bowed.

“Well, melmenya, I think that you and I should move in here ourselves,” said Legolas, “and put my father in our quarters.”

Eowyn smiled.

This chamber, my Lord,” said Amdír, drawing them back into the hallway and opening a second door, “is for your father’s personal bodyguard.”

“His bodyguard?” Legolas frowned, looking from the elf to the man and back again. “Whatever made you think that my father had a bodyguard?”

“His Majesty requested the accommodation himself, my Lord,” said Bawden, colouring slightly. “He was very specific.” He opened his document case and began searching through a number of plans. “His letter is here, somewhere, my Lord—”

“That is not necessary, Master Bawden,” said Legolas, laying a friendly hand on the flustered man’s arm. “I am just surprised…”

“Well, whoever this bodyguard is,” said Eowyn, looking around the chamber, which was decorated in a deep pine-green, “I am sure that he will be happy in here. Shall we see the rest?”

The sitting room was a large, curved chamber, with separate spaces for dining, studying, and sitting cosily by the fire—and the broad windows of each area combined to provide a magnificent, panoramic view of the aerial city.

“We used plain glass in here, my Lord,” explained Bawden, “because we thought—well, I thought—that your guests would want to look out. You see, they can draw these curtains for privacy.” He took hold of one of the velvet drapes. “At the moment, unfortunately, the window overlooks the building site, but we’re stopping work for the duration of the Ceremony, and we’ve tidied everything up, so it doesn’t look too—oh—no!”

Something in the site below had caught his eye.

He sighed. “Excuse me, my Lord, my Lady, Master Amdír.”

He rushed from the chamber.

“Stop it! Stop it now!” cried Bawden, running out onto the wooden platform.

The two men ignored him—the big blond, holding his opponent by the collar of his jerkin, continued pounding his fist into the other’s head, the smaller one, struggling to wriggle free, kept slapping helplessly at the big man’s chest.

“For the gods’ sakes!” Bawden forced his way between them and pushed them apart. “Lord Legolas and Lady Eowyn are up there in the top chambers—looking down on you—and the gods only know what they’re thinking—I wouldn’t be surprised if they threw both of you out on your ears.” He gave the big blond a hard shove. “And good riddance.”

The blond snarled.

“Do you want the elves thinking we’re all pond scum?” cried Bawden. “Do you want them to treat all of us like some of us deserve? Do you?” He turned to the smaller man. “Do you, Lyell?”

“N-no, Bawden.”

“No. So get off home with you—not you, Heral: you finish your job.” He pointed to a pile of rough-sawn planks. “Get them shifted.”

With a loud sigh, Heral the carpenter swaggered forward, ‘accidentally’ barging into Lyell as he passed.

“Hey!” cried the smaller man, rubbing his shoulder. He turned to Bawden. “I swear, one day, I’ll k-kill that bastard.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” replied Bawden, making his way back up to the guest apartments. “There’s half the colony ahead of you.”

“Who is that?”

Master Amdír looked down into the building site. Eowyn pointed to the man carrying the planks.

“His name is Heral,” he said. “He is a good workman, when he applies himself—fearless, out on the timber frames, and as sure footed as any elf, but—”

The man seemed to sense that someone was talking about him and—whether he could see them or not—he suddenly looked up, leering impudently.

Eowyn looked away.

“—I hope you will not think it unfair of me, my Lady,” continued Amdír, “if I say that he is a troublemaker…”

Amdír went on to provide a long list Heral’s shortcomings but Eowyn did not hear them. Her attention was focussed on the familiar figure of the March Warden who, all but concealed amidst the carantaur foliage, seemed to be watching Heral the carpenter’s every move.

Eowyn frowned. Strange.

Two o’clock, precisely

In the clearing beneath the city’s main staircase, an excited crowd had gathered to welcome Eryn Carantaur’s distinguished visitor.

A low platform had been built at the bottom of the stairs and, beneath its canopy of green silk (embroidered with vivid red carantaur leaves), a small group of dignitaries waited patiently whilst the rest of the colonists milled about, chattering excitedly and enjoying the refreshments—ripe blackberries, rosy red apples and glasses of chilled fruit cordial—being served from the Banqueting Hall.

“You mean that he is waiting down the road?” whispered Eowyn.

Legolas nodded. “My father likes to make an entrance, melmenya. He will appear at the proper time.” He smiled at her, standing beside him, tall and slender in her elegant ice-green gown. “You look like a spring flower.”

She rewarded him with a radiant smile.

Suddenly, the trumpets sounded, and two elven warriors rode into view, mounted on milk-white steeds and carrying pennants bearing the arms of the Woodland Realm.

The crowd fell silent.

Behind them came Thranduil himself, handsome—several ladies in the crowd were heard to gasp—elegantly dressed in silver brocade, and wearing a simple coronet of green and white gems.

Beside the King, his chiselled features a picture of arrogance, rode “Thorkell bogsveigir,” whispered Eowyn.

As the remainder of the royal party filed into the clearing, the two Mirkwood guards turned and took up their positions flanking the dais, whilst Thranduil brought his horse to a halt. Immediately, Haldir stepped forward and, bowing briefly, placed a stool beneath the King’s feet. With great dignity, Thranduil dismounted and climbed the steps to where Legolas and Eowyn were waiting. Thorkell bogsveigir dropped lightly from his horse, and followed.

“Welcome, your Majesty,” said Legolas. Then, completely forgetting royal protocol, he threw his arms around his father and hugged him tightly—beckoning Eowyn to join them.

A scattering of sighs and quiet hand-claps went up from the crowd.

At last, Legolas released his father and began the introductions. “May I present Lady Hentmirë, Ada?” he said.

The little woman, looking anxious but surprisingly regal in a magnificent jewelled gown she had brought from Far Harad, stepped forward and curtsied. “Buion len, Thranduil Oropherion,” she said, pronouncing the words flawlessly. “Êl síla or lû o govaded vín.” (Her tutor, Lord Fingolfin, breathed a sigh of relief).

“Mae govannen, Lady Hentmirë,” said Thranduil. “My son has told me all about you. I trust we shall be friends.”

“This, Ada,” said Legolas, “is Mistress Wilawen.”

Wilawen, almost beautiful in an elven gown made especially by Eowyn’s seamstress, curtsied. “Buion len, hîr nín.”

“Enchanted,” said Thranduil, kissing her hand. “My son and I are in your debt, Mistress.”

“And this,” said Legolas, “is Master Arador.”

Arador, well-scrubbed, and with his long dark hair tamed by an elven braid, bowed solemnly. “Buion len, hîr nín,” he said.

“Ah,” said Thranduil, “the young fire-starter. I hear that your father has given us permission to keep you for a year, Master Arador.” He leaned closer. “I look forward to learning more of your secrets, young man.”

“Now, father,” said Legolas, “if you are ready,”—he gestured towards the staircase—“I will show you and your,”—he smiled at Thorkell bogsveigir—“your bodyguard, to your quarters.”

“Thank you, Lassui.” Thranduil held out his arm to Eowyn—“Iell nín?”—and, with his future daughter-in-law in tow, he swept past Gimli, Lord Fingolfin, Lord Caranthir and Lord Lenwë, giving each a curt nod—then came to an abrupt stop. “And who is this?”

“This is Mistress Cyllien,” said Eowyn.

The pair looked into each other’s eyes. Thranduil bowed. Cyllien curtsied. “Nen vaer a lalaith veren nanarad agevedim,” said the Elvenking, softly.

“He makes the others look like elflings,” said Cyllien, watching Thranduil climb the stairs.

Haldir looked from her, to the King, and back again, but said nothing.

“You are looking well, Lassui,” said Thranduil, standing in the window of his sitting room, gazing out across the colony, “despite your recent adventures—she is good for you, ion nín.”

“Of course she is, Ada. I only wish that you—”

“And the colony is thriving.” The Elvenking leaned forward to watch a group of young children—human and elven, and one tiny dwarf—playing knuckle bones together. “The races live in harmony.”

“I hope so, Ada.” Legolas walked over to the sitting area. There was a sideboard next to the fireplace, with a decanter of red wine and four tall glasses upon it. “Come,” he said, “drink a toast with me.”

“A toast?”

“It is a human custom I learned from Eomer King, Ada. This is a good vintage,” he added, withdrawing the crystal stopper, “our first.” He poured out two glasses of wine, and handed one to his father. “Just raise it, like this—yes. Now: to you, father, for permitting me to bring our folk hither, and to Eryn Carantaur, may it always be blessed.” He touched his glass to Thranduil’s.

“Now what?”

“Now, we drink.”

“A very pleasant custom,” said the Elvenking, with a twinkle in his eye.


The woman with hair like midday sun does not know that I watch over her.

I watch her when she rides her horse, chasing the wind; I watch her when she practises her war dance with her long, sharp blade; I watch her when she patiently draws her picture of the Great Red Forest.

I have watched her fight, as fierce as a warg.

I have watched her cry as though the Forest itself had died.

But today she is smiling—at the tall, dark man who arrived with the Elvenking.


“Good afternoon, my Lady.” Thorkell bogsveigir bowed politely. “Prince Legolas has asked me to help you move your belongings.”

“Lady? Prince? I see that King Thranduil has taught you some manners, at last,” she said, grinning, for the Beorning was not always so polite. She pointed to the clothes chest that she had been about to drag across the walkway to Hentmirë’s house.

The man lifted it without protest. “His Majesty has taught me,”—he seemed to be considering his words—“many things.”

“I am sure he has.” Eowyn pushed Hentmirë’s door open. “Just in here—thank you. I suspect that you and he were made for each other.”

Thorkell set the chest down. “What do you mean, made for each other?” He eyed her, suspiciously.

“I mean,” said Eowyn, “that you are clever, and loyal (when you want to be), and—yes—you can be ruthless, too. You are just what an Elvenking needs to do his bidding. And he must think highly of you,” she added, “to have made you his personal bodyguard.”

“That is just one of his jokes,” said Thorkell bogsveigir, but he suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Will that be all, my Lady?”

“It will. Thank you.” Impulsively, Eowyn stretched out her hands. “It is good to see you again, blood brother.”

Thorkell bogsveigir seized them, smiling. “And it is good to see you, too, blood sister,” he said. “Very good to see you.”


“Well?” asked Thranduil.

Thorkell bogsveigir leaned back against the door, folding his arms across his chest. “She is not exactly popular with my Lady,” he said, “but I did manage to learn a few things.”


“Her name is Cyllien.”

“I know that.” Thranduil crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine. Thorkell bogsveigir cleared his throat but the Elvenking ignored him. “Go on.”

“She lives with the March Warden—Haldir—he found her in Far Harad, singing in a tavern, and brought her home with him. Rumour has it that she… Now, how shall I put this,”—the Elvenking had returned to the window, so the Beorning took the opportunity to pour himself a drink—“rumour has it that their relationship is not all that it should be. Rumour has it that she sometimes seeks consolation elsewhere—”

Eowyn did not tell you that!”

“No.” Thorkell knocked back his wine. “Not bad—no, I just happened to hear one of the workmen boasting.”

Thranduil nodded, thoughtfully. “I am going for a walk,” he announced. “Make sure that you are here when I return.”

The Elvenking took off his coronet and laid it carefully in its velvet-lined box, unhooked the fastenings of his heavy robe and shrugged it off, put on a simple suede jerkin and a mantle of dark green, raising the hood to cover his golden hair—then he set out to explore the city, just an ordinary wood elf, newly arrived from one of the rural settlements.

“Ten gold,” said the trader.

Ten?” Cyllien frowned.

“Bad weather, love,” the man explained. “Bad ’arvest.”

The elleth counted out the money. “Will you be here again next month?”

“Gods willing.” He weighed out the pipe weed and carefully tipped it onto a piece of canvas, which he rolled up, tying off the ends with string. “’Ang it from the ceiling, somewhere dry,” he advised. “Or better still, keep it in a wooden barrel.”

“I shall.” Cyllien concealed the precious purchase under her mantle. “Thank you. Until next month, then.”

She hurried back across the market-flet, and she was so intent upon avoiding the crowd before her that she did not notice the man behind her—until he grabbed her by the wrist.

The light was fading and the air, though still quite warm, was fresh, whispering promises of winter.

Lassui has done well, thought Thranduil, strolling down the main walkway, admiring the deep red foliage of the mighty carantaurs, and the elegant lines of the buildings nestling amongst their branches. Though it is, perhaps, a little too much like Rivendell in places…

He passed his son’s own chambers and his sharp eyes, glancing—entirely by accident—through a frosted window, caught a brief glimpse of two shadows sharing a tender embrace.

Smiling, Thranduil walked on, past the Council Chamber and the residences of its elven members, past the headquarters of the Palace Guard, past the Library and the school for elflings, past the clusters of small apartments with their little balconies and their garden flets, past the broad market-flet, where a lively crowd of elves, humans, and a handful of dwarves, were buying and selling wares from all over Middle-earth—

Wait! Is that her?

“What are you doing?” hissed Cyllien, looking up into Heral’s hard, blue eyes. “Let me go!”

The carpenter smiled—and Cyllien wondered how she could ever have allowed him to do the things he had done to her. She glanced around. Several people had noticed that something was going on—one, a stranger dressed in dark green, looked as though he might be about to come to her aid. “You cannot do anything to me here,” she said, as bravely as she could, “so let me go.”

In reply, Heral tightened the grip on her wrist until her body sagged beneath the pain. Then, grasping her at the waist, he propelled her onto one of the walkways, taking her under an arch, and through a gate, and into a secluded garden.

“I will scream,” warned Cyllien.

He pushed her against the flet wall. “Try it—and I'll stop you, one way or another.”

She felt his hand reach down between them, and she knew that he was opening his breeches. And—as she struggled to break free—a chilling thought struck her for the first time: “You killed that cat,” she cried. “You took its life, just to scare me. You have no conscience,”—she heard her skirt tear and felt his big phallus jab between her thighs—“no,” she cried, fighting desperately now, “stop it!”

“You want it—you know you do.”

“No! Please!

“Step away from her,” said a calm voice.

“Fuck off!” cried Heral.

“Move away from her,” the voice insisted, “or I will make you move.”

Make me?”

Cyllien felt Heral’s grip relax—then, suddenly, she was free because he was flying at the stranger, knife in hand. “Look out!” she cried.

But, with perfect timing, the hooded elf stepped aside, and the man’s charge ended abruptly as he stumbled into the flet wall.

“Now, you have a simple choice,” said the stranger, grasping the carpenter by the scruff of the neck and forcing his head down over the rail, “either leave this lady alone, or suffer the consequences.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” roared the man, struggling wildly.

“I am someone,” said the strange elf, pushing his head even lower, “who can make your life a misery.” He gave Heral a final warning shove before hauling him to his feet. “Now go back to the hole you crawled from,” he commanded, “and, for Varda’s sake,”—he nodded at the man's groin—“make yourself decent.”

Heral wrenched himself free—clearly intending to attack again—but the stranger, stepping back, calmly drew a long, white knife. “I will use it,” he warned.

A look of utter contempt crossed the carpenter’s face. “Elf turd,” he spat, “you’ll regret this!” And, with a dismissive gesture, he stamped towards the gate, pulling his breeches closed. “You’ve not seen the last of me! Either of you!”

“Now, Mistress Cyllien,” said King Thranduil, lowering his hood, “will you permit me to escort you home?”


The Banqueting Hall sparkled with candlelight.

Eowyn, seated beside Legolas, sitting to the right of his father, glanced round the large, ring-shaped table, smiling. Their guests were clearly enjoying themselves—they had eaten well and now, over apple brandy, nuts and sweetmeats, they were talking with old friends and making new acquaintances: Thorkell bogsveigir, she noticed, was getting to know a particularly lovely elleth…

“Lassui,” she asked, frowning, “where is Haldir?”

“The March Warden?” Legolas quickly scanned the Hall. “I do not know, melmenya.”

“Cyllien is not here either.”

“Perhaps,” said Legolas, quietly, “they are having a disagreement.”

Eowyn shook her head. “They are always having disagreements, Lassui, but it has never stopped Haldir doing his duty before.”

“Then let us hope,” said Legolas, taking her hand, “that they are making up.” He smiled, and then his expression changed to something so full of love and happiness, it made her heart glow. “Have I told you how beautiful you look, melmenya?”

Eowyn smiled. “Five times, at least.”

“Well…” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “I shall miss you tonight, Eowyn nín.”


The woman with hair like midday sun is safely asleep. It is time for me to return to the Forest.

I begin to climb, but a furtive movement catches my eye, and I stop to watch.


Eowyn awoke with a start and sat bolt upright—someone was tapping on her bedchamber window.

She peered through the frosted glass.

Then, smiling, she opened the window. “You should not be here, Lassui.”

“I just wanted to say goodnight.”


He smiled, ruefully. “I miss you, melmenya.”

“I know. But it is only three nights, my darling,”—she thought for a moment—“why not go up onto the sea-flet? You can see so many stars up there.”

“They would not be the same without you beside me.”

“Oh, Lassui!” She leaned through the window and hugged him tightly. “I know: why not take your bow down to the practice field—perhaps you can persuade Haldir to join you.”

Legolas kissed her temple. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “yes, that is a good idea, melmenya. Thank you.” Reluctantly he pulled away from her. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Lassui.”

She watched him cross the walkway—shoulders hunched, head bowed, a picture of dejection—and disappear into their chambers.

She closed the window.

Suddenly, through the blurry glass, she caught a glimpse of someone else—someone tall and lean—creeping quietly past, heading in the direction of the new guest chambers.

Quickly, she re-opened the window and peered out.

But whoever it was had vanished.




Contents page


Arinna throws down the gauntlet.


Next chapter
A body is found: Legolas and Eowyn begin their investigation.

chapter 2

Tithen Dúlinn … Little Nightingale.
Buion len … I serve you.
Thranduil Oropherion … Thranduil, son of Oropher.
Êl síla or lû o govaded vín … A star shines on the hour of our meeting.
Hîr nín … My Lord.
Iell nín … My daughter.
Nen vaer a lalaith veren nanarad agevedim … Sweet water and joyous laughter till next we meet.
Ion nín … My son.


Aspects of the story were inspired by The Archaeology of Ritual and Magic by Ralph Merrifield. The book explores all the 'strange' things that Mr Merrifield encountered during a long career as an archaeologist and as curator of the Museum of London—evidence of ritual magic, such as spells and charms written on paper and pushed into cracks in walls, witch bottles filled with urine and sharp objects and buried upside down, coins and pilgrim badges bent and thrown into water, old shoes and dead cats immured in buildings…

I thoroughly recommend it!