legolas and eowyn

20th day of Cerveth
Five o’clock in the morning

journal entry 1

Lord Fingolfin laid down his pen with a sigh.


Six o’clock

Master Amdír, the chief craftsman-builder of Eryn Carantaur, his assistant Master Mablung, and his two young apprentices, had already been travelling for almost three hours when—as the sun rose above the mountains of Mordor—they approached the ancient cedar grove of Eryn Laeg, twenty miles east of the city.

Amdír scanned the woods around him. The forest was unusually sparse here—many trees had died in Sauron’s time—and the undergrowth was dense and tangled. “This is the place,” he called, raising a hand and bringing the others to a halt.

One of the apprentices immediately began to dismount, but Mablung turned in his saddle and stopped the younger elf with a warning look.

Amdír placed a hand over his heart, bowed his head, and recited a short prayer of thanks to Aulë and Yavanna. Then, after a moment’s respectful silence, he dropped lightly from his mount, took from his travelling pack a bundle of markers—small, brightly coloured flags sewn onto slender wooden stakes—and handed them out to his companions. “We need five,” he said, “at least three feet broad, straight and true, and well-seasoned.”

Leaving their horses to graze along the trail, the four elves entered the woods and, using stout wooden staffs to part the undergrowth, cleared themselves a temporary path.


Eowyn smiled.

A very affectionate—and pleasantly well-endowed—elf had snuggled up behind her and, wrapping his arms around her and, was nuzzling her ear, and rubbing her buttocks with an eager erection.

Gods... Eowyn closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

One of the elf’s hands wandered upwards and cupped her breast, gently lifting and kneading it.

Dear gods. Eowyn’s smile broadened, but she kept her eyes closed, and her body still.

Now the elf’s soft mouth was biting her neck, and his other hand was kneading her belly, and his penis...

Oh, gods! Somehow, his penis had slipped between her legs and was firmly pressing against her most sensitive flesh.

Eowyn’s body responded with a pool of moisture. I could happily die like this...

Then the hand on her belly reached down between her thighs, and the elf’s body shifted, and the head of his penis found exactly the right spot, and “Ai,” he whispered, and she smiled as he nudged inside her.

My love... She reached over her shoulder and pulled his head closer.

And the elf, pressing his cheek to hers, immediately slid both hands to her waist and entered her fully.

Dear, dear gods. Eowyn lay still—trapped between the wild wood elf above her and the rocking bed beneath her—and let him do what he would with her...

And soon—very soon—she was coming—helplessly coming—again and again, her multiple crises merging into one relentless orgasm that—though she feared she might die of it—she prayed would never stop—


“I think I have one,” called Elemmakil, the older and more competent of Amdír’s two apprentices, “over here.” He used the end of his staff to clear away the tangle of brambles and showed his master the trunk of a fallen cedar, tall and straight, and a good five feet in diameter at the root.

“Yes,” said Amdír. “It looks very suitable.” He examined the trunk for signs of rot. “No—it is perfect. Mark it red.”

Elemmakil selected a flag, drove the slender stake into the ground, and unfurled the piece of fabric. The red marker hung, plainly visible, about two feet above the highest patches of undergrowth.

“Now find me another,” said Amdír, with a smile. He turned towards his other apprentice. “Annael?”

The younger elf was standing, some hundred feet ahead of him, one hand resting on the trunk of a living cedar, staring down at the ground beneath the tree.

“Annael! I shall not tell you again!” Using his staff to push back the brambles, Master Amdír hurried to his wayward apprentice’s side. “I have warned you about going off into reverie when you should be—Oh, by the Valar!

“There are more,” said Annael. “At least two more. Over there.”


Nine o’clock

Eowyn turned off the main walkway, crossed the broad market-flet, and slowly climbed one of the many staircases that spiralled up to the dwellings above. The house she was seeking was on the highest flet—small, but pretty, with pots of fragrant flowers clustered beneath its windows.

She paused before its pale green door. Should I be doing this? she wondered. Do I have the right? She sighed. Probably not.

But she knocked, and the door opened immediately.

Eowyn placed her hand upon her heart and bowed her head in a formal greeting. “Maer aur, Lessien Curufiniell.”

Eryn Carantaur’s own Mistress of the Ceremony smiled. “Lady Eowyn,” she replied, in the Common Tongue, “Please, come in. I have been expecting you.” She stepped aside to allow Eowyn to enter, then gestured towards two chairs standing before the fireplace.

Eowyn took a seat, but her stiff back and her hands, clasped upon her lap, betrayed her nervousness.

“Can I offer you a drink, my lady?” asked Lessien.

“No—no, thank you, I would just...”

“Like to ask some questions. I understand.” Lessien took the chair opposite. “You have concerns about the Rite.”

Eowyn nodded.

“What is troubling you?”

The woman looked down at her hands. Then, flushing crimson, she said, “Legolas does not know I have come here... And he would probably wonder why I am not asking him. But I could not bear to hear the answer from his lips. Not if...” She sighed. “Is it possible, Lady Lessien—might the Valar give him someone else this time? And, if they do, will I have to watch?”

When the elleth did not reply, Eowyn looked up in alarm. But Lessien was smiling. “You are Lord Legolas’ betrothed,” she said. “He is bound to you. He could not perform the Rite with anyone else.”

“Does that mean...? Does it mean that the Valar will choose me?”

Lessien thought carefully before replying. “As you know, my Lady, I am new to my office, and the Mistress who trained me was not, perhaps, the most reliable guide, but—whilst no one but the celebrant himself knows how Yavanna makes the Lady known to him—it is my belief that, ultimately, the choice lies with the celebrant himself. I believe that the vision—whatever it may be—is expression of his own heart.”

“You are saying that every celebrant is given his heart’s own choice,” said Eowyn.

“Even if he is unsure who that choice might be,” said Lessien. “Which, of course, Lord Legolas is not.”

Tears sprang to Eowyn’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said, softly, “thank you so much...”

“Would you like that drink now, my lady?”

Eowyn smiled. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Lessien rose and walked over to the sideboard. “Is there anything else you would like to ask?” She selected a particularly lovely goblet—glancing at Eowyn as she did so, as though matching the beauty of the design to the beauty of her guest.

“Two things,” admitted Eowyn, “though one is just curiosity.”

“Curiosity is gift of the Valar, my lady,” said Lessien. She poured a measure of fruit cordial into the frosted glass, added bubbling water, then handed the drink to Eowyn.

“Thank you. Well,” said Eowyn, “the serious question is—will Legolas need to observe a period of celibacy before the Rite?”

“He will. But, since this is not his first time, the period is much reduced—to just three days.”

“I see.” Eowyn thought for a moment. “Then I can stay with Hentmirë...” She took a sip of cordial.

“What is your more curious question, my lady?” asked Lessien, returning to her seat.

“Well,” said Eowyn, slowly, “Suppose, for some reason, I had not attended the Rite last year. Legolas would have chosen some other woman—or elleth, rather; would she now be his betrothed?”

“That is a good question, my lady. A very good question.” Lessien sat back in her chair, and thought for a long moment. “Since the Lady of the harvest is, in some respect, chosen by Yavanna, and Yavanna chose you, had you not attended the Rite last year, Middle-earth would be a very different place. And, if Middle-earth were a different place, then I suppose that anything might happen in it... I am afraid I do not know the answer your question, my Lady.”


Ten o’clock

The four craftsman-builders galloped into the clearing beneath the city. “March Warden Haldir,” cried Amdír, as he dismounted and ran towards guards at the bottom of the main staircase, “where is he?”

“He should be with Lord Legolas and the Council,” replied one of the guards. “In the Council Chamber—”

“Come, Annael!”

The two elves sprinted up the spiralling stairs, and along the walkway to the Palace buildings.

“We have important news for Lord Legolas and March Warden Haldir!” cried Amdír. The guard opened the Council Chamber door, and—without waiting for further permission—the master and his apprentice ran inside.


The meeting of the Inner Council, consisting of Legolas and Eowyn, Gimli, Lord Fingolfin, Lord Caranthir, and the treasurer, Lord Lenwë, March Warden Haldir, and Captain Golradir of the Palace Guard, had begun with a discussion of the current building works.

“As you can see,” said Caranthir, gesturing towards the report he had prepared for Legolas, “with these changes, the new wing could be completed four—or perhaps five—days earlier than we had originally planned. But I would not recommend it.”

“The time we would save is not sufficient in any case,” agreed Fingolfin.

“Is there anything we could do to improve the existing accommodation, my lord?” asked Eowyn. “We do have two weeks—”

She was interrupted by a commotion at the door.

Legolas looked up from Caranthir’s report. “Ah, Master Amdír—do come in and join us,” he said, beckoning the craftsman-builder to approach the Council Table. “I understood that you had gone to Eryn Laeg to select more timber.”

Amdír bowed nervously. “I did, my Lord, this very morning. But we,”—he glanced at his companion— “or, rather, Annael here, found something else, my Lord, lying amongst the trees. Dead bodies. Human bodies. Six of them.”

Six?” Legolas glanced around the table. The other members of his Inner Council were as shaken by the news as he was. “How did they die, Master Amdír?”

“I—er—I did not look, my Lord—”

“I did, my Lord,” said Annael, stepping forward with a little bow. “They had sword wounds—at least, the ones I saw did.”

“Are there any orcs in that area, melmenya?” asked Legolas.

“No. I do not think so...” For several years, Eowyn had been gathering information about the bands of orcs that—despite the fall of Sauron—still roamed Middle-earth, collating it onto a large map of Ithilien so that she could look for patterns in their migration, and predict where they might appear—and attack—next. She glanced at Lord Caranthir, who been maintaining the map whilst she had been in Far Harad, for confirmation.

The elf shook his head. “I have had no reports from that part of the forest, my Lady,” he confirmed.

“How long have the men been dead?” asked Legolas.

“I do not know, my lord,” said Annael. “But not long. They have not yet begun to...” He gestured. Then he added, in a low voice. “And at least one of them is a woman.”

Several of the counsellors gasped.

“We must recover the bodies immediately,” said Legolas, decisively. “We must identify these unfortunate people and inform their families. And we must catch their killers...” He turned to Haldir. “Which is the nearest guard post?”


“Triple the garrison there and set up a continuous patrol along the road.” Legolas sighed. “That is the main route into the city...”

“And the way your father will be coming in less than two weeks’ time,” added Fingolfin.


“I shall leave at once,” said the Haldir. “Master Amdír—will you and your apprentice be willing to accompany me?”

“Oh. Yes... Of course, sir.” Amdír bowed.

“Take a healer,” said Legolas. “Take Master Dínendal with you.”

“You think there may be survivors, my lord?” asked Fingolfin.

“It is possible,” said Legolas. “Men are a hardy people. Perhaps I should come with you, Hal—”

“No,” said Eowyn, firmly. “No, you have the Harvest Rite and your father’s visit to prepare for. Haldir will send word if he needs our assistance.”


Haldir went straight to the Guard House and selected the most reliable of his troops—including his brothers Rumil and Orophin, and Valandil, Orodreth and Camthalion—to retrieve the bodies and search the cedar glade, plus ten others to reinforce the garrison at Baradorn.

“You have half an hour,” he told them, “to take leave of your loved ones.”

Then, ignoring the smirks on his brothers’ faces, he hurried to his own flet to break the news to Cyllien.


Valandil knew that he would find Wilawen in the Healing Room.

Shortly after coming to live with him in Eryn Carantaur, the woman had persuaded the Chief Healer, Master Dínendal, to let her assist him by preparing medicines and by tending to minor injuries.

Today she was working in the dispensary, carefully crushing dried herbs in a mortar. “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

“It will depend how long it takes us to move the bodies,” he replied. “But I should be back tomorrow.”

“I think I can keep myself busy until then.” She smiled. “Be careful, Valandil.”

“I shall...”

“Is there something you are not telling me?”

“No, not exactly... It is just...” Valandil sighed. “We will have to postpone our trip to Minas Tirith, Faer Vara,” he said, lifting her from her seat and taking her in his arms, “until Haldir can spare me. I am sorry.”

“That is just one of the many disadvantages of being betrothed to a elven warrior,” said Wilawen, grinning against his chest.

The door opened behind them.

“Wilawen,” said Master Dínendal, then, “—oh, I am sorry...” He averted his eyes. “Lord Legolas has asked me to accompany the March Warden to Eryn Laeg—Valandil has no doubt told you why—and I need an assistant.”


Dínendal looked uncomfortably at Valandil. “She is the most able,” he said, “given what we may have to do—especially since the bodies are human.”

“Do you mind?” asked Wilawen, lightly squeezing Valandil’s arm.

Valandil smiled. “Of course not, Faer Vara,” he said. “I shall be there to protect you.”


Haldir’s flet lay under a cloud of misery. “What am I supposed to do while you are away?” asked Cyllien, sulkily.

The elf sighed. “It is only one night, Tithen Dúlinn. Two at the most. Perhaps you could spend some time with Eowyn...”

“I hate Eowyn—Mistress Perfect. Why can Legolas not go instead of you?”

“Because this is my responsibility,” said Haldir, “as March Warden.” He took her in his arms. “Just look forward to the time we will have together when I return.”

Cyllien said nothing.

“I shall see you tomorrow.” He tucked his fingers under her chin, and lifted it. But, as he went to kiss her mouth, she turned her head, and his lips brushed her cheek instead. “Good bye.”

The elleth watched him hurry down the main staircase. “You will see me if I am still here,” she said, quietly.


As usual, a small crowd had assembled to watch the Border Guards move out.

Legolas, standing before his mounted troops, placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head, “No galu govad gen,” he said. “I expect you back tomorrow.”

Eowyn stepped forward. “Take this,” she said, reaching up to hand Haldir a wax tablet. “I have made some notes on it—questions...”

The March Warden smiled. “I shall make sure I answer them, my Lady.” Then he added, softly, “Can I ask you both to take care of Cyllien for me?”

“Of course,” said Legolas.

“Thank you.” Haldir bid his Lord and Lady a formal farewell, then signalled to his troops to move off. Slowly, the warriors filed out of the clearing, forming themselves into pairs when they entered the narrow forest trail. As the Mirkwood elves passed the main staircase, with Wilawen and Master Dínendal riding between them, a shrill voice called out, in the Common Tongue, “Ori! Cami! Take care! I’ll be waiting!”

Legolas glanced upwards to see Arinna, the woman from Far Harad, leaning over the rail, waving a white handkerchief at her two beloved elves.

He shook his head with a grin.



At midday, as was their custom, Legolas and Eowyn had lunch together.

On a large flet, just above their private chambers, the elf had made his lady a pretty garden, with a table and chairs at the centre, and pots of her favourite plants—brightly coloured daisies, small, sweet-scented cabbage roses, lavender, rosemary, and lemon sage—arranged all around. And, since the weather was fine, Eowyn had had lunch laid out there, and had invited Gimli and Hentmirë to join them.

“Hello, gwendithen,” said Legolas, greeting his adopted aunt with a kiss on the forehead. “Have you had a good morning?” He pulled out a chair for her.

“No,” said Hentmirë.

Smiling, Legolas took his place beside Eowyn. “Why not?”

“I cannot hold the bow right,” she said, despondently. “And my arrows go all over the place.” She waved her plump little hand to illustrate the point.

“It just takes practice, gwendithen.”

“I am not very patient,” she admitted.

Eowyn passed her a plate of roasted vegetables. “Perhaps the bow is not your weapon,” she said. “Perhaps you should try the sword. I could show you.”

“I do not know,” said Hentmirë. “I was no good with the axe...” Gimli, sitting beside her, blanched at the memory. “I do not seem to be any good at anything.”

“You are good at everything,” the dwarf said, firmly; he offered her some roasted chicken. “But perhaps you should try something less martial. Let me see... What about looking after the children?” He glanced at Legolas.

“Of course!” said the elf. “I should have thought of that before—you already spend a lot of time with Lord Lenwë’s youngest sons. Why not help Maglor teach the other elflings? You can tell them all about Far Harad, gwendithen—about Carhilivren and Kuri; about the desert and the oases. They will love it.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. And Maglor will be glad to have someone share the responsibility with him. Come to me after your Elvish lesson, and we will go and talk to him.”


Two o’clock

journal entry 2


Me.” said Fingolfin.

“Um...” Hentmirë bit her lip, and Fingolfin could see that she was screwing up her courage to ask him a question. “Is it true—what Gimli told me—about the Harvest Rite—”

“That depends on what he told you, híril nín,” said Fingolfin. “Me.”

“He said that Legolas and Eowyn will... Um...”

“The Lord chooses a Lady and makes love to her on the threshing floor, yes. Me.”

“In front of everyone—”


“Oh! Er... nin? Yes, nin.”

“Correct. Now say, ‘Follow me, my lord’.”

The woman screwed up her face in concentration.

“A...” prompted Fingolfin, beckoning with his hand, as though trying to draw the words from her lips, “a...”



“Phado? Oh, yes! Aphado nin!” cried Hentmirë, with a clap of her plump little hands.

“Aphado nin, hîr nín,” corrected Fingolfin. “Now put it all together.”

“Mae govannen, King—”



Fingolfin sighed. Today’s effort was poor, even by Hentmirë’s standards. “You do not have to learn Elvish, híril nín,” he said. “Many of the colonists—especially the elflings—are quite proficient in the Common Tongue so, if you are finding it too difficult, it is really not essential—”

“Oh, yes, it is,” insisted Hentmirë. “What sort of citizen would I be if I did not make the effort to learn the language?”

Fingolfin smiled. “That is an admirable attitude, híril nín. So what is holding you back?”

Hentmirë blushed, and cleared her throat. “Um... Do you think I could stay at home for the Harvest Rite?”

Ah. “Of course, if you do not feel able to attend. It is certainly not compulsory.”

“But will Legolas be offended?”

“I do not think so, híril nín. Would you like me to speak to him about it?”

“Would you?” cried Hentmirë, “Oh, thank you!” Suddenly, her smile turned from relief to triumph, and she rose, and added, with a gracious bow, “Mae govannen, Thranduil Oropherion. Hentmirë i eneth nín. Aphado nin, hîr nín.”


Legolas followed Eowyn into the study. “When will you be back?” he asked, sitting down at his desk.

Eowyn collected a few items from amongst the clutter on her own desk. “Before dark,” she said.

The elf looked up, one hand resting on the mountain of papers he had received from his father the previous day. He did not say anything, but Eowyn knew exactly what he was thinking.

“We will not be going anywhere near the Caras Arnen road, Lassui,” she said. “In fact, we will be going in exactly the opposite direction. Berryn wants to survey the land around The Aelvorn.” She came behind him, laid her hands on his shoulders and bent down, pressing her cheek to his, “And he is going to teach me to use his cross-staff!”

Legolas smiled at her excitement. “I do not suppose you would let me ask Gimli to go with you?”

“He would be bored, Lassui.”

“Well... Perhaps I could leave these until tomorrow,”—he waved his hand over the papers,—“and come with you.”

“You would be bored, too,” said Eowyn. “Besides, your father is waiting for a reply.”

“My father is always waiting for a reply.” Legolas sighed. “Be careful, then,” he said. “Promise me that you will be back by dusk. And do not go too near the water. The Aelvorn is deep and you do not swim so well.”

Eowyn laughed. “I promise.” She kissed the top of his head and turned to leave.



“Give me a proper kiss.”

Laughing again, she sat down on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck and, taking her time, kissed him very thoroughly.


Three o’clock

Amdír studied the trees on both sides of the road. “March Warden,” he called, “it was here.”

Haldir reined in his horse. “You are certain?”


The March Warden raised his hand and brought his troops to a halt. “Show me where exactly.”

Amdír gestured to Annael. The apprentice dismounted and, taking his staff from his travelling pack, approached the woods to the east, carefully parting the tangled undergrowth, searching the ground for traces of their previous path through the trees.

“This way,” he said.

“Wait,” said Haldir, drawing his sword, “let me go first. Amras—stay here with the horses. Everyone else, follow us.” Passing Annael, he entered the woods, clearing a way with the flat of his blade. “How far are they?”

“No more than a quarter mile,” said Amdír, who, with his apprentice, was keeping close behind.

“And you say there are six?”

“We saw six; there may be more.”

“So far from the road...” Haldir looked to left and right. “I do not think they were ever on the road, Master Amdír. There is a human settlement a few miles east of here, on the far side of the Divor Rocks. I think they may have come from there.”

“Then this may simply be a matter between humans,” said Rumil, escorting Dínendal and Wilawen behind the craftsmen.

“There is no ‘simply’ about any death,” replied Haldir, firmly, “and, whatever happened, it happened on our land.”

“The bodies are lying in a clearing,” said Amdír, “not far from our—” He gasped. “Valar, March Warden, someone has taken our markers! We placed a red flag there, beside that trunk, and a yellow one just beyond the beeches. And they have gone!”

They were here with us, Master Amdír,” said Annael, softly. “When we found the bodies, the killers were still here...”

“And may be here now,” said Haldir. He gave the order with a gesture, and his troops immediately formed a defensive circle around the civilians, and readied their weapons.

“If the attack took place this morning,” insisted Dínendal, “there is a chance that some of the victims are still alive—we must hurry, Haldir—are you still willing to help, Wilawen?”

“Of course.”

Haldir gave another signal and the elves advanced more quickly, cutting through the undergrowth with their swords, where necessary. They soon encountered the first body—a middle-aged man. Master Dínendal crouched and briefly examined him, then, shaking his head, rose and hurried on into the clearing, surrounded by a protective guard of warriors.

Amdír stared down at the body. “He has been moved, March Warden,” he said, quietly. “When we left him, he was lying on his back. And he was wearing chains.”


“No—around his neck. Like a badge of office.”

Haldir examined the dead man. His clothes were well-made, but of a coarse, homespun cloth, and his hands, though clean, were calloused. “A farmer,” he said. “It looks as though they are from the settlement; this man may have been their leader.”

“But what were they doing here?” asked Amdír.

“I have no idea. But I suspect there will be more than six of them.” He walked out into the clearing, calling, “Search the trees, but be careful—stay in pairs.”

“There is food laid out over here,” said Wilawen. “Around a fire. They were holding some sort of feast and—oh gods!” She looked away from the remains of a young woman, lying across the embers, her blackened body still wearing fragments of a fine white gown and a crown of flowers. “It was a wedding feast.”

Haldir cursed.

“Wilawen! Master Dínendal! Over here!” cried Valandil. “There is something alive... Do not be afraid, little one,” he added, softly. “We are here to help you—oh!”

A handful of dirt had flown up in his face and a tiny creature, covered from head to foot in dried blood, scrambled to its feet and ran, wailing in terror—zigzagging between the astonished elves. It slipped past Rumil, pushed past Orophin, ducked under Master Dínendal’s outstretched hands...

And ran straight into Wilawen’s arms. “Shhhh, shhhh,” said the woman gently, cradling the terrified child against her chest. “You are safe now.”


Four o’clock

“What a strange place this is,” said Eowyn, standing on the lip of the massive rock funnel that formed The Aelvorn, and looking down into its inky water.

“It is part of a string of lakes and caverns,” said Berryn, “running from the south,”—he stretched out his arm in a slicing motion, indicating the edge of the mountains of Mordor, then turned northwards and did the same again—“to the north, along a great crack in Middle-earth.”

Eowyn turned to him in surprise. “A crack?”

“I do not know how else to describe it...”

“What has made it?”

“I have no idea, my lady. Perhaps it was there from creation...” He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps it happened as the result of Sauron’s evil... All I know is that I have spent the last two years mapping it.”

Eowyn turned back to The Aelvorn. “Why is the water so black?”

“It is very deep,” said Berryn. “The rocks are dark and the water is filled with tiny fragments of this.” He used the toe of his boot to dig a small hole in the rich, dark soil at the edge of the rock.

“How does—?”

Berryn laughed. “You are worse than I am, my Lady! The rains are heavy in this area, and the trees are small and sparse. The soil is easily washed down the rocky slopes and into the lake...”

Eowyn nodded, digesting the information. “We had better be setting off, Berryn,” she said at last. “I promised Legolas I would be home before dark.”

“Wait here, my Lady. I will fetch my equipment.”

He jogged across the grass to where his cross-staff lay, carefully dismantled it and packed it in its velvet-lined box. Then he gathered up his square and his rule, his writing board, his pens and book of tables. “There,” he said, turning back towards The Aelvorn.

But Eowyn was nowhere in sight. “My Lady?”

He sprinted to the edge of the funnel, desperately scanning the shore for any sign of the woman.

But, in his heart, he already knew that it was hopeless.

“Oh gods,” he whispered, “what has happened to you?”




Contents page


A brief reminder of the Harvest Rite and of two important characters.


Next chapter: It begins
Eowyn struggles home. What has Legolas been up to?

Chapter 2

If you can't read Lord Fingolfin's hand writing, try mousing over it...


Cerveth ... ‘July’
Eryn Laeg ... ‘Fresh-green Wood’
Cuinon ... ‘I live!’ (Naughty Elvish)
Maer aur, Lessien Curufiniell ...
‘Good day, Lessien, daughter of Curufin’
Baradorn ... ‘Tree tower’
Faer Vara ... ‘Fiery spirit’
Tithen Dúlinn ... ‘Little nightingale’
No galu govad gen ...
‘May blessings go with (each of) you’.
From Thorsten Renk’s Pedin Edhellen
Mae govannen, Thranduil Oropherion. Hentmirë i eneth nín. Aphado nin, hîr nín ...
‘Well met, Thranduil, son of Oropher. My name is Hentmirë. (Please) follow me, my lord’
Aelvorn ... ‘Black Lake’
Divor ... Not telling yet!