The rating is for smouldering looks, exchanged in secret.
This is an Elven Yuletide story, written as an answer to the Edhellond group’s Christmas challenge, back in 2002. It is also a missing scene of my endlessly-ongoing story, “Innocence” – or rather a sequel to a chapter that is called “A New Hope”, and happens three years after Gilraen had brought her little son to Imladris. Little Estel is five years old… well, considering the fact that he was born in March, almost six, I would say.
Now, since it was discussed in the group what Elves might celebrate at Christmas time, I developed my own idea about it, as it will be shown in this story. Please remember that this is my idea only, and in no way a canon fact.
The sticky idea of honey-covered seed cakes belongs to The Tired Scribe, as does young Ilvar.
This is an Elven Yuletide story, written as an answer to the Edhellond group’s Christmas challenge, back in 2002. It is also a missing scene of my endlessly-ongoing story, “Innocence” – or rather a sequel to a chapter that is called “A New Hope”, and happens three years after Gilraen had brought her little son to Imladris. Little Estel is five years old… well, considering the fact that he was born in March, almost six, I would say.
Now, since it was discussed in the group what Elves might celebrate at Christmas time, I developed my own idea about it, as it will be shown in this story. Please remember that this is my idea only, and in no way a canon fact.
The sticky idea of honey-covered seed cakes belongs to The Tired Scribe, as does young Ilvar.
Aiwendil, whom Men called Radagast the Brown, arrived at Imladris a mere two days before Winter Solstice. He had almost given up hope that he would come on time, regretting already the fact that he would cause Lindir such disappointment – again. It had been many years since they were able to spend this most cherished feast together. It had been a very long time, indeed, since he had last seen his beloved foster son at all.
But this time he had been fortunate. The High Pass proved easier to cross than he had expected, and as he carefully descended the steep, stony path that led to the heart of Elrond’s hidden valley, he felt the awakening of some truly ancient songs in his heart. Well, this time he should be able to actually hear these songs, sung by the sweet voice of young Lindir, who had been taught to sing them by the most ancient of his kind when he was a child. This thought alone made the wizard smile and hum happily under his breath while he continued his slow but steady descent.
After reaching the end of the path, members of the Household Guard appeared as if out of thin air, clad in silver and grey, which made them almost invisible in the foggy winter evening. Aiwendil recognized their captain, Thalion – a relatively young Elf who was named after Húrin the Steadfast because his father had been a friend of the Edain of Beleriand – and greeted him in the Ancient Tongue as was his wont.
“Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo,” the tall, dark-haired Elf replied with a polite bow and snipped with long, slender fingers to one of his people, ordering him wordlessly to take over the wizard’s tired horse. “Let the good beast to our care, Master Aiwendil, and come with me. You have been eagerly awaited by the Lord’s family.”
As they slowly walked towards the Bridge of Bruinen that led to the Last Homely House (called simply the Great House among the dwellers of the Valley) that was Elrond’s home, Aiwendil finally found the time to admire the beauty of the naked, frost-covered trees that stood under the darkening skies like silent guardians of times long forgotten. They glimmered like silver in the twilight, icicles hanging from their branches like frozen rain. Indeed, even the many waterfalls were frozen over, offering a sight of otherworldly, though somewhat disturbing beauty – disturbing mayhap because of the lack of their soft, musical sounds that usually filled the Valley.
“Hrívië(1) has come early this year,” Thalion commented softly, drawing the fur-lined cloak tighter around his slender body, “and it seems to grow harder than it has ever been since the Fell Winter. Of course, Imladris suffers less from it than the outside lands, but even so, the merriment shall be mostly indoors, I fear.”
Aiwendil nodded absently. As a member of the White Council, he knew of course that the surprisingly mild climate of Imladris was the result of some carefully-done guiding of the natural forces – slight tempering with weather through the powers of the Ring of Air, Vilya, that Elrond had kept in his custody since the beginning of this very Age, and the earth magic, the ability of wielding of which he had inherited from Lúthien, the greatest Elven enchantress that ever walked on earth. And though the wizard had to admit that Imladris profited greatly from the unusual powers of its Lord, he could not help feeling a little uncomfortable (as usual) about the messing with the forces of nature.
Finally, they reached the Great House (crossing the narrow, slippery stone bridge with the utmost care, for Aiwendil shared not the light-footedness of the Fair Folk), where Thalion took his leave again, handing over the honoured guest to Erestor, and returned to his post. The seneschal of Imladris seemed haggard and drained of all his strength, and the wizard hesitated not to voice his concern.
“What ever happened to you, Erestor?” he asked; then a frightening thought appeared in his mind. “Is Lindir all right?”
“He is fine, Master Aiwendil,” Erestor dismissed his worries with an elegant gesture of his hand, “and so am I truly. ‘Tis just… I have had a lot of work lately, and I feel weary. With Elladan and Elrohir still out in the wilderness and the Lady Undómiel still in Lothlórien, things are getting a little… tiresome. More so since we have the mortal child in our midst.”
“I deem Elrond is not happy with all his children abandoning him once again,” Aiwendil remarked quietly.
“He is lonely,” Erestor admitted. “After nearly five hundred years, he still misses our Lady terribly, and Legolas is caught in his duties as the Crown Prince of Mirkwood too much to visit him frequently. The twins only have their vengeance on mind, so they are out Orc-hunting most of the time, and the Lady Aquiel(2) has spent the last two years with her uncle in Edhellond. Lindir and I do what we can, but we are not truly family. And our Lord misses the Lady Undómiel most, I believe. She has more in common with him than even the twins.”
“What about that Dúnadan lady?” Aiwendil asked. “One should think she could make good company.”
“She does… in a sense,” Erestor sighed. “But she is quiet and reserved, nearly to invisibility. Small wonder, though – she is half a child still, herself, and already has married, born a child and become widowed. She carries her grief with great dignity, yet she prefers to spend most of her time alone, focusing her whole life on her son.”
“At the very least you have a child in the house again,” Aiwendil grumbled good-naturedly. “Children, even mortal ones, can bring a light in people’s lives like naught else can.”
“True.” Erestor smiled tiredly. “Assuming you are able to keep up with them. But at least Lindir does have great fun with the child. He all but adopted Estel – they have become inseparable, unless the boy is sleeping. Which is a good thing, for no one else besides us could find the strength to handle a tireless five-year-old with the harsh voice of his mortal kin. Though at times I almost worry that the Lady Gilraen might become jealous.”
“What about you?” the wizard asked, staring at him intently from dark, deep-set eyes. “Have you not regretted your decision to enter a childless marriage?”
“Ah, but I am not childless!” Erestor laughed, and this time his voice was full of warmth. “I do have Lindir, after all. What would I need another child for?”
Aiwendil smiled fondly. ‘Twas true; everyone knew that Lindir had remained a child in his heart, in spite of his nearly three thousand years. People had learnt to accept him and his light-hearted ways, in fact, they loved him because of the kind of person he was, even though his innocent bluntness led to slight conflicts at times.
They reached the west wing of the house, where the members of Elrond’s family had their chambers (including Erestor and Lindir themselves, who were considered family, too). Erestor was about to announce themselves, when the heavy oak door of Elrond’s study flung wide open, knocking him over, so that he ended up on the stone-paved floor, and a small, shrieking bundle of warm clothes and short limbs, crowned with a mop of tousled black hair, shot out from behind it like an arrow.
“Naaaaaaaaaaah!” a piercing little voice shrieked in despair, making Erestor shudder in agony. “Not go to bed!”
The screaming child was followed by a limber young Elf who caught him easily and threw him over one shoulder, patting reassuringly (though not all too gently) his small bottom, avoiding the kicking little feet with practiced ease.
“Why, my little friend, I dare to see it differently,” the Elf said with a calmness that revealed a great experience in handling the vigorous child. “Or else you shall not be allowed to visit the kitchen in the morn, and the honey cakes shall be made without your help.”
The child became very quiet at once. Lindir gave his silently fuming spouse a grin full of promises that could have melted ice, then he noticed the wizard’s presence for the first time. His eyes grew impossibly wide and he dropped Estel unceremoniously into the arms of a young mortal woman who had just emerged from Elrond’s study in his wake, and threw himself into the embrace of the old man.
“Master Aiwendil!” he cried out happily. “You have come!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the next morn, Aiwendil was waken by an annoyingly cheerful Lindir, who showed little understanding for his foster father’s grumbling about old Men not being able to go on without proper sleep for days like Elves. They had stayed up well into the night, trying to catch up with all that they had missed from each other’s life, while Erestor was sleeping the sleep of the weary in the adjoining bedchamber – though that was going to change later, if the mischievous glint in Lindir’s eyes was any indication.
Still, the young Elf seemed happy and well-rested when he came to drag the wizard out of bed and into the bath under the house that was fed by a hot spring and therefore had enough hot water, rich in minerals, all year. There he scrubbed the old Man vigorously, saying that Aiwendil’s custom to splash cold water over his face would not be considered sufficient in Elrond’s house. Even less so when they were going to visit the kitchen.
The wizard surrendered to his inevitable fate (though he was secretly enjoying the hot water and Lindir’s eager care), and after an hour or so they finally emerged from the bath, ready to descend to the kitchen. Aiwendil wore some borrowed Elven tunic and leggings instead of his heavy woolen robe, which Lindir declared unfit for the visit in the kitchen, his greying hair was bound back from his face with a leather string (as he adamantly refused to wear Elven jewelry), his usually shaggy beard neatly combed and braided. He looked a hundred years younger, and truth to be told, he felt like that, too.
When they finally reached the kitchen, Erestor was already there with little Estel, wearing a long apron in order to spare his clothes, although he, too, had been careful enough to wear old ones. It seemed that Master Lalwen(3) had been busy since sunrise or even earlier on, for the loafs of fine white bread, refined with raisins and crushed walnuts in honour of the occasion, were in the oven already, and now she and her helpers were preparing the special delicacies eaten at Yuletide feasts only.
At one of the long kitchen tables apples were filled with raisins and ground nuts mixed with honey and set onto a baking tin, waiting to be put into the oven after the bread was ready. On another table there were tins after tins with long rows of the very popular seed cake, cooling, while a young Elf was smearing honey over them as long as they were still hot. Another large tin had just come out of the oven, full of sugar- and cinnamon-covered almonds, all hot and crispy. Freshly baked, hot chestnuts were being peeled and laid in honey at a third table. The huge kitchen was filled with the most pleasant smells, sweet and spicy alike, up to the high, arched ceiling.
The most important (and delicate) work, however, was done in the middle of the room. The light brown, spicy honeybread paste was rolled out thinner than a slender Elven finger, and Master Lalwen was cutting out Elven-shaped figures of it with a small but sharp knife. The figures might be of the size of a widely-spread hand, and Estel, kneeling on a high chair, was decorating them with small pieces of crushed almonds, honey-covered walnuts, raisings, differently-shaped sugar lumps and other such things, under the careful attention of a golden-haired Elf, whom the wizard recognized as Glorfindel.
Opposite them, on the other side of the table, Erestor was preparing some specialties from his childhood, formerly known in Eregion only: squares of crushed walnut mixed with honey; diamond shapes of dried pear gelee; almond paste adorned with silver leaf; and balls of honey nougat dusted with spices and sparkling flakes of gold(4). He was the only one who knew how to make these rare sweetmeats, having helped his mother in the kitchen as a child.
“Forget not the eyes, little one,” Glorfindel reminded the child, handling him some silver-coloured pearls of sugar. “They should have sparkling eyes like Elves do, you know.”
“Why?” Estel asked, forgetting even his important work, eager to hear the doubtlessly interesting story behind the decorating rules.
“They are offerings to the Valar,” Glorfindel explained earnestly. “You have heard ancient tales about he Awakening of Elves at the waters of Cuiviénen, I deem?”
The child nodded mutely, eyes widening in anticipation, too enraptured to even answer. Glorfindel gave him a sorrowful smile, the memories of his former life filling his heart with quiet grief.
“Well, then you must have heard that we were full of dread before the coming of Oromë. For the Great Enemy, whose name I shall not speak in these halls, was ever watchful, and became aware of our coming even before the Valar could be. And thus he sent shadows and evil spirits to spy upon us and waylay us. So it came to pass that if any of us strayed too far from our fortified villages at Cuiviénen, alone or few together, they would vanish and never be seen again. And we said that the Hunter had caught them, and we were very afraid. But we wanted not to forget them, so we made these honeybread cakes in their likeness, and when we ate them on our feast at Yuletide, it was as if they were with us again.”
“And ever since then, we remember our lost kindred – all of them – by making these offerings in their likeness and eating them at our greatest feast, honouring the birth of the stars when the Darkness was broken by the light,” Erestor added quietly, contemplating his own bitter memories of loss.
“I remember Iarwain and the River-daughter making such cakes when I was little and we dwelt under their roof,” Lindir murmured. “They would make them every year, even though they knew not why any more. I still know how shaken I was when the Silvan folk of the Greenwood first explained to me the true meaning of this custom(5).”
“Sssssssh!” the wizard warned him in a voice too low even for Elven ears to be heard across the room. “Do not sadden Glorfindel with mentioning them.”
But Lindir only shook his head. “I believe not that speaking of them would sadden him. He is not the same one he used to be at the time of the Awakening. But come now! I see the seed cakes are done, let us have a taste!”
He bounced over to the table at the farthest end of the kitchen like a happy child, dragging the wizard with him. Erestor, detecting his presence, dusted the powdered sugar from his hands and followed them.
“Greetings, Ilvar!” Lindir cried out merrily to the young Elf who worked on covering the seed-cakes with honey and reached out to snatch one of his liking. “Are these ready yet?”
That earned him a quick slap on the hand – with the sticky, honey-dripping brush, no less.
“Keep your greedy fingers from my cakes!” Ilvar, one of the few Elves who were even younger than Lindir, scolded him playfully. “These are for the feast tomorrow night. You are worse than Estel at times!”
“Awwwww, but I love seed-cakes!” complained Lindir, licking the sticky remnants of the slap from the back of his hand in the slow, sensuous manner of a sleek cat. Yet though he spoke to Ilvar, his glittering eyes were on Erestor whose clothes started to become uncomfortably tight at certain places.
“Surely you would not deny Master Aiwendil and Master Erestor a taste!” Lindir continued, batting his long eyelashes most amiably – something that almost every time got him what he wanted. More so for he used that trick rather seldom… mostly against Erestor.
Poor Ilvar looked from one to another in embarrassment. Denying the seneschal of the house and an honoured guest a treat would have been rude, of course. On the other hand he was well aware of the fact that it was Lindir who wanted to plunder the sticky delicacies in the first place, using shamelessly the presence of his spouse and his foster father to get his wish. Still, sending them away was not a thing the young Elf wanted to do, despite the fact that Master Lalwen ordered him to protect the cakes from hungry mouths.
Finally Erestor had mercy with him, snatching a freshly-covered, still dripping cake from the baking thin and dropping it neatly into his mouth, without offering any of it to Lindir.
“They are very good,” he judged, munching in delight, while keeping his face serious, even though the corner of his mouth was twitching. “You can relax, Lindir – they can be served on the Yuletide feast.”
Lindir’s face mirrored such deep disappointment that both Erestor and the wizard had to laugh. Aiwendil tried a cake himself and complimented the bakers for the excellent work ere he went over to the middle table to greet Glorfindel and make friends with little Estel. Lindir, however, kept pouting – he had the sweet tooth, as they said in Mirkwood, and was hurt that his spouse had not helped him to a taste of the highly desired delicacy.
“Come on, now,” said Erestor in a low, reassuring voice. “I am done here and have to go to the Feasting Hall and look after the preparations. Will you not accompany me?”
“Why should I?” Sometimes Lindir was not so quick to forgive. “You would not even let me have a piece of my favourite cake, and I am supposed to help you hang up holly and other boring tasks? Nay, I believe I shall rather return to my chambers and play some music. I need to practice for tomorrow, as I shall have to play the harp, too, in Elrohir’s stead.”
The wide, innocent eyes were full of hurt, and Erestor realized with a jolt that Lindir was not jesting. He truly felt betrayed by his spouse who denied him to have a taste of his much-beloved sweets, while having some himself. Aye, it was childish, but deep in his hear Lindir still was a child – something that Erestor kept forgetting, even after twelve hundred years of happy marriage.
“I am sorry, melme(6),” Erestor murmured. “I did not want to upset you… ‘twas only a jest. Come now, I shall have a small plate to be sent to our chambers later. I promise. Just cease being angry with me, I beg you.”
He reached out to touch the soft cheek of his spouse comfortingly but realized that his fingers were still sticky and stopped halfway. Lindir, however, caught his wrist, pulled the honey-smeared hand to his mouth and slowly licked each finger clean, sucking then into his mouth.
“I seem to have got my sweets, after all,” he whispered, eyes filling with blue fire. Erestor groaned in embarrassment.
“Lindir! This is not the time…”
“Not the time for what?” Lindir asked innocently, letting go of his hand. “Cleaning your fingers from sticky honey?” But the fey glint in his eyes revealed that he knew all too well what he was doing. Twelve centuries of intimacy had taught him what worked with Erestor best.
Erestor sighed, shook his head in exasperation and grabbed Lindir’s elbow to drag him out of the kitchen ere his fey spouse embarrassed him even worse. Though it might have been too late already. Glorfindel’s mischievous grin told him that the Elf-lord had most likely heard and seen every thing that occurred between the two of them.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next sunset found the whole settlement on the Place of Festival, around the circle of ancient trees in the deepest heart of the valley, with the eldest, huge, frost-covered oak in the middle. This was the most sacred part of Yule: the greeting of the first star and the telling of the tale about the birth of stars. And while the opening of the ceremony was the right and duty of the Lord of the Valley, the storytelling part was entrusted to Glorfindel every year. After all, he was the one who had opened his eyes to the newborn starlight at the waters of Cuiviénen(7).
The telling of the tale was scheduled for that particular time when Anor had already sunk behind the peaks of the Hithaeglir(8), and it took great experience and good timing to have it told before the first star appeared upon the black velvet of the skies. But Glorfindel had told this tale thousands of times – he had not missed the right time slot for a very, very long time.
This year, the honour of asking for the tale fell to little Estel, as the youngest member of the community who could already understand his own question. So, after a mild nudge from his mother, the child turned to Glorfindel and asked with his clear, high voice.
“Tell us the tale of the making of the stars, honoured Elder!”
“Do you all want to hear it?” Glorfindel looked around the crowd, asking the traditional question; all nodded in agreement. “Very well, then. As you might know already, in all that time since Morgoth overthrew the Lamps, the Middle-earth east from the mountains of Valinor was without light. While the Lamps were shining, growth began there, which now was checked, because all was again dark. But already the oldest living things had arisen: in the sea the great weeds, and on the earth the shadow of dark trees. And beneath the trees small things faint and silent walked, and in the valleys of the night-clad hills there were dark creatures old and strong(8).”
He paused and looked around the silently listening faces. Most of them, particularly the Elves of the Valley, knew this tale by the heart already, so many times had they heard by now. Still, it had been tradition since the Elder Days to tell it, and not even the Eldar of Valinor abandoned this part of Yuletide traditions, even though they had long but ceased to follow the rest of them.
“In such lands and forests Oromë would often hunt,” he then continued, remembering that he had no time for his own thoughts right now, “and there, too, at times Yavanna came, singing sorrowfully; for she was grieved at the darkness of the Middle-earth and ill content that it was forsaken. But the other Valar came seldom thither; and in the North Morgoth built his strength and gathered his demons about him. His realm spread now ever southward over the Middle-earth.”
He paused again, recalling that other darkness he had fallen after his clash with one of Morgoth’s strongest demons, the lonely place he had dwelt long, healing and learning his own paths and mistakes, ere he was released once again into the light of the stars. He shivered, barely visible, and gathering his strength (for it still was hard for him to think of his own death), and on he went with the tale.
“Varda looked out upon the darkness and was moved. Therefore she took the silver dew that dripped from Silpion and was hoarded in Valinor, and therewith she made the stars. And for this reason she is called Tintallë, the Star-kindler, and Elentári, the Queen of Stars. She strewed the unlit skies with these bright vessels, filled with silver flame; but high in the North, a challenge unto Morgoth, she set a crown of seven mighty stars to swing, the emblem of the Gods and the sign of doom. Many names have these been called; but in the old days of the North both Elves and Men called them the Burning Briar, and some of the Sickle of the Gods.”
He barely spoke these last words when the silver gleam of the seven stars appeared upon the northern sky as if by magic. Glorfindel lifted his face towards their brightness, and all of a sudden he seemed to grow in the eyes of the others, to grow in size and in beauty, becoming greater and stronger than any other Elf on Earth, terrible and enchanting in his power and beauty. And his ringing voice seemed to become even more clear and powerful as he, bathing in the silver starlight, added the last words of the tale.
“And so it happened that at the opening of the first stars the children of the earth awoke, the Elder Children of Ilúvatar. Themselves they named the Quendi, whom other people later called Elves; but Oromë named them Eldar, the Star-folk, and that name has since been borne by all that followed him upon the westward road.”
While he was still speaking, the other stars of the winter sky blinked awake, one by one, and by the time he finished his tale, the whole sky was glittering as if with tiny diamonds. The silver strings of a harp were touched lightly, and the clear, sweet voice of Lindir, the Minstrel of the Valley was raised to sing one of the hymns of Elentári, the Star Queen.
A Fana-losse! Heri silma!
Tári Eari pella Númenye!
Calina men i ranyar
sina mi aldarembea ambar!
Fana-losse, a Varda Elentári,
Calina mí aldarembea ambar!
A Tintallë! Elentári!
Silma hendulya, calima súlya.
Fana-losse, laitammel
Earen pella hairanóriesse.
Len lirimme, a Varda Elentári,
laitalinde hairanóriesse.
A eleni yar rende márya
sílala i Yénesse Alanarya,
telpelossenen laiya
calima mí súrimar sí tye cenimme.
Fana-losse, a Varda Elentári,
telpelosse calima cenimme.
A Elentári! a Tintallë!
Sinome nu i aldali háya
men enyalie mare
silmelyo or i Eari Númenye.
Enyalimme, a Varda Elentári,
silme or i Eari Númenye(9).
After having sung the hymn, Elrond and the Lady Gilraen, representing the ladies of the House, led the community to the Feasting Hall where groaning boards decked with holly and evergreens awaited them. The moments of solemnity gone, cheerful chatter and laughter rang out. Elves and the few visiting Men prepared to enjoy the festive food, their spirits heightened by the recent moments of solemn celebration. Fireplaces roared to combat the unusual cold, keeping the inner walls and stone-paved floors gently warm to the touch.
Elrond, the venerable Master of House, stepped up onto the dais and took his usual large chair at the end of the main table, nodded politely and greeted the guests of honour seated to either side. At this particular night, Lady Gilraen took the seat on his left, filling Arwen’s vacant place, and Aiwendil the one on his right, followed by Lindir and Erestor. His richly embroidered, heavy ceremonial robes and the glittering mithril circlet upon his brow enhanced his noble bearing and fine features, and as a draft stirred his hair and fanned the wall lantern’s flames into flickering sparks and shadows, it seemed as if he had just stepped out of legend himself.
However, Erestor was worried about him, for loneliness stood clearly written in his beautiful face, and as the servers began to move around the hall, the seneschal bent forward a little to catch his Lord’s gaze across the corner of the table, in order to give him a reassuring smile. Elrond rubbed his chin and returned his smile ruefully. There was no need for spoken words among them – they were family, if not by blood then certainly by choice.
But less than a moment later they both forgot about their sorrows and concerns. For at that very moment, Master Lalwen herself entered the Feasting Hall, pushing forward a small, wheeled table, and upon that table an enormous fruitcake loomed like the highest peak of Taniquetil, covered with sugar icing and soaked in miruvor. Lighting her long, thin wooden stick at one of the many beeswax candles, Master Lalwen touched the flame to the cake, and it erupted like Mount Doom, filling the hall with the sweet scent of burnt sugar.
Everyone in the hall laughed and cheered and clapped their hands, little Estel and Lindir before all others, and while the Elf leapt to his feet to catch the child ere Estel could get too close to the burning cake and mayhap hurt himself, even the lady Gilraen smiled in delight, and Aiwendil watched Lindir with fatherly pride, and Elrond and Erestor exchanged looks of content agreement again.
It was Yuletide, and they were family. All of them. At this moment, naught else truly mattered.
~Here endeth this tale~
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) The winter season (Quenya). Though Sindarin was the tongue spoken in Imladris, I assumed they kept the Quenya names of the seasons, just like European people used Latin names during the Middle Ages, while using their own languages for everyday purposes.
(2) The Lady Aquiel is an OC of mine, the niece of Gildor Inglorion, whom I made the Lord of Edhellond, the haven of the Elves near Dol Amroth.
(3) Means elm-tree. Since Tolkien states that bread making was exclusively female work, I thought bakery would be, too. So I made the head of the baking staff a she-Elf. She’s an OC.
(4) These delicacies were borrowed from Tyellas’ interesting story “Bread of the Mírdain”, where she describes the sorts of food that were eaten in Celebrimbor’s realm. As Erestor in my stories is a survivor of Eregion, it seemed appropriate that preparing them would be his job. :))
(5) Which I made up completely, following some old German and Hungarian customs.
(6) “Love” (Quenya). As unlikely as it is, Quenya actually was Lindir’s mother tongue. Imagine an orphan being raised by a distracted old lore-master who speaks with him in Latin.
(7) I am violating my own timeline here. Theoretically Elrond’s household would not know that Glorfindel was one of the very Firstborn until the Ring War. But I needed a good reason why Glorfindel would tell the tale instead of the Lord of the Valley.
(8) Glorfindel’s tale is quoted letter-by-letter from “The Lost Road” (HoME 6), pp 232-33.
(9) Translated by Findegil / Björn Fromén. This is a translation of the song "Snow-white!" (LR 1 III), adapted to fit the tune of the 15th century hymn Alta Trinita Beata. In the process an invocation and an echoing line have been added to each stanza. Found on the Mellonath Daeron website.