“This was your plan all along!” Thorin snaps, turning on the meddling wizard. “To seek refuge with our enemy!” Faëlisse is busy leaning against the cliff-face, soaking in the view of Imladris – tranquil and warm, bathed in the light of the setting sun.
“You have no enemy here, Thorin Oakenshield. The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.” If Elrond calls upon who Faëlisse expects, that might be a stretch. However, it is certainly more welcoming than the pack of Orcs outside.
“You think the Elves will give our quest their blessing? They will try to stop us!” Well, he has a point. Gandalf looks to Faëlisse. She shrugs her uninjured shoulder back at him.
“Nevertheless, we have questions we need answered.” He turns back to Thorin without her help. “And injuries to heal. If we are to be successful, this will need to be handled with tact. And respect. And no small degree of charm. Which is why you will leave the talking to Faëlisse and myself.”
“Can we get moving?” Faëlisse requests, tilting her head up towards the sun, as though Arien herself might grant her reprieve from the searing pain of the Orcish arrow her shoulder. Thorin growls, but nevertheless, they continue down into the valley.
“Mithrandir.” Lindir looks tired of them already. “Valarindë.”
“Ah, Lindir!” Gandalf’s smile is brief, but warm. Faëlisse’s is smaller and lingering, exhausted.
“We had heard you crossed into the Valley.” The Dwarves all stiffen at the Sindarin, though several sets of eyes fall to her, curiously.
“I must speak with Lord Elrond.” Gandalf keeps to the common tongue.
“My Lord Elrond is not here.” Faëlisse straightens at that, her own brow furrowing just as Gandalf’s does.
“Not here? Where is he?” As if on cue, a familiar horn rings out, signalling the hunting party’s return.
“Close ranks!” The company jostles and Faëlisse ducks out of reach, even as poor Bilbo is hauled into the centre of the quickly forming huddle. Lindir catches her mid-retreat, steadying arm wrapping around her waist.
“Easy.” Thorin’s sharp eyes dart to her when she speaks, then back to the Elves now circling them. “Adar, is this really necessary?”
“Faëlisse!” Glorfindel abandons his horse immediately and the procession grinds to a halt as Elrohir and Elladan follow him. “You’re injured!” Elrond casts a careful glance in their direction before dismounting to greet the rest of his guests.
“We had a little encounter with some Orcs.” Quessë chirps from her hair. “It’s nothing major.” Before any of them can answer that, a roar goes up from the Dwarves and Faëlisse leans past Glorfindel to peer at the Company.
“No, Master Gloin, he's offering you food.” Gandalf sounds both amused and exasperated. Gloin blinks. The Dwarves retreat to discuss amongst themselves again.
“Glorfindel, take Faë to her room.” Elrond strides over to their little huddle in the meantime. “Elladan, fetch hot water and clean bandages. Elrohir, go with Lindir and find out what he needs.”
“Hey! Where are you taking her?!” Thorin and Dwalin both step forward with snarls, Kili’s bow raising behind them.
“They’re taking me to clean my wound, Thorin.” Faëlisse sets a hand on his shoulder, gentle and firm. “The Elves of Imladris are as much family to me as Gandalf. You can trust them.” His mouth twists with disbelief, but she just squeezes his arm and releases him.
“We aren’t under threat here, I promise. I’ll rejoin you for dinner, once we’re all clean and patched up.”
Mithrandir = Gandalf (his name in Sindarin, meaning "grey pilgrim/wanderer")
Valarindë = Faëlisse (a Quenya title meaning "child of the Valar")
adar = dad (he's not literally her dad, just a father figure)
“How do we know this Strider is a friend of Gandalf?” Well, it is a fair question. Faëlisse raises an eyebrow at Aragorn.
“I think a servant of the enemy would look fairer and feel fouler.” Even as Frodo speaks, Aragorn rolls his eyes at her, in turn.
“He’s foul enough.” Faëlisse chews her lip in a desperate attempt to swallow the laughter burning in her chest.
“We have no choice but to trust him,” Frodo points out, reasonably. “And besides, Auntie Faëlisse seems to know him.”
‘Seems to know him?’ Aragorn mouths, his own eyebrow quirking up. His hands flick, hwermë falling fast and familiar. – You don’t speak of me, love? –
– I speak of my prince plenty. It’s hardly my fault they cannot recognise Hope when they see him. – She flicks back, rolling her eyes at him now.
“But where is he leading us?” Sam prompts, always more practical than the rest of them.
“To Rivendell, Master Gamgee.” All four Hobbits snap their mouths closed. “To the House of Lord Elrond.” The guilty silence that follows breaks Faëlisse and she claps a hand over her mouth as a snort breaks free.
“Auntie!” Frodo sounds scandalised, but she’s half-leaning on Aragorn now, gasping for breath, and even he has broken from his stoic concentration to smile down at her, fondly.
“You find that amusing, do you, melethel?”
“I should challenge them to look fairer after spending as many weeks on the road as you, estelen,” she teases, reaching up to brush a strand of mud-greased hair from his face. His eyes crease with his smile, as she lets her thumb trail down his cheekbone. “Now, if we are all satisfied with our company and our destination, may we continue?”
hwermë = an Elvish sign language (separate in my au from mátengwië – use of gesture alongside speaking – though in canon this delineation is less clear)
melethel (s) = darling, sweetheart
estelen (s) = my hope (from Aragorn's name, Estel)
The skies open with a clap of thunder, lightning blinding across the plains.
“Extinguish your torches!” Elladan’s call is met with quiet – only the Elves and Rangers move to act.
“We cannot all see in the dark as you do, Lord Elf,” Théoden disputes from the courtyard below, turning his head to peer up at the twins’ posting.
“Nor can the Orcs.” Aragorn leans to look down at him over the battlement. “What light we need, Faëlisse can provide. The torches are a target we cannot afford to offer.” In the darkness, Théoden finds Faëlisse’s glowing eyes.
“Let the torches they carry light our marks, Théoden King,” she advises, a single tap of her staff putting every flame on the battlement to rest. “We may yet survive the night.” The night returns to stillness, silence split only by the steady fall of rain and the rumbling of both thunder and armoured footsteps across the land. The Host of Isengard approaches at a steady march, a hulking mass marring the horizon, until it comes to a halt – just metres from the gates – with the roar of a single Orc. It is hard to tell the roar of their voices from the howling of their horns, the stomping of their feet from the crashing of their spears, until it all falls silent with a single stray arrow.
This, Faëlisse supposes, is what they get for taking sons and grandfathers to war.
The Orcs charge, roaring, and the battle begins. Faëlisse is caught in the chaos of arrow and blade, all but dancing upon the parapets as the Orcs bear upon them, when Aragorn’s shout reaches her.
“Togo hon dad, Legolas!” She drops, crouching between the ladders to search out what he has seen. “Dago hon! Dago hon!” Through the midst of the Host, comes one, flame in hand. Legolas’ arrow hits him. He roars, but does not drop. A second strikes and he stumbles, throws his failing body forward–
Faëlisse leaps.
“Faë!” Haldir’s shout echoes above her, frantic, frightened, but she meets her target, blade-first, Anguirel driving sharp through the gap between his helm and his chest plate, severing his spine.
“Ni mael, melethel,” She casts the flaming torch into the mud beneath her, backing up towards the sluice gate.
Elrohir’s familiar figure cuts through the air above her and a circle of Orcs fall where he lands.
“This is bold even for us, nethel.” They fall in, back to back, moving with the memories of millennia.
“Whatever is in those, it is Saruman’s work.” She flicks her head towards the two huge, spiked balls they have come to guard, nestled threateningly against the sluice gate, radiating with Saruman’s tormented magic, cruel and twisting. “We need to evacuate the ramparts and regroup in the keep. If we can buy time…” If they can buy time, all of them live another hour. Whether the Elves of Imladris, or the Men of Gondor, or the last scattered Rohirrim that remain in Westfold will come in the time they buy… well, that simply remains to be seen.
“Can you move them?” Elrohir eyes the huge devices, skeptically.
“Perhaps, with time and care.” Faëlisse skewers another Orc attempting to lunge past her towards the wall. “Any disruption is just as likely to set them off, which I’d prefer to do with only Saruman’s minions in its path.”
“Faëlisse! Elrohir!” Aragorn calls down from above them. “Get back up here!”
“Clear the ramparts!” Faëlisse retorts, crunching her foot through the ribcage of a half-dead Orc wriggling by her feet.
“What?!” Gimli demands, just the tip of his helmet reaching over the parapet. “What did she say, Aragorn?”
“Clear the ramparts!” she snarls back, slamming her staff down and sending a dozen Orcs flying. “Eledhrim! Na barad!”
“What is down there?!” Aragorn questions, one hand on the top of a ladder, the other bearing Andúril through the Orc still climbing it. Behind her, Elrohir grunts in pain.
“We shall see, once you return to the Keep!” she roars, swinging her staff through the base of the ladder he is holding and sending it shattering to the ground. Aragorn huffs, but disappears back behind the battlements, and she hears both he and Haldir shouting orders again.
“You always do like the stubborn ones, don’t you?” Elrohir grins, even despite the blood staining his armour. Faëlisse rolls her eyes at him.
No matter their strength, two lone warriors against the entire Host of Isengard cannot be sustained. Faëlisse hisses as an Orc blade, slick with the evil muck of Isengard, slips past her guard and scores open the flesh of her shoulder. Elrohir falters, glances back at her, and that is all it takes for a torch to fly over their heads.
“CLEAR!” Elrohir bellows, even as Faëlisse dives into him, throws them both away from Saruman’s devices as the world erupts into flame.
“ALATYÁ!” White light erupts from her staff, bright and pure even as Saruman’s fire blisters through the night, enveloping both her and Elrohir as embers and molten metal rain around them. Uruk-hai and Dunlendings alike fly back from the force of it, while those that take their place are crushed beneath shards of Rohirric granite. For a moment, Faëlisse thinks the Deeping Wall will withstand the blast, this fire unlike any they have seen before, but it is not to be. A single sliver of stone cracks… and gives. “Move!” She closes her hand around Elrohir’s and tugs, pulling both of them through the destroyed sluice gate as the wall topples above them, burying the troops of Isengard beneath their own destruction.
“Faëlisse!” Legolas’ voice echoes from the still-open gate. “Elrohir! Aragorn, look! They live!” The creek roars behind them, now unbarred, and while it drowns out Aragorn’s response, even to their sensitive ears, it also buys them a precious few moments to stagger towards the gates.
“We need to barricade this gate.” It isn’t clear which of them is holding the other up, both unsteady from the fire and shock and blood loss, but Elrohir still finds it in him to strategise.
“Noro!” Aragorn demands from ahead, gesturing them forward. “Quickly!”
“I will do it.” Faëlisse slips her arm from Elrohir’s waist and, as he stumbles to adjust, shoves him with the side of her staff. Legolas and Gimli grunt as the momentum catapults Elrohir from her side and straight into them, knocking them, Elladan, and another two Elves behind them to the ground.
“Faëlisse!” Elrohir thrashes to find his feet again, but the wound in his side is pulling him down. “Faë–“
“Ni mael!” She thrusts out her staff and a massive chunk of the Deeping Wall rises in its glow.
“What is she doing?!” Questions rush from the battlement above as she stumbles back – one eye on the stone she bears behind her, the other on the treacherous terrain of broken bodies and fractured armour that stands between her and the gate.
“Faë, we will find another way to fortify the gate! Just get in here!” Aragorn insists, starting forward as though to pull her back himself. She shakes her head and he recoils from the sudden barely-bright barrier guarding the gate. “Faëlisse!”
“Ni mael, estelen.”
“Tíro!” Haldir’s voice shakes, but his hands do not, as he releases another arrow. The familiar fletching feathers of Lórien skim past her ear. The sharp steel of an Uruk-hai arrow sears into her already injured shoulder.
“Faë!” Aragorn jolts forward again when she cries out, but his pauldrons catch on flickering light. “Open this! Let me–“ He cuts off as Faëlisse hurls herself forward, crashing through the last little gap and directly into him, sending the two of them into the pile of Elves and grouchy Dwarf already littering the hard stone floor. The stone that once formed the Deeping Wall bangs into the gate, splintering the wood and shaking the battlement as it seals closed.
“Faëlisse!” Haldir hauls her up, clutches her close. “Do not scare me like that, lórinya.”
“Díheno nin, arimelda.” She presses her forehead to his, just briefly, before turning to help Aragorn to his feet as Haldir reaches for Elrohir. “I apologise. I thought I could keep them away for longer.”
“You bought us time to reach the Keep, melethel, and you came back alive.” Aragorn squeezes the back of her neck, presses a soft kiss to her sooty forehead, then pulls her into his side as he turns to address the others. “Go see the healers in the main hall, both of you. Legolas, go with the archers to the battlements. Gimli, we take the swordsmen to reinforce the main gate.”
“Cut the ropes!” Aragorn should have known better than to trust two beings with millennia of mischief – joint and apart – to confine one another to the healing halls when there are lives on the line. Elrohir returns to the fray at the front gate as soon as the wound in his side is stitched, and Faëlisse is not far behind him in retaking her place among the archers. “Cut the ropes!” She shears Anguirel through the nearest rope and the huge ladder it is drawing up teeters. Around her, both swords and small blades are drawn to hack at the nearest ropes, while those more skilled among the archers fray the furthest with their arrows.
“You three! Get out of there!” Théoden commands, somewhere below, and Faëlisse’s eyes are drawn down.
“Aragorn!” Legolas tosses a rope from the battlements and Aragorn catches it, gathers Gimli to his side.
“Haldir!” Beside him, Orophin does the same, but before he even finishes calling his brother’s name, a huge, rusted glaive cleaves sheer through his pale hair.
“HALDIR!” Orophin, Rúmil, and Faëlisse all bellow his name, as his knees give under his weight.
“Faë–“ Aragorn reaches out to catch her as she grabs onto the ladder – the first to finally reach the walls – and shoves, hard, wrenching it from the wall with the weight of only her wrath.
“Haldir. Melethel.” He is, of course, gone by the time she reaches him, his fëa far from her reach. Likely, it had fled before she even left the parapet.
“Faëlisse, you need to move!” Elrohir pleads, from inside.
“Irak’amad!” “Telucaltainiel!” “Melethel!” Voices circle from above. Haldir’s body lays heavy on her shoulders, but she grasps the rope regardless, feels someone above heave her up. Orophin’s hands meet her, he and Rúmiel lifting Haldir from her shoulders and laying him on the battlement.
“Á lelya mae, pilinen.” She presses his eyelids closed, placing one last kiss on his forehead, below the sharp split of his skull.
“Fall back!” Théoden’s voice echoes below.
“The castle is breached! Fall back!” Gamling’s follows.
“Retreat!” Aragorn’s rises to join the noise, drawing the Elves in after him. Rúmiel and Orophin remain.
“We must go, mellyn nín.” Faëlisse stands, pulling Orophin up with her. The youngest of the brothers falters, his eyes still fixed on the eldest. Or what remains of him. Rúmiel looks up at her, his eyes wide and glassy with tears. “The fight continues.” It is only her lunging past him to sever yet another ladder-rope that finally draws him to his feet.
“You brought us here.”
“Faëlisse!” Aragorn demands, as Orcs swarm up the battlements. “We must go!”
“Tolo, mellyn nín,” she pleads, backing towards the main hall. “Blame me all you wish, but do so inside.” Rúmiel snarls at her, pulls his one remaining brother close, and storms off into the halls. Faëlisse sighs, gaze dropping to Haldir’s body, before he is blocked from her sight by the swarming Orcs.
“Go back!” She slams her staff down, one last time, and the tower she stands upon shatters, stone and Orc and Dunlending alike tossed into the air as she retreats. The former walls of Helm’s Deep will make a fine tomb for her archer. Aragorn draws her close, pulls her into the hall.
“We must barricade the doors!” He is issuing orders, even as he brushes a kiss over her forehead and steps away. “Is there no other way for the women and children to exit the caves?” Silence answers him, only the flurry of breaking furniture and the hammering of the Uruk-hai against the door.
“There is a passage.” Faëlisse had stood here when this keep was built. All three men turn to her. “It leads into the mountains. Let Eowyn and the walking wounded lead the women and children out.”
“They will not make it far. Saruman’s monsters are too many.” Gamling is really starting to get on her nerves.
“They may make it far enough,” she snaps back, and the doorward retreats.
“So much death.” Théoden does not, however, turning stone-grey eyes on her. “What can Men do against such reckless hate?” Aragorn, at her side, studies him.
“Ride out with me.” There is quiet for a moment. Théoden studies them both. “Ride out and meet them.” Light glints in his cliff-hewn face.
“For death and glory.”
“For Rohan.” It’s not quite agreement, though Aragorn extends his hand to the King regardless. “For your people.” Théoden clasps the offered hand.
“The Sun is rising.” All eyes turn to Gimli, then to the window he is eyeing.
“Then we are due reinforcements,” Elladan surmises, with a lopsided grin.
“It’s only right we give them a proper welcome,” Elrohir agrees, slinging his uninjured arm over his brother’s shoulder. Faëlisse smiles – a bloody, ruthless thing, full of sharp teeth and vengeance.
“Yes. Yes. The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep one last time!” At Théoden’s agreement, Gimli cheers, turns to race up the stairs, just as the crunch of the battering ram throws the men back from the door.
“Let this be the hour when we draw swords together.” Aragorn nods, pats the hand Théoden has rested on his shoulder. “Man, Elf, and Dwarf alike, under the blessing of the Lady of the Stars.” Faëlisse whistles and Laurelin answers, her fine golden coat shimmering in the few rays of sun that reach the Deep. Behind her run the horses of the Rohirrim and the Dunédain, Roheryn and Snowmane at their head. The door shudders as the ram strikes once more, but it is barely heard in a hall in full motion. Those few Riders who remain mount their horses, along with the fewer sons and fathers of Riders lost who can do the same. The rest are sent to bar the entrance to the Aglarond.
The ram strikes again.
“Fell deeds awake!” Théoden sets his helmet on, raises his sword. “Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red dawn!”
The huge horn above them rings out. The door cracks open, revealing a flood of Uruk-hai and Dunlendings.
“Forth, Eorlingas!” They ride.
togo hon dad (s) = bring him down (taken from the movie)
dago hon (s) = kill him (taken from the movie)
ni mael (s) = I'm well, I'm fine
melethel (s) = darling, sweetheart
nethel (s) = sister
eledhrim, na barad (s) = elves, to the keep
alatyá (q) = shield (short imperative)
noro (s) = run
estelen (s) = my hope (from Aragorn's name, Estel)
“You must gather the others and go.” Thorin’s brow furrows, a protest already on the tip of his tongue. “The old man and I will follow, but you must go before they take into their mind to stop you.” Balin tugs him back towards the main House and Bilbo follows, as Faëlisse flits away in the other direction, scaling the cliffs and crags of Imladris with the familiarity of centuries of mischief.
Arimelda. It is not difficult, to find a seat amongst the vines and flowers twining the Pavilion. She has spent centuries moving in the Unseen – even beings as great as the White Council lower their guard when they believe themselves safe.
Tarsanya. Glorfindel’s golden head raises, glittering eyes meeting hers. She flashes her beloved a sharp-toothed grin.
“Gandalf, the enemy is defeated.” Curumo’s voice is rich and firm. It is no wonder so many have found it easy to believe. “Sauron is vanquished. He can never regain his full strength.” Easy to obey.
“Gandalf, for 400 years we have lived in peace.” Elrond is tired. He has wandered among Mortals longer than even the Istari, and lost much to it. “A hard-won, watchful peace.”
“Are we? Are we at peace?” It has always been a mistake to write Olórin off as nothing more than a dreamer. Mithrandir has always been far more shrewd than Curunír gives him credit for. Far more aware of the little things, while Saruman is swept up in the big picture of power and glory. “Trolls have come down from the mountains. They are raiding villages, destroying farms. Orcs attacked us on the road.”
“Hardly a prelude to war.” Is it not? Have they not all seen the slow creep of evil before? Perhaps, the problem is that such things are all too familiar to them. Perhaps they have all been watching for too long. Galadriel’s gaze drifts over the valley and Faëlisse shifts, just enough.
Telucaltaina. A soft smile graces her elegant face.
Alatáriel. Faëlisse bows her head to the Lady of Lórien, before each of them return their attention to the squabbling below them.
“Let him speak.” Galadriel’s word is law, even among Maiar. Saruman’s smug skepticism never fades, however.
“Well, don't stop now. Tell us what the woodsmen say.” The tone he uses is familiar. It is the same one that caused the first clash between Curunír and the Last Kindled creation. Galadriel, as ever, is the first to recognise the depth of the situation. Faëlisse’s skin has been crawling from the moment Radagast handed over the blade, so she’s not sure how the great White Wizard could have missed it, hardly hidden beneath his colleague’s cloak.
“And buried with him.” Galadriel’s piercing gaze once again rises to the sky. To Faëlisse’s place among the vines and marble, overlooking them all.
There is no spell which cannot be broken. The Mistress of Magic knows this, but she lets Faëlisse remind her regardless. There is no unchecked power which does not corrupt. Even Galadriel flinches at that – barely perceptible, certainly not to three men whose eyes are all fixed on the Morgul blade between them.
You do not trust him. There is no question of who Faëlisse no longer trusts, for it cannot be the Maia she still fights beside, nor the Elven lord who took her in like his own, nor the golden Elf she has loved longer than most in Arda have lived. To an untrained eye, it may appear Galadriel turns away from the table, but Faëlisse has known the Lady of Lórien long enough to see her studying Saruman in her own way, even as she – once again – recognises what the others do not and casts her gaze to Gandalf, fond mischief tugging at her lips.
“I do not feel I can condone such a quest.”
“I do not recall who asked for your endorsement.” It’s gratifying to see the greatest of the Istari jolt when she speaks, all eyes turning to where she is perched atop one of the Pavilion’s great columns.
“Faëlisse,” Elrond sighs, long-suffering.
“Eavesdropping is impolite, child.” Saruman can’t seem to decide whether to direct his ire at Faëlisse or Gandalf. “I would have expected Mithrandir to have taught you better by now.”
“You of all people should know that neither Atya nor I follow orders well.” She kicks her legs in the air, cheerfully. “Nor does Thorin Oakenshield, as a matter of fact.” The sun is rising, casting gold over the valley, and Faëlisse’s golden eye glints in the light.
“This expedition cannot–“
“Good morning, Lindir,” she interrupts Saruman for the second time to beam at the approaching steward. “You look worried.” He shoots her a sharp look, but she just grins back at him.
“The Dwarves are gone.” Saruman’s head snaps around to the steward, then back to Faëlisse in the same moment. She swings herself down from her perch to meet them on level ground – the rest of them are tall, even in comparison to Elves and Men, but she has spent her life being small.
“They left without me?” she pouts, as if any of them will believe that. “How rude.” Saruman’s eye twitches, but he keeps his composure.
“They still have far to go.” He clasps his hands. “There is time.”
“For many things, Curunír,” Faëlisse agrees, bowing to Lady Galadriel. “For many things, indeed.”
“For breakfast with me before you depart, I hope, melethril?” Glorfindel extends his arm to her and Faëlisse loops hers through it without hesitation.
“Of course, arimelda.” Elrond sighs, but makes no move to stop either of them, even as Saruman scowls after them both.
arimelda (q) = dearest, most beloved
tarsanya (n) = little trouble
Curumo (q) = Saruman (his name in Quenya, meaning "skilled man" or "cunning one")
Olórin (q) = Gandalf (his name in Quenya, derived from "olor/s", meaning dream)
Mithrandir (s) = Gandalf (his name in Sindarin, meaning "grey pilgrim/wanderer")
Curunír (s) = Saruman (his name in Sindarin, meaning "man of skill")
telucaltaina (q) = last kindled
Alatáriel (t) = Galadriel (her name in Telerin, an elven dialect mostly out of use outside Valinor as few Teleri joined the pursuit of Melkor/Morgoth due to the Kinslaying at Alqualondë)
legolas, absolutely bemused: Yesterday, I watched Pippin try to eat a decorative rock from a potted plant. Boromir caught him, and told him he can't eat rocks. Pippin started whining something about no food being in the house before walking away.
“No! No! No more dw–“ Bilbo’s shouting stutters out as he opens the door, looking out at the dark figure in front of him. Mismatched eyes flash – one bright as the midday sun, the other dark as the moonlit sky. “Your eyes!” He claps a hand over his mouth immediately, begging a flushed apology.
“No need, little Tookling.” The strange woman laughs, ruffling his hair as she steps inside. For all he intends to bristle at yet another indignity, he can’t find it in himself. “You said the same thing when you were a bairn. Oh, how much you’ve grown! Now, are these dwarves causing trouble?”
“Wha-I’m terribly sorry, but who are you?” He peers at her, curiously, as she peels off her deep blue cloak, revealing herself as only an inch or so taller than him – more than a head shorter than the others in the room – with a tumble of moon-white curls, from which she carefully extracts an almost-glowing blue butterfly, which she shoos out the window with a few whispered words.
“Oh, of course, you won’t remember me.” She extends her hand, soft, but calloused. Worn with an age that doesn’t show on her face. “Faëlisse Took.” That explains the familiar mischievous light in those glowing eyes, then.
“Aunt Faëlisse. I remember Mother telling me stories about you.” His brow furrows. “I had no idea you were still alive! I mean – no offence, of course, it’s just, you must be older than her and she passed a long time ago.”
“None taken, Bilbo.” The smile she offers, then, is soothing, despite its sadness, dancing with memories of Belladonna’s mischief.
“Hogging our guest, Master Baggins?” Gandalf’s deep voice rumbles, above the two, as he shuffles out of the kitchen.
“Gandalf, it has been some time since we saw one another.” Faëlisse turns on him, scolding. “It is far beyond time I caught up with Belladonna’s little one. And you know how rude it is to mark a Hobbit’s home!”
“Yes, yes, well–“ The great wizard pauses, as she folds her arms, eyebrows flickering up, expectant. “My apologies, Bilbo.” He turns to retreat and the two follow him back into the makeshift dining room set up in what was once Belladonna and Bungo’s front hall. Silence falls as they enter, all eyes edging between the group in the doorway and the scowling dwarf at the head of the table.
“Another Hobbit? I asked for an expert burglar and a trained warrior.” The dwarf places his cutlery down and lifts his gaze. Then blinks. “Miss Took?” He squints at her. Then at Gandalf.
“I am both,” Faëlisse assures, cheerily, setting down her pack and folding her cloak atop it. Stone dark eyes study her as she shucks off only the largest of the many blades holstered on her person, setting it carefully beside the pack. “It is lovely to see you again, Durin’s Son. Bilbo, dear, could I trouble you for a cup of tea? I brought fresh scones from the baker in Bree.”
“Oh!” Bilbo brightens significantly as she passes the basket on her arm to him. “How polite!”
“It would not do to arrive empty-handed,” she shrugs, swinging a quiver of arrows and a bow almost as tall as herself from her back and setting it aside. “Can I help with anything?” Gandalf clears his throat.
“Faëlisse, I did not bring you here to play housemaid.” She doesn’t even look in his direction.
“That dragon has laid dormant for sixty years, Gandalf.” The sharp edge of her tone could cut a lesser man. Even Olorín himself falls silent. “A moment of good manners halfway across Middle Earth will not rouse him.”
“I can help with the tea!” One of the other dwarves shoots to his feet, across the table, dragging one who can barely be more than a boy up with him. “Come along, Ori, let’s give Mister Baggins a hand.” Faëlisse glances at Bilbo, who shrugs, helplessly, but leads his two new assistants into the kitchen. She turns back to Thorin, his intense gaze still fixed on her.
“I take it Gandalf has not introduced me, so I shall take that liberty.” She curtsies, neatly. “Faëlisse Took, at your service. I met some of you many years ago.”
“You are a warrior?” The question is gruff with his attempt at impassiveness, but there is no hiding the skepticism beneath it.
“I have been fighting since I was able to hold a bow, young King.” At the end of the First Age, everyone was a warrior. There was no other choice. “These days, I work mostly with the Rangers of the North, though I travel beyond their lands at times. I assure you, the beast in your mountain is not the most fearsome I have faced.”
“And your weapons?” Thorin is eyeing the blades on her belt. “That style of work is unfamiliar.”
“I forge most of my blades myself, though some are gifts.” She slips a small dagger from her sleeve, holds it out to him.
“This is obsidian?” He takes it from her, cautiously, turning it over in his hands.
“Indeed,” Faëlisse answers, easily, as Thorin passes the dagger to the man at his right hand – the largest of the Dwarves, face set in a scowl which would be fearsome if she hadn’t seen worse. They do not need to know she forged her blades from the magma of Erebor, as it once was.
“This is impressive handiwork, lass.” He sounds reluctant to admit it.
“Thank you, Master Fundinul.” Faëlisse trails off, tilting her head.
“Pardon me, young lady–“ Balin is always so polite, but he has seen her remain unchanged for too many years to be fooled. “–but you are… well, not a typical Hobbit, are you?”
“I was under the impression that Hobbits rarely ventured, well, anywhere.”
“Quite right.” Bilbo reappears, Ori and Dori behind him balancing tea trays. “No good Hobbit ventures past the Outlands.”
“We Tooks have always been rather an exception.” Faëlisse happily accepts the cup passed to her, shooting her disgruntled young nephew (several generations removed) a wicked grin that reminds him eerily of his mother. “And the Buck families, of course.”
“Those Bucks…” Bilbo tuts, shaking his head. “East of the River!”
“Buckland’s a lovely place this time of year,” Faëlisse muses, then scrunches up her nose. “Goodness, I really have been away too long if Belladonna’s son is tutting at a mere river crossing!”
“What with the Barrow-downs so close–!” Bilbo’s protest, futile as it is, is swiftly cut off by Thorin clearing his throat.
“You are not built like a Hobbit.” There’s an edge of suspicion in his voice, creeping venom as he pieces together the sharp ears peaking out from her shining curls, her slight shoulders and the scarce inches of height she holds over Bilbo, and the many years she has met them unchanged.
“I came to Arda after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.”
Silence, for one long moment.
“That was in the First Age!” Bilbo’s exclamation breaks the temporary peace and Thorin’s hostility flares.
“You would bring an elf into this?” He turns to Gandalf, who sighs, setting his cup down.
“Faëlisse is not an elf.“
“Faëlisse is, however, capable of fighting her own battles.” Silence falls again as she inserts herself into the staring contest between the Dwarven prince and the Maia. “I fought in the War of Wrath when I was still a child. Since then, I have made my home amongst many races of Middle Earth, from Elves and Hobbits and Men to Goblins and Orcs and, yes, even among Dwarves. I am sorry that Thranduil did not aid your people, but I am not him. I cannot undo what he did, but I can fight for your home.”
“We don’t need the help of an elf,” Thorin spits, and Faëlisse’s brow arches.
“If we are going to discuss the matter of blood, son of Thrain, son of Thror–“
“That is enough!” Gandalf slams a palm onto the table, making everyone jump. “You asked for a warrior and I brought you the Lady Thatrûnith, Daughter of the Wind and Stars, Champion of the Sea and Sky, who slew Gorsthir the Terrible when she was only a child. She is the only living slayer of Ancalagon the Black who has no loyalty to the laws of Elves. To turn her away is to end any chance of retaking Erebor before your journey even begins!”
“She fought Ancalagon the Black?!” “She killed a dragon when she was a child?!” “A child of the Valar?!”
“So much for secrecy, old man,” Faëlisse drawls, rolling her eyes at the Maia.
“Quiet!” The command echoes, Thorin rising to his feet. “Balin, Dwalin. With me.” He stalks out, leaving the two brothers to rush after him. Faëlisse rolls her eyes. The two young dwarves at the end of the table scramble from their seats to surround her.
“Lady Thatrûnith?” the blond asks, holding out a hand. “Fili, at your service”
“A pleasure,” she smiles, bowing to kiss his hand. “Young prince.” He chuckles, colour burning in his ears.
“Not yet,” his brother huffs, elbowing him out of the way. “I’m Kili.”
“Young prince.” She repeats the action, then straightens.
“Prince?” Bilbo splutters.
“You are the king’s nephew’s, are you not?” The two nod at the same time and Bilbo’s eyes widen. “Gandalf did not tell you? The leader of this Company is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, rightful King under the Mountain. His nephews will be Princes.”
“No,” he grinds out, “He did not tell me.” The three of them laugh, as Gandalf shrugs in the corner at Bilbo’s glare.
“Let the old man be, Bilbo,” she teases, “Now, tell me you haven’t just been settling all these years. If you are to meet a dragon, you must have all your Took blood on show.”
“You are related?” Kili questioned, tearing his eyes away from the sight of the irritable warrior. “Are you a child of the Valar as well, Mr Baggins?”
“I’m adopted,” Faëlisse answers, inviting Bilbo’s frown, “Into the fun side of the family.”
thatrûnith (kh) = Faëlisse (Khuzdul title meaning "young star-lady")
“Gondor has no King.” Boromir’s eyes don’t leave Aragorn, even as he dismisses the Elven prince. “Gondor needs no King.”
“Mind your words, son of Denethor,” Faëlisse chides, tapping her staff softly against stone. “They do you no favours among those who remember the line of Andunie.” The steward-prince looks her up and down.
“And what would you know of Númenór, halfling?”
“How dare you address the Lady Lagnîth so!” Gimli is on his feet in a moment, Legolas not far behind him, both of them bellowing – briefly in agreement. Honestly, Faëlisse is just glad that the three Hobbits who are distinctly not meant to be crouched in the bushes behind manage to keep themselves quiet.
“It is quite alright, Gimli, Legolas.” She straightens, from where she has been leaning against the white walls of Elrond’s home. “The boy does not know any better.”
“Vanimelda,” Aragorn cautions, ever even-tempered, as Faëlisse steps into the circle.
“We should return to the matter at hand.” She gestures to the Ring that Frodo has borne all this way, the Ring that churns her stomach even to be near to, the spell of her Creators revolting against its very existence. “The Ring must be destroyed. I cannot bear it, for it is against my nature. Not Man nor Elf nor Dwarf has been able to bear it without quailing before. No Wizard can be given the task, else we find ourselves with yet another Dark Lord. Besides all this, Sauron watches his borders with a wary eye.”
“One does not simply walk into Mordor.” Gondor’s son is stubborn. “Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland riddled with fire, and ash, and dust … the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand Men could you do this. It is folly.”
“There is much ten thousand Men cannot do,” Faëlisse assures him, flatly.
“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond and the Ainur have said? The Ring must be destroyed,” Legolas reiterates, exasperated.
“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?” Gimli, at times, reminds Faëlisse far too much of his father. She pinches the bridge of her nose as Thranduil’s son, the Man who would be a prince, and the son of Gloin fall into argument. Behind her, Aragorn sighs.
“I still hold we could have travelled through the Mountains to Rhovanion and bypassed the lands of Men and Dwarves altogether,” she gripes in Elrond’s direction, returning to her place beside Aragorn – as far from the Ring as she can be without leaving the Council entirely.
“And your King would have tolerated this?” Elrond counters, raising his eyebrow. “Besides which, you intended to travel ever more dangerous forests with none but four Hobbits at your side?”
“Four Hobbits and the Chiefest among the Dunédain,” Faëlisse returns, eyeing the young trio’s argument with exhaustion. “As for Thorin, he is stubborn, not stupid. His son may have hope, but Denethor is naught but a prince of fools.” The spell of her Creators may only burn her in the presence of truer evil – immortal and unvanquished, born of corruption wrought by Morgoth himself – but it still bristles beneath her skin at lesser wickedness, and the greed of Men has always felt far too similar to the slithering half-souls that comprise the Nazgûl. There is a good soul in Gondor’s steward-prince, but the greed and hubris that has blighted his father is branded upon him, like a stain.
Some time apart from the creeping corruption of his father’s stolen throne may do him good.
“Do you not understand?” Of them all, Gandalf loses his patience first. Faëlisse thinks it is his love for the Free Peoples, his unfaltering belief in them, that makes him most likely to underestimate their folly – and frustrate himself in the process. “While we bicker amongst ourselves, Sauron’s power grows! No one will escape it. You will all be destroyed, with your homes burnt and your families put to the sword!”
“I will take it!” It is Frodo, however, who puts an end to the argument. “I will take it. I will take the Ring to Mordor.” The Council quiets. Faëlisse smiles, silently crossing the room to press a kiss to her honorary nephew’s cheeks.
“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear.” Gandalf is the first to join her.
“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.” Aragorn is the second, coming to kneel before the young Hobbit. “You have my sword.”
lagnîth (kh) = Faëlisse (Khuzdul title meaning "godling")
Faëlisse wakes into the pale pink of pre-dawn light the next morning and steals into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, which she then carries to the top of a small waterfall above the gardens to stretch away the lingering soreness before Lindir can disapprove of the climbing. For the first time since the Company left the Shire, she has time. Time to sip her tea, to bask in the cool air breezing off the waterfall and the rising warmth of Anar as Arien steers its brimming fire above the Great Sea. Time to admire the valley of Imladris stretching out below her as the stars settle into rest, taking both bats and night watches with them, and the earliest risers stir in the Last Homely House.
It isn’t until an hour later that the House truly wakes, the kitchen fires being stoked alive from hot embers and the scent of fresh fruit and baking bread rising on the air. Lindir knows her well enough to go out of his way to shoot her favoured perch a sharp look when he passes towards the kitchens, but it isn’t until a familiar ruckus begins in the guest quarters that Faëlisse descends to join the chaos.
“Must you all be quite so loud?” The Company’s shouting silences at her words. It is a testament to millennia of patience that Elrond does not pinch the bridge of his nose. His sons have no such qualms and Elrohir actually snorts before Elladan elbows him.
“Well, there you are, they told us she was fine!” Bilbo huffs, folding his arms.
“You’re okay!” Kili ignores the Hobbit entirely, flinging himself out of the group to wrap around her. “Where were you? We thought you’d been kidnapped!”
“You thought that, after surviving not only weeks out on the road with you, but millennia on my own, I was kidnapped from a hidden and heavily guarded Elven stronghold?” Faëlisse clarifies, flatly. Glorfindel snickers. Several of the Dwarves shuffle uncomfortably. Gandalf sighs.
“You were climbing the cliffs again.” It’s not really a question.
“There are few views in all of Arda that outdo the valley of Imladris at peace, Atya.” She doesn’t bother to deny it. “Now, shall we go to breakfast before we upset the chefs? I don’t fancy getting on Êgel’s bad side.”
“You’re never on Êgel’s bad side!” Elladan complains, slinging an arm over her shoulder and the other around Kili’s, where he’s still clinging to her side.
“I clean the kitchen after making use of it,” Faëlisse points out, tartly. “But that doesn’t mean the rest of you are safe. Better run along.” Thorin and Dwalin linger, as Kili and Fili are pulled along in the whirlwind of Glorfindel and Elrond’s twins, the rest of the Company following after them. Balin shoots a wary look at the three of them before shaking his head and taking his place between Gandalf and Oin. Faëlisse raises a brow at the two Dwarves.
“You can’t just run off like that.” Thorin’s lecture comes off to a strong start, but she simply rolls her eyes.
“I shall do as I will, Thorin of the Oaken Shield.” Even the son of Thrain hesitates in the face of flashing eyes and too-sharp teeth, reminders that she is far more Flame than a truly Mortal body can hope to contain, Dwalin wincing beside him. “While I apologise for not anticipating your concern, I would thank you not to presume to lecture me.”
atya (q) = dad (he's not her father, just a father-figure)
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