Part 16

Lord Fingolfin was waiting in their private chambers.

“Suilad, hîr nín,” he said, rising and greeting Legolas and Eowyn formally, hand on heart, “e suilad, hiril nín.” Then, noticing Melannen, hiding behind Eowyn, he bent down to the child’s level, and added, “E suilad, hîr dithen.”

At Eowyn’s gentle urging, Melannen stepped forward and, head bowed and blushing, returned Fingolfin’s greeting.

Legolas ruffled the boy’s golden hair. “Well done, nadithen.” He smiled at Fingolfin. “Good afternoon, my Lord. Please accept my profound apologies for missing our meeting the other day.”

“Our meeting, Lord Legolas?”

“To discuss your kind offer to stand as my Guardian at the wedding. I am afraid I was detained. But I hope that you are still willing.”

“I think you will find,” said Fingolfin, tactfully, “that that particular meeting is arranged for today, my Lord. For now, in fact.”

Frowning, Legolas turned to Eowyn.

“What day is it, my Lord?” she asked.

“The eighteenth day of Girithron, my Lady,” replied Fingolfin.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…”

“But we were gone for two days.”

“I… I do not understand, my Lady.”

“No matter, my Lord,” said Legolas, taking control. “You and I have much to discuss, and we will be far more comfortable in the study. Galathil,”—he called to a servant—“we will have mulled cider and caraway cake in the study, and I am sure that Lady Eowyn and Master Melannen will have the same in the sitting room—no, make that apple juice for the boy. We will talk later, melmenya,” he added, quietly.

…

Eowyn led Melannen into the sitting room. “Well,” she said, setting his basket on the sideboard and handing him his toy rabbit, “first, we will need to find you some clean clothes—”

Clutching Niben to his chest, the elfling turned full-circle, admiring the garlands of evergreens that draped the elegant beams, the spangled curtains at the windows, and the hundreds of tiny white candles that glittered on the mantelpiece and in the hearth.

“—then,” Eowyn continued, “we will have to bathe you, and find you a chamber of your own,”—there was a knock at the door—“come in!”

Miriel, Eowyn’s elven lady’s maid, stepped inside, holding the door open for the seamstress, Valaina, who entered carrying a large bundle, carefully wrapped in white cloth. “Good afternoon, my Lady,” said the elleth with a deep curtsey. “Are you ready for your fitting?”

“Oh,” said Eowyn, “yes—I had almost forgotten!—yes, of course.”

…

“You can look now, Melannen.”

The elfling (who had turned his back and covered his eyes, for good measure) turned, and slowly lowered his hands.

His Gwanur Eowyn raised her arms. “What do you think?”

Instead of the suede jerkin and the leather boots that she had worn on their adventure, she was dressed in an elegant gown of rough-woven silk the colour of pale, sparkling wine. Its scooped neck and deep hem were embroidered with bands of tiny red flowers and creamy buttercups scattered over a lacework of blue briars, and its wide, translucent sleeves were edged with delicate pale blue leaves.

“Oh, Gwanur Eowyn,” said Melannen, “you look like a princess!”