OOC – Author’s Note:
This story is inspired by a live RP session hosted by Ellome, which concerns discovery of relics from Gondolin. The following is only tangentially connected to events that occurred in their plot. So it is not intrinsically a part of their story. If they write a summary of their live sessions on LA, I will endeavour to link to them here for better context.
Additionally: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It helped on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written them in the first instance, and it also gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there while editing. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI assistance in its production.
The day began with sunlight falling like silver through the high arches of Rivendell. I had been left behind again. Father had gone west with a fellowship drawn of survivors of Gondolin at dawn, leaving only a note of instruction and a few lines of gentle reproach: Study. Observe. Do not meddle. I told myself I would obey. I meant it, too, at least for the first hour.
Then I met the sons of Elrond.
Elladan and Elrohir found me sitting by the lower terraces, pretending to read. They arrived with the same easy stride and identical smiles that made one forget which was which. There was mischief already gleaming in their eyes, the sort that warned of trouble but promised laughter too. I knew of them only in passing, and though long past their third thousandth year, they carried the energy of youth itself.
Their laughter filled every hall, their boldness shone brighter than caution ever could. Perhaps that was why I was drawn to them most of all, for they seemed to live untouched by the long weight of years that pressed upon others of our kind, despite nearing their three-thousandth year!
“You are Lord Ceneshar’s daughter,” said one, though I could not say which. “He spoke of you before he rode. Said you were fond of surprises.”
“Did he?” I tried to sound unimpressed. “Then he spoke too freely.”
The other twin laughed. “We have a gift for finding kindred spirits. Come, walk with us. It is far too fine a day for study.”
Against my better judgment, I followed. Their presence was magnetic: light and untroubled, like wind off the Bruinen. They led me through the gardens, past the singing fountains, and spoke in turns of their journeys. Their tales were wild and bright; of orcs on the mountain passes, of dwarves who carved songs into stone, of pranks played on Glorfindel himself. I laughed until I forgot entirely that I was meant to be dutiful.
“So tell us,” said Elrohir, or perhaps Elladan, “have you ever dared the Hall of Fire at midday?”
“Why would anyone?” I asked. “The poets rest then.”
“Exactly,” he said with mock gravity. “It is the perfect hour for adventure. No one will suspect a thing.”
I folded my arms. “What sort of adventure?”
They shared a look, the kind that passes entire conversations without a word. “A harmless one,” said the first. “A small jest for our father. You see, he keeps the old silver goblet upon the dais there... the one with the tree and stars upon it?”
“Of course,” I said. Everyone knew of that goblet. It was said to have belonged to Eärendil himself, and only Elrond ever used it.
“Well,” said the second twin, lowering his voice, “it looks rather like another goblet kept in the stores below. If one were to swap them, no harm would come of it. But the likeness would fool even the keenest eye.”
I stared at them, half-shocked. “You would tamper with your father’s relics?”
They both smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Only for an hour or two,” said one. “Then we would put it right. You should see the look he gives when he notices small things out of place... as though he can hear history itself... groaning.” They laughed, mockingly... though not in a cruel way. Nari could see the love they had for their father in their eyes.
I ought to have refused. I should have gone back to my reading. Instead, I found myself saying, “He would notice your hands all over it. Mine, perhaps not.”
They exchanged another of those silent glances, and Elladan clapped my shoulder. “Brave words! You have your father’s boldness. We shall provide the distraction. All you must do is make the exchange. You will be a legend among us.”
I knew it was foolish. I knew it had been their intent to talk me into this and yet there was a strange thrill in their laughter, the kind I had never quite known in Lórien. I was tired of being left behind, tired of being thought a child. So I agreed.
We planned it in whispers. They would draw the steward away from the Hall under pretense of a message from the library. I would slip in, take the goblet, and replace it with the twin piece. When Lord Elrond next poured his wine, he would find the switch and scowl in fatherly dismay.... and that would be the end of it. Simple. Harmless.
When the moment came, my heart beat like a drum. The Hall of Fire was quiet, save for the trickle of a nearby fountain and the rustle of banners. Sunlight fell through the high windows, scattering motes of dust like drifting stars. The goblet gleamed upon the dais, innocent and perfect. Even tempting...
I crept forward. The floor was smooth marble; every step seemed too loud. I lifted the cup carefully, cradling it in both hands. The silver was cool and heavy, and for a moment I felt as though the weight of ages rested in my palms. I set it aside and replaced it with the copy the twins had given me.
Then I heard footsteps.
I turned too quickly. My sleeve brushed the edge of the table. The copy wobbled, slid, and fell. The sound of it striking the marble rang through the hall like thunder. I froze. From the doorway came the steward’s voice, and behind him, unmistakably, Lord Elrond himself.
“What is this?” he said. His tone was not loud, but it carried the quiet authority of one accustomed to obedience.
I could not answer. My mouth opened, but no sound came. The steward stooped to lift the fallen cup. His eyes widened. “My lord, this is not...”
“Indeed,” said Elrond, examining it. “It is a forgery. Poorly made, though cleverly weighted.” His gaze turned to me, calm yet piercing. “Naridalis, daughter of Ceneshar, would you care to explain how this came here?”
I stammered something about a dare, about curiosity, but the words tangled and fell apart. My cheeks burned. His eyes, I was lost in them. I could feel the silence thickening around me like smoke from a blaze.
Then, mercifully, the twins appeared.
“Father,” said Elladan, bowing low, “the fault is ours.”
Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Yours?”
“We set the challenge,” said Elrohir. “Naridalis only took part because we pressed her... and she was bold enough to try it. It was meant as a jest. No harm intended.”
Elrond looked from them to me and back again. His expression softened slightly, though his voice remained cold. “A jest that shows poor judgment, and poorer taste. You will both present yourselves to me this evening. As for you, young one... you will reflect upon the company you keep.”
With that he turned away, the goblet still in his hand. The steward followed in silence. The twins gave me a sympathetic look before they were led off to whatever fate awaited them. I could hardly breathe.
That evening, Father returned.
He found me waiting by the library stairs, still sick with shame. He had already heard, of course. There are no secrets in Rivendell for long as I discovered.
“So,” he said quietly, “the daughter of the High Chronicler of the Golden Wood is now a jester in Elrond’s hall.”
I could not meet his eyes. “It was not what it seemed. The twins...”
“The twins,” he interrupted, “are the sons of a lord who may forgive their mischief. You are not. You are of Lórien, of my house, and every foolish act you commit reflects upon me.”
“I am sorry,” I whispered.
“Sorry?” His voice sharpened. “Do you think apology undoes embarrassment? Do you think I spend my days in counsel only for my daughter to make mockery of the respect we are owed?”
His words struck harder than any blow. I had no defence. He paced once, then stopped before me.
“You wished to prove yourself grown, yet you act the child. To be young is not shameful, but to seek honour through foolishness is. You have disappointed me, Naridalis.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes, Father.”
He was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice had cooled. “Elrond has shown mercy. He holds you blameless, since his sons confessed their share. You will thank him when next you see him. And you will spend your remaining days here in study, not in jest.”
“Yes, Father,” I said again.
He left then, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. I stood alone, wishing I could vanish into the stone floor.
Later that night, as the moon rose over the valley, I heard a soft tapping at my window. It was Elladan, grinning.
“All well?” he whispered.
“You should not be here.”
“We took the blame, as promised. Father was stern, but we live still. You need not fret.”
“You should not have done it,” I said, though my voice trembled with gratitude.
“We could hardly let the daughter of Ceneshar fall alone. Consider it repayment for your courage. Few would have dared the Hall at all. Believe me, we have tried to encourage a great many.”
“It was folly, not courage.”
He smiled. “Often they are the same thing in youth. Sleep easy, Naridalis. The valley will remember only that laughter was heard again today. That is no small gift.”
He vanished into the dark before I could answer.
I sat by the window long after he had gone, watching the stars reflected in the river below. My heart still ached with shame, yet beneath it was a glimmer of something else... a quiet pride that, for one brief day, I had stood among them, not as a child left behind, but as one of their conspirators.
In the morning, Father did not speak of it again. But I saw, as he passed me on the terrace, a faint weariness in his eyes. Something had kept him up late, something connected with this business of Gondolin I suspected.
When he saw me looking at him, he turned his gaze away, and though I dared not believe it, a trace of reluctant amusement perhaps could then be found in his expression. Perhaps he too remembered being young once, before the long years turned laughter into caution.
If he did, he never said. And I, wiser now, learned that even a small jest can ripple far, like a stone dropped into still water. Yet I could not quite regret it. The twins had shown me what it meant to live boldly, even if only for a moment, and that, I think, was lesson enough.
