✧

𝔄𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝔑𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧

The silent figure watched from the open balcony as the sun's glow started to brighten up the Hidden Valley of Imladris. It was early morning, a warm breeze caused the elf's blue skirt and sleeves to billow about her. Her mind was calm and quiet that morning, just as it had been for many mornings before. Naerien's mind did not wander like it had once — she wouldn't allow it. Her past was riddled with tragedy that she did not wish to recall. Death and destruction and loneliness. That was her past.

The elf left the white railing, turning her back to the sun's light as she entered the large, open drawing room of her chambers. To her left, through an open door, she spotted a silver circlet, beautiful and delicate, sitting on her workbench. She had fashioned many fine pieces of jewelry in her workshop, though these days she didn't work as much anymore. It was lit only by the dim light of the sun, as she had left the candles unlit the previous night.

She didn't enter her workshop, but stepped into her bedroom, where she found a beautiful wooden chest pressed up against the wall. She hadn't opened it in many years, but she was tempted to. Every day she was tempted to open it and yet she dared not to. Memories lived in that chest, and she refused to relive them.

"Naerien!" a young boy's voice hit her ears, cutting through the silence and causing her to turn to face her visiter. She briefly thought of rebuking him for using that name, but she didn't. He was only a child, a mere ten years old, and that was the only name he knew her by. She used to be called Alassaran, but that was sixty years ago, before the last of her kin had been taken cruelly away from her.

She could always manage a smile for the ward of Elrond, however, who had let himself into her living quarters on his own. He was a child of man, not elves, but he was accepted in Rivendell nonetheless.

"Almáre' arin, Estel," Naerien bid him a good morning softly, leaving her bedroom and smiling gently. The young boy gave her a quick embrace, wrapping his arms around her middle. "You're awake early," she pointed out, looking down at him. "The sun has barely risen."

"I'm not sure why I am up," he confessed. "I wanted to go back to sleep again; I was having an exciting dream! and I wished to see the end of it."

"What was your dream about?" she asked him curiously. She sat down on the couch and motioned for him to sit beside her. He did as she motioned and launched into a wild and wonderful tale in which he was a great king of a mighty kingdom (which kingdom that was, he did not say) and he had single-handedly defeated an army of terrible goblins. Then, he had saved a beautiful maiden locked away in a dark tower.

"That is a wondrous dream, indeed, Estel," she told him, chuckling lightly at the way his arms waved about dramatically as he retold his dream. "I have no doubt that one day you will be a mighty warrior."

His brown eyes gleamed with happiness at her words, but another thought halted his joy. "If only I were old enough," he then shook his head with a small frown.

"You will be grown sooner than you think," Naerien told him, turning her eyes to meet his, "then you will be the greatest warrior of all of Middle-earth."

"I have no doubt of that," a new voice filled the small room and the elf and the boy looked up to see Elrond, lord of Rivendell, standing in the open entryway. Humor was in his voice at Estel's grand hopes, but as soon as he turned to Naerien, his eyes grew solemn.

"It appears that this is an important matter, Estel," she told the young boy, standing up. "I shall see you later, I'm sure."

Estel frowned, for he much enjoyed the company of the she-elf, but he nodded obediently, walked past Elrond, and wandered into the Valley.

"Len suilon, nín Hîr Elrond," she greeted him with respect, politely bowing her head.

"Len suilon, Naerien," he replied in kind, stepping into the room.

"What is it that I can do for you?" She asked.

"I have received word that we are to have visitors," he told her, which made confusion display itself across her features. "Mithrandir is arriving," his grey eyes met hers, "most likely tomorrow, and he is bringing with him the dwarves of Erebor."

Naerien immediately understood the purpose of his visit. The name of the Lonely Mountain sent a jolt through her system that created a great aching in her heart. Screams and dragon fire echoed in her mind at the mention of Erebor, forcing her to shove the memories back. She consciously rubbed her right arm, where the skin had been permanently scarred by dragon fire.

"I doubt they will readily trust us, even with Mithrandir's words," Elrond continued, his ageless face studying her own carefully, gauging her reaction. "Your brother knew Thorin, and the dwarf prince trusted him long ago."

"He knew Celebrenon," Naerien cut in, her tone more curt than she had wanted it to be. She bowed her head apologetically before she finished, "not me."

"I know," he agreed, his tone gentle. They had known each other for a long time and Elrond had been good friends with her family. He had watched Alassaran grow up and become much like her grandfather; he had watched alongside her as both her father and grandfather were killed by the armies of Sauron. He had watched Alassaran and Celebrenon leave Rivendell days before Smaug took Erebor, only for Naerien return in their stead. He held pity and sympathy for her in his heart, regarding her not unlike he would his young daughter Arwen. "But I have a feeling that he and his kin will trust you."

"If you wish for me to speak with them, then I shall," Naerien replied in a dull and obedient tone. She would only do it because Elrond told her to. She held Elrond Half-elven in high respect, and she would do whatever he asked of her (many of Rivendell would), even if it would cause her great pain.

"I do not wish to cause you any more harm, Alassaran," he told her, and she snapped her gaze to his grey eyes, which were filled with gentle sympathy. "If you cannot bear to see Thorin Oakenshield, then do not."

There was a long, painful pause between Elrond and Naerien as she thought about his words. She had cast her eyes to elsewhere in the room, catching a glimpse of the locked chest in her bedroom. It came to the point where she knew she had to say something, so she looked at him once again and took a deep breath. "I will try to gain Thorin Oakenshield's trust," she finally replied with no small amount of courage. "I promise."

Elrond's lips lifted up into a faint smile, and he nodded in thanks. "Annon allen."

When Elrond left her room, Naerien had stood still for a long while, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. The news of the arrival of Thorin Oakenshield and his kin had cracked open the floodgates of her past and she had suddenly been caught in a torrent of memories she had not been brave enough to face. She still wasn't strong enough, she knew, and she had almost drowned.

Naerien had been tempted to run after Lord Elrond and tell him that she had changed her mind, but she didn't. Why, she did not know.
Perhaps it was the odd feeling that grew in the pit of her stomach, the feeling that she owed it to Celebrenon to help Thorin. She hadn't known the extent of the relationship between her brother and the dwarven prince, but she knew that if Celebrenon had still been alive, he would have aided him in whatever way he could.

Perhaps she owed it to her entire family. Her grandfather, one of the greatest of the Ñoldor jewel-smiths, murdered by Sauron; her father, a skilled warrior in the allied army of men and elves, died in the War of the Last Alliance; her mother, drowning in grief herself, left for the Undying Lands centuries ago. Celebrenon, killed by one of the great Northern fire drakes. Naerien was the last of her bloodline, one that was full of noble figures and heinous actions.

Perhaps she owed it to herself. She had sat numb with grief for sixty years. While six decades wasn't long in the life of an elf, it had felt like an eternity for her. Time had been cruel and had slowed, or at least that was how it had felt. So just maybe her head could break the surface of sorrow, if not for her brother or for her ancestors, then for herself.

Naerien moved to the chest, taking the small silver key from the drawer in her desk and unlocking it. She took a deep breath of apprehension, then lifted the lid up. Before her, inside the trunk, lay three beautiful swords. One, crafted by her father, who had died with it in his hands. The second was her brother's, which had withstood dragon fire and served Alassaran well on her journey back to Rivendell. The third was her own, crafted by her own hands with the teachings of her grandfather. She lifted her brother's elvish blade out of the box and unsheathed it. It gleamed in the dying light of the day and was just as sharp as the day it was forged.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she stood, leaving the sheath in the chest. She lifted the blade up in front of her, the way her father had taught her, then spun it around. Years of practice were not in vain, she was proud to discover, because she found every moment she had spent with her father and brother, training with a blade, was coming back to her. Her movements, though at first sloppy, became fluid, and her blade flew through the air in a silver blur.

She was not aware of this, but hours later Elrond had seen her practicing on the training ground, and hope swelled within his chest. Hope for the release of Alassaran and the death of her captor, Naerien.

✧

The day passed and the moon made his journey across the sky. Before long, the sun had taken her place in the heavens once again and was readying herself to descend. Naerien had spent the entire previous day practicing with the sword, and after every moment that passed more and more came back to her. She had thought that she had lost all knowledge of wielding a blade, but it returned steadily. Four-thousand years of making and wielding swords did not simply vanish in a few decades. Naerien felt more awake and alive than she had in a long time, but whenever she found herself smiling, her joy would evaporate like morning dew. Guilt chained her down and she held fear that she would never be free of it.

She spent the present day, the day Thorin Oakenshield was expected to arrive with Mithrandir, recovering her manners and polite formality. She was slightly ashamed to say that she rarely spoke to anyone in those days. She had, in recent years, befriended Estel, and he was her most frequent companion. But talking to children was much different then talking to her peers. Aside from Estel, Naerien occasionally spoke with Lord Elrond and his right hand, Lindir (who was a kind friend and a skilled minstrel). Less often, she spent time with Glorfindel, who had been close with her father. Most of the time, however, she spent her time by herself and her tools, creating things of silver and white gems to pass the time.

But now, as the sun cast her golden gaze down upon Rivendell, announcing her descent from the sky, a song came on the warm breeze. Many of the younger elves who spent their days writing and singing songs had started a new, merry tune that Naerien hadn't heard before. Her interest was piqued as she listened to the joyous nonsense that was the ditty of young elves, and as soon as the words hit her ears, she knew that the son of Thrain had arrived.

"O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your ponies need shoeing!
The river is flowing!
O! Tra-la-la-lally
here down in the valley!"

Naerien had dressed formally before leaving, making sure she appeared presentable and placing a white-gem-encrusted circlet upon her head. She had not worn jewelry in such a long time the when she caught her appearance in her bedroom mirror, she was shocked to find herself looking so regal. Briefly, she was transported back to her younger days, before Sauron had laid waste to the city of Ost-in-Edhil and the Ñoldor elves lived in prosperity and in many number. In those days she stood with her chin held high and her prominent golden hair rolling down her back.

But she shook herself from the memory abruptly and quickly left her small home. She navigated the courtyard of the House of Elrond and met Lindir towards the entrance.

The other elf studied her face for a moment and then smiled faintly. "Thiol vae," he complemented her appearance truthfully, his smile growing when she returned it.

"Le vilui," she thanked him in a murmur. Before they could engage in conversation, however, they spotted a large group of people crossing the bridge into the gates of Rivendell.

She was surprised to find that, when she and Lindir went down the steps to greet them, there were thirteen dwarves in all, and they were accompanied by a half-ling. Twenty-six distrustful eyes glared at Lindir and Naerien as they approached, but Mithrandir was much relieved to see the pair of elves.

"Mithrandir," Lindir greeted warmly, and Mithrandir responded in kind.

"Ah, Lindir," he replied, a smile forming from underneath his long grey beard. It appeared that he had yet to notice the other elf beside Lindir. That, or perhaps Lindir had a much-needed answer to an urgent question.

"Lastannem i athrannedh i Vruinen (we heard that you had crossed into the Valley)," Lindir told the Grey Pilgrim Rivendell had head of his crossing into the Hidden Valley.

"I must speak with Lord Elrond," Mithrandir informed him.

"Our Lord Elrond is otherwise occupied at the moment," Naerien told him, stepping forward slightly, as to be noticed by the wizard.

Mithrandir looked rather surprised at the sight of Naerien before him. He had visited Imladris many times, and their paths had crossed quite a few times before. He knew her past, of her tragedy, and to see her standing tall with color in her face and her hands clasped gently in front of her came as a slight shock.

"Lady Naerien," he greeted, recovering his wits and bowing slightly. "Forgive me, I did not expect to see you here."

"Nor did I," she confessed with a rueful smile, slightly uncomfortable with the title he had given her.

"You said that Elrond was not here," the wizard continued and she and Lindir nodded.

"He is dealing with a slight," Lindir paused and a faint smile of amusement found its way onto Naerien's face, "issue. Nothing of grave importance, just..." the elf seemed unable to find the proper words to explain that Elrond's ward had gotten into trouble, so Naerien spoke for him.

"There was a small problem with one of the younger among us," she informed Mithrandir. "He should not be occupied long."

The wizard gave a knowing look, as if he was aware of exactly what she was talking about. "I see," he replied, a twinkle in his eyes. He then turned to the side and a rather tall dwarf stepped forward. He had a deep blue cloak with a silver tassel and possessed the bearing of royalty. Naerien recognized him immediately.

"Thorin, son of Thrain," she greeted politely, and the dwarf looked her up and down with suspicion. "Welcome."

"I do not believe we have met," Thorin replied, both his tone of voice and posture guarded.

"No, but perhaps you know of my brother," she told him, hiding the pain in her voice as she spoke his name, "Celebrenon. He was an emissary of Rivendell while your grandfather Thror was king under the Mountain."

A look of vague recognition crossed the dwarf's face, much to the satisfaction of Naerien (and Lindir). It seemed as though Elrond's plan to bring up his emissary was indeed a good one.

"I do," he told her after a hesitant pause, "though not well."

"Well, that is good enough for me," she stated, but brought her attention away from the dwarf at the sound of another voice from behind them.

"Ah, I see our guests have arrived," Lord Elrond observed as he appeared at the top of the white stairs.

"Mellonnen!" Mithrandir greeted his friend warmly upon seeing his old friend, then questioned him about his absence. "Mo evínedh?"

"I trust Lindir and Naerien have informed you that I was preoccupied," Lord Elrond stated, after he and the wizard shared a brief embrace.

"Yes," the wizard replied as the elf looked over the dwarves.

"Welcome," he greeted, "I am Elrond, Lord of Rivendell." He then turned to Lindir and Naerien. "Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i annam vann a nethail vin." He told them to light the fires in the dining hall and to prepare a feast to welcome their visitor. However, the dwarves didn't know that.

"What is he saying?" Demanded one of the dwarves, an angry-looking fellow who was red in the face as well as the beard. He held his axe aloft. "Does he offer us insult?"

"No, Master Gloin," Mithrandir corrected, looking exasperated, "he's offering you food."

At the mention of food, Gloin, the dwarf, relaxed (looking rather sheepish, too). "Well, in that case, lead on."

As they lead the wizard, the thirteen dwarves, and the half-ling into Rivendell, Naerien had no idea that she was already fated to be wound into the story of Thorin and Company and that the half-ling, who's name she soon learned was Bilbo Baggins, would have a more important role to play in her own fate than any would have guessed.