Finrod:
        What do I do? I can't fix this.

    [he is on the edge of tears and shouting]

        The more I try, the worse I break it--

Beren: [gripping his arm]
        All right. All right. Calm down.

    [he looks at Amarie standing calmly on the hill, feeding rose-leaves to a fawn.]

        Ah, just one question, is that ordinary everyday clothing for Elves here, or
        is that as fancy and all as it looks? I mean, it's plain, but I can't guess
        how long it would take to spin and weave something that looks like it's made
        out of clouds.

Luthien: [rueful aside]
        Partly it depends on whether or not you rest at all.

Beren:
        And the jewelry . . . doesn't look like much, but it looks like it's not
        supposed to look like much, if you understand what I'm saying.

Finrod:
        No. For Vanyar -- that's overdressed, or was when I lived here.
        Festival attire. What--

Beren:
        So she comes to see you dressed like it's a party -- that says she wants
        to impress you -- she cares how you think of her, or else she'd just show
        up anyhow, since she had time to get ready. At least, that's how it would
        be for us. I don't know really -- I don't know so much about Elves.

Finrod: [half smile]
        Beren, when you're alive, are you going to start thinking before you speak,
        or does it not trouble you at all?

Beren:
        What? What did I say--

    [Finrod looks at Luthien, pointedly]

Beren:
        . . .

Luthien: [explanatory, coming to his defense]
        None of us know that much about Aman, except what we've heard from others.

Finrod: [flings up his hands]
        But it doesn't matter if she started out with such intent, now that I've
        wrecked it by my stupidity.

Luthien: [patiently]
        You haven't wrecked it. This is nothing. Wait until you've said that someone
        might as well never have woken up if all he's going to do is sit there like
        a stump and not talk and not do anything and not even try to get better, it
        doesn't seem to have made any difference--

    [she smiles apologetically at Beren]

Beren:
        And then go away and agonize over every possible way she could've meant
        that and how much so.

    [takes her hand and squeezes it with an equally rueful smile]

Finrod: [faintly]
        I'm out of my depth.

Ambassador:
        Sire, you kept peace between six clans of the Eldar, three of mortal Men,
        and both Great Houses of the Dwarves, for how many years? Would you claim
        that excuse to my lord your uncle?

    [Finrod, looking cornered, turns to Beren]

Finrod:
        Beor. Help.

Beren:
        Look, I would say -- be weak. Only not.

Finrod:
        Oh, now you're being cryptic!

Beren:
        No, no, it makes sense. You're hurt, you're afraid, you're scared you'll
        wreck it, you're scared she really hates you after all, and you're confused.
        So don't pretend you're not.

    [Luthien nods earnestly]

        Oh -- ask your da, too.

    [the ex-King turns and looks at the living King of the Noldor, who has been looking
    on with the silence of one not simply older but wiser now as well]

Finrod:
        Father, how -- how did you convince Mother to take you back into her good
        graces, after -- you returned?

Finarfin: [raising an eyebrow]
        Thou dost entreat my aiding, my son?

    [his eldest simply nods; he smiles ruefully]

        I did recollect me of our first meetings, as that I did learn withal her
        native tongue, that I might comprehend her as she mine own thought, and thus
        in all our privy dealings, I did bespeak her ever yet i'the Teleri, that she
        might recall perchance that earliest brightening of our love, nor yet doubt
        that I but minded me ever of the same. Yet--

    [warningly]

        --be thou nay overcertain, for what hath prevailed in one heart shall not
        sway another, as 'twere no variance twixt Elf and Elf. Nor thou and I, nor
        she and she, be in all wise the same. Assuredly I'd have thee succeed, for
        this hath been most great discomfort in our House, that thy lady, that hath
        this long time past oft dwelt with us that her family no more reproach her
        for her faithkeeping unto thee, now cometh no more, for this dissension.

    [silence]

Finrod:
        This just keeps getting worse. Amarie was staying with you to avoid being
        hassled for my sake, and now -- what has Mother been saying to her? About us?

Finarfin: [wry grimace]
        Nay, ask thou not -- nor thou nor I would to hear it, trust thou my word.

Angrod: [sympathetic]
        And you're caught in the middle again, aren't you?

Aegnor: [elbowing Finrod]
        Sounds like someone else has succeeded in causing chaos without even trying,
        eh, brother?

    [the late King sighs, nodding gloomily]

Finrod:
        But returning to my difficulty -- she did forgive you, you said, when you
        spoke to her in Teler?

Finarfin:
        Aye, in time.

Angrod:
        How much time?

Finarfin: [shrugs]
        Some half-dozen of these new Years, less one, ere Earwen did turn to me
        in aught that was not of our duties regnant, when that we were not in view
        and service of Tirion's populace.

Aegnor: [aghast]
        Mother wouldn't speak to you for five years?! Grinding Ice!

Finrod:
        I can't wait that long. --I'll go stark mad.

Second Guard: [consolingly]
        It's better than a yen, Sire.

    [this doesn't help]

Finarfin: [reassuring]
        Tempers, as coals, do cool with passing time; but howsoe'er thou dost,
        thou must bespeak her.

    [his eldest nods, looking daunted, and half-turns to go -- then checks,
    frowning uncertainly]

Finrod:
        I had not ever thought to conduct my wooing before a multitude.

    [unfortunately nobody shows any signs of disappearing]

Beren:
        But that's good, too -- it means you're making up for publicly humiliating
        her before. Not trying to hide it from anybody.

Finrod:
        And if she spurns me?

    [his foremost counsellor looks up from the music lesson, which seems mostly
    to be an excuse to sit very close with his arm around a certain person]

Steward:
        That is the risk, yes. Are you so proud, my lord, that you will lose all
        rather than risk losing face -- or, if I might put it in other words: are
        you more arrogant even than I?

    [silence]

Finrod:
        Luthien.

    [his expression is very strained as he turns to her]

        What do you see in me?

    [she looks at him solemnly -- he flinches a little under her scrutiny, but
    does not resist]

Luthien: [sad smile]
        You don't need me to tell you that truth. At first I thought it was all
        weighted one way, but watching you two, together -- she can't forgive you,
        because you don't think you deserve to be pardoned -- only not the way it's
        usually. If you really thought so, you wouldn't apologize with an excuse
        every time, but you really don't think you did anything that needs to be
        forgiven, and everything about you says so.

Finrod: [obstinate]
        But I was right.

Luthien:
        But you did wrong.

    [he doesn't say anything]

        --Do you think it was good to hurt her so, little cousin? Duty notwith-
        standing, was that right?

    [Finrod bows his head, wincing]

        Unless you can say it without justifying yourself again, there's no point
        in saying you're sorry another time. "I'm sorry you felt offended and
        misunderstood me" isn't the same thing at all.

    [tenderly]

        I know you don't like to think of yourself being as proud as the rest of
        your family, but it is a -- a nobler sort of arrogance, to care about not
        having done badly, rather than looking bad.

Finrod: [roughly]
        But they're partly the same thing.

    [she nods. Heartfelt:]

        Damn.

    [he closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath, and then straightens]

        Time for me to break my spear, kneel, and sue for peace. I don't want to.

    [he pulls himself together and lifts his head, grim-jawed as if going into combat]

Luthien: [looking at Amarie]
        --Oh, and she's frightened.

Finrod:
        Why would she be afraid of me?

Beren:
        Maybe 'cause you're a ghost?

Finrod: [patient]
        Beren, I'm sure no rational adult in Aman is troubled by such Old World beliefs.

    [missing the Looks shared by his living elders, and the Ten]

        Things are different back home than they are back--

    [checks, realizing, is verbally stuck for an instant.]

        --Things are different in Middle-earth.

Youngest Ranger: [emphatic and slightly indignant, to the world at large]
        See? It's not just me. Every single one of us does it.

    [as attention shifts to him for the moment he keeps ranting at the rest of the Ten]

        You've all called Beleriand home as many times as here, and you don't even
        hear yourselves doing it! Even the King! I wish I had made a bet on it,
        because I'd've cleaned every one of you out! It isn't me.

    [realizing he's been nearly shouting, very embarrassed]

        Erm . . . Sorry. --That was out of line, Sire.

Finrod: [a little stunned]
        No, that's -- quite all right, Lieutenant. At some point -- we might wish
        to consider why we -- avoid noticing that lapse, but -- that can be deferred.
        --Where was I?

Teler Maid:
        Nigh to be interrupted, by me. To say that you are so changed from what you
        were, a king and a warrior and a terrible sorcerer, that you are a stranger
        to her, and needs must show her that this also is one whom she might care for.

    [after a moment Finrod sighs heavily, nods, and turns towards his consort -- then
    looks over his shoulder at his friends]

Finrod:
        You're all quite, quite in error, concerning who is afraid and who isn't, here.

    [he climbs up the little slope and stands next to her, bracing himself, but before
    he can manage to speak Amarie opens conversation:]

Amarie: [casually, running her hands over a spray of branches]
        I did hear the Lady of the Gracious Tilth declare on a day, how that such
        blooms i'the lands our elders forsook do grow sharp, set with many close-
        pointed needles that do fence each stem most roundly, that th'intemperate
        beasts of hoof and wing and paw, that do strive beyond moderation in the
        Shadowed Lands, might not despoil all, that some shall yet endure for growing.

    [gazing at him]

        --Hast beheld such, in thy travel?

Finrod:
        Aye, 'tis thus -- yet no less fair be they, for all their weaponing, nay
        more -- some do aver that such small risk of danger as is hid, doth add
        thereto the choiceness of the rose its buds, that art both fair and strong,
        arrayed so bravely as they be.

    [she raises an eyebrow, giving him a sidelong Look]

Amarie:
        So. --Hath the rose of far Beleriand so sweet a fragrance, or more or less,
        than of this our sheltered realm?

    [pause]

Finrod:
        I cannot say. For me . . . these hold none, saving that remembrance supplies --
        supplieth, and that, perchance, beguileth me. For spirit alone might not taste,
        as flesh alone shall not perceive the tasting, lacking spirit, and so there's
        but imagining, and fancy betimes dimmeth, betimes maketh brighter, as reflection.
        Or, belike, 'tis consequent upon upon the bodily lack no less, so that naught
        of form shall impress upon the shifting thought, to hold memory upon the ground
        of earth. --Even as my words, that do flit far past the purpose of my will.

    [this gets a smile, if a melancholy one]

Amarie: [sighing]
        Let not thou temper thy speech unto mine own -- for hast truly spoken:
        Time hath changéd all, nor might be undone.

    [aside]

        --Yet that thou shouldst strive thereto, doth touch my heart most profound.
        --What wouldst declare, my lord?

Finrod:
        Amarie -- I don't know what to say. I keep making things worse, every time.
        I'm not sure what else to do, except to ask you to trust me, that I wish you
        well, and that I had not said many of the things I did say to you -- but that
        others are true, only your anger to me makes them appear the worst, and I
        cannot make you think me true.

    [he holds out his hand helplessly]

        What's burnt cannot be mended. I know that. But --

    [looking at her steadily, blinking back tears]

        --if the blaze was not beyond all natural power, then the land does grow
        anew, forest and field, when the rains return.

    [she raises an eyebrow, not giving anything away]

Amarie: [lightly]
        Thou'd have me cast aside my . . . bloody sword of hate, mine icy shield,
        then, and let thee free -- to trample my heart, an thou wish it, else
        otherwise?

    [he winces, but nods; she makes a throwing-away gesture with her empty hands]

        So. 'Tis done. The Pass standeth guardless, the Gates unbarred -- what
        wouldst thou of me?

Finrod:
        Pardon. And welcome. And leave to be at your side without reproach -- past
        reproach, at least, obviously if I do anything offensive hereafer I'd expect
        you to tell me about it, and I'm talking too much again--

    [he stops abruptly and kneels down on the grass at her feet]

        Whatever you will to give me, my lady, I will take. --Gladly.

    [pause]

Amarie:
        My pardon, thou hast.

Finrod: [rising to his feet]
        I'm afraid I cannot offer you much else besides apology: I'm no longer
        a king, and everything I had, is lost to me. Whatever shall be mine,
        in days to come, will be another's gift -- even the heart I offer you,
        and the roof, though royal, only by my father's kindness.

Amarie: [quiet intensity]
        It was not a King I did love, nor yet a King his son.

    [the Teler Maid looks very smug at this]

Finrod: [hesitant]
        Whom did you love, then?

    [she looks away, sighing]

Amarie: [nostalgic]
        One who came riding upon the hills in the Hours of Gold, who sang aye more
        sweetly than e'er did bird or water, whose mirth was sweeter yet, whose joy
        gave me greater joy -- aye, I'll proclaim it so! -- than e'en the Lady Tree,
        the Tree of Gold, her light upon the blowing earth: one that was wise, nor
        of lore and cunning only, but in heart's truth and love no less. --But he's
        dead, in a far country.

    [she picks one of the roses, looking at it consideringly]

Finrod:
        Could you love him again, if he returned?

Amarie: [still distant]
        Belike -- but then, he's dead and rotten now, and cold his bones lie yonder.

Finrod:
        But not forever.

Amarie: [turning to face him, very serious]
        Yet still, Doom hath touched thee, and how shall I look upon thee, living,
        and think not of't? Shall not death be ever yet about thee?

Finrod: [rubbing his chin, thoughtfully]
        I suppose it's only natural you'd have some such feelings, not having
        encountered the thing itself, but really--

    [she raises an eyebrow at him combatively]

Amarie: [cutting him off]
        Wherefore presumest so?

    [pause]

Finrod: [sinking realization]
        You -- were also at Alqualonde with our mother and Turgon's. --Helping.

Amarie:
        --To bury the dead, aye, as to find, and part dead from quick. 'Tis so.

Finrod: [very quiet]
        I'm sorry.

    [growing comprehension]

        --That's why you're not merely objecting to the home defense forces, but
        banging on the doors of Taniquetil and shouting at people.

Amarie: [offended]
        What, didst hold me too dainty-fine for such rough work, or but that mine
        ill-considered singleness of thought did send me unwitting counter to the
        multitude?

Finrod:
        I'm afraid so. I have a hard time thinking of you and the ugliness of violence
        together.

Amarie: [brooding]
        'Tis not such doth chill my blood.

Finrod: [still more realization dawning]
        You could have set me down far more harshly, many times in the past hour,
        when we spoke of war, or Swanhaven, or -- you could have mocked me with your
        knowledge of death, and silenced me. But you didn't.

Amarie: [rueful smile]
        I do not wish thee ill -- only for to beat thee about the head, betimes.

Finrod:
        Thank you for that mercy.

Amarie:
        Make me no thanks that hath not heard the rest.

    [she holds up the flower in her palm: in this environment it is already
    disintegrating, the petals wilted and falling from the center now that it
    has been cut off from its source]

        Thou wert devoured, as time devoureth this poor rose, as a caughten fish,
        as plank in blaze: how, then, shalt that passing dissolution be not as much
        of thee, as all else that resideth in thy mind's recalling, when thou art
        flesh again? Nor how might one, beholding thee, not hold the same -- 'tis
        not he, himself, for he is gone, and this but counterfeit of him?

Finrod: [anxious reassurance]
        I was not, in point of fact, eaten -- only mauled, if that helps at all.

    [Amarie doesn't say anything, at all; his acquaintances cringe, with headshakes
    and groans, too late and unnoticed]

Beren: [wincing]
        Ye gods, man!

Angrod: [fatalistic]
        He should have appointed a viceroy.

Steward:
        That has its limits: in the end one must speak alone.

    [sharing a Look with the Teler Maid]

Amarie: [grimly]
        Thou hath missed the mark of't -- thou art unhoused, howso 'twas, thy flesh
        in ruins, nor mought a second raiment change that ever.

    [Nerdanel closes her eyes, and some of their hearers also begin to realize the
    nature of the real problem here]

Finrod:
        But you must have encountered some people at least who have been rehoused,
        if you've been living at my parents' home these years.

Amarie:
        Aye, yet . . .

    [she pauses, biting her lip, but still meets his gaze despite discomfiture]

        I never thought to lie with any of such others.

    [pause]

Finrod:
        Ah.

    [he stands perfectly still, expressionless]

Amarie: [pleading]
        I had thought -- to grow accustomed to such notion, with passing of years--

Finrod: [preemptory]
        That won't change anything. It will still be as true then as it will tomorrow.

Amarie:
        --But let me make effort of't--

Finrod: [fierce, humorless grin]
        Do you want to make me as mad as they proclaim me in Tirion? How do you think
        it would be, for me, not knowing if your smiles and caresses were the truth,
        or but illusions, hiding your horror at my undeath, as if I were some monster
        of our Enemy's making, more vile than his phantom lures -- that every time
        I touched you, 'twas but a corpse's cold embrace in your thought?

    [his voice is shaking]

        That's worse than your wrath, worse than very death, for there's nothing
        I can do to change it, no more than did deserve it.

    [he turns away, his face a mask of anguish, mastering tears with great effort]

        We are Cursed, and all who meet us, cursed with us--

    [her own expression filled with longing and misery, Amarie reaches out her hand
    towards him, as if to stroke his hair, but draws back in the instant of doing so
    -- but not quick enough: he spins around, putting his own hand up to ear and cheek]

Finrod:
        Was that you?

Amarie: [shocked]
        Howso . . . ?

    [her right hand is clenched at her breast, defensively]

Finrod:
        You did. --You touched me.

Amarie: [disbelieving]
        How moughten feel, where's naught of flesh to sense--?

Finrod: [shaking his head]
        How might I not? For is it not our souls that intertwine, clad in these
        earthly garments, as arm presses arm through the barrier of a sleeve, not
        the tunic of itself embracing? Or indeed, rather which infuse, as light
        within a stone, filling all facets of its solid shape? And how might not
        my soul sense yours, that is my life, that is the unbroken mirror in whose
        bright surface I am but reflection, having no being of mine own apart from
        you, a ghost in spite of flesh all those Exiled years, severed from your
        self? If these dwellings are but image of our inward being, as the template
        on which our new bodies shall be reformed, then the margins of your spirit
        which impinged on mine, in the same space and instant as your flesh, did
        so perceive mine, being so attuned itself, and that direct impress was
    what we each did startle at.

    [shrugs]

        There's a theory, if you will. And here's another -- that where one touch
        was felt, in truth, another also shall be perceived no less.

    [his tone is unconcerned, but wistful under the brittle lightness]

        If it does not trouble you to touch me, thus, lacking any flesh at all,
        perhaps then, might it not as well follow, that some hereafter might not
        be entirely disagreeable? I think it might be possible, at least, to make
        a trial effort.

    [wry]

        Of course, I could be wrong, in which case we'll look a proper pair of
        fools. But I'm not afraid of that, if you aren't.

Amarie:
        Nay, of folly's seeming ne'er shall be.

    [he moves towards her, lifting his hand as if to brush her cheek -- and she
    retreats a step. He freezes]

Finrod:
        It's true then -- you are afraid of me.

    [silence]

Amarie: [breathless]
        Aye.

    [her face is pale, eyes wide]

Teler Maid: [troubled]
        I am glad now that I did die, if that I had not, should have made me so
        towards ye--

    [she looks from her true-love to his comrades and back]

        At least, if I had power to choose, that I might not have been unhoused,
        but for that would think you dreadful and turn from you as the unquiet
        dead -- I would not change what's past.

    [they are equally disturbed by this turn, though the Captain's grim humour
    is reflexive]

Captain:
        Well, the unquiet part's true--

Amarie: [earnest]
        'Tis not that I would turn from thee--

Finrod: [ruthless]
        Perhaps you hold I have changed in the lands beyond, grown harsh in their
        harshness, forgotten all gentility? Perhaps indeed, you recall old fearful
        tales, half disbelieved, but half-remembered, from the dangerous days in
        the distant East, and the wild roadless journey of the March? I assure you,
        they are quite true. There are those of our kind who when slain, for madness,
        or dread, or angry vengeance unfulfilled, do indeed seek to take what is not
        theirs by right, and dispossess the unwary and the weaker -- the substance
        of those stories, of changeling children, old friends, lovers grown strange
        and unfamiliar, though all their features be the same.

Finarfin: [shocked]
        Thou hast seen!?

    [Finrod gives him a nod, but doesn't turn from Amarie]

Finrod:
        Seen, though thankfully seldom -- seen, and sent them hence -- or rather,
        hither . . . even when the kin of those whose house was stolen still
        pleaded otherwise, preferring the illusion of a loved one's life to the
        cold truth.

Nerdanel:
        Wherefore . . . ? If they would not have vengeance . . . why not let them live?

Finrod:
        And what of justice?

    [pause]

        And what of mercy, for those who'll come after? For who has stolen a life
        once, and found it pleasant, if not the doing then the reward, shall surely
        rob again. I banished one who had taken six lives to guard its own -- for
        the Houseless no longer remembered whether he, or she, was born male or
        female -- five dwellings, and the sixth murdered and made seemingly an
        accident, when the older sister knew her little brother did not return
        from play, though none else suspected. Six! By one spirit, and with each
        the deed grew easier -- and the taken lives less valued, and heedless risk
        embraced for pleasure -- until all the village knew, and feared to speak,
        fearing to be the next.

Finarfin: [aside]
        And yet there are many that have slain more, that live still, for all
        thy justice.

Finrod: [sharply]
        I have slain none of our own people -- Firstborn or Secondborn or
        Fosterling -- with my own hand. --Nor is dispossessing one of the
        Undead killing, though the body perishes after. But I have sent to
        death in battle many, and not merely by error -- and I have dealt
        harsh justice of banishment in the Marred Lands to living and houseless
        alike. Make no mistake of me.

    [pause; to Amarie]

        --So, then, is that what you fear? That I might lure you to destruction
        with a kiss, stealing you from yourself in ravening hunger for warmth
        and color and taste and substance, and the morning sunrise over the ocean
        that I have never seen, and the stones of Tirion that I have never forgotten,
        and birdsong and bellsong that are not mere memories -- and every bodily
        thing that is bereft me by my choosing -- and take your flesh and fling
        you hence naked into the cold and the dark even as the ghosts I have
        driven forth?

    [his father flinches, but does not look at him with any less affection;
    Amarie stares at him with huge eyes]

Amarie: [softly]
        I deny it not: there is some such about it.

Finrod: [same iron tone]
        Then let us end these games at once, and call it quits, my lady. For if
        you truly believe that I should ever do such a thing to any soul -- then
        never, never should you wed me.

    [her lips quiver, but she does not look away from his gaze]

Finarfin: [anguished]
        Son--

    [but Finrod does not pay attention to him]

Finrod: [gently, to Amarie alone]
        Do you not know that you might brush me aside like the mist of a morning,
        and disperse me with a careless wave of your hand? --Or else hold me fast,
        that I should stand for all time, until you might release me from your
        clasp -- for you are real, and whole, and I have no presence, set against
        thee, unless you most graciously do allow.

    [intense]

        I know that I have hurt, and would never to do so again -- but know, too,
        that I shall, being who I am, and sorrow for it ere it's done. And yet
        such faults I'll seek to mend, knowing I shall fail ever, but for your
        sake. I have no power to touch you, save you do grant it -- I cannot hold
        you back from leaving me, if you go from here, but must wait until such
        hour as you return, who are mine own Arien, that I must love despite
        disdain and mine own follies, like the random Moon -- and give me life
        once more.

Amarie: [fighting tears]
        Thou art weaving a spell to steal my heart again.

    [he shakes his head]

Finrod:
        Of truth only.

Amarie: [whispering]
        And what is stronger than truth?

    [she reaches out, her hand shaking, and presses her palm against his cheek.
    They both start and recoil in an instant, staring at each other:]

Finrod: [hoarse]
        Fire--

Amarie: [dismayed]
        --And thou, ice--

Finrod:
        --and music as of trumpets--

Amarie:
        --Aye--

    [she is crying now]

        --Did I hurt thee?

    [he shakes his head again]

        I have, I ken it well. --When I sent thee into darkness alone and withouten
        mercy for mine anger -- and again, when I sent thee word forbidding thee
        my light, knowing thou wouldst obey, and guessing well thou'd stay in shadow
        all the whiles. I have used thee cruelly.

    [before he can deny it]

        --I meant to make thee suffer so long as I have waited--

Finrod: [shaking his head]
        --And yet you laid but a tithe of that on me in charge. Say not that Amarie
        is cruel -- or say that I am so as well.

    [he reaches out to her shoulder, and she shudders, and he flinches back, looking
    away. She catches his hand, however, before he can pull completely back, and draws
    him towards her.]

Amarie: [pleading]
        Thy touch is cold, and flesh cannot help but shiver, when the wind bloweth
    northerly.

    [she holds out her other hand, open, and after a moment he gives her his,
    expressionless]

Amarie:
        And art thou truly held?

Finrod:
        Aye -- for otherwise I must deem myself shadow, and how can I, when you
        hold me fast? No more might I refuse to believe you real--

Amarie:
        Then let's put thy theorem to the test--

    [she leans forward and kisses him: he remains statue-still meanwhile]

Amarie: [sounding a little disappointed]
        Have they changed such custom in the Old World as well?

Finrod:
        I feared to give offense.

Amarie:
        Offense? -- else affright?

Finrod:
        That as well.

Amarie:
        Callst thou me coward, then? Come, try my courage, my lord--

    [she kisses him again, Finrod meeting her halfway (at least) this time -- she
    is flushed when they break off at last.]

Amarie:
        Strange, that so cold a touch should such a blaze ignite--!

    [she gives him a shrewd look]

        Thou art affrighted.

    [he does not deny it]

        Where's that old vaunting confidence of thine?

Finrod: [low voice, looking directly at her]
        Across the Sea, upon an island in a river there, under earth and stone.

Amarie: [not flinching or looking away]
        And will it return, when thy bones be wrought anew?

Finrod:
        I fear it may.

Amarie:
        Good -- timorousness becometh thee ill. But I'll reef thee hard, an thou
        makest overmuch to windward, for now hast my heart for cargo, and I'll not
        let thee break it again, that twice hast stolen it away.

Finrod:
        Say not "thief," for it was hard-won.

Amarie:
        And what wilt thou do with it, now thou hast won? Keep it coffered safe
        in treasury?

Finrod:
        Nay -- I'll make a setting, and bear it about with me that all may marvel
        at it, and I'll cry, "Behold! Amarie does love me!" and seeing the light
        of your heart shining over Aman's verdure, they'll deem the Sun has risen
        out of her hours for the bright generosity of your soul.

Amarie: [shaking her head]
        --Oh wretch, to make me laugh at such a time! --And what wilt thou give me
        in return for it?

Finrod:
        Nothing . . . for it is yours already. Did you not mark it when I returned
        your ring?

    [she slowly takes out a thin gold band from inside her sash and looks at it]

Amarie:
        Now I mark it -- 'twas most cunningly done.

Finrod:
        I see you've kept it well these years.

Amarie:
        And shall keep it still -- but this ring I'll give thee again, when thou
        hast flesh to wear it, and to fashion thyself another to give to me.

Finrod:
        Nay, no other -- it shall be the same, it wants but that which I also lack--

    [holds out the semblance of a shining circlet]

        They could not take the memory of my love from me.

    [making as if to put it on her finger]

Amarie: [raising her hand to stop him]
        Is't not illusory?

Finrod:
        Is the tengwa an illusion, or but that which stands as placeholder for
        the thing itself?

    [he opens his fingers -- the ring vanishes, and he traces a symbol in the air,
    which glows as if made of white-hot metal]

        Is not "ore" as real, or illusory, as the meaning we give it? Whether it be
        sign of seeing, or of voice, that stands for heart's dearer heart--

    [he scoops up the light and closes his hand around it, then upturns it to reveal
    the ring again]

Amarie: [hoarse]
        --And canst thou give me that slight trinket, here?

Finrod:
        Believe you, then, that it is real?

    [long, long stare between them -- they both know what exactly he's asking]

Amarie:
        Aye.

    [she lets him slip it on her finger, and turns her hand to look at the band of light]

Amarie:
        I cannot tell, if 'tis meant to be of silver or of gold.

Finrod:
        When we change it, 'twill be gold.

Amarie:
        Thou'lt return with us? --When this set is played through?

Finrod:
        When my work is done here, I'll home with ye.

Amarie:
        Which home?

Finrod:
        Whichever you best please. To my parents' hall in Tirion, or thine in
        Valmar -- if you think they'll not beat me from the door like a prowling thief.

    [pause]

Amarie:
        Nay, they'll scarce mark thee to reproach thee, in their haste to hurl
        recriminations 'gainst mine own self.

Finrod: [incredulous but troubled]
        Your parents are still angry with you?

Amarie: [resigned]
        Not yet, -- aye but yet e'en so, for 'tis ever and again renewed, and in
        deed hath builded high upon that first foundation of their discontent.

Finrod:
        Because of your protest activities?

    [she makes a dismissive gesture, and sits down abruptly on the grass, folding
    her arms forlornly around her knees; he sinks down cautiously next to her,
    waiting for her answer.]

Amarie: [glum]
        That's but the last, and aye the least.

Finrod: [warily]
        What -- else -- have you been doing, while we've been abroad?

    [she sighs, as the rest of their friends and family gather around on the floor
    and hillside to hear her]

Amarie: [matter-of-fact]
        I did go unto the venture of Alqualonde, there to give succour and such
        labour as might haply be required.

Finrod:
        Surely they weren't upset with you for that?

Amarie:
        Most assuredly not so, 'twas held no less of esteem than for all others
        that did likewise help to make complete the City of its needs; yet, I
        trust thou kennest well, such work it never shall be done.

    [Finrod gives a rueful smile]

        And therein lieth the gall.

Finrod:
        I'm sorry, I'm probably being really obtuse, but I don't understand.

Finarfin: [half-smile]
        Thy lady would convey that since that work hath yet not ended, nor hath
        she gone forth from there, or from our halls in Tirion, to high Valmar's
        streets save upon the visit, and 'tis even for that changéd state that
        her kin are much disappoint -- though for the moster part I think have
        given off their 'plaint.

Amarie: [ironic]
        Thou wert not at table, I fear, at yon latest sojourn in their halls.

    [to Luthien]

        Now dost comprehend in full the poison sweetness of thy words' bitter jest?
        Mine elders be less wroth than aggrieved, and all my kin -- yet that is
        little less gloomsome than the other.

Finrod: [completely confused]
        You never went home? Why?

    [before she can answer]

        You're not one for building, or masonry, or carpentry, or -- what help
        could you be, once the injured were cared for and the rough work of
        clearing out debris was finished--?

    [closing his eyes]

        Someone hit me for that abysmal display of Noldor arrogance and
        wrong-headedness.

Amarie: [playful]
        And thou willt, my lord--

    [she lays her palm across his cheek, not in a slap but a soft caress,
    and he starts convulsively but does not pull away, keeping his eyes
    closed as he leans against her hand]

Finrod:
        --Most glorious and fiery-souled--!

Amarie: [wistful]
        I think thy spirit hath less of the grave-cold on't, in truth--

Finrod: [drunkenly]
        One finger's tip would summon me if I were less sensible and colder than
        these stones -- for it is not the house that gives warmth, but the flame
        within it, though without walls to hold and guard it, that heat is swiftly
        stolen by the night. I am those coals, that you have breathed upon, to
        burn anew -- I am the darkened land, but sleeping, waiting for Anar's
        rising that now wakes lilies with her touch -- I am--

Amarie: [quelling]
        --a mad Elf, forsooth, that shall ne'er hear the answer to his questioning,
        dost thou not cease from lauds but a moment.

    [reluctantly he pulls away from her touch, smiling at them both]

Finrod:
        Indeed, I would like to hear it -- if you will of your mercy consider the
        question as it were asked in a manner less ill-mannered, as it should have
        been.

Amarie: [shaking her head, amused]
        'Tis only thus: I found many things there that I had not dreamt of, beside
        grim death and broken flesh and bitterest hurtings of the heart, that wound
        themselves against my heart, as the wayward sea-ferns do twine upon the
        pier, and did hold me fast there. I saw houses, as ne'er had seen before,
        and roofs, and the rounding curvet of the wavelet's foam, and ships--

Finrod:
        But you've seen boats before--

    [pause]

        I am really going to have to work hard at not talking over people, aren't
        I. --I don't suppose I can convince you to hit me again, to aid remembering?

Amarie: [shaking her head]
        Thou ranting fond fool -- I had not cared so for such things, beyond merest
        usefulness, that they be serviceable as fair, but of all the deeper matters
        of craft and comprehending, little care had I -- so much thou kennst well,
        my lord, for surely thou hast not forgot how thou wert disappoint, that I
        but gave thee tolerance when thou wouldst speak of thine inventions, though--

    [she smiles sadly over at the Steward]

        --such uninterest made me not a whit less jealous, that thou shouldst seek
        other companioning, that shared thy desires for worldly wisdom. Yet in
        Alqualonde I learned me of such loves -- for 'tis strange, but in mending
        of things wrecked, I found me curious of the manner of their making, that
        had not drawn me when they were whole as wrought.

    [sighs again]

        So, now, indeed they do say that I am turned Noldor, in Valmar, eke that
        I do forget mine own self, aye, that I am dimmed, and do forget the purer
        Musics, for being all consuméd up in stuff and trifles.

Finrod:
        Oh.

    [pause. Somewhat worried:]

        What are you making?

    [aside]

        It can't be weapons, too--?!

Amarie: [deprecating shrug]
        Ships, and sails, and sundry necessaries that do befit them.

    [the Teler Maid stares at her in amazement]

Finrod: [politely]
        Oh. That's nice.

    [aside]

        But I don't really see why it's such a matter of noteworthiness -- though
        I suppose it's different if one's born Vanyar.

Finarfin: [meaningful]
        Tell him, daughter, of the vessels aeronautical.

    [Amarie looks away, embarrassed, waving her hand]

Finrod:
        Aeronautical? --You mean -- flying?

Amarie: [deprecating, a little exasperated]
        They do not fly, good my lords.

Finarfin:
        Then my eyes do fail me, I fear -- for I did behold daylight under's keel,
        I did vouchsafe.

Amarie:
        Not far, at the least. Nor much of height.

Finrod:
        This is a joke, right?

    [he looks at them]

        You're making flying ships?

    [Amarie looks diffident; his father nods, with a slight smile]

        --How?

Amarie:
        Thy grandsire did give to me a wharf, set aside for mine own especial work,
        when that I did finish mine apprenticing, that I might carry out my designs
        and put them to hard test, with those my company of friends that are most
        glad unto the striving.

    [sad, but calm]

        No longer are there made any such vessels of greatness nor so fair as were
        in the first days, for their makers were slain, and must relearn their skill
        from such as once were student of their mastery, and joy is less, to set such
        heart's grace into the working, for ever's thought that it be ruined after,
        that once was ta'en. --Yet we do make anew.

Nerdanel: [approving]
        Aye, and things most fairly strange, that never did ride wind nor wave
        in bygone Day.

Finrod: [slowly]
        You're telling me that while I was gone, my true-love became a shipwright
        and inventor of things barely dreamt of? Like -- ships that fly.

Amarie: [shrugs]
        'Twas no great invention, after I did see Isil ascend upon the Night. 'Twas
        but that I did dream me of other vessels lofting, and how bird's wings be
        like to sails, so that it seemed me how a ship might rise from off the surface
        of the Sea.

Finrod:
        You're a genius.

Amarie: [shaking her head]
        'Tis yet but a dream, aye, belike shalt e'er be nay but so -- Sealark XII
        hath made but a furlong and a little more, nor shall she, until that I do
        find some means to fashion sails of greater lightness that shall not tear.

Finrod:
        You're a genius.

    [his expression is bemused and a bit forlorn]

Angrod: [curious]
        Are you jealous? --Ingold?

Finrod:
        N-- Yes. --What happened to the first eleven?

Amarie: [dismissive]
        Sundry fates.

Finrod:
        Fates -- that doesn't sound promising.

Amarie:
        The last as latest but for one, I did unmake for to remake,
        metamorphosizing each into the latter.

    [her tone is too innocent]

Finrod:
        What about the other ones? --What about the sundry?

Finarfin: [dryly]
        Aye.

Amarie:
        They -- flew not.

Nerdanel:
        And perished, and did sink. Or so did I hear tell.

    [overlapping]
Finrod:
        But not with you?
Aegnor:
        You weren't on them, surely?

Amarie:
        Nay.

    [reluctant admission]

        --Not as they slipped beneath.

Angrod:
        But you were when they . . . fell out of the sky?

Finarfin:
        Thy grandsire, lads, did recount me how his heart did fail him, when the
        sixth did turn as upon a wheel, and thy lady must dive will-she, nill-she,
        to the waves' welcome, and must eke perforce swim far from out beneath,
        where the web and wrack did lie outspread upon the waters like fair
        Uinen's tresses.

Amarie: [defensive]
        Then I had not countered the sails' weight for their greater increase with
        sufficiency of keel. It hath not befallen since.

    [silence]

Aegnor:
        Brother, I take back every last word I've ever said, about you being the
        craziest soul in Valinor.

Finrod: [blankly]
        I withdraw any word I might have uttered concerning or implying any lack
        of courage, boldness or temerity. --Amarie, are you quite mad? Why do you
        persist in it? Why don't you stop if they keep hurtling into the sea?

Amarie: [starry-eyed]
        For the glory of't, that might ride upon the vaunting winds as wild horses
        tamed to mine own thought, for there's naught like to it in all Aman--

    [ruefully realistic]

        --until the silks doth rip and spill me on the green like to careless rider,
        and all to be fished out that might, and hie us home to the yards once more.

Angrod:
        Couldn't you just ask the gods to fix it so that they would stay up, instead?
        --Like Isil?

Amarie: [offended]
        Nay, where's the Art in that? Belike, but I had liefer learn of myself, else
        fail, of mine own skill, than be granted such as favour, like toy unto child
        that hath not skill of knife nor needle--!

    [sighing, as the Noldor nod in understanding]

        Yet I do come to fear that none might comprehend full well the winds' riding
        save that hath done so, a-wing.

    [to Luthien, forlornly]

        I envy thee thy time misspent in vampire form, beyond all power to tell't.

    [to Finrod, earnest]

        Fear not for me, I am most particular of care in all mine endeavor. They be
        light, and little as kites, nor do I bring them nigh the rocks, but only to
        the calmest deeps. 'Tis only the winds have been unseasonably changeful of
        late, these past years twain, that hath cost us much of spar as line, nor
        only for my little gossamer-seeds, but so to our greater vessels, so that
        mine own great ship wherefrom I loose the lesser, and many more besides,
        have been compelled to rest in harbour, and repair.

Beren: [awkwardly]
        Er . . . that's my fault.

    [stares from all of them]

        No, really -- it was.

Finrod: [enormous sigh]
        Beren--

Beren:
        Yavanna said so.

    [silence]

        Well, okay, I -- well -- not like I did it -- I didn't mean to get killed
        or be the target of the world's largest manhunt and I didn't know she'd be
        upset about it or that the heavy storms and the early winter the year before
        were anything but luck.

    [silence]

        I mean, it felt like an extremely mixed blessing at the time -- yeah, the
        torrential downpours sure cut down on the forest fires, but I still couldn't
        get much sleep with all the flash floods and the hurricane winds . . .

    [he trails off, flustered]

Finrod:
        I think I can safely speak for us all when I say that we would be very
        much obliged if you didn't occasion any more such weather patterns in the
        immediate or rather more distant future.

        [they look at each other for a long, meaningful moment]

Beren: [wry]
        Okay.

Finrod:
        --Flying ships.

    [he sighs; Amarie looks at him in concern]

Amarie:
        Thou art envious.

    [he shakes his head, gazing at her with rueful amusement]

Finrod:
        My love has made a flying ship -- a little baby flying ship, but a flying
        ship nonetheless--! And there are things in the world that I never dreamed
        of, and shall be, and so much that I have yet to learn! And I am not sure
        where to begin, and I feel rather as though I have been tricked.

    [laughing at himself]

        I thought I came home to a place drear and narrow, where I should have no
        place save some small pittance made for me in pity, and it galled my spirit
        -- and now I find that it is changed, in ways both terrible and splendid,
        and I do not know what my place shall be in it, -- save that it shall be
        among those I love.

    [he lets himself fall backwards onto the grass, stretching out his arms with
    an exuberant grin]

Finarfin:
        Aye, that is truth!

Finrod: [folding his arms behind his head, smiling at Amarie]
        And you will helm your caravel, and I'll sit upon your deck and play for
        you and sing, and there'll be naught but music about us, of wind and wave
        and the birds' cries, and we'll have perfect peace and laziness the whole
        day long and the starry night--

Captain: [aside]
        Until they sail around a headland and he shouts, "Oh, what a perfect
        place for a castle! Let's stop and put one there! --And there!"

Finrod: [snorting]
        It didn't happen like that.

Angrod: [looking at the vaulting]
        Near enough.

Luthien:
        Your sister said it did.

Ambassador:
        Aye, and Lord Cirdan, too.

Finrod: [ignoring them]
        And you'll teach me how to steer your wingéd ships, and perhaps we'll
        find some way to sing a stronger fabric for their sails--

Amarie: [warningly]
        Belike thou'lt find it most troublous, nor care for such unquiet voyaging,
        nor uncertain speed, for even do they not lift above, my larks do dart most
        swiftly o'er the foam, and many of my folk like it but little.

Finrod:
        I suppose I might, at that.

Amarie: [mournful]
        But most like thou'lt take to it like a bird to the wind and better me,
        I fear.

Finrod:
        Probably. --Will you forgive me for it?

Amarie: [sidelong Look]
        Aye, and in advance of thine offense, if thou'lt but pay me forfeit of it--

Finrod:
        Of what matter shall this forfeit be?

Amarie:
        Of no matter at all -- but of thy fancy . . . and remembrance . . . and desire.

    [he starts to sit up]

        Hold: be thou still, and yield me my due--

    [she kneels and leans over him, trapping him between her arms, and bends
    to kiss him, not perfunctorily. Their companions are amused as much as
    pleased by their reconciled state; but a look of dawning uncertainty
    begins to creep over the face of Nienna's Apprentice.]

Amarie: [sitting back]
        Dost doubt me now?

Finrod:
        Never. --Shall I not further pay, against such offense as I shall
        surely make?

Amarie: [a bit unsteadily]
        Nay, I've had my forfeit, I'll not rob thee--

Finrod:
        Plunder me, love, and I'll hold myself rich to be so dearly robbed--!

    [she does not wait for further encouraging]

Apprentice: [dismayed aside]
        Can they do that?

    [his teacher appears behind him (or was she there all along?) stepping forward
    through the darkness like a fine curtain]

Nienna:
        Please don't try to be cryptic, you haven't the knack for it yet.

    [as he recovers from his start]

        Obviously they can, so I assume that isn't what you're asking.

Apprentice:
        But how can they do that?

Nienna: [shrugging]
        I've really no idea. You could ask them.

Apprentice:
        But he's discorporate! And she isn't!

Nienna:
        I do think they're quite aware of those respective facts, don't you?

Apprentice: [grimacing]
        But he's dead! It's just . . .

    [he trails off, his teacher just looks at him]

Nienna:
        Was not this harmony in accord with our aims?

Apprentice:
        Well, yes, but -- in here? It -- it seems so disrespectful!

Nienna:
        Of whom, exactly?

    [pause]

        I'll tell you what -- why don't you go and explain it to my brother
        and see what he says. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed at being interrupted
        in the middle of of his spook-hunt and delighted to have one more
        complaint to handle.

Apprentice:
        Er . . .

Nienna:
        Or you could find Vaire and see if she rates public displays of affection
        between incarnates and discorporates on the same level as unauthorized
        structural renovations and what she wants to say about it.

Apprentice:
        . . .

Nienna: [growing enthusiasm]
        I think that's an excellent idea, actually. Why don't you go and ask them both?

Apprentice:
        Please, m'lady, no -- I'd rather do the thing with the candles again.

Nienna:
        But it wouldn't mean anything to you this time. This would be a new challenge.

Apprentice:
        But I already know that you're trying to make me realize that some situations
        really aren't worth getting upset over and that one should meddle carefully
        or not at all and that the consequences of trying to fix something may be
        worse than the original mess and so I wouldn't actually be learning anything.

Nienna: [mild]
        Hm. You're being far too clever for me.

Apprentice: [crestfallen]
        Master, I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to sound arrogant and snide, I just couldn't help it.

Nienna:
        You're getting bored, I can tell. Why don't you go and find some other trouble to solve, then?

Apprentice:
        Really?

Nienna: [shrugs]
        If you're up to the challenge.

Apprentice:
        But of course!

    [he leaves, gleeful, and she sighs and shakes her head, hiding a smile, before
    turning to approach the solitary Maia sitting resentfully on the dais. Amarie
    straightens, putting a hand up to her hair, which is all disordered and falling
    down on one side.]

Amarie:
        Where's yon comb? Whence this undoing?

    [frowns at her husband, who sits up and rests his chin on his hand, smiling at
    her innocently]

        Thou.

Finrod:
        I'm only a shade. How could I take out your hair-clip, particularly without
        your noticing it?

Amarie: [snorting]
        Didst but now pledge to shift a thousand-weight else more of stone, then
        assuredly might lift but a pin. As for marking it or no--

    [she tries unsuccessfully to scowl at him]

        --dost not ken?

    [running her hand lightly through his hair -- he shivers, closing his eyes.
    Adamant]

        My comb, my lord.

    [sighing, Finrod points to a nearby tuft of grass; she siezes it and begins
    pinning back the loose side -- but when her head is turned away, he reaches up
    and brushes the other comb, which falls out. Luthien starts giggling helplessly,
    as Amarie turns and glares at her ghostly consort, who only smiles as she gives
    up the attempt in disgust.]

Angrod: [mock seriousness]
        Amarie, are you sure about this? He's twenty times worse now that he's got
        no life-and-death responsibilities.

Beren:
        Yeah, but not crazier than me.

Amarie: [wisely]
        Ah well, then well-matched shall be we twain.

Finrod: [shaking his forefinger in emphasis]
        Note, note, note ye well -- I did not say she was crazy, I've never said that--

Nerdanel: [sighing, smiling]
        Hath a one broached some casque of wine etherial, that ye all are come jauncing
        as foals of a mid-Summer?

Nessa: [appearing on the hillside above them]
        No, but it sounds like an excellent idea.

    [she and the Wrestler are dry, but somehow indefineably more disheveled than before]

        --Where's Measse, love?

Tulkas: [shrugs]
        I dunno -- she was wild for some hunt your brother was organzing, and I wasn't
        paying attention when they said what they were going after.

Nessa:
        We'll just have to fend for ourselves, then--

    [a wide calyx-like cup appears in her open hand, just as a tremendous blaze as of
    lightning rips through the Hall -- three tall, shining, warlike figures appear in
    its glare (Note: their armour and weapons can be utterly fantastic, in fact, the
    more elaborate and unrealistic the better). One of them is female, all of them
    rather terrifying.
    (Classic adventure stars John Justin, June Duprez (The Thief of Baghdad, 1940)
    and Anthony Bushell (The Scarlet Pimpernel, 1934, Dark Journey, 1937) could play
    these Maiar.)]

        Oh, there you are, how convenient--

    [interrupting, oblivious, all talking at once in commanding tones]

Alatar:
        Why isn't anyone answering?

Measse:
        We've been calling and calling for Ages--

Pallando: [disgusted]
        Not Ages, don't exaggerate--

Alatar: [looking around]
        Where's Lord Namo and Himself?

Pallando: [indignant]
        Are you having a party while there's a rogue elemental on the loose?!?

Measse: [even more indignant]
        --Without us!?!

    [silence]

Tulkas:
        --Don't know -- Really? -- Ring of Doom -- Yes -- Want to join us? -- Got
        any more questions? I'll answer 'em.

Nessa: [admiring]
        You're good.

Beren: [to the Nargothronders, deadpan]
        More friends of yours? 'Cause otherwise I think we're in trouble.

Tulkas: [disdainful]
        Huh. Bunch of lightweights, all gussied up in shells like turtles. Don't
        know nothin' about real fighting.

    [the three Immortal warriors roll their eyes at this familiar strain, and somehow
    seem a little dimmer and diminished after his words]

Nessa: [waving]
        Measse, could you be a dear and run home for us, and fetch--

Measse: [urgent]
        I'm sorry but we've got to go find them and tell them we've finally found him--

    [with another flash they disappear, leaving behind a moment of stunned silence]

Beren:
        Wow.

    [snorts]

        I guess I'm glad they're on our side.

Luthien: [bemused]
        Maybe Mom emigrated looking for peace and quiet, you think?

Ambassador:
        It seems a distinct possibility, strange though it is to say it.

Nessa:
        I'm surprised they didn't just ride in here.

Tulkas:
        Nah, Vaire'd pitch a fit. Hey, who's making bad puns now? "Be a dear and
        run home?" Huh?

Nessa: [exaggerated sigh]
        Love, you don't understand what a pun is, do you?

    [she takes a sip from the wine-cup -- which upon inspection is of the "mastos"
    design, a round vessel similar to a calyx but with no base, which therefore
    cannot be set down, once filled, until emptied -- and passes it to the nearest
    Elf (it does not matter if shade or living.)]

Steward:
        I fear I do not think that any of the Ainur do, my Lady.

Tulkas:
        You're probably right. You keep changing all the rules around, how do you
        expect anyone to understand that language game?

    [helping himself to some of the grapes]

        Like all those letter-whatsits that Feanor made: pretty, but why can't
        people just remember stuff? That'd be easier than remembering other things
        to help you remember stuff, right? --Here, have some mead, we'll just all
        make do 'til my cup-bearer gets back.

    [he too offers his drinking-horn to their "guests" -- but is intercepted by a
    naughty Huan lunging between to sample the contents]

        Hey!

    [the focus shifts to to the shadowy corner of the dais where Nienna is listening
    to Aule's aide with a very concerned expression as the other Ainu goes on and on
    (and on) about the unfairness of his life:]

Assistant: [injured dignity]
        I tried -- no one can say I didn't, or that I could have tried any harder--

Nienna:
        But what were you trying to do, exactly?

Assistant: [not listening to her question]
        I don't expect to be given preferential treatment, but I do expect fairness.
        And it is not fair by any standard or definition, that that clown who's been
        assigned to you for correction, milady, should be able to bumble his way along,
        making no efforts whatsoever to bring about order or discipline but rather
        the reverse and not even be reprimanded for negligence, while I, for trying
        to do what is right and nothing else, am reproached for following directions!
        --It isn't just.

        [segue from Nienna listening patiently to his indignant soliloquy to focus
        on the Steward, listening attentively but not happily as his true-love tries
        to convince him of something, their hands laced on the upper frame of the
        harp they hold between them]

Teler Maid: [earnest Look]
        But it might well be that they have changed no less than you, and will
        welcome you now that you are come back in pardon and honour.

Steward: [grimly]
        I had rather live in a driftwood hut on some salt-marsh, and you had rather
        I live in a hut on some such strand, than dwell again in the halls of my
        family, whether they pardon me or not. For there is nothing I have done that
        has answered any of their expectations, nor will they understand, no matter
        how much you nor I nor any seek to explain to them, what it is that my life's
        Work has been.

    [looks away]

        You do not wish to see me in such perpetual ill-temper, trust me. Visit them,
        yes. My father will feed you and my mother adorn you with delight, and they
        will seek to paint your image in those fine gifts and gowns, and praise your
        piping and reproach me that I never brought you to visit them, instead of the
        contemptuous scions of House Feanor, and I shall be able to endure it a season,
        perhaps, but how long you will be able to stand seeing me set down, and compelled
        as child and guest and failure not to answer, I dare not guess. I must live
        elsewhere -- anywhere else.

Teler Maid:
        But what will you do, when we are Outside?

Steward: [tautly]
        Not live at my parents' homes.

    [pause]

        I do not know. But my place is not in Enedir's workshop.

Teler Maid: [forlorn]
        Are we quarreling already?

    [pause]

Steward:
        No. Only disagreeing. Friends do that, upon occasion.

Teler Maid:
        --Friends.

    [her smile returns]

Captain:
        You know what I think we should do.

Steward: [blandly]
        Oh yes. I know.

Teler Maid:
        What is it?

Captain:
        We find us some horses and convince them to come along, and we start
        travelling, not just in the parts where everyone lives, and -- we see
        what there is to see.

Teler Maid:
        And where do we sleep?

Captain:
        Wherever we stop.

Teler Maid:
        What if it rains?

Captain: [shrugging]
        I suppose we can make tents, though it seems unnecessary baggage to me.

Teler Maid:
        And what do we eat?

Captain:
        Whatever we catch, or find that day. It would always be different. --Doesn't
        that sound like fun?

    [pause]

Teler Maid:
        Not very.

Captain:
        That's what he thinks too, except he always finds that he likes it. It's
        the natural life for Elves, not this foolishness of living in stone boxes.

Teler Maid:
        But I like our cities!

Captain:
        And you'd like camping too, if you'd give it a chance. It's easier than
        living on a boat, that's for certain.

Teler Maid: [doubtful]
        --Sometimes perhaps.

Captain:
        You just wait and see. We'll get Suli' to come too. Who knows, I might
        have nieces or nephews by now, to make it a proper party. It'll be grand.

Steward: [looking at the ceiling]
        That means you'll come home to find all your gear being rummaged through
        by a maniac who happily announces, "We're off to Himring! Why aren't you
        packed?" as if it were a walk to the plaza, not a journey covering three-
        quarters of the subcontinent, and in pouring March rains and wind, to boot.

Captain:
        Oh, come on -- it wasn't like that, and besides if you hadn't been dawdling
        around trying to do everyone else's work for them, I wouldn't have had to
        take care of your luggage for you all the time. I swear you deliberately
        waited to the last minute every time we set out so I'd end up packing for
        you. --At least it wasn't hailing.

Teler Maid: [dryly]
        And you did abide with this for all this Age?

    [the Steward only shrugs]

        --I see now how you did learn patience.

    [the Captain gives her an affronted Look, as Finarfin cannot help chuckling
    at their turnabout, while the divine vintage is circulated ever more freely
    about the gathering. Perhaps a little too freely: Finrod, propped up on one
    elbow to take the wine-cup, suddenly turns to Beren, with an expression of
    barely-suppressed mischief...]

Finrod:
        Think of this, my lord of Beor, to console yourself -- now that we're
        related several times over--

Angrod: [snorting]
        No, you're not -- we sorted this out, remember?

Aegnor:
        --Edrahil did, at least.

Finrod: [earnest]
        No, I thought of another way. --You're going to hate it.

    [to Finarfin and Nerdanel, quickly]

        Father, Aunt 'Danel, just pretend you don't understand our dialect for
        a moment. It's amusing if one's dead.

    [the living Eldar look somewhat disconcerted]

        Amarie, I beg you, don't be angry: we're just laughing in daylight at
        past nightmares again.

    [she touches the back of his hand, giving him a rueful smile, and he continues
    in lecturing mode:]

        You know the Lindar custom of forging a blood-bond between those with no
        kinship ties--

    [his brothers start correcting him (and each other) before he can finish]

Aegnor:
        That's Sindarin originally, I'm fairly certain.

Angrod:
        No, they absorbed that from the Haladin, it wasn't originally a custom of our
        people in Beleriand--

Finrod: [cutting them off with a risky gesture, given the wine-cup in hand]
        As a matter of fact, you're both wrong and both right, because the Secondborn
        learned it from the Singers on the other side of the mountains, and brought
        it with them in their travels from Estolad, whence it was taken up along
        Doriath's marches, but the fraction of Denethor's following who stayed in
        Seven Rivers have also maintained it to some extent, so precedent and
        ownership of the custom are pretty tangled by now. Regardless the point is--

    [looking at Beren quizzically]

        --when we were fighting over you, between teeth and claws and us trampling
        you, enough of my blood must have mingled with yours to bind us three times over.

Beren:
        . . .

Finrod: [to his siblings]
        So you see, Beren's not just related to me as our cousin's spouse, and I don't
        have to count anyone twice, either.

    [dead silence as everyone tries to figure out if they can change the subject yet
    or not or how]

Beren: [with a sidelong glance]
        I don't think it works that way, Sir. Otherwise everyone who died on the same
        battlefield would be related. I think it has to be deliberate, for it to count.

Finrod: [dismissive]
        But if we had thought of it, we would have intended it. So when you're worrying
        about annoying or scandalizing Elu in the future, think of it as rather the
        upholding of a long family tradition, as our blood-brother--

[Luthien and Amarie exchange a wry Look]

Aegnor: [dry]
        As was but lately pointed out to myself, Ingold, none of us have any blood, now,
        so you've got to say former, and I don't think that our uncle will be greatly
        impressed by a retroactive claim.

Finrod:
        But it isn't retroactive, or past-tense. It's the same as any investiture of
        office, like regency or stewardship: it holds even if the physical symbols
        of that office are destroyed or lost.

Aegnor: [taking the wine from his distracted brother and handing it on]
        I'd love to have seen you try that one on Lord Namo.

Finrod: [straightfaced]
        You don't think he would have gone for it? I suppose it's too late, now.

Nerdanel: [shivering]
        All thy jests hold them an edge, like to the wind i'the east else northerly,
        to us that be full-blooded.

Ambassador:
        Alas, not only to the living.

    [he takes a deep draught from the cup as it is passed]

Angrod: [looking disturbed]
        Besides, that would make him not just Luthien's husband but also her cousin,
        and that's not right.

Finrod:
        But a generation removed, like 'Tari and Celeborn, so no problem there.

Captain:
        There's a much more troubling aspect everyone's managing to overlook.

Luthien:
        Dare we ask, milord?

    [Beren shakes his head, but without much expectation of it working]

Captain:
        Well, it seems from what's been said -- granted I wasn't present, at least
        not in any meaningful sense, but still -- it seems to me that the next
        conclusion which would follow would be that of kinship with Werewolves.

    [to Finrod]

        Or hadn't you thought of that yet, Sire?

    [the Lord Warden cringes where he is sitting a little apart from the Ten, and
    not alone, either. Amarie sighs deeply, while her true-love ducks his head
    down with an embarrassed grin as the conversation careens on out of control:]

Soldier: [reasonable]
        But then again, he was one for all practical purposes, as her Highness
        recounted.

Fourth Guard:
        Yes, Beren -- why didn't you mention that you were being Draugluin when
        you infiltrated Angband?

Beren:
        Uh . . .

Warrior:
        Did you think we'd be revolted and dismayed?

Beren:
        Um . . .

Ranger:
        Well, he was right -- we were.

Youngest Ranger: [definite tone]
        No, we were not.

    [his subordinate stares at him disbelievingly]

Ranger:
        You honestly weren't revulsed by the idea of him shapeshifting into the
        Wolf that ate you?

    [the Warden of Aglon flinches again, and seems torn between covering his ears
    and listening in morbid obsession]

Youngest Ranger: [stiffly]
        I don't think mine was Draugluin.

Ranger:
        You didn't look and you're avoiding the question.

Youngest Ranger: [defensive]
        I -- didn't think about it like that until you said it that way. --I was
        thinking about it from Beren's point of view.

First Guard:
        So you are revolted, admit it.

Youngest Ranger: [urgent]
        But it doesn't diminish him in my regard, at all.

Ranger:
        Of course not. I didn't say we loved him less for it, only that his keeping
        quiet about it was utterly understandable.

Fourth Guard:
        Right -- think of all the funny looks we've gotten for explaining about King
        Felagund's ruse. This is infinitely more disgusting than braiding orc-hair
        into one's own.

    [catches himself just as the Youngest Ranger cuffs him, with an exasperated
    glance towards Luthien]

        Er . . . Ah.

    [mortified]

        I didn't mean to imply that you were disgusting, Lady Luthien.

Teler Maid: [nonchalant]
        But why not? For so she did say no less.

    [her cheerful innocence is just a little too perfect]

        Nor might you say that 'tis repugnant for Lord Beren to be clad in werebeast's
        fell, yet not herself's own self.

    [her unfortunate former coworker hides his head in his arms, while Luthien tries
    to stop laughing and can't, as even Aegnor smiles a little at the general silliness.
    The Captain reaches across and tugs on one of the Sea-elf's braids, straightening
    before she can turn to see who it was -- but she isn't fooled, and makes a face
    at him]

Beren: [feeling the left side of his face and ear]
        We might not have any blood, but that doesn't seem to help any -- I can remember
        blushing just fine anyway.

Tulkas: [leaning over and nudging him]
        Want that drink, eh?

Beren:
        Yeah, I -- think I'll take you up on that offer now.

    [the Wrestler passes him the mead-horn, considerately keeping his hand on the
    vessel's tail to support it while he takes a draught. Judiciously pausing while
    the patron of friendship waits anxiously for his verdict:]

        Not bad, but -- is it real?

    [Tulkas guffaws loudly, slapping him on the back -- at his laughter his Lady's
    deer startle again and go bounding off into the further reaches of the Halls,
    both of them this time]

Tulkas:
        "Is it real?" --That's a good one--

Beren: [quietly]
        Ow.

Nessa: [shoving her husband's arm]
        I'm not going after them again, you go since you set them off.

Tulkas: [easily]
        They'll come back.

Nessa: [insistent]
        They'll get lost. And worried. Go find them, please.

Tulkas: [snaps his fingers]
        Huan, go round 'em up and chase 'em back here, okay?

    [without needing further encouragement the Hound sprints off into the dim
    corridor once more]

Luthien:
        I don't think Vaire's going to appreciate that very much.

Finrod:
        I know she won't. She thinks we traumatize people too much with our
        rowdiness, and we've never held phantom hunts. Huan baying down the
        halls thrice in one day is going to get complaints, I'm sure.

Nessa:
        That's all right, a little excitement's good for the soul, I always say.

    [batting her eyelashes at Tulkas]

        Not just the soul, either.

Fourth Guard: [wickedly passing the role to another]
        Uh-oh, Beren's getting embarrassed again.

Nessa:
        Really?

    [leans over to look at the mortal shade]

        Oh, how cute!

Beren: [glaring at his friend]
        I will get you for that. --I think maybe I should explain how this
        ritual of dunking your kinfolk really works, with a demonstration?

Fourth Guard:
        Well, you could try.

Beren:
        Nuh-uh, not just try.

Fourth Guard: [snorts]
        Only if I let you, Beor.

Beren:
        That's what you think. See, you're gonna be thinking I'm crippled and
        not take me seriously, plus you can't help being careful because you
        don't want to hurt me, and I'd take advantage of that and trip you before
        you had a fair chance. I don't fight fair, even for fun, I just win.

    [leaning back comfortably on the grass, raising his eyebrows with a smug grin]

        --That's why I had the biggest price on my head of anyone here, present
        company included. --Want to go a round? Betcha I can throw you two falls
        out of three.

    [the Youngest Ranger's friend who died at Serech looks at him in surprise]

Stranger: [awed]
        You really are crazy, my lord.

Beren: [frowns, thinking about it]
        Nah, just a bit tipsy, right now.

Fourth Guard:
        I think you're bluffing. Only way you could do it is if you pushed me
        when I wasn't looking, the way Maiwe likes doing.

Beren:
        Okay, I'm game. Let's see who's the better wrestler.

    [reaches out his hand]

        Help me up?

    [in automatic chivalry the royal Guard starts to offer his hand in turn --
    then checks, catching the glint in the other warrior's eyes]

Fourth Guard: [indignant]
        Beren! I'm not that naive.

Beren: [wicked grin]
        Almost got you, didn't I?

    [one of the Guards addresses his colleague from where he is loun