Chapter Text
“Mine? I asked for this to happen? To end up here?”
Gandalf gave one long nod whilst both he and Elrond pretended not to hear how her shrill her voice became. Almost squawking like a ruffled goose, despite or perhaps because of how similar this conversation was beginning to sound like her discussion with Elrond mere weeks ago.
“It may seem implausible, yet this is the truth we face. You were granted this chance to arrive here and now, a leap through time and space none before you can claim; even among the Valar – who are bound in physicality to the world, for all their power. I cannot fathom how the conversation occurred, whether it was in a waking dream or by messenger, or why this was granted to you and not another. I cannot say why, only that you could not have been brought here without being accepting of the journey and aware of its consequences.”
“Minastauriel.” Elrond drew her attention in an instant. “I asked you once what you would do if you were the Princess Tindómiel and had the power of Foresight you have shown to possess. Bearing your words that day in mind, is this not now the final piece of the puzzle?”
As she listened to Elrond’s words, the large arched windows behind him framed the blossoming bushes outside, flooding the room with soft natural light, casting gentle shadows on the various pieces of intricate wall art that decorated the morning room. The pleasant ambiance contrasted sharply with the weight of their conversation.
Mindful that Gandalf may or may not have been aware of such conversation, she answered as fully as she could despite the growing pit in her stomach. “If I was Tindómiel, I would be heartbroken and bitter that I could not save Númenor from its downfall, centuries later as it would be and confined by the lifespan of mortals as I am. But then, if you are suggesting I begged Eru for a miracle to transverse time, why am I here and not in Númenor approaching its fall? They... oh.”
Realisation dawned on her. “Númenor was doomed. Even if I had been sent there... I could not have saved it. Whether it be because no one would believe me, or because Sauron would catch me. If I truly was granted this travel, then I am in the here and now because I foresaw this was when I could make a difference, or the most difference. Perhaps I could have gone to Númenor, but I foresaw ultimately my hopes fail…”
A kind hand, untouched by millennia, offered her comfort. “When Erestor asked you about your gifts, you didn’t hesitate - you wanted to help others. Eru saw fit to move you here and now, because you somehow convinced Him that here is where you could make the most difference.”
Elrond’s voice accompanied by the slight squeeze he gave her hand drew her to meet his gaze again instead of where she had ended up staring blankly at the tea set. “And my language loss? Where does that fit in?”
“It could still be either – in exchange for travel or as a cost of extensively fighting off your visions. Perhaps when you foresaw the fall of Númenor, if you did indeed foresee it as we think, you fought against Seeing such desolate visons? I do not favour the idea your language skills were taken as payment, in light of this. After all, did not travelling here cost you everything - your birth right, your family; things impossible to replace.” Gandalf leant back in his chair as he continued to muse, hand on his bearded chin. Minastauriel concentrated carefully on understanding the slow cadence of his words, still needing to ask Elrond for the meaning of a word here and there. Gandalf took no offence to needing to pause every so often and continued once clarity had been reached.
“I would say language was not part of price for your journey; as you came to Imladris both still possessing some language and also have had no issues learning Sindarin at breakneck speed. No, I rather think it is more likely your eyesight degraded due to your powers of Foresight. The more you fought your Foresight previously, the more damage it did.”
Gandalf paused for a moment, leaning forward in the day-room chair, eyes a-twinkling and a smile tugging on his face. Minastauriel rather thought he was looking forward to his next words, though they puzzled her in turn. “And there is another point to consider. You remember small amounts of another language. I recall you mentioning a name before, of a hobbit. Mind you repeat the name for me and company?”
“Belladonna Took?”
“Yes – and you believe I know this person?”
Minastauriel blinked. “You don’t know her? That’s not possible – not if Aragorn has been born. You certainly know her, and her son. And Lord Elrond – you’ve met her too.”
“Indeed?”
At the sight of Lord Elrond’s surprise, she couldn’t help but exclaim, in moderately polite tones: “Yes! She stayed here. In Imladris.”
Elrond glanced at Gandalf, who was smiling like a canary-fed cat. When Gandalf did not deign to explain anything, Elrond rolled his eyes in theatrical exasperation at his old friend, and then turned back to Minastauriel.
“It seems our guest is being difficult; who would have foreseen such behaviour? My dear, Minastauriel, could you tell us the meaning of this Hobbit’s name, should you know it.”
“But… you already know the hobbit’s name?”
“Humour me.”
“Well Belladonna is a plant with poisonous berries. It also means beautiful lady. Tûk I am unsure of a meaning for.”
She watched Elrond’s face as a look of realisation washed over him.
“I believe we now have the name of Banqimi Tûk translated into whichever language you once knew. I did indeed know a Banqimi Tûk, who has also visited Imladris in the past. Since her marriage she was known Banqimi Labingi.”
“Banqimi Labingi – this is Westron?”
“Exactly – whilst the term Belladonna is a language yet unknown to us, but one you evidently once knew. Few hobbits ever leave the Shire in these times, but Banqimi was not the only hobbit to ever reach this House. I am interested to find out if there are any other names you know only as a translation… and why you only knew the translation of Banqimi rather than her actual name.” As Gandalf’s question sank in, the table was cleared, bar one plate of remaining pastries, the tea set replaced with goblets of water and a sparkling water pitcher, and there was a repose whilst music played.
After a few songs, the wizard watched in fascination as the woman’s eyes abruptly flashed with light whilst she was looking around the room. When she noticed their curiosity, she only shook her head and offered a wry smile.
“It’s nothing – I have Seen this room before and again just then; some future guests will be confused by the salad starter course and get highly concerned that there might not be any meat served.”
“Though,” she then furrowed her dark brows, “I was also remembering some visions I must have had before coming here – it is strange but I think I heard them in whatever language I once spoke. No – I am sure of it. I have a clear memory of hearing, or I suppose Forehearing you,” the woman met Gandalf’s eyes, “saying ‘Bilbo Baggins’; but I now find out Baggins should be Labingi. It’s curious but might that be normal? That I have Visions in whatever language I am most proficient in? My more recent visions, if they include any speech, have all been in Sindarin for example. Or maybe it was because Shire-style Westron did not exist when I originally had the visions?”
Neither Peredhel nor Istari could offer any clear answer to that particular quandary and shortly Minastauriel gave a huff, before exclaiming, “We’ve come to one explanation only for endless more to form in its place!”
A smile formed slowly on Elrond’s face, but a chuckle broke out quick, as soon as he saw the pout on her face. “Yes, though take heart that now you can truly immerse yourself in the puzzlement you have raised in everyone you have met in the last six weeks.”
Minastauriel tried to shoot arrows with her eyes towards the impish half-elf, but he obstinately kept his eyes on the highly amused wizard, so she settled for biting into another bilberry jam tart with particular relish.
Midmorning was swiftly approaching, and Elrond was aware than Gandalf has prioritised this conversation over his own comfort after travelling. However, he saw the furrow of Minastauriel’s brows and the unhappy turn of her mouth whenever she forgot to maintain a smile.
“Gandalf, can you tell from when she came?” He finally asked, causing the woman to visibly straighten her posture in attention. Indeed – what could Olórin, student of Niënna, glean from her? Less perhaps than if he had been a student to Vairë, but more than most as he was. Hopefully enough to settle his niece before Elrond’s manners demanded he suggest Gandalf take some rest from his journey.
With her permission, Gandalf then placed a wizened hand on her head. He was cautious in his delving but the small shoot of Istari magic did nothing unintended. Finally, he sat back in his chair and looked carefully at the woman who nervously worried her sleeve hems.
A pause, a hush, then he spoke. “I cannot give you an exact number, but certainly, from the briefest hint my Power allows me to see your path, it is easier to say when you have not been. I cannot see any anchor from your presence to this world, bar the one you now bear as you sit before me, for as long as I can look back. Wherever and whenever in Arda you are from, it is far from these lands and, I would say, from long ago, before I began my travels in Middle earth.” He maintained a piercing level of eye contact that Minastauriel felt compelled to return.
“I have walked these lands for two thousand years. I cannot tell you where you are from, but I can say that you and I have not dwelled in the same lands until a few months ago in the early hours of a spring day. I can also say, as we have already discussed, that it was by your choice and Eru’s Will that you came to be here, in the now. As for where you were before; is there an alternative? Do you believe you could be from an island far away enough that no one has ever heard of it, yet close enough to have its inhabitants be educated in Sindarin and, more significantly Quenya, among a vast number of other pieces of knowledge specific to Middle Earth such as major cities and lands?”
How many times had she discussed this, again and again, with the same people, with others – and yet each time it was as unsettling and raw as the first?
“There is one other explanation, but it is imperfect. We have acknowledged that Eru is the only one powerful enough to move you through time. We acknowledge you were not in this Age until recently. There is the option you are instead from the future; potentially far into it. It would explain the similarities and differences in your clothes, your unknown tongue when you first arrived, your knowledge – including that of the Now should books and songs be written of it.”
“That sounds – yes, that could be it!” This was the first time an explanation had sounded true in her heart.
“But...” Gandalf added, a single word a blow though he spoke it gently, “we know the Gifts of Foresight in Edain weaken upon each generation it travels from Elros. No Edain now possesses your level of power, nor did they two thousand years ago. And they will not in even a century, let alone any kind of ‘far future’.”
“Br-brothers, I have three. Younger.” She weakly retorted.
“A question for the history books – perhaps your absence there and then caused confusion later when those books were written; if Elros never publicly explained your disappearance.”
“A question I can partially address.” Elrond spoke, reminding the other two at his table of his presence. He had a twinkle in his eye watching Minastauriel hiccup in surprise. “Please read this – this part here.”
He reverently placed a very old letter in front of her, gesturing the one specific paragraph. Tindómiel, as written by her father in a letter to her uncle, was the eldest of his children. The cornerstone of her argument was gone. But Elrond wasn’t done. Like the kindest shark smelling the blood of a weakened fish, he continued.
“And here.” He pointed at another part on a separate sheet. “The words are a little small for your eyesight, so allow me to sum up the contents of this. Do you recall what you sang yestermorn?”
A numb nod.
“I have never heard it, nor its likeness, nor has anyone in Imladris. And yet, the lyrics were not new to me. They are in a very old memory of mine; of reading this letter. This letter, specifically this paragraph here, where my brother wrote down the lyrics to a song his young daughter had created and sang.”
“Oh.”
“My dear, there’s comes a point where the sheer amount of evidence overcomes how small each piece of evidence is individually. At that point, the pieces come together and form a clear picture. As for a solid example of proof, I hope you can trust these letters written some six millennia ago.”
“Oh.” She repeated, unsure of what expression her face felt stuck on but certain it was not a positive one.
Gandalf gave his final verdict in complete confidence of his conclusion. “I do not generally have the ability to just know whether or not someone is related to another, but in this case, it is undeniable.”
.
.
.
But if that was the case, then why did she still not feel a sense of belonging? Lost in her thoughts, Minastauriel stared down at the wooden tea table and wondered why she still felt like she could lose this new home in an instant?
Gandalf left Minastauriel with Lord Elrond shortly after that, when Elrond insisted his guest rest (and bathe) before they went any further. Gandalf had huffed and puffed in good nature and asked Elrond if he had something to say about his odour. It was all in jest and Gandalf happily left to enjoy comforts ill found in the wilderness of the Lonelands.
As Elrond and Minastauriel appreciated the sound of birdsong and the gentle scent of blossoms greeting them through an open window, the Elf lord looked over at his niece. She noticed him looking over at her and met his gaze in question; and questioned more when he immediately but very politely groaned and massaged the furrow of his brows.
“Lord Elrond?”
“Even now you are not convinced?” It wasn’t an exclamation, but it was very close.
“I, what? I mean... Yes I suppose I was thinking that I would still like to visit the Angle... and a few other places.”
Lord Elrond gave a long sigh, reaching over and squeezing her hand before she even realised that she was worried she had annoyed her gracious host. “Why?”
“I just think I would be... I would feel more confident if we ruled out the other possibilities before, well, before declaring myself a lost time-travelling princess. You’ve sent out letters, but what if I lived alone? You considered I was Dúnedain at first – there is no harm for I to visit the Angle on the chance someone may recognise me. And it is, I mean, it has only been a few months since I came to be here; perhaps no one has realized I'm missing yet,” she desperately argued.
“And the confused manner you were first found wandering the Rhudaur?” countered Lord Elrond.
“My visions are distressing, and very painful when I try to stop them. Perhaps I fought against a vision so much it damaged my sense?”
“You have had several visions since you have dwelt here and yet far from being damaged, your mind soaks up knowledge like parched earth after a long summer and you are in my opinion rather sensible.”
She nodded, granting his point but continued, nonetheless. She had to be sure. She had to.
“My visions now don't harm me - after you bound that which harmed my mind. Perhaps you fixed them, or at least the amount they could hurt me?”
Lord Elrond sighed again, “Why are you so set against this? Did we not just come to an agreement again? Please help me understand. Gandalf said our blood tie is undeniable, and I trust his judgement on this entirely. And beyond that, you know your stay here is not dependent on you being my niece or anyone ‘important’, right?”
“I know, I know – and between the letters you found and Gandalf’s magic, I believe it up to a point but…. but if I accept it and all you give me without argument, without checking every possible explanation before I accept this princess explanation and it is revealed later that I’m nothing but a farmer or a bookkeeper - I’ll be branded a liar and someone who took advantage of your kindness.”
Elrond gave an elvish sigh – that is one that is more wearisome than any Man is old enough to give but done in such a polite manner no-one could ever take offence upon hearing it directed towards their company. The sigh was followed by a gentle hand, that delicately swept a few locks of his niece’s hair back behind her ear before tilting her chin up to the establish eye contact.
“Minastauriel, this is the last homely house, it is my house. I am free to offer dwelling to any I choose. This is not the first nor the last time I have offered my home up as a permanent place of dwelling to someone who has nowhere else to go. I saw you; I examined you, I questioned you. I more than anyone have revealed you - cumulated the evidence and judged accordingly. If – and I believe such is impossible, you are not what I took you to be, I will declare you truthful to yourself, honest and humble.”
His hand fell away to refill both their goblets. As Elrond took a sip, the calming moment let Minastauriel realise how tense she had gotten.
“If I give you the journey to the Angle and have you escorted safely there and back, organise a meeting between you and Arathorn and some Dúnedain elders – will this be the final stone you wish to overturn? Will you be at last at peace with the agreement and conclusion we have repeatedly come to? That’s all I want – for you to know who you are and be at peace with it.”
She thought for a moment of other avenues she could possibly investigate, before finally nodding.
“Then I will accept your hesitance and grant you safe passage when you are ready to go to the Angle and seek that which you want to find. Which reminds me of something: I have already accepted your request to receive a new name. Traditionally a second name is bestowed by the mother upon the Child’s birth; a sort of mother’s intuition upon the first look upon the babe they had long borne within them. Naturally, this is not going to be possible for us for many reasons but if we use the notion of immediate impressions...”
“Please do not call me any combination of wanderer or endless questions.”
Elrond smiled impishly enough that Minastauriel went momentarily cross-eyed from how similar he looked to his sons. “That was not what I was going to suggest, though I regret now not thinking of them myself and mentioning it earlier. Please understand you can only visit the Dúnedain once you are accustomed to riding. There is no road to the Dúnedain main settlement as they are largely nomadic, and it will be a rough journey so you will need practise beforehand. Aragorn is very young, and in general it is considered unwise for strangers or long-distance friends and family to visit when a babe is less than six moons old and are therefore so vulnerable to illness. But there will be sooner chances for you to speak to the Dúnedain here in Imladris, as many frequently stay in my valley at any given time. With the approaching birth of their chieftain’s heir, they were called back, but soon there will be at least twenty rangers roaming our home that may be free to speak to you.”
At Minastauriel’s hopeful look, Elrond gently cautioned. “These will not be elders and will likely not have any answers to the questions you have. But you are welcome to converse with them as you please, if you don’t mind their slightly… gruff manners.” Here, Elrond’s eyes twinkled in humour. “Back to my original point. It can only be beneficial for you to see more of the world, given your memories are so limited. Such experiences and how you interact with the world around you will hopefully help you remember parts of yourself, just as you will have as you grew from childhood to adolescence. I will speak to the rangers after they meet you, and Lord Arathorn after your trip, and hear their impressions of you. Perhaps I will be able to form a name from that. But I beg you, do not build false hope. I have been in contact with them thoroughly. They took my request to seek knowledge of a missing woman seriously and...”
“And as far as we're aware no one is waiting for me in the Angle.” Ministerial finished. She nodded sombrely, and then continued, “I… I already know that wherever I am from; I don’t have any family waiting for me here in Middle Earth. But I have to be sure. A mysterious Princess? A lost, time travelling Princess? I have few memories, but I know that sounds too huge and grand to be possible.”
Elrond smiled slow and soft. “After six and a half thousand years of life, you’ll be surprised at how few things I consider truly impossible.” Then he stood and held out his hand to assist her standing from the table. “Come, let us move into the main house and find something to amuse ourselves with whilst our new guest enjoys a well-received rest. I had something else I wanted to speak to you about. I have heard of your eagerness to try to be helpful around my home, for which I am very grateful, and I understand it may make you feel more at ease and comfortable with your place here if you did have a role to play in my household. Erestor has spoken to me regarding such a role, and I would like to hear your thoughts on it.”
The day continued as many in the hidden valley did – in a calm, pleasant meander that left you both relaxed and accomplished. Elrond had agreed with Erestor that she learn, or relearn, how to run a household, on top of her other lessons. Traditionally, the rule of the house was the wife of the household master. If the wife was absent or ill, or dead, this was then passed to the eldest daughter, or any other available closely related woman. Traditionally.
Erestor was more than capable of carrying out these duties on top of his advisory ones with the absence of both Elrond’s wife and daughter; but the position was available if she desired it once Erestor had taught her the needed skills. Minastauriel had accepted the role as Erestor’s official apprentice (and once trained, his assistant) immediately – she had been intending to ask Gandalf about the possibility of such a thing working with him; but she couldn’t deny a chance to pay Elrond back for all the kindness he had bestowed upon her. Elrond had not pushed her when she expressed the desire that the apprenticeship be aimed to become Erestor’s assistant, rather than take over his job in the running of the house once she had the experience.
Until dinner, her day passed with Minastauriel filled with purpose. Erestor had updated his plan for her education to include her apprenticeship under him more fully and, once he had outlined some of the areas that she would be helping him in, she was even more eager to prove herself with the chance given to her. Whilst she would have tried hard in any area, Erestor had suggested assisting him in the management of the books and schedules:
Imladris was not a kingdom or even a city, but it still had to keep careful records of its imports, exports, and finances, all of which were calculated by hand, and quantities monitored frequently. Similarly, whilst the Main house had only about forty permanent residents, the surrounding valley was home to many elves that spent time between Imladris, the forests of Eriador, and Lindon. Depending on the season, one could find nearly three hundred elves living in small houses or temporary camps around the valley. On top of this, with exception to the present time due to the birth of a new Chieftain heir, there was usually around 40 rangers living in accommodation near or in the Main house at any point during the year.
All were welcome to hunt and forage for food in Elrond’s lands, but his was the Last Homely House. Imladris always made sure to have enough food and supplies for every person as needed, and few did not take up the offer. In turn, many would speak to Erestor or one of his assistants to be assigned a role. Farmers, herdsman, hunters, weavers, fishers and so on. All needed to be heard and then tasks allocated, organised, scheduled, and informed.
Minastauriel would not pretend the job sounded exciting, but it involved skills she had already and could quickly bring up to standard to be imminently helpful. Additionally, it was quickly apparent that whilst she had forgotten written word before coming to the valley, she had retained a thorough skill-base in the use of numbers, even if the symbols themselves had to be retaught. There was not a calculation or mathematical method one would need to run a household that Minastauriel needed to be demonstrated. And she went further.
After weeks of struggling to express herself, she found the beauty in the unchangeable language in numeracy – and she was very, very eager to prove herself. In the hour following Erestor’s request to see what arithmetic she remembered, she was demonstrating a huge capacity for calculations needed to plan buildings, roads, feasts, even entire cities. She knew how to find the area, the volume, the circumference of even highly irregular shapes, including those with curvature (not very useful for her assigned role, but Erestor had let her show off). She could make graphs to extrapolate expected changes, find the rate of change and identify trends (much more helpful). It went on and on, quickly delving into other areas – the expression of some knowledge triggering the recollection of other pieces - leaving both Erestor (and Elrond when he later found out) wondering what in Arda her tutors were thinking. What was the point in knowing so many skills, beyond what you would need for your profession? When questioned in this very line, Minastauriel had been unhelpfully baffled by the idea of not learning knowledge made available to her. Erestor had naturally pressed further, and she had merely remarked that a greater range in skills opened a greater range of professions she could choose from or change to.
The day was spent leaving Minastauriel feeling splendid, her mind stretched and for once she felt like she knew herself.
Over dinner, she showcased her knowledge to Gandalf when the topic arose, and in her need to peer closely to the page, her eyesight recaught interest.
“My dear, whilst I am very keen for you to continue, I will first trouble you to speak a little about your eyesight.”
Pausing where she was holding a wad of parchment over a serving bowl of roast parsnips in order to show Gandalf the top page’s contents, she remarked, “Oh yes – it really is poor. Things get out of focus the further away they are. But what memories I have are crystal clear. Actually, I’ve got some ideas written down about wearable crystals that change how light enters the eye that I think could solve the problem.” She pulled back the thick layers of parchment to flick through to the diagrams of (concave and convex) lenses she had drawn earlier.
Minastauriel had been in her element all day and showed no sign of stopping displaying the entire sum of her knowledge on parchment. Patiently, Gandalf let her finish – being also interested in what her ideas were. Her comments about crystals and light made him think of the Dwarvish tools for checking gem clarity. He let Elrond consider her diagrams and give her the language needed to describe what was happening; the term refraction had unsurprisingly not come up before in her lessons. He listened, equally engaged, as Elrond questioned the possibility of magnifying lenses being made comfortably wearable for general use, and then to a whole discussion on whether glass could be cut in the manner needed for pane-like lenses. Finally, with eyes gleaming, he stopped their plans.
“If your eyesight had no issues before the Rhudaur, and you do not recall when it became impaired, there is a chance it was caused by years of visions themselves or resisting them – I have been told the light your eyes shine becomes piercingly bright when you fight a vision. If the damage was caused by magic, then by magic it may be undone.”
Minastauriel agreed so quickly she hiccupped. Elrond was cautiously hopeful, and all was done before dessert was served. Gandalf placed his fingertips around her eyes, muttered a few incantations under his breath in what Minastauriel suspected was Valarian, and the world came rushing back into near perfect focus.
“Hmm that is as much as I can do. Given time your eyesight may improve further; but for now, I hope you will enjoy being able to see clearly your more immediate surroundings rather than just to the end of your nose.”
At the face of such humility, she laughed – from not being able to see more than a couple of inches ahead without the image being horrendously blurred to now have focused vision for more than five yards in front of her; who would be disappointed? Ducking around a server carrying wine-soaked pears, she joyfully bear-hugged the wizard, leaving elves mortified and Gandalf merrily chuckling at her delight.
And it was a delight that the evening ended so merrily. Minastauriel would not get a chance to speak to Gandalf again for several years, not that she knew it at the time.
The night had long since fallen, and the air was filled with the crackles from her small fire and the smell of night rain. She was sat at her vanity, brushing her hair and otherwise ready for bed; having sent her maids away. She wanted to be alone – “Try looking back” Gandalf had advised her before they parted for the night. It was something she hadn’t tried before. She was too embarrassed to admit to Gandalf that it had been several weeks of living with amnesia and visions before it had occurred to her that she could do such a thing. To look at her past with Sight rather than memory. By that point, she was too fearful of what she would see to look.
It was a good suggestion. Gandalf could read her feelings on her identity as easily as Elrond could. Despite it having been built up for weeks; her having been told again and again who they thought she was... part of her would need to see it before she could accept it.
She had promised Lord Elrond that after visiting the Angle she would make peace with her new identify. Or old identity may have been the correct term. And seeing the Dúnedain, and their likely ignorance of her face, would probably settle the corner of her mind that argued she was more likely Dúnedain than Númenórean. But that was weeks, if not months away depending on how long it took her to learn to ride a horse for that long of a journey, and how the weather held up. So, she relaxed her eye muscles, unfocused her vision and concentrated on what she wanted to See.
And... despite it having been built up for weeks and her having been told again and again who they thought she was, she still felt an awful bolt of shock rip through her as she gazed into the past. The throne room of Tar-Minartaur, over six thousand years ago. Decorated in splendour in reds and golds – but Minastauriel paid no mind to the décor. She gazed at a small girl with brown hair in a loose plait, wearing a red dress. The little girl ran – surprisingly fast given the thick layers of her petticoats - leapt and was lifted into the air by the girl’s father. He was a handsome man the very image of Elrond, if not for the beard and the Mannish nature of his garments and crown. The man whirled around in a circle, drawing his daughter near in his arms. “Tindómiel, Tindómiel – you should be in bed. Why are you still in your day clothes?”
He spoke softly yet she could hear every word crystal clear as she watched him hold his daughter gently in his arms, so that the small girl was sort of sat on his bicep looking down on him, tiny hand holding his collar for balance. “Ada no. No bedtime Ada.”
That was her face, smaller and with a roundness typical of children, but hers unmistakably she now watched pout.
“No bedtime, my little Princess? Why not, are you not tired little star?”
“No! No I’m not tired. I am excited. Too excited for bed.”
As patient with her as his brother would be, Elros tweaked the end of her nose and asked, “Excited for what? Are you doing something exciting tomorrow that I’ve forgotten?”
“No Ada – I’m going to go on an adventure!”
“Before bedtime?” Her father queried, the corners of his mouth tugging up unbidden.
In a tone so petulantly outraged, only a toddler could speak in the manner without seeming ridiculous, Tindómiel shook her head wildly. “No! When I’m big! I’m gonna go on a big, big adventure. “
“Ahhh, and my little star is excited for this?”
The little girl giggled whilst enthusiastically nodding.
A sparkle brightened in the king's eyes. “Hmm, I see, very understandable. Well Ada is getting tired. How about I lay in your bed, and you tell me bedtime stories about your future adventure until I fall asleep?”
“Hmm? Just Ada though? I won't fall asleep.”
Somehow his reply “Of course not my star" did not sound patronising.
Minastauriel watched the pair walk away, watched her younger self held safe in her father's arms. Princess Tindómiel and King Elros Tar-Minartaur. Her skin was crawling.
The vision faded but the sight of her room had not fully returned before she had to fling herself at a nearby clean basin before she threw up her dinner, retching until nothing but bile came up.
In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing her face but the longer she beheld it the more is warped and distorted. A horrendous, deep dark pit opened within her, and she felt tied to her body by only the most fragile of threads. She envisioned herself hanging over a precipice before a freefall upwards off the planet and out of the envelope of Eä, into a vast cold void.
There was rushing in her ears loud enough she could only just hear her own panicked breathing.
Oh.
She was sobbing and didn't fully know why.
There were still no memories of her childhood, she didn't hold a deep yearning for home, but everything now seemed so wrong, now she finally had proof in the form of the visions she had learnt to trust. Seeing that little girl wearing her face, held the arms of a stranger she called Ada… beneath observing the sweet interaction, there had been a deep shuddering sense of horror. And she couldn’t understand why.
She didn't know why she felt so wronged.
Her Sight was never wrong.
Eventually, her physical state became unbearable. She grabbed a dressing gown and took her basin to the guest bathing chamber. There, the woman cleaned the basin thoroughly in the stream, twice with soap and then rinsed it again before filling it with clean water and retuning to her chambers, walking quickly and quietly to avoid having to explain to anyone her red eyes or staggered balance.
Minastauriel dried her eyes, washed her face, drank a glass of water to wet her parched, sob-sore throat and laid her cotton-fuzzed head on her pillow, begging that everything would be better in the morning. She would accept the vision, ignore the emotions it brought up, then quietly agree to any comments made referring to her as Elrond’s niece and focus on getting every and any story she could from Gandalf the wandering wizard. Ideally, she would never have need to look back to her past again.
Early that morning, at the break of dawn, Elrond received word that Gandalf had to leave urgently for problems in Ithilien. The pilgrim was gone by the time the sun peeped over the edge of the valley. Minastauriel woke late, feeling as wretched as a dog, full of cold with a fierce headache and a heart pierced with holes. When she dragged herself out of bed to relieve herself, she caught sight of herself in her vanity mirror.
Why did it feel like her face no longer belonged to her? Weren’t her eyes more blueish, her hair not so dark? Had the tips of her ears always had the tiniest of points? She couldn’t remember what she was supposed to look like.
Stumbling and fumbling, then flopping herself back to bed, Minastauriel then fell back into a restless, fevered sleep. The mirror now facing the wall.
Her dreams were dark and mournful. The ones she could remember she knew were visions. Only once did she try and resist Seeing one.
She spoke only briefly to Rilma and Turiel when they came to wake her, barely remembered what she said at all, before suddenly Lurlosel and Elrond were in her room. She didn’t want to see them; she didn’t want to see anyone. She didn’t want elven magic, or company, or anything – just solitude. She hoped she conveyed that as politely as her fevered mind thought she did. They did as she wished, letting her stew in her room in self-inflicted isolation, only entering to do brief tasks they couldn’t bear her suffer without.
Minastauriel was allowed to muddle through her sorrow in peace, provided with water and food, simple easily digested meals that did not turn her stomach. Her maids would silently enter to remove her chamber pot whilst she hid under the covers and refilled a basin with cold water and left her clean flannels. Lurlosel, every four hours, would return to give her teas and tonics, though Minastauriel did not accept them all. Elrond gave her the space she needed, as much as the sight of her curled up in her bed with a tear-streaked face plagued his heart and bid him comfort his niece.
It was a horrible series of days, but all grief ends. In the days following Gandalf's arrival and swift departure, Minastauriel stayed in bed with her grief and a horrific cold that kept threatening flu, but as quickly and wretchedly as her misery had arrived, it soon passed.
Perhaps it was of the line that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or that suffering builds character – but once her fever broke on the third day, she felt a great calmness come over her. The mirror was turned back around, she fell back into requesting her Elrond’s company for mealtimes and insisted on taking own her plates back to the kitchen. She even called Elrond ‘Uncle’ outright and was rewarded with a joyous smile and a hug from the Peredhel who likely was as touch starved as she was by that point. Whilst she maintained she was not to be called Tindómiel, she was otherwise the very embodiment of someone who had turned a new leaf.
Tindómiel was the Princess of a kingdom lost thousands of years ago. There was no place for her in Middle Earth. She was once Tindómiel, but Minastauriel was here now – she did not need to be anyone else.
Latter April soon brought many showers that had most of the inhabitants of Imladris dashing to and fro to avoid any sudden soakings. Those that could completed their jobs inside as much as possible, others packed away their thicker winter clothes in exchange for their oiled or waxed cloaks and enchanted hoods. Elrond had mused if his niece’s Sight came also as omens.
She had been healthy and buoyant before suddenly falling ill, exactly a day before the weather turned. Lurlosel had been highly concerned when the girl developed a fever but to their surprise Minastauriel had shrugged off all their fears and commented she was often ill as a child, and her nearly yearly fevered colds and flus had never caused her great harm, just temporary suffering. She did accept willow bark extract for her headache, small drops of tea tree oil (an wonderful extract sourced from the lands far to the east beyond even Mordor) on her pillow to open her airways and cold compresses on her forehead to treat the fever, but absolutely refused even the most dilute of poppy seed milk for the pain, or any other treatment in the form of songs. She also refused any company and would hide away under the covers whenever someone needed to enter her room.
24th April
Elrond was not entirely convinced she was telling the complete truth regarding her not being in any danger from the illness, despite her earnest nature, but could hardly dare try and persuade her to have treatment with elvish magic. True to her word however, her illness passed without issue two days before the first cloudless day of April, and it was on that sunny day that Elrond found Erestor at his private desk. Warm breeze filtered in through the open window, playing gently with the delicate parchment found in the opened chest of his brother’s letters. Sunlight shone through an elegant water pitcher, filled with butterfly-pea flower infused tonic, and the crystal goblets placed nearby by, and highlighted a selection of fruits one of the maids had sent up to accompany Erestor’s simple refreshment.
His most chief advisor was pouring over a ream of parchment, making notes on a separate piece of paper as he did so which Elrond could see were questions. A closer look revealed it was not one of his brother’s letters than held Erestor in such focus, but something written much more recently and not in his brother's hand.
“Forgive my interruption; I wanted to check the meal tomorrow had been planned. I know it was on short notice.” Elrond inquired, as he tilted his head to read the parchment as well.
“All is sorted – ‘tis hardly a large ordeal. I could have planned one thrice as big in half the time.” Erestor sniffed, drawing a smile from Elrond, before the scholar noticed his gaze and sighed. Erestor could admit to himself that the evidence of Minastauriel’s true identity was now as solid as iron; Gandalf’s judgement being almost impeachable. Though that didn't mean his doubts and misgivings were unfounded.
“If the lady is from Númenor – and I grant you there are precious few explanations that can stand against the evidence for it,” he glanced at the open chest, “that are not ridiculously outlandish, then we have severely underestimated the cultural and scientific loss of the sinking of Númenor. And how much they advanced in however much or little time that kingdom grew from its dawn until Minastauriel’s disappearance there and reappearance here. We cannot know for certain when your niece disappeared, only that it likely happened within the first fifty years of her recorded birth. It is... impressive if somewhat daunting how much Númenor apparently progressed within those short decades.”
Erestor answered the question posed by Elrond’s quirked brow. “These -” He gestured to the ream in front of him, “- are apparently common knowledge, according to your niece. Granted common knowledge can mean different things for different peoples and classes, but… this is considerable. I asked her to show me mathematics, you recall, but apparently, she still had more to show me. After she was reminded of how to write numbers in Tengwar, without a pause to think she produced formulae, equations, graphs; you could account for a kingdom or plan for the resources needed to build a new town using these. I asked for knowledge of the natural world and even I struggle with some of these concepts. You recall the lenses she suggested for eyesight? She had more ideas to show me. Some of the items she suggests she was taught about…”
He turned the parchment towards Elrond and pointed at specific diagrams as he continued to explain. “A self-moving coil using merely wire and a purified lodestone. Here, an incredibly powerful magnifying lens set up like a nautical spyglass but for seeing minute items. Here are suggestions for alchemical reactions, and medical advice, and on it goes. She intends to build one of these and has requested help to do so as she recalls no skill in metal or glasswork. She wants to prove the existence of a ‘building block’ of life; a basic structure of all living things. She seems to think it will be quite simple.”
“Will it?” Elrond peered closely at his niece’s work, tracing some of the sketches whilst searching his mind for any similarities to what he could remember of early Númenórean culture.
“She thinks a lens or a series of lenses that magnify by a total of two hundred times will be sufficient. I’ve told her she’ll need to speak to blacksmith and a glassmaker once her language skills account for a precise description of what she wants. I cannot comment on wisdom but in terms of sheer quantity of knowledge, in these fields she will be near unmatched, among Elves, Man, or Dwarves.”
“So you would say it is rather redundant to suggest she was being raised to lead at this point; she has the knowledge and skills for any position needed to run a kingdom.”
“It’s not just that though – I would say her father made sure whatever happened, his daughter would be indispensable and totally capable of developing a new settlement using her knowledge and training. Whilst also ensuring her level of knowledge would earn her a high ranking, well-rewarded position. There is a good chance that your brother knew she would end up making this journey, or at least would not stay in Númenor.”
“And so, he prepared her for a worst-case scenario.” Elrond finished Erestor’s musing. A mournful air filled the room as he continued, “how many times in Amon Ereb did we hear a comment of a loss of skill or talent because the ones who knew them were killed by Morgoth’s hordes? A brilliant hunting tactic, a specific fishing fly guaranteed to catch within minutes, knots for special uses, weaving patterns that best kept out the cold. Maedhros mentioned Miriel’s art of weaving being irreproducible because she never taught anyone. The First Age teaches well how quickly entire civilisations can be wiped out, and with it their culture if it is not continued by survivors.” Elrond added as he sat across from Erestor. The two sat quietly in their own melancholy, the room’s wooden furniture and jewel toned trappings seemingly desaturated by the turn of the conversation.
The call of songbirds broke through their ruminating, and they shared knowing looks, though the atmosphere did not yet brighten. Though it had not been the woman’s intent, her presence in Imladris had been the trigger for much reminiscing; and all the grief that came with looking back.
Elrond gave a short huff after another moment of thought. “‘Cultural Inheritance’ – that’s what she called her breadth of knowledge. How much Sindarin Culture specific the Sindar of Beleriand was lost in each… calamitous event? How much of mine and Elros’ culture did we never get the chance to learn – subtle things not written in books – that we in turn could never teach our own children?” He spoke towards the table, thinking aloud more than anything, and certainly not sending any accusations towards his friend nor anyone else. And in turn, Erestor said nothing; indeed, what could he say? And Elrond didn’t need him to respond. This was hardly the first time Elrond’s mind had reminisced on such ideas.
“Naturally, as typical of your niece, this information given to us by her serves to answer some questions but then present new ones immediately afterwards. Númenor readily traded with the mainland for centuries. How did their knowledge and technologies never make it here?”
To that, Elrond could not offer an answer. Without needing to discuss it, the Elf lord and his old friend started looking through the ancient letters for any clues at all to the latest facet of the Minastauriel Mystery.
A peal of laughter chimed into Elrond’s study, and it was like the room bloomed back into spring – the sound bringing colours back as it swept away the ages-old sorrows that had consumed the room. But it wasn’t until the laughter of two familiar voices joined in that Elrond stopped reading, leaned to look out his window and saw his niece sat gingerly upon their most patient horse. Giggling, she slowly trotted around the perimeter of the pen. His sons were speaking to her and apparently having a merry time by their reactions.
Erestor looked up just as Minastauriel pointed out a tree at the edge of the pen, likely commenting on its lack of blossoms despite the season and the presence of buds ready and waiting.
The two scholars watched the twins lead Minastauriel’s horse beneath the tree and speak to her quietly. Soon three hands touched the bark of the tree, and though they were too quiet to be heard, Erestor would bet they were showing Minastauriel how to wake up a sleepy tree of elvish lands. After a while, Minastauriel shook her head at something or other, Elladan replied jovially and sent the girl into a peal of laughter. It could have been a sight from a millennia ago, the two twin sons of Elrond enjoying the sunshine with the Lady Arwen.
As the trio moved away from the tree and resumed Minastauriel’s riding lesson, Erestor watched pensively. “A single leaf will cause ripples across an entire pond. What ripples she is bound to cause, by fate, destiny or course of Will - would you also claim is the Will of Eru?”
“Such a profound question after watching something so light-hearted. What do you mean, before I answer it?”
Erestor sighed, deep and tinged with exhaustion. “If Eru sent her, it was for a reason. If Eru sent a woman this educated, it then stands to reason that He deemed such quality necessary for His plan. As Gandalf says, she is here because she consented, whether she remembers or not. Therefore, her will and plans should be at least considered to be in line with or supporting of Eru's ultimate plan, whatever that may be.”
Elrond nodded then tilted his head towards the open window in the direction of his niece. “I think she is aware of this but has not fully realised the pressure this may put on her if others find out. We will have to publicise a formal, less dire explanation before rumours break out – particularly if any such rumour enters the enemy’s land.” Here, he sighed as long and tired as Erestor had.
He looked again at his niece, who was trying to get her horse to turn around. “Lurlosel was not supportive of riding lessons so soon, but at my niece's request – I couldn't deny. Whilst I and Lady Galadriel keep largely to our lands, Gandalf offers his wisdom to people across Middle earth. I rather think it likely she plans to do the same; I imagine this may be one reason why she insists on training to only be your assistant rather than take on the run of the household herself.”
“And if she does? You would let her go without escort?”
Frowning, Elrond spoke as if already having pondered this very question earlier. “Not after having been ill so recently, and not without training, not if I can help it. But she is sensible – she will ask for such lessons well before any such great adventure begins. “The words were spoken with rising tension, before Elrond suddenly let out a laugh. He turned to his old friend, curiosity and amusem*nt bright in his expression. “What did you expect me to say? Hide her away, forbid her leave the grounds of my house? She has been raised to lead and expressed desire for independence and self-sufficiency within a day of her waking.”
Wry grin in place as Erestor’s mood lightened in turn, he responded. “I hadn’t thought of that – I can’t imagine her even pretending to promise to obey such a command.” He placed his hand over his heart and put upon a high pitched, impassioned tone. “My Lord Elrond, I cannot stay here – my destiny is to help people. Good people deserve good things – how can I not help?!”
Throwing a grape, Elrond swiftly defended his niece in face of this light-hearted jest at her unknown expense. “It was charming when she said such words – I’m afraid that though you have greater skill in language than my niece, your face is far too serious to suit such sweet declarations.”
“And what does my face suit?”
“Expense reports.”
Erestor threw a grape in turn and cursed his Maia-blooded Lord when the grape’s trajectory suddenly changed mid-air and instead gently found its way into said Lord’s mouth, rather than the intended eye.
He eyed the bowl of grapes, and its distance between the two of them. He could grab it in time.
