There was a time, not so long ago, that Bainith felt he might have welcomed this feeling of defeat, of being trampled upon the battlefield, for his spirit to be torn asunder from the flesh that had carried him across Middle-earth on the great adventures he had already had in the short time since leaving the Shire. Now, as he clutched an intricately carved stone in each hand, feeling the pulsing of their power as he took a moment to gasp for fresh air in the smoke-filled courtyard, Bainith wished nothing more than to be back in Michel Delving harvesting potatoes, or in Tuckborough pulling apples from trees, or even helping to rake out the filth from the pony stables in Scary. A horn sounded, nearly causing him to drop his weapons, and he held ever-tighter to the rune-stones.

Every time the next wave charged at them, he tried not to think of the Shire or why Yucca should never, ever go to Moria, or how this was not the best idea, and how disappointed Zhie was going to be with him, and if he would ever see Valanyonnen again. Unfortunately, those thoughts were all muddled up in his brain as he tried to concentrate on the skills he had learned and how to draw upon his inner strength and the powers of the elements to fight off the wolves and brigands that seemed to come again and again like waves upon the shore.

Breaks were few, and the constant sounding of the battle horn was jarring. Vaguely, Bainith had been aware of a soldier fighting alongside him for a while, sometimes hustling forward to divert a group of enemies, and othertimes racing back to check on Bainith's well-being. It seemed the man must have sensed Bainith's inexperience, for he hovered a bit more than the others, and would attack the same beasts that attacked Bainith. At some point, however, the man had raced forward and Bainith had yet to see him return -- yet another worry to add to his own.

Typically, Bainith needed only dodge the blows of others, or avoid the snapping jaws of hungry predators, during this battle. That was until the troll came. At least, he thought it was a troll -- from all of the stories he had heard of Mr. Baggins's trolls, this appeared to be a troll. The armor was covered in grease and filth, and looked to be as thick as Bainith's wrist. A few attempts were made to hit the creature or find a weakness in the armor, but even the troll's skin was thick, and Bainith found that while his misses and the minor damage had no effect, they did succeed in angering the beast enough to turn his full attention upon the Elf who now stumbled back towards the building they were trying to defend.

Trolls seem large and clumsy, but they can move at an incredible speed if the mood takes them. Such was the case with this troll, and as Bainith gathered strength and called upon the power of lightning to aid him, the monster fought not with his mace or sword, but instead hunched over and plowed right into Bainith with his mighty force. The sky and ground spun together, and a pain greater than he had yet known tore through his shoulder and spread down to his hand, causing him not only to drop the precious stone from his grasp but to scream out as well. He wondered briefly with shame how many others on this battlefield had cried out to their gammers in their final moments, as the troll lifted his dazed body up and threw it into a sturdy stone wall. His back took the brunt of it, but his arms and legs fared no better as he collapsed into a heap, one hand limp and empty, the other unwilling to loosen the grip from the remaining rune-stone.

There was a haze before him, not unlike the times he had raced with the others from inn to pub to tavern, drinking too much ale and smoking heavily from his pipe. Those times, however, pain was not experienced, unless it was the pain of finding out that the bar had run out of mead. Now, it was all he could feel and all he knew, and he found himself thankful for the brigand who sauntered up to him and knocked his booted foot against his head, for it was all he needed to slip over the edge of oblivion.

"I must remind everyone in this room that whatever course of action is taken, nothing said here is to be spoken of in public." Ethel Applegarth always took every matter seriously, and one such as this was treated with additional caution. She waited for everyone in the room to give their nod of consent on the matter, before giving a nod to Forgamthan, who had offered to be the recording secretary.

"Let us begin with the questions on the minds of all," said Ethel as she sat down at the head of the table. Forgamthan was in a corner, listening and writing, but staying otherwise silent for the proceedings. On one side of the table, two Dwarves. One had traveled hastily from Moria, his beard still full of soot and dust, the other from Thorin's realm. The other side of the table hosted two Elves, lithe creatures with far-reaching depth in their eyes. One had only to step into the house to attend, while the other had come from the tundra of Forochel. Rune-keepers all, and besides them, a fifth member was seated on the other end, her garments the richest black, embroidered in threads of spun gold. There sat upon this loremaster's shoulder a fierce raven, whose head twitched from side to side now and then, as if he, too, were listening to the conversation.

"Is it true that Bainith of the Shire believes himself to be a hobbit?" This was issued forth by Samling, who appeared ready to ask from the moment he entered. All questions were directed to the dark-clad elleth.

She was leaned back slightly in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. "Is that such a bad thing?" Her raven cackled in approval.

"We are the ones asking the questions," snapped Samling tersely. "This council has given you advantage enough in the past! It is a feat indeed that you convinced us that a loremaster might properly train a rune-keeper, and your hobby of selecting strays instead of practiced youth from here in Rivendell has yet to be questioned. Now we must! This boy should never have been admitted to learn the art!"

"Hobbits cannot be rune-keepers," restated Narl simply.

Zhie cleared her throat and drew a pattern on the table with her finger. The Dwarves narrowed their eyes with caution, for despite the combined power of the others in the room, it was never a particularly good idea to anger a Kinslayer. "He likes to pretend he is a hobbit, but he knows he is an Elf."

"How can you be sure? We have the word of both Failloth and Indis that he told them he was a hobbit."

"You may also have taken note of his condition. Someone hit on the head that many times will say a great deal of misinformation." Zhie reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of crumbs for her avian companion.

Ethel waited for Forgamthan to finish his frantic writing before she continued. "While his race will no doubt be a topic of debate, there is little doubt of his age."

Zhie's eyes flickered away momentarily before she focused again on the panel conducting the inquiry. "From my understanding, it is not his age, but his maturity, which is in question."

"They are one in the same," scoffed Samling. "Everyone knows an Elf does not reach their majority until they are fifty years of age."

"Bainith does not understand that, because he thinks he is a hobbit, and hobbits come of age at thirty and three," argued Zhie. "For one in the scholar's guild, you certainly fool me at times."

As Samling began to stand up and pounded his fist upon the table, Ress spread his wings outwards and made an irritated hissing noise. The crackle of Samling's rune-stones was audible as sparks sprung away from his hand, and Zhie, not to be outdone, reached over his back without rising, spun her staff to her side, and thrust it against the ground, causing items in the room to shake as a red light twisted down the wood. Ethel placed her hands upon the smooth surface of the table and stood up, which made Samling, grudgingly, sit down. "This is the precise problem. Your reasoning is flawed. If he is a hobbit who is of age, then he is not allowed to practice because he is a hobbit. If he is an Elf who is underage, he is not allowed to practice because he is not of age."

"And the menfolk who send their sons and daughters to train as loremasters when they are aged fourteen or younger, when they respect sixteen as the age of manhood and womanhood," said Zhie. "What of them? What of the boys I see in their armies, no older than twelve, carrying swords, being enlisted when they should be home playing soldiers? What of the girls, heavy with child at thirteen years or less, when they are still at an age to be nurtured, not married off? What of that?"

"Neither an Elf nor a Dwarf is so barbaric," muttered Narl. Sambling nodded his agreement, and Cerebthos looked about to defend Zhie's position in some way, but seemed to think better of it and diverted her gaze to a painting on the wall.

"Let us keep to the matter at hand, please," said Ethel. She now sat again, and Zhie sighed heavily and shook her head. "You have yet to present compelling evidence to this panel."

"Then let me use smaller words so that it will not confuse you. Bainith was raised by hobbits, and acts very much like a hobbit, though he wishes to know how to be an Elf. Because he was raised by hobbits, he believes that thirty-three is the right age to be considered an adult. He believes he is an adult, and he knows he is an Elf. Therefore, not a problem," finished Zhie.

"On the contrary," spoke Ciryalen, "there is an issue. If he wishes to learn to be an Elf, then the first thing he must learn is that he is still by all measures an Elfling. He should be allowed to seek an apprenticeship at a later date, but at this time, my vote is to rescind his apprenticeship."

"As is mine," declared Samling. "This boy should never have been allowed in!"

"This is outrageous! If he had not been hurt, and brought here, you would never have known his age," burst out Zhie, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her staff.

Celebthos picked nervously at the bits of skin around her nails, dry and cracked from the furious use of fire and lightning to train others. "The life of a rune-keeper is a dangerous one, Faerfaen. We do not always have companions to aid us," she said, her gaze gliding from the painting to the feathered warrior who blinked his beady eyes. "We are masters of elements, and beacons of healing and hope. It is not to punish him, but to preserve what few years of childhood he has left."

"Is there any childhood left in this forsaken world?" wondered Zhie as Narl crossed his arms and declared, "I shall vote with my brother-in-arms."

"It is unanimous, then," decreed Ethel. "Bainith's status will be changed from probationary to discharged."

"Go ahead. Change his status. I am still going to train him. Rune-keepers have no rights over loremasters," Zhie reminded them.

"Ah, but we do have rights over our own," Samling reminded her. "If you do not take his stones from him, then I will, and instead of a temporary reprieve they will be broken by my hand."

"And not only his," said Ciryalen. "You see to the training of a second apprentice, do you not?"

"Leave Culgondrian out of this," snapped Zhie.

"We will," said Narl. "All you have to do is take Bainith's rune-stones away from him."

"Dear Yucca,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know we are to mail the invitations this evening, and we shall, but I have been asked by a Captain of Bree to assist in a skirmish battle briefly. I should not be long and look forward to seeing you tonight. I am including some pies for you to have while you wait.

All the best to you,

Bainith"

(Yucca, in response, begins sending out letters. A letter is sent to Gwyndir that was not saved (we think Eledu burns them to keep Gwyndir from being a hoarder) but there is a copy saved of the letter sent to Valanyonnen)

"Hi! I thought I should write you too 'cause I was trying to think of where I would go if I were Bainith and I got distracted and I know he likes you a lot and gets upset that people keep walking in when he's trying to spend time with you 'cause I guess he's shy like Gwyndir maybe. But I thought if I were Bainith and I got distracted maybe I'd be distracted with Val so I thought I'd write you to see if Bainith was being a silly hobbit-elf and forgot he wrote me! He said he had to go do something for some nice captain in Bree and that he was going to be all big and brave in a battle but he sent me some pies and said he would only be a little late for our meeting to write invitations to people for the wedding (which is kind of silly because you know I can write very nice letters and I would have been happy to write them alone but Bainith wanted to help me write them.) And he said that yesterday evening, right after supper time, but then he never came over so I thought he was probably tired being all strong and elfy and maybe he went to take a nap but he didn't come over this morning, either, and so I think he forgot since he's hobbity like me. I wrote Gwyndir, too, because I know he and Gwyndir have been doing a lot of strong elfy things together lately and I thought maybe Gwyndir would know where Bainith was since he's not at home or the kin home and I thought maybe they got mad at each other again and Bainith left again but I haven't heard back from Gwyndir yet so then I thought maybe you'd know. If you could tell Bainith that it's okay he forgot and I'm not mad and that I'm waiting for him at my gammer's house, that'd be really nice. Thanks!"

(In response to this, Val sends a letter back.)

"Dear Yucca,

first of all I would like to thank you for your letters; before I met you and Bainith, I never used to get so many of them.

Unfortunately I have not seen Bainith since we parted the other morning. I do hope he is alright, perhaps I should start looking for him. He might have lost his way, since he is not too familiar with the world that lies beyond the boundaries of the Shire.

I never thought I would say this, but I would rather know him safe with Gwyndir than out there on his own.

Please let me know when he returns. Until then I shall not rest, but comb Bree and its surroundings for our missing friend.

Greetings

Valanyonnen (My apologies for the name; it means 'Born on Valanya', which is a week day)"

(Yucca, of course, returns the very polite gesture of the letter-writing.)

"Hi! I'm glad you like my letters, I think that letters are a really nice thing to do and I like writing them but sometimes people just don't like them very much. Gwyndir hardly ever writes back anymore because I think he gets a little overwhelmed and maybe he's not very good at reading or writing and has to get help. But he wrote back to me real fast this time and was worried a lot too because he said he hasn't seen Bainith since he saw you two together the other day and that he hoped Bainith had bumped into you in Bree and lost track of time but then you wrote and said you hadn't seen him either so now I'm writing to him again too to let him know that you haven't seen him. Maybe you'll see Gwyndir when you're in Bree with your comb and if you do tell him how pretty his horse is because I dressed it up for him to make him happier. Bainith's gammer mailed me too and said she hadn't seen Bainith and was worried about him eating well because you know how skinny he is because I guess that's an elfy thing but it worries us hobbits so we try to make sure to remind him of all the mealtimes. I'm going to go see if he's anywhere in the Shire because I know the Shire really good and I know all the best hiding spots from when we played Hiders and Seekers together so if he's there I bet I'll find him real fast. Also, your name is still very big and I'm going to keep calling you Val, but I told my gaffer how you had a really pretty name and asked what my name meant and he just smiled and gave me a muffin."

Say what you would about him otherwise, but Eledu was amazing with his hands.

Gwyndir groaned into his pillow as his partner-in-crime worked on a particularly nasty knot in his shoulder from the blasted ale fight earlier in the day. Surprisingly, swinging a giant dwarven club to slam innocent bystanders into walls was much more taxing than swinging a sword. And it probably didn't help that he'd been acquainted with the wall several dozen times himself.

"Master Gwyndir?" a voice called from the other side of his door.

He turned his head with a grunt and squinted thoughtfully. Nasally, shaky, and out-of-breath; probably the mail boy.

"Terribly sorry, he's indisposed," Eledu called out, silencing Gwyndir's annoyed grumbling with a knuckle to his neck. "Come back later."

"Oh, I-! I'm sorry, I must have the wrong room, my apo-"

"No, right room, bad timing. He's naked and glistening and I'm afraid I'm a little too mean to share the show."

Gwyndir groaned and pulled the loose end of the pillowcase to cover his face. He was definitely going to move to Forochel. Maybe stain his hair, pretend to be a Noldor. People left Noldor alone.

"Just slide it under the door," he shouted, ignoring the jab to his still-tender shoulder.

There was some confused babbling that made him blush in dawning humiliation. "I would, sir, but it's a rather thick envelope."

"Yucca." Gwyndir sighed and swatted an arm behind him at the laughing elf perched on his lower back. "Stop that. Go get my mail."

"The things I do for you," Eledu sighed, sliding off him and flicking playfully at his bottom as he wandered to the door.

Gwyndir listened to the irritating screech of the wooden door on rusty hinges, the stuttering of John's nervous youthful voice, the shift of fabric as Eledu leaned through the doorway and made an absolutely terrible pun about the 'size of his package.' He was debating what the repercussions for pretending to be a kinslayer were when Eledu dropped onto the mattress at his hip.

"Amazing. And this little halfling has time to fling people twice her size around in a beer brawl, plan a wedding, eat a dozen meals a day, and go on adventures? I'm quite certain she's writing you a novel, 'tato." Eledu ripped the envelope open and set to reading his mate's mail without waiting for permission.

"Mm, she writes much the same way she talks. Constantly, quickly, and without thinking it through."

"Charming. You make the most astounding friends," Eledu drawled as he tilted his head to the side quizzically and attempted to figure out where the punctuation was hiding.

"She isn't a friend." Gwyndir turned and sat up as well, realizing his massage was on pause for a while. Reading a Yucca-letter was something you had to devote full attention to if you had any hope of deciphering its code. He leaned against Eledu with a smirk at the small whine in the back of his friend's throat as his shirt was dampened with the oil on his skin.

"Lies. You adore her. If she wasn't your friend, you wouldn't have brawled for her sake. Or do I need to be jealous that you'll fight for an engaged halfing girl but not me?"

"I adore her the same way I adore shrews. Small, fast, and makes for a great game if you have a pair of sturdy boots."

"Kinky," Eledu purred. He nudged an elbow into Gwyndir's slippery chest and pointed out a passage in the letter. "Correct me if I'm wrong - which could be the case, it's hard to follow this sentencegraph - but you didn't go elfing off with Bainith on any captain's behest yesterday, did you?"

Gwyndir grabbed for that page, leaving the other six for Eledu to flip through in bemusement, and scanned it over quickly with a soft curse. Apparently, the rest of his pampering would have to wait.

"I need a favor."

She cornered him as he was crossing the Spire of Meeting, and he slowed his hasted pace to a slow stroll as she fell into step. He said nothing, simply nodding for her to continue, fairly certain of the topic.

"I need your help in convincing the rune-keepers to allow Bainith to continue his training. The appeal is tonight, and I am representing his interests. Because he is not a scholar, he is not even allowed to be at his own appeal. How ridiculous is that?!"

The pace slowed to a standstill, and Erestor scanned the horizon for wanderers. It was time for lunch, and most were in the Great Hall or dining at their desks or under a birch tree or oak, but there were always messengers, pages, and minstrels who threatened to listen to whatever noonday gossip they could find for the Hall of Fire in the evening. When he decided their path was clear, they began walking again. "I have not seen you so upset about something since Gondolin fell."

"Usually, I deal with reasonable people, not mindless fools."

"He is very young--"

"Not you, too!"

"--for one so talented." Erestor dropped his voice lower and said, "He reminds me of a mutual friend of ours."

"I know."

"I always wondered what might have happened and how different things would have been, had someone thought to give Feanor a little more nurturing." Erestor scratched the side of his cheek; their slow pace was attracting mosquitoes -- something Vilya never seemed to vanquish. They turned a corner and he stopped again. "How far along is he in his training?"

"Further than you would think. He can fight and heal."

"Really?" Erestor considered this a moment. "Fighting can be done by anyone, in the most dire of circumstances, but healing is a special art. What time is the appeal?"

"After supper."

"You know where to find me," said Erestor. "Meet me there for dinner. I think I know how we can solve this riddle."

Ethel gave a wary look at the two other people who entered behind Zhie. "Witnesses?" she asked as one of them took a place in a corner, leaning against the wall. The other walked beside Zhie, stopping at the end of the table.

"No." Zhie flicked her eyes towards the corner with uncertainly. Lindir, usually looking jovial and energetic, was solemn and strange, his thoughts appearing to linger upon every spoken word. "Master Erestor wishes to speak for a moment."

Erestor had his hands settled upon the back of the chair that Zhie had been sitting in a few days earlier. His gaze swept down either side of the table, and then looked upon Ethel at the other end. If anyone else could feel the animosity, no one said a word. It was known that Erestor still held spite over not being voted to head the scholar's guild, but he said nothing of this (as he might have taken the opportunity to on other occasions). Instead, he began his practiced speech. "It was brought to my attention that Bainith Proudfoot is being denied the ability to use what talents Eru hath granted him. I think it most unnerving that this council would turn him away. We all known what becomes of a youth with such power, left unattended. Will this council feel responsible when he is unable to learn to control his ability on his own, and something grave happens? For when it does, it shall be all of you who will be held accountable."

Samling flinched, and Celebthos squirmed uncomfortably. Ethel had her arms crossed over her chest and stared down the table at Erestor. "If you believe that bullying will gain your advantage, you are mistaken."

There was a sigh, and a shrug. Erestor turned to Zhie and shook his head. "I tried, my dear." He gazed beyond her, his look hardened as he looked at Lindir. "I suppose our loss is his gain."

Narl slapped a hand upon the table. "No riddle, Elf! What do you mean by that?"

Erestor looked back to the Dwarf and said, "Oh, you have not guessed his reason for being here? He heard of Bainith's healing abilities -- something he was never trained for, something he simply has learned on his own."

"If you have no intention of retaining young Bainith, the Minstrel Guild will be more than happy to train him," said Lindir. "Everyone knows rune-keepers are not *real* healers; that power lies in words and song. I will have him playing harp in a week, and he will become a pride for my colleagues and I. I appreciate your intolerance," he added with a haughty smile.

WIth a look of alarm, Ethel stood abruptly. "Excuse us. We must have a private discussion," she said quickly. "If you will all kindly wait outside." As Zhie began to follow Erestor and Lindir, a finger pointed out at her. "You stay, loremaster."

Unseen by the others, Lindir mouthed the words 'Good luck' to her as he passed. Erestor smirked, and closed the door.

Each day he stayed, Bainith found himself wanting not to leave a little bit more.

He had purposely never stayed long in Elven cities because of the difficulties of communication and the expectation of protocol between Elves. More than once he had been politely chuckled at, cheeks glowing, stuttering his apologies, never able to successfully excuse himself in Sindarin or Quenya. In Rivendell, however, everyone was bilingual, trilingual, and more, and Bainith had no trouble communicating with others.

The sights and sounds of a realm so fair were amazing to him, and he found he could learn more here in one minute of exposure to the culture than he could from ten books on any topic related to the people he might have been raised amid, had circumstances been different. Some were only too eager to enlighten him -- children were rare, in fact, he soon realized he was the only 'elfling' in the entire realm. Even when trying to mask it, the others just seemed to know -- but they also seemed to know that the injured youngling had seen much in his few years, and this they respected.

Most of his time was spent in a quiet room near the stables, with the windows open so that the sweet breeze could waft in from the north. There were fresh flowers arranged each day at the bedside, and cool water for drinking, hot for bathing, and a bounty of food that seemed unimaginable for one person to eat.

After Valanyonnen's arrival, and following the decision of the other rune-keepers, Bainith found his mind more at peace. While Bainith had for many years worried about Yucca's well-being, he felt a new feeling beyond those felt with budding romances when he thought of Valanyonnen -- one of concern. He could not say worry, exactly, for it was obvious that Valanyonnen was a skilled minstrel and warrior, able to both defend and handle an offense, and to heal himself and his comrades. It was still no less unsettling to hear in Rivendell the whispers of a place called Moria, and of the fell beasts who lived there. Upon hearing that Valanyonnen intended to stay within the bounds of Rivendell while he healed, Bainith felt that unease fade, and the comfort that washed over him was enough to bring him the healing rest he so needed.

For long hours he would sleep, drifting in and out of reverie and dream, in the middle of the day or the stillness of the night. Sometimes he could hear the faint sound of a harp, so close yet so quiet, as if the musician sought to lull him to sleep but knew the sounds could wake him if too loud. Occasionally, the blankets and quilt slid away from him and he would shiver in that half-daze of near-sleep, but then strong yet gentle hands adjusted them, and tucked the blankets around him, fluffed his pillow, and kissed his brow as he relaxed and drifted back into a world of dreams. He did not know how much was reality and how much the fantasy of an overtired imagination, but he hoped and allowed himself to pretend that it was Valanyonnen who had taken up partial residence in the room, that he was the one who had moved the rocking chair by the bedside, whose harp it was that sometimes rested near the door, and whose hands lingered upon his forehead with a soothing touch every time the nightmares tried to invade his dreams. For now, he could only hope and dream.