Êl-galad Êl-celair

Írimon lay on a mound covered with fresh green grass and stared up into the star-filled sky. A gentle breeze played with his dark hair, reminding him of his mother’s concerns about the night air. He pushed the disruptive thought from his mind and enjoyed his time alone. It would not be long until one of his sisters discovered this week’s hiding place, and he wanted to enjoy every moment of solitude he could grasp. He rehearsed the names of the sky-jewels. A fierce hunger to learn all their secrets ran through him.

“There you are, Elentirmo,” Silmariën said with her customary huff of exasperation. “I have been searching for an age! Come to the house this moment!”

“Could I not stay for a little longer?” he begged, knowing the answer before his sister spoke.

“No!” She bent down and pulled him up roughly, dragging him behind her as they made their way home. Írimon could not help but wonder if his sister had ever looked at the sky above her.

“Must you twist my arm so?”

Silmariën loosened her grip and Írimon noticed her worried expression as they passed a light.

“What is wrong, Silmariën?”

She stopped and turned to look down at him. He hated to see the anxiety in his sister’s eyes. Although she could be rough at times, Silmariën cared for him like his own mother.

“Some men from Andúnië have come to visit. I am to be presented at table this night.”

This frankness did not surprise Írimon. His sister had never treated him as a child.

“Do they frighten you, Silmariën?”

“It is not the men that frighten me, Írimon. It is their reasons for visiting.”

“Oh,” he said, trying to sound as if he knew what she meant.

They continued back to their home. Instead of leading him to his own room as she usually did, Silmariën took him to her room. He sat near the window and looked out at the night sky.

“Draw your attention away from the heavens for a moment, Elentirmo, and help me decide what to wear.”

He forced himself to look at the gowns Silmariën was pulling out of her chest. His mind started to wander again. If I ever become King, I shall call myself Meneldur.

“Írimon!” Silmariën said, holding a forest-green gown to her chest and looking at him expectantly.

“It is lovely, Silmariën, but I do not understand why it is important what you wear.”

She rolled her eyes and added the dress to the pile.

“It is important because I may meet my husband this night.”

“Your husband!” His skin grew cold. “But you will not leave, will you?”

A few steps brought her to stand in front of the chair on which he sat. She knelt in front of him. I hate it when she does this.

“I cannot stay here forever, Elentirmo. I must go where my husband wills.”

Írimon thought this did not seem very fair. Must women follow their husbands like hounds? He took his sister’s hand and patted it gently.

“I prefer the blue one, Silmariën.”

He watched her turn back to the bed and sift through the mound of cloth. Pulling himself up, he left his sister to her primping. He made his way to the highest room in the house, thinking his sister very brave indeed.

Meneldur-Lover of the Heavens
Elentirmo-Star-watcher
Írimon-Child-name meaning, Beautiful man


A/N: How I ‘Broke the Type.’

When I was assigned the character of Tar-Meneldur, I read as much as I could about him. It turns out the Unfinished Tales had more to say about his son and daughter-in-law than him.

Rather than planning the story line ahead as I usually do, I sat down and wrote this all in one sitting without any previous thought. It turns out that I had a great desire to explain why Meneldur supported his daughter-in-law so much, hence the focus on his relationship with his older sister.

Meneldur struck me as a wise, compassionate, and thoughtful man. As the story unfolded, I tried to convey this in his reactions to his sister’s difficulties. This is what I came up with through no forethought at all.