The Littlest Warrior

Cilinwë Celebrosion was tired. It had been a long night; standing sentry for a realm that had no known enemies could sometimes be more tiring than actually being in a battle. He entered his sammoth (Chambers, series of connected rooms, an apartment) closing the door quietly behind him; unbuckling his sword, he placed it on the table in the center of his room. Releasing the clasp on his baldric, (holster worn across the back) he eased his shoulders out of the harness and laid his short swords down as well. Sitting, he removed the knife from his boot and uncinched the one at his side; they too followed their companions onto the table. Toeing off his boots the Master of Swords wiggled the now freed digits; glad to finally be off his feet. Exhaling slowly, the warrior began to undo his braids, using both hands he scratched at his scalp, tousling his hair, then sat back in the oversized chair resting his head on its back. Eyes closed, he thought over the morning’s activities…

'That Estel certainly is a little charmer,' he mused, 'he will make a fine swordsman some day'. Cilinwë smiled, thinking back to his own childhood, "How much alike we are," he said aloud. Cilinwë too was an orphan, born in 578 of the first age; he was only five when his world was destroyed.

His family lived in Beleriand, son of Celebros a sculptor, and Lariel a teacher, education and art were always a part of his life. As a child he had an excellent voice and his parents often encouraged him to sing. He also showed a talent for painting, and would paint pictures of his father while the elder elf sculpted. When Beleriand fell his parents were killed, and he was taken to Ossiriand (which was later renamed Lindon), there, he was raised by those few warriors (four to be exact) who were able to survive. Although well loved, and never mistreated, he grew up without the more gentle hand of a female. He lived a warrior’s life, it was not all he knew, but it was that with which he was most comfortable.

'It was not all bad,' he thought, 'after all, I had my fathers, and I met Erestor there.'

Their introduction took place at Erestor’s 200th begetting day celebration. Cilinwë was 647 years old at the time, and thought himself too old to attend the party of a youngling that he didn’t even know. He accompanied a mutual friend, Hendil, to the gathering and was introduced to Erestor during a lull in the festivities when the young apprentice advisor was asked to sing. Still quite shy at the time, Erestor tried to decline saying that he only sounded good when singing with others. Since their friend knew of Cilinwë’s excellent voice, he was pressed into singing along with him, and a friendship was born. They became close companions after that, often singing together in private or when asked at various celebrations.

He and Erestor fought together during the Last Alliance at the side of Gil-galad and Elrond, a battle in which they lost their beloved friend Hendil. Cilinwë, like Elrond, watched Gil-galad fall, and swore a vow that he would give up his own life before he ever let something like that happen again. His life…his service would forever be to his king’s herald, to the House of Elrond.

When Cilinwë and Erestor finally arrived in Imladris, once again refugees in the aftermath of violence, Elrond welcomed them with open arms. He included them in his household…in his family, and it was something for which the warrior would be eternally grateful. He felt humbled that Elrond had honored him by placing the training of his sons – Elladan and Elrohir and now little Estel in his hands. Anyone who thought to harm those three or to usurp his position as their teacher and mentor was asking for trouble. Trouble that Cilinwë was only too happy to provide.

Almost as old Elrond, Cilinwë was spectacularly beautiful, and highly sought after by the maidens, but an oath had been sworn, and he had no time for romantic liaisons. His life belonged to his lord and he would not have it any other way. Often pursued by admirers of both sexes he was shy, and the attention made him uncomfortable – ill at ease. However, put a sword in his hands and he was the epitome of grace and confidence.

His art, a talent no doubt picked up from his father, was also something he honed, and the walls of his chamber were filled with paintings he’d secretly done of the inhabitants of Imladris. Yes, secretly, as he kept this part of who he was to himself. For as adept as he was as a swordsman, he still had not quite mastered the nuances of social life, the intimacies of a family, and the casualness that flowed between family members. It was one of the reasons why he so admired the bond between the twins and Estel. They had taken the boy into their hearts, he was their brother as if born of the same flesh, and Cilinwë truly loved watching them together. They never tired of each other, the love was always so evident, so obvious, and he envied them that closeness.

He was almost always formal with Elrond, though they’d known each other for more than an age. Elrond, to the contrary was always warm and welcoming with him, thinking of him as he would Glorfindel or Erestor, but with Cilinwë it was always duty first, and he seldom forgot his “place” unless chided or prompted to by Elrond. Then he usually wound up blushing, staring at his feet, embarrassed that he forgot again – not to call his old friend ‘my lord’.

An elf of many secrets, he had an exceptional singing voice, but only Erestor knew of it. He was an accomplished painter and sculptor, but he’d sworn both Glorfindel and Erestor to secrecy on that account, saying that if others knew he drew or painted he would likely get little rest, especially from the ellith who always seemed to look for ways to get him into compromising intimate situations. What better way than to ask to have your portrait painted…in private. He often marveled that if his other friends ever sat down and compared notes, they would be pleasantly amazed at who he’d become and what he knew.

Quiet, serene even…but with a killer’s instinct born in the throes of battle, and honed by the warrior's creed. Watching him with a sword was like watching a dancer flit across a stage; his feet barely touching the ground, his grace with the weapon was unparalleled. Even Glorfindel, who was no novice with a sword, secretly envied his skill, and often referred to him as “the most cunning-handed swordsman in Arda.”

As he sat there quietly thinking, he could not help but have his thoughts roam back to Estel. The little one brought so much life and energy to the house, Imladris seemed alive again with the presence of the child. He rose and moved to the blanket covered wooden crate that sat in the corner. Pulling it over to his chair he uncovered it and reached in extracting a piece of wood. Only 14 inches in length it was an exact replica of his sword Celebhîth (Silver Mist), it still needed more work, but when finished it would be the perfect gift for Estel’s birthday. His little warrior would be beside himself, and Cilinwë laughed imagining how many dragons, balrogs, and Orcs the little one would slay before he started using his brothers as practice targets. All in all life here in Imladris was wonderful. Peaceful and tranquil.

If he had only known of the evil that slowly made its way towards his home, he would have ceased dulling the edges of Estel’s sword…and sharpened the edges of his own.