Naturally, especially when something is to be avoided, time flows all the more swiftly.

Those three dawns were no exception.

Fëor emerged (reluctantly) from the grove wearing his dark-green traveling coat with a matching pointed hat. He didn’t wear them often, so they smelled a bit stuffy and made him feel…stiff. He needed comfort and confidence, but his outfit provided neither. It did, however, protect him from the elements (thanks to the coat) and make him seem somewhat presentable (thanks to the hat). But he was thankful for neither of those things in that moment.

Before him was the Glade of Gälnos, which glowed cozily with the rose-gold hue of the ëolfëár and their mushroom dwellings. A diverse crowd was already gathering there, packed with a dizzying array of folk, friends, and kindred: Luálrí, Gälrí, Ëolrí, orfëár, and all the animals who followed their ëolfëánorëan lords (to name but a few).

Those lords were now convened for a separate, pre-assembly meeting at the most sacred place in all of Gälenor. There, at the center of that great glade, they spoke within a den formed amid the roots of Gälnos—but they were also on an isle, for a fëol-rich lake pooled beneath Gälnos before seeping back into the land they so loved.

In contrast to their solemn meeting, the rest of the folk gathered in the glade had begun unleashing festivities. A mixed group of easterners from beyond the Eldgár showcased some of their newest instruments, namely double-reed woodwinds and lyres made from shell and wood. Likewise, groups of Gälrí gathered to display their intricate wooden carvings and compete against the beautiful beadwork of their Luálrí neighbors. Not all activity was admirable, though, as some Ëolrí could be seen playing a game of ball with an unfortunate orfëa (who was the ball).

It would be a lie to say Fëor wasn’t enamored by these things, but…

“I want to go home.”

He still complained.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on where your sympathies lie), Belor and Hálin were keeping an eye out for their friend. Seeing him enter the glade and immediately drag his feet, they beckoned him over to the smaller, calmer crowd that they had gathered. They were, by all accounts, having a tea party—though, admittedly, some of that ‘tea’ was made from fermented hops or roasted beans from the east. All that really mattered, however, was the aura of the group, which was warm and welcoming.

When Fëor finally joined them, he felt an immediate sense of ease envelope him—followed by a swift hand, stronger and more solid than Belor’s, slap him jovially on the back. It belonged to a friendly Rölkr—a giant-like race of mossy, stumpy, stoney folk. Some called their rowdy children turölkí, especially when they stubbornly refused to grow out of their pranking ways; but this fellow was old and wise, carrying a rather rare book filled with stories.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Ëolorn!” Fëor exclaimed.

The two embraced in a warm reunion, Fëor’s face planted snuggly in his mossy beard.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in months!”

“Been wand’rin’ in tha east,” he answered. “O’er tha Eldgár this time.”

“Wandering…eh? And that far from home this time?” Fëor looked downward. For the first time, he was…jealous.

“Don’ worry yerself,” Ëolorn soothed. “I brough’ back some stories fer ya, like always.”

“Stories from beyond the Eldgár?!”

Despite being a shut-in obsessed with plants, Fëor was quite fond of stories. It was the reason he assumed (or rather tried to fool himself into believing) that all bad things belonged in ‘the realm of stories.’ It was a defense mechanism for sure, but also a way for him to safety travel far beyond his safe space. Folk like Ëolorn, who he regarded as a foster-uncle of sorts, indulged that side of him by bringing him a new story every time they returned from abroad.

“I heard more than one ye’d like,” Ëolorn began, unsure which story to share. “I’ve ne’er told ye any stories from that east, have I?”

Fëor shook his head. Surprisingly, no one had.

“In that case…I could tell ye about the brown-skinned Olválorëo who was believed ta be blessed by Rëálna Herself and led tha first group of folk o’er tha Eldgár.”

Fëor leaned forward.

“If so, I s’pose I could tell ye about how he and his kin chased after a star that fell ta the earth—a star, my boy!”

“Did they ever reach it?!”

“Or perhaps I could tell ye about a mount’n that was once taller than Eldáspor,” he continued, purposely switching stories and leaving Fëor’s question unanswered. “Ërlend, they called it, before it blew with fire ‘n rage at their folly.”

Fëor was now speechless and torn. He wanted to hear both stories, of course.

“But what I really wanted ta dooo,” Ëolorn dragged, amused by Fëor’s excitement-induced frustration, “was show ya this.”

He held his book out to Fëor, who calmed himself ever so slightly as he beheld something new and strange.

“The descendants of Olválorëo don’ use scrolls like the Eldásrí,” Ëolorn explained. “Nor wood’n tablets ‘n stone like us. They use’ta make clay tablets, I guess…but now they make somethin’ called paper from reeds that grow in tha water. They sew ’em between wood’n covers like this, I s’ppose. Neat, eh?”

He smiled heartily as Fëor’s eyes sparkled.

“Only one problem,” Hálin chimed in, holding a finger up. “He can’t actually read it.”

“Nope!” Ëolorn laughed deeply. “None o’ us can. We know our letters, sure…but they write like this.”

Ëolorn held the book open, revealing vaguely familiar characters strung together in a seamless line.

“I was hopin’ ta find an easterner willin’ ta teach us after this assembly ends,” Ëolorn continued.

“That would be great!” Fëor chirped; but his smile soon faltered. Did he really want to stick around and let things go back to normal? But maybe he could learn more about herbs from these books…

“Oi!” Belor growled. “None o’ that. Ya put that girl behind ya. Keep ‘er there.”

“Girl?!” Ëolorn gasped. “How’d ya meet a girl when ya ne’er leave yer home?”

“She went ta him,” Belor answered.

“But,” Halin interjected, “she was an Eldásr.”

“So?” Ëolorn snorted before turning back to Fëor. “What was she like, my boy? Friendly? Ferocious? Fair? Fright’nin’?”

Fëor spluttered incoherently, unable to answer.

“Ëolorn,” Belor warned. “She’s tha reason we gathered for this emergency assembly.”

Ëolorn narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the deeper meaning of that statement.

“And Fëor here is our star witness,” Hálin added.

And then, as if on que, came the death knell for Fëor’s bubble of peace (quite literally), for the singing bell of the ëolfëánorí resounded throughout the glade.

It was time to begin.