A golden ribbon, a golden key by skywardstruck  

| | |

Chapter 1

“It is often remarked that the line between scholar, and enthusiastic fandom participant, is blurred when it comes to Tolkien’s works. Fanfiction, like a scholarly article, is inherently a commentary on the source material, written for an audience partaking in the same commentary. While the intent behind the commentary may differ, the appreciation for the original work remains the same. Why would one write about Tolkien’s work, were they not enraptured by the beauty of the world conceived in his imagination? Let us cast aside, at least temporarily, the strict mindset of a ‘serious’ academic, and recall our sense of wonder we felt upon discovering Middle-earth for the first time. It is a fictional world, but so many readers, deep down, cannot help but entertain the possibility that in some universe, these stories may in fact be true.

“Somewhere out there, as Tolkien would have you believe, is the fabled translated copy of the Red Book of Westmarch, the source of all the history of Middle-earth, hidden away from all but the chosen loremasters.

“Or perhaps... might the keys to the truth be hidden in plain sight, like the riddle on the Doors of Durin? I'm sure there are many of us here who have contemplated such amusing possibilities, even if it is only to escape the strife found in our mundane lives.

“As we analyze these stories and characters, study each and every one of Tolkien's texts for more details, contemplate the what-ifs and fill in the gaps with our creativity- we immerse ourselves in this world, and in doing so, it inevitably becomes a part of our lives. Whether the Red Book is a literary device or not, Middle-earth lives and breathes through us, through those who know his stories by heart, and those experiencing them for the first time. These tales will endure for as long as we continue to tell them.

“We must treasure our time spent in Middle-earth, for it is through our experiences and our collective imaginations that this fantasy becomes reality.”

The conference hall erupts in applause as the humbled speaker bows her head, clearly overwhelmed and surprised by the positive reception to her words. The budding academic was chosen to conclude this particular block of the program, under the theme “Tolkien Fandom as Collective Experience.” Everyone seems to have been moved by her words, reminding them all of a truth they were often too nervous to speak aloud in a serious academic setting. But this is a Tolkien conference. The atmosphere is quite different from what one would expect, attracting students, scholars and even general enthusiasts, some of whom have come in costume. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming to all, just as the weary Hobbits were welcomed into Imladris four Ages ago.

Countless centuries have passed. All record of what once was, now lives in the imaginations of readers around the world, viewing the tales as fiction. The Valar would surely argue it is for the best, for there is no way to overturn the Dominion of Men.

But even the beauty of this modern world is beginning to fade, with no meaning to be found in everyday life, no greater purpose, no hope for the future. Perhaps that is why the harbor at Eldamar opened that fateful day.

Sitting somewhat inconspicuously in the back of the room, nervously fidgeting with his woolen coat hood, is Findekáno. Once a great king of the Noldor, a valiant commander, a beloved friend, he is now a wanderer in a world where he does not belong. For the past few decades, he has traveled the world, hoping to understand all there is to know of Middle-earth in the absence of the Eldar. A simple observer is all he has remained, for he has always told himself that it would be far too dangerous to reveal himself to the Men of this Age. Findekáno’s story is enshrined in works of fiction beloved the world over, but more importantly, he is an Elf, in a world ruled by Men.

In this world, he believed, he could never be anything more than a shadow drifting in the background, rarely exchanging words for more than a few minutes, not even allowed permission to express himself.

“In some universe, these stories may in fact be true...”

The words echo in Findekáno’s mind, reverberating as if in a cathedral. The lively atmosphere of the conference remains infectious, scholars and enthusiasts walking up to the passionate speaker, thanking her personally for her words of inspiration. It fills Findekáno’s heart with hope. Maybe there is a place for me in Endórë again, for as long as the Powers wish for me to stay, he thinks to himself.

Today, Findekáno decides, will mark his first step into the light.

He lets his hood down carefully, his pointed ears just barely peeking out from behind his dark locks. He nervously turns his head over his shoulders, hoping no one is staring at him oddly. Though a Tolkien conference surely would be the best place for him to blend in, he reminds himself. So Findekáno relaxes a bit, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few of his treasured gold ribbons, their gleam undiminished, gently weaving them into his braids for the first time in decades.

And he smiles, as the ribbons catch the light shining through the stained glass windows.

I must express my gratitude to this young woman somehow, Findekáno realizes, rising from his seat and making his way to the podium. It is so small a thing, but the fact that I can show myself here... On his way there, while he does receive a few curious glances and compliments on his “costume,” he doesn’t bring too much attention to himself despite the beautiful golden accents in his hair, the elegance of his ears— and of course, his taller elven height, compared to Men. He even waves at a few attendees dressed in costume, and it’s a wonderful feeling when they smile back at him.

The speaker has just finished getting enthusiastic feedback from another attendee when she turns around to meet Findekáno’s nervous, but warm and friendly smile. “Ah— I must thank you, sincerely, for your inspiring words,” he says humbly, bowing his head for a moment to show his respect. “They have reached a part of my heart that I have locked away for many years. The world may change around us, but nothing can erase the Middle-earth of our memories.” Though Findekáno tries not to get too carried away with his thoughts, every moment he is here, surrounded by people who love the tales in which he took part, his carefully-crafted mask begins to fade, little by little.

“Oh— I’m... glad to hear it,” the speaker replies, a little unsure how to react. It’s the first time someone has responded to her work like this. She raises an eyebrow out of curiosity, seeming to notice something peculiar about Findekáno’s words, that there could be more to them- the Atani are quite perceptive, Findekáno remarks to himself, feeling unexpectedly more at ease.

“Your costume looks lovely, by the way,” she adds.

“Thank you! It’s... very special to me,” says Findekáno, flattered by the compliment, sincere in every word. While the speaker could not read into Findekáno’s thoughts to discover his true identity, he hoped it wouldn’t stop him from making a new friend. Even among the Firstborn, he often found it easier to be himself when others shared his interests- such as in music, tactics, or poetry.

Or in this case, the history of Arda.

“Out of curiosity, what brings you to the conference?” the speaker inquires. “What led you to rediscover Middle-earth?”

Findekáno pauses for a moment, to come up with a believable answer, for he knows his conversation partner is thinking about how young he looks, for one seemingly rediscovering the works of Tolkien. “When I was a child, I would constantly immerse myself in his world; there was always a book by my bedside. Middle-earth became a part of my reality, as if I had lived through the tales myself.

“But as one grows older, they are expected to leave behind the fantasies of their childhood and accept the real world. This, I was never really able to accomplish. My occupation changed much over the years; I could never stay long in one place, for I was never satisfied with the expectations the world set out for me... and that was when I knew, I had to return to Middle-earth once more, to recapture the beauty of that world I loved so much. So I chose to make my way here.”

“You seem to have traveled a lot, in such a short time,” Elliot remarks; she too chooses her words carefully. “It's very Tookish of you.”

“Your name...” Findekáno realizes he’s been so caught up in his enthusiasm for Tolkien’s work that they’d neglected to exchange proper greetings. “You said it was Elliot?”

“Elliot Kim, yes. And yours?”

Findekáno hesitates for a moment. He knows he cannot reveal his true name, especially not here. But even if he did, would anyone believe him? To everyone at the conference, he is simply a mortal in costume; to use his “character” as an alias would not be too unusual. But if he wants to forge a friendship here, he must choose a name with true meaning behind it. So he ponders for a bit, fidgeting, gently running his fingers over his braids, his gaze wandering here and there, until he finally comes up with an answer.

“You may call me Lauremuile,” Findekáno decides, very satisfied with the name he chose for himself. The truth of his identity, hidden twixt his plaits.

Elliot’s reaction, however, is quite unexpected; she is deep in thought, as if she has been asked a most difficult question. “Lauremuile. That name... it is Quenya, of course,” she astutely observes, earning a chuckle from Findekáno.  “But what is your real name?”

“That is my real name,” Findekáno insists, for he enjoys playing this game, telling the truth cloaked in riddles. “But if you want my far less interesting legal name, that would be Aymeric Elwood. Which do you prefer?”

“You’re rather... peculiar,” Elliot remarks, eyes narrowing. “If you are trying to role-play as an Elf, you aren’t exactly convincing. Could use more long speeches, and laments for the state of the world.”

Her impression of the Elves isn’t exactly wrong, Findekáno notes to himself.

“Role-playing? Can I not jest, even a little bit?” he asks, confused. “I did say you could call me Aymeric, if you wished—”

“Why not tell me what golden secret you are hiding?” Elliot interrupts, adjusting her glasses before gazing up at the ‘elf’ with arms crossed. “Man esselya ná... Lauremuile?” she asks in perfect Quenya.

Findekáno’s hröa freezes, knowing this Atan truly has him cornered. Perhaps he has made a grave mistake. No, almost definitely. Makalaurë will surely berate him for this. But would Elliot even believe him, if he told her the truth? How much did she truly want the stories to be real?

The windows open for a brief moment, letting the wind inside, lifting Findekáno’s braids into the dance, his elegant ears coming fully into view. The sunlight shining behind him on his warm brown skin, an entire existence veiled behind his silver eyes, yearning to break free; how Findekáno pleads to be known again, consequences be damned. Elliot’s eyes widen, hand placed over her beating heart; a realization seems to hit her, could this really—

“Tell me, then, great scholar among the Secondborn,” he finally says. “Who do you believe me to be?”

Findekáno smiles, as Elliot’s answer, seemingly for him alone, is drowned by the sounds of the crowd.

Chapter End Notes

Quenya words
Lauremuile— "golden secret"
Man esselya ná— "What is your name"

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment