Innocence
by Soledad

Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

Rating: PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

Many thanks to Isabeau, my wonderful beta.

Author's Notes:

For those who got confused by the journey chronologically (and I certainly am one of those people), not to mention the ones who just love to get nitpicky, here is a short timetable. Especially because it won't be described in loving detail in the story itself. Feel free to skip it. And no, I really don't care if I have miscalculated with one or two days or not, so don't bother me with mats.

start from Lothlórien: 12th lairë;
arrival at the Rapids: 26th lairë;
- transit: 2 days;
starting again after the Rapids: 28th lairë;
arrival in Pelargir: 48th lairë (remember, the summer season had 72 days!);
- short break in Pelargir: 2 days;
getting around Tol Ondren (= the later Dol Amroth): 70th lairë;
arrival in Edhellond: 71st lairë, so basically they had three days to rest before the Autumn Festival.

Haldir's ''baby sister'' has the same name as the eldest of the Entwives - for obvious reasons. She is married to Ilverin, another Nandor Elf, and lives in a small forest settlement called Calenbel (another rejected name for Parth Galen, that I borrowed from the HoMe books). If you want a visual, she actually is one of the ladies of Lórien from the movie, called Uruviel, but I found that name weird and re-christened her. <g>

Some of the Elven food was inspired by Tyellas' very appetizing vignette ''The Bread of the Mírdain''. tried not to directly steal anything, though.

Chapter 10: The South Haven

[The 73rd day of lairë, in the year 641 of the Third Age]

The setting sun sent long, slanted rays through the delicate grating of the branches, painting an intricate pattern of shadows on the high wall of the small orchard adjoining Gildor Inglorion's house. Even the shortening days of near-autumn lasted longer here in the far South, and Erestor thoroughly enjoyed the lazy warmth of a golden evening.

It was very interesting - almost a revelation, in fact - to see Gildor in his own home. Instead of a palace worthy of his high birth, the proud Noldorin Prince had a homestead not unlike many others owned by his subjects, containing a well-built but simple two-story house, a walled courtyard, a garden with a fountain adjoining the orchard and a meadow behind the stables where his horses were kept. Beyond the meadow, there even was a small wood that, too, belonged to him, and he owned a herd of cattle as well- domesticated white kine, descended from the famous wild oxen of the South.

Not having inherited his father's and grandfather's talent in stone-carving, Gildor only had one small workshop in his house, and he only worked with horn, bone or múmak ivory imported through southern merchants from Harad. But that was a mere pastime for him, and he usually gave away everything he made, delighting chiefly in horse-breeding whenever he spent a long time at home.

After the long journey on water, Erestor was relieved to have firm ground under his feet once again. As much as the Sea fascinated him, never having been near to it before, he found life in a haven even more interesting, with all the fisheries and mills and warehouses, and the workshops of the furriers, tanners, weavers, sailmakers, rope-makers, barrel-makers, coopers, net-makers and other representatives of excellent Elven craftsmanship.

Though Edhellond could not be compared to Círdan's Havens, not by importance, nor by sheer size, it was a busy port and a well-organized one, and as the son of an artisan, Erestor found great delight in getting familiar with it. The harbour itself was never empty, ships from Gondor laying at the quays mostly, but at times even Círdan's people sailed down south to trade with the folk of Edhellond, and the fisherboats were dependent on the signals of the high and slender light-tower standing far out in the Sea itself, approachable by boat only.

It was a place brimming with life, and Erestor loved it, the more so that he was not the one expected to keep things running smoothly. He was a guest now, deserving and ready to be spoiled after his long, laborious years in Imladris.

Due to the fact that it lay in an especially well-protected corner of the coastal region, Edhellond's climate proved to be surprisingly mild. So mild, indeed, that the most intriguingly exotic fruits grew with little or no tending in Gildor's orchard, fruits that could not be found even in the warmest spots of Gondor: grapes as long and thick as a man's thumb; peaches the size of a fist; pomegranates; figs that were red in the inside and as sweet as a kiss; and even oranges - something he had never seen before in his life.

There were, of course, more common sorts of fruit as well: golden apples, ruddy pears, red plums and many others. To Erestor it was a foretaste of Yavanna's gardens in the Blessed Realm, and honestly, he had a hard time understanding why Gildor would ever feel the need to leave this perfect place at all.

Quiet voices interrupted his musings, and peering through the arched opening in the orchard's stone wall, he saw the object of his thoughts crossing the adjoining garden, in the company of a small, fragile-looking Elven woman who wore a simple, pale blue gown and had long, ash blonde hair. Erestor recognized her as Fimbrethil(1), the ''baby sister'' of Rúmil.

''Erestor,” Gildor greeted him with a nod, ''I presume you know the Lady Fimbrethil, do you not? She has just arrived from her home in Calenbel to partake in our Autumn Festival tomorrow.''

''Of course he knows me!'' Fimbrethil laughed, giving the somewhat embarrassed Erestor a quick hug; the Green-Elves were less shy in showing their feelings than the Noldor.

''How are you faring, Erestor? It has been too long.''

''Indeed, it has,” Erestor replied, recovering from his surprise. ''I am faring well, thank you. How about your lovely self?''

''Flattery shall get you no-where, you know that,” Fimbrethil answered smiling; ''yet we are fine, thank the Valar: my husband, both our children and several thousands of honey-bees all are in best health and so am I. Honey-making is healthy work, it seems. Now... where is that wayward brother of mine?''

''Guiding a certain female archer named Calaglinel through the taverns of the harbour, most likely,” said Gildor with a grin. Fimbrethil raised a fine golden eyebrow.

''Calaglinel? My brother seems to have a death wish. That woman is known as the Iron Maiden of the Golden Wood.''

''I know not,” replied Erestor with a shrug; ''she seemed... molten enough during our journey, at least when Rúmil was in her company.''

Fimbrethil shook her head in utter disbelief.

''My brother must have hidden charms unknown to any one. I never thought I would live to say the day when Calaglinel warmed up to any one, the least to Rhimbron. The ways of Ilúvatar are wondrous, indeed. Well, since my brother is not available but Erestor is, would you mind, my Lord, if I stayed here a while to wring all the news out of him?''

''Not the least, my fair Lady,” Gildor answered with a slight, playful bow. ''I have to look after the horses anyway. We shall see each other in the Dining Hall later in the evening.''

With that he left, and Fimbrethil and Erestor talked til the dinner bells rang; about Imladris and Lothlórien and the life in Edhellond; about Haldir and Fíriel and their hard choices; about her husband, Ilverin and their children, both of them still very young elflings, too young, indeed, to partake the Autumn Festival, and that she wanted to have more children; about working with bees and making honey-cakes; and, last but not least, about the noble, proud and sometimes infuriating Lord of Edhellond.

It was of little surprise for Erestor to detect the love and loyalty Gildor was given by his people. He had always known that Gildor was a born ruler, one that earned respect not only by his high birth alone but also by his deeds and wisdom. What did surprise him, though, was the way how the grandson of Finrod obviously ruled his small realm.

One would have expected that someone with Gildor's hard and more than a little haughty nature would rule with an iron fist: justly but mercilessly towards even the smallest of mistakes, unmoved by any sort of compassion.

Yet that obviously was a prejudiced imagination on his side. It seemed that Edhellond was practically run by a council, containing the most respected members of the settled population, while the Wandering Company - and even Gildor himself - were more like honored guests in their own home. Sure, the important decisions had to be signed by Gildor, and his opinion was very much asked for and highly respected, but - unless it came to questions of trade or defense - he simply let his councilors decide, saying that they were more able to oversee everyday business, since they lived there permanently.

Also, though most of Edhellond's population belonged to the Silvan or the Nandorin folk (save some of the best craftsmen- and women of the harbour itself), they seemed extremely proud of their Lord. Gildor might not have been called a King, but he most certainly was considered one by his own people. And though Lindir had refused to be adopted by him, his true identity was well-known in Edhellond, and people treated him as Gildor's heir nevertheless.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This became more obvious than ever on the next eve, when the Lord of Edhellond officially opened the Autumn Festival. There was a great feast, held on the Place of Dance, between the harbor and the living area of the town. Long tables were placed under the circle of huge, ever-green trees, hundreds and hundreds of years old, brought there as saplings before the Fall of Númenórë. They had come from the West, Tol Eressëa namely.

Their names were in all the old songs of Elves and Men and sounded like songs or words of enchantment themselves: oiolairë and lairelossë, nessamelda, vardarianna, taniquelassë and yavannamirë. The latter had globed, scarlet fruits, sweeter than any other fruit that even the Elves born in Valinor had known. Flower, leaf and rind of these trees exuded sweet scent, and the whole place was full of their blended fragrance. They had been called nísimalder in fallen Númenórë, the Fragrant Trees(2), and no-where did they grow and flower east from the Sea but in the wondrously unique climate of Edhellond, even if they never reached the same height and girth here as they would have in Eldamar, in spite of the loving care that a specially selected group of Silvan women gave them.

Still, the Fragrant Trees were the pride and joy of the whole town, and even more so the only mallorn known to exist outside the Golden Wood. Under this very tree, smaller than those in Lothlórien where the very ground was enchanted, yet still a majestic sight, was set the high chair of Gildor, and on his side, in the absence of the Lady Aquiel, Lindir was seated, looking around at the colorful crowd in youthful excitement and talking to Gildor in Quenya, which was their mother tongue(3).

The Lord of Edhellond was clad in a simple silver tunic and a dark blue robe, his golden hair unbraided and unadorned, save the crown of autumn leaves upon his brow - for this was a festival of the Silvan folk and he respected the customs of those who had chosen him to be their Lord. Lindir had been given similar clothes, only that his tunic had the color of gold and his hair was much paler. Still, they looked every bit the close kindred that they actually were, and Erestor's good mood was gone all of a sudden, for never had Lindir's royal birth been more obvious, and he was overcome with grief by the thought that one day the youngling might decide that he would like to live in this wondrous little town after all.

For Edhellond was a wonder on its own, no doubt. It had everything an Elf could want: the Sea, ancient trees out of legends, music and dance, knowledge and craftsmanship and a much more interesting life than Imladris would ever hold. Who could blame Lindir if he chose to stay with his uncle?

Gildor rose from his chair, opening the festivities with the time-honored words that were brought by his people from Doriath and other ancient woodland realms, and the servants began to bring the traditional food to the tables. As it has been the custom since the Elder Days, the new bread, made from the first harvest of the new corn, had been brought to Gildor first, to bless it and break it ere it was served to the guests.

Aside of the traditional fair white loaves there also was heavy, honeyed rye and seeded flat-bread, with rounded chunks of snow-white butter and salty, yellow cheese, both made from the milk of the white kine and tasting differently than what Erestor was used to from home. Differently, but not less good; in fact, they had a wild, fresh fragrance that common butter and cheese lacked(4).

There was a great deal of sea-food, of course: fish and eels and lobsters and oysters, sauces based on fish or mollusks, roasted sea-birds and salads of sea-plants. But most of the food came from the gardens and orchards of the town itself, especially the herbs and the fruits, and most of the biscuits and seed-cakes were covered with honey and strewn with strange spices, brought in from Harad or other far away countries.

And there were wines, spicy white and sweet red wines, and mead and dark ale, of course, and fragrant cordials that looked clear like spring water but had a hidden strength that could make the strongest Man dizzy. Elves, of course, had a higher tolerance for their own beverages, but spirits heightened during the feast nevertheless.

After everyone had eaten his fill, the tables were removed and the minstrels came to entertain the guests with old lays and ballads. Orgof was first, as always, singing the oldest version of the Lay of Leithian in the tongue of the Green-Elves, and everyone listened enraptured to the sound of his strong, clear voice, contemplating the lovely vision of Lúthien Tinúviel singing and dancing on the bank of the enchanted River Esgalduin.

Nuinor and other minstrels from the Wandering Company followed, for the settled folk of Edhellond had only lesser musicians, who could not make songs of their own, but were cherished nevertheless; then Lindir was asked to perform for his host. The youngling hesitated first, apologizing that he was no Master Singer yet, but after some encouragement from the other minstrels and to the special request of Gildor himself he finally brought forth the beautiful harp that had been made for him in Lothlórien, following the earlier orders of the Lord Celeborn, and said:

''As I have no song yet that I could call my own, I shall sing you a strange one that I was given in a vision during our journey here. I know not the tongue of this song, nor the meaning of it, but as I was told to share it with other Elves, that is what I shall do now.''

He let his slender fingers glide along the silver strings of the harp and raised his sweet voice a little, barely enough to overcome the whispering of the South Wind among the leaves of the Fragrant Trees. The words came from afar upon his lips - strange words, ringing like glittering swords hitting each other; murmuring like the waves of the Sea rolling against the shores; flowing like the falling water from the silver basin of a fountain - the words of the secret tongue of Valinor, that he had never been taught.

And yet, what he saw, and what his gift as a minstrel was showing his audience, was not the frightening vision in which he had heard this particular song before - if, in fact, it was the same song at all. It did feel the same, yet there was no way to be sure of that.

It seemed to him that he was on an island beleaguered by the Sea, and he turned his mind to the mountains, desiring to come to the heart of that forbidden kingdom. As he wandered towards the far-away peaks, he was overtaken by a grey mist and strayed long at a loss, until the mist rolled away like an endless wave, and he found that he was in a wide plain. Far off there was a great hill of shadow, and out of that shadow, which was its root, he saw the King's Tree springing up, tower upon tower, into the sky, and its light was like the sun at noon; and it bore at once leaves and flowers and fruits uncounted, and not one was the same as any other that grew on that Tree(5).

Nevertheless, upon all those entwined twigs of the three major branches, most of the fruits were faded and only a few of them seemed full of light and juice and color - one on the first one branch, four on the middle one and four on the third one, all high up at the end of thinning twigs, nowhere near the tree-trunk. And the one highest at the end of the third branch was not even fully ripe yet, hiding shyly among the protecting leaves.

Then, all of a sudden, a strong Wind came up from the East, shaking the Tree violently and stripping it from many of its leaves. Two of the fruits on the second branch broke down and fell, and the small, unripe one on the very end of the third branch shivered and nearly fell as well. But one of the remaining leaves bent over it, covering it from the onslaught safely, and finally the East Wind gave up and turned away, sweeping with a shrill whistle towards the North.

Lindir finished his song, troubled and a little shaken himself, for the vision frightened him for some reason. As he looked around, he saw with surprise tears in the eyes of many from his audience. He could not even guess what this strange vision was about, yet it seemed to touch something deep in the hearts of everyone there- and the thoughtful expression on Gildor's face told him that the Lord of Edhellond might have understood more of it than any one else.

The strange mood was broken when the lesser musicians came with harps and flutes, to make sweet, swift music for the dance to begin. Gildor rose with his usual grace to lead his folk to the dance, pulling Lindir to his feet, and soon the whole crowd was lining up behind him, moving with the weightless elegance of windswept leaves, first in a great circle, symbolizing the ever-renewed cycle of seasons, then forming infinite, winding lines that returned into themselves in seemingly endless, delicate patterns, so that no one of the dancers knew whom they would face next, smiling and laughing and nodding their greetings, ducking under the clasped hands and raised arms of another in-twining line of dancers, whirling around and leaping lightly aside, in order to avoid bumping into each other, which caused even more laughter and merry jokes.

Erestor was in no mood for dancing, but he had been pulled in by some friends from the Wandering Company, and was now slowly getting into the spirit of the festivities. So he danced with the others til darkness fell and the stars blinked to bright life upon the dark, velvet sky above their heads. And in the silver starlight, when the swift rhythm of the dance slowed to calmer, more contemplative waves, so that the dancers could watch the dance of stars above, he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Gildor.

Their eyes met for an endless moment, and Erestor had the feeling as if thin daggers, cold and very sharp, had been rammed into his heart, into his very fëa. Then the Elf-Lord unexpectedly slid free from the grip of his dance-partners and grabbed Erestor's arm, pulling him, too, free from the rhythmically pulsing mass of dancing bodies.

''Give me a moment of your time, will you?''

''As you wish, my Lord.” There was no use protesting - the fingers on his arm were like iron clamps, and Gildor was already leading him away from the merriment, so he might as well go with him voluntarily.

They ended up under the mallorn, where Gildor took his own seat and Erestor took the one at his side that had been Lindir's during the feast. Here, at the opposite end of the large place, the music was not so loud that they could not speak undisturbed.

''I have been planning to speak with you for quite some time,” the Lord of Edhellond began, ''and, truth be told, I almost fear that I have waited too long. Now, after that vision Lindir had shown us today, I have come to understand that it cannot wait any longer.''

''You know what the meaning of that vision is, my Lord?'' Erestor asked, slightly bewildered, but Gildor shook his head.

''Let us say I can guess what it might be about,” he answered carefully. ''The future is not a thing carved in stone already - 'tis a possibility that can take very different turns. Yet I believe that it had to say something about my family; and that it was a warning of great perils yet to come.''

'''Tis all about Lindir, is it?'' Erestor asked, suddenly understanding. Gildor nodded.

''Aye, it is. The child is the last descendant of Finarfin's line, and even though he shall never walk the warrior paths of his ancestors, he is of royal blood. I tolerated his choosing to remain in Imladris, where Aquiel can watch over his safety, but I like not him being dragged to the Golden Wood, even if he has proved strong enough to refuse being seduced by Artanis' sorcery.''

Erestor felt his lips tighten to a thin line.

''Forgive me for being blunt, my Lord, but you have agreed to entrust Lindir's care and education to the Lord of Imladris. Now you have to trust his wisdom in this matter.''

''I have to do naught,” Gildor stated calmly. ''Regardless of my earlier decision, he is of my flesh and my blood. I have the right, by our laws and customs, to change my mind in this matter, and I shall do so, should I see any sign that he is being endangered.''

Erestor opened his mouth to make an insulted answer, but Gildor raised a hand and silenced him with an icy glare.

''I know that you are one of the reasons why he refuses to come and live in Edhellond with his family, though I have repeatedly offered to make him my heir and my people already think of him as such,” he continued. ''You won his trust at a very young age - I cannot go against that. But let him get harmed - nay, let him even get near any harm - and you have seen him for the last time.''

With that, the Lord of Edhellond rose again and returned to the dance, leaving a deeply shaken Erestor behind.

It was well over midnight when Lindir came running and laughing, and collapsed at his side with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Erestor looked at him with saddened eyes. Never had the young minstrel seemed happier - or more beautiful - than in that very moment.

Mayhap Gildor had been right, after all, Erestor thought sadly, feeling the numb pressure of pain in his chest. Mayhap neither Imladris nor Lothlórien is the place where Lindir was meant to live, but here. This merry town, brimming with life, protected by the Sea and the strongest kingdom of Men, with the harbor and the ships to flee to the West at once, should any new peril arise.

And in Edhellond were children, too, more than in any other Elven realm, save perhaps for Emyn Galen, for the Silvan folk cared less for the past and more for the future than the Noldor, and the ringing laughter of the little or half-grown elflings was a music even more lovely than all the songs of the minstrels. Mayhap Lindir would be happier here than he had ever been in the calm serenity of Imladris...

The touch of a gentle hand upon his face brought him back from the joyless world of his thoughts, and he realized with a jolt that his cheeks were wet. Lindir kneeled before him peering up into his face worriedly.

''Master Erestor? What is wrong?''

''Nothing is wrong, little one,” he murmured, trying to get himself together ere he frightened the sensitive youngling too much. ''Your uncle and I had a... conversation, and I fear I... became a little upset.''

''I wish he would cease to harass you!'' Lindir said angrily, shifting position so that he could rest his head upon Erestor's knee. ''And he is not my uncle, you know that. We are related from fairly afar.''

''Still, he is the head of Finrod’s House,” Erestor reminded him gently. ''You may refuse to accept it, but by blood, you belong to his family and owe him your allegiance. 'Tis the way of our people. You cannot change it - and neither can I. We both have our obligations towards our people and our family.''

''What did he say to you?'' Lindir asked softly. ''What did he say that frightened you this much? I have never seen you in tears before, save from your nightmares.''

''He threatened to take you from me - from us all - should any harm befall you,” Erestor answered simply. Lindir leapt to his feet, his gentle eyes burning with fierce anger.

''He cannot do that!''

''He can - and he will, should we give him any reason to do so,” Erestor sighed. ''Understand this, Lindir: you only can remain in Imladris by his leave. As the head of your true family, he is responsible for your welfare, and it seems that he takes his responsibility very seriously. If he deems that you might be harmed in Imladris or Lothlórien or wherever one of us happens to take you, he can demand that you be sent to Edhellond and live under his own roof. 'Tis his right, and our Lord could not refuse.''

''Why does no-one care for what I want?'' Lindir demanded angrily. ''Why does everybody believe they know better than I what is good for me? I am no little elfling any longer!''

''True,” Erestor nodded, ''yet you still are under-aged, little one... at least by the letter of Noldorin law. You should try to prove to our Lord that you are mature enough to be considered an adult if you want to become the master of your own fate.''

The angelic face of the youngling tensed all over as his innocent mind tried to gasp the elusive concept of adulthood the Lord Elrond seemed to keep in such high esteem. Lindir certainly was no fool - in fact, he had gained an impressive amount of knowledge in music, ancient history and herbal lore during all those hundreds of years spent in Imladris - yet the necessity of certain social skills was still far beyond his understanding. Erestor began to believe that the Lady Celebrían was right - that Lindir, in certain things, would always remain a child.

Lindir must have come to the same conclusion, for he dropped to the ground again, all joy and merriment vanished from his young face.

''I shall never be good enough for our Lord,” he said forlornly. ''Nor do I truly wish to be one of the Lords of Imladris, like Glorfindel or you. I only wish to be left alone - with my books, and my music, and my healing herbs - and you.''

''A short time, and you shall not be in need of my tutoring any more, little one,” Erestor smiled, though his chest was tightening with pain at this thought once more. ''You will be your own Elf, and no one will make you do anything you do not want to do.''

''Not even Gildor?'' Lindir asked. ''He cannot make me come here and live with him then?''

''Not even him,” Erestor assured. ''But do you not like the life in Edhellond? 'Tis a wonderful place to live.''

''It is,” Lindir admitted, ''but I fear Gildor would not let you come with me; nor would the Lord Elrond allow you to leave Imladris for my sake. You are needed back home.''

'''Tis true, too'', Erestor nodded; ''yet, as I already said, you shall not need me much longer. You are nearly mature now.''

Lindir looked up to him with darkening, almost angry eyes.

''I shall always need you. Always. Even if I lived as long as Glorfindel and returned from the dead I could never be without you.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This declaration, given with the full earnestness of a young and pure heart, frightened Erestor more than a little, and they never spoke of this again during all the long and surprisingly mild winter - which, in fact, rather reminded Erestor of the spring season in the North. They spent merry, eventful days in Edhellond, sometimes in the harbor itself, visiting shops and taverns and the ships that lay along the quays, sometimes sailing out to the Sea with the fisher's barges, sometimes visiting the many different homesteads, for they had been invited by practically every family that was somehow related to someone from the Wandering Company, and to a few others as well, for Lindir had become very popular among Gildor's people.

In the middle of hrívië they went with Rúmil and his new lover to Calenbel, to visit Fimbrethil and her family for quite a few days, helping Ilverin with the honey-bees and other animals and playing with their children - which was something that Lindir especially enjoyed greatly, since the young elflings expected no ''appropriate behavior'' from him. He even stayed in the tree-houses with the children, teaching them how to talk to the birds and let his days roll away from him in the carefree manner of a child himself.

Erestor, too, appreciated the peace of Fimbrethil's home. It was good to breathe freely again after the overwhelming presence of Gildor under his own roof. The Nandorin woman might be ill-versed in ancient lore, but she possessed the far-seeing, natural wisdom of her people, and a quiet inner strength that Erestor had only seen in her mother before her. Though half-Nandor by blood, Fimbrethil could have easily become one of the Wise Women of the Silvan folk, had she not chosen to come here and marry into her father's people. Still, she was more than able to keep her family and her household in a tight but gentle hand and even put the admittedly not always pleasant-mannered Calaglinel to her place.

''I like her not,” she admitted bluntly to Erestor’s carefully-formulated question, ''But Rhimbron seems very much in love with her, and I believe they could make an acceptable couple. We shall see. She will need a long time yet ere she can accept a true bond, but what else can you accept from someone who was raised by Orcs?''

Seeing Erestor's shocked look she nodded softly and added, ''She was captured early in the Second Age, during the war between Sauron and our people, when the great forests of Eriador had been destroyed. She was but a little elfling back then, and no-one knows why the Orcs let her live instead of eating her, as is their custom. But she lived with them for years, and when she was found by the Lord Celeborn's warriors, she was like a wild animal and only knew the Black Speech.''

She paused again, her eyes clouded with sadness, then she continued.

''I know you dislike the Lady Galadriel just as much as my brothers do, or even more, and for your part, you might have a reason for it. But she did save Calaglinel's life and her sanity, caring for her like for a daughter, healing her and teaching her to became a tolerable Elf. Mother says it took the Lady hundreds of years to reach what could be reached at all. And for Rhimbron's sake, I am grateful that she did. 'Tis time for my brothers to settle down with someone. Now that Hathaldir, too, has made his choice, however hard and unusual it is, we only need Orfin to find a mate, so that we become a family again, instead of a bunch of lonely, fatherless Elves.''

Erestor could understand their wish for normal family life. The Silvan Elves suffered unspeakably during the war against Sauron in the Second Age, losing not only their beloved forests but many of their loved ones as well, and the uncertain fate of Malgalad had haunted his children til the present day. Not that they were less brave and valiant than the Noldor, for they were the best archers that Middle-earth had ever seen, but their weapons were no match for the heavy blades and axes of Sauron's minions, and their homes a lot more vulnerable than the stone cities of the Eldar.

And yet, even the beautifully hewn and carved stones could not protect Ost-in-Edhil from the back wave of Sauron's armies, Erestor thought sadly. Betrayal, if unconsciously, came from the very heart of Eregion's chief city, and it was burnt to the ground and her Lord murdered by slow torture in his own house. Only a handful people from that once-beautiful city, as full of life as Edhellond was now, had survived - among them, by the grace of the Lord Elrond, the firstborn son of Hargil, the Jewel-Smith.

Now, after more than two thousand years, Erestor was less sure than he was grateful for his rescue than he used to be. No matter how much Elrond and his family cared for him, in the end he had no one to whom he could truly belong.
At the end he was utterly, hopelessly alone.

Tutoring Lindir had brought a light into his life that had not been there before. It was almost as if he had something akin to a family on his own. But the head of Lindir's true family, the proud and stern Lord of the South Haven, hated him for having survived the sack of Ost-in-Edhil while Celebrimbor had not, and waited only for the slightest mistake on his part to take his young charge from him.

Erestor knew that it would be too much for him to bear. He had to be very, very careful not to raise Gildor's cold wrath against himself. Before Lindir had come into his life, he had never known how dull and joyless it had been. But now that he had known this bright light that lit up his every day, losing it would have been more than he could endure. He had to be careful.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Means ''thin birch'' in Sindarin, according to Robert Foster.
(2) See: ''A Brief Description of Númenor'' in The Unfinished Tales. The Fragrant Trees growing in Edhellond is, of course, my imagination only.
(3) Both Gildor's parents lived in Valinor and had spent mere decades in Middle-earth, according to my stories. Quenya is still the language spoken by the Elves of Valinor, so it was evident for me that Inglor and Aratari would taught it their children first.
(4) In Transsylvania (where I spent my childhood), butter and cheese still often are made from the milk of buffaloes. The butter is very, very white, is often formed in great, round chunks, and has a uniquely fresh taste. I got carried away by childhood memories a little. Sorry.
(5) Loosely quoted after a paragraph from ''Smith of Wootton Major'' by JRR Tolkien.

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