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-13, for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

Author's Notes:

Finally, we reached the part so many of you were desperately waiting for! <g> Erestor accepts the role of the First Lover; ie: the one who teaches a newly matured youth the secrets of love-making; actually considered an honour among Elves - among *my* Elves, that is. And no, this is still *not* an AU. I haven't changed any *canon* facts, especially considering that the Great Maker didn't tell us a thing about Erestor, Lindir or even Gildor. I just happen to disagree with his view on Elven life.

Lindir's education took roughly 300 years, mostly because due to his unique upbringing he was a lot more immature - or innocent - than other Elves; so Elrond and his peeople really took their time with him.

Warning: a lot of dialogue and considerably less action here. Even though this is a First Time story, it's the emotional interaction I'm mostly interested in.

Also, giving credit those who deserve it: the original idea of the Choosing Ceremony was conceived by Cheyenne Dancer, if I remember correctly.<deep, admiring bow> However, the *actual* form of it as well as the details are mine.

Chapter 12: Coming of Age

[The 1st day of Enderi - the Middle Days - in the year 839 of the Third Age.]

It had been a long time since the Wandering Company lastly visited Imladris. More than a hundred years, in fact - at least how mortal Men count the passing of time. For Elves, 'tis but the wink of an eye, of course. Still, many of them felt happy to see the beauty of Elrond's hidden valley once more. Their journey had led them on different paths lately, and when on road, they spent the winter seasons in Eryn Galen or in the Grey Havens, by Círdan. Their Lord had felt the need to visit Elostirion repeatedly.

But this time was different. They were invited to come to Elrond's realm for the great feast of the Middle Days. Also, in this year the festival had a very rare significance: Lindir of Rhosgobel has finally fome of age.

Giving in to Celebrían's gentle pressure, Elrond finally agreed that their young charge had learnt all that he would ever be able to learn, and that keeping him in a child's status would be as unwise as it would be cruel. So, Elrond had given the nod, and preparations for the biggest feast since the Lady Arwen's own ceremony had immediately begun.

Messages were sent to the South Haven, to Lothlórien and even to Eryn Galen, in hope that Thranduil's folk would know how to find Aiwendil, and soon guests of the many different places began to arrive. Haldir and Fíriel were the first ones who came, joining the escort of the Lady Arwen with their children - now three of them, the youngest still a mere toddler, and they seriously planned to have at least one more, regardlessof the strength that birthing them had cost Fíriel already.

King Amroth had sent his regards, regretting that he could not leave his realm to join the feast, not with his first counsellor gone, and even the Lord Celeborn had done the same. Surprising for all, Aiwendil (who was called Radagast the Brown among the Woodmen) was next to arrive, and Lindir's joy knew no boundaries. At once, he forgot all about his own upcoming ceremony, spending his days with the withered old wizard, trying to bridge centuries of separation in a mere week(1). Celebrían had to drag him in the house by force, in order to make at least *some* preprarations, so enthralled he had become.

Finally, on the very morrow of the festival itself, the Wandering Company arrived, too. They had came a long way, for the message had reached them somewhere deep in South Gondor, and they had to travel swiftly if they wanted to be on time. Even so, he barely managed to do it.

Erestor, as it was his duty, came drown from the Great House to greet them. If he wanted to be honest, at least to himself, he *did* feel a little awkward, This was the first time he had to face Gildor since his visit in the South Haven - the first time he knew not what to expect.

To his great relief, the Elf-Lord seemed to be his unchanged self: proud, kingly nad more than a little arrogant to every one, except his own people. And yet, as they clasped each other's forearms in the time-honoured warriors' fashion, Erestor thought to see a subtle change in those cold, sea-hued eyes. There was sorrow, for sure, even more than it had been before - but they were more calm, less haunted than they used to be.

They stood motionless, holding each other's forearm for endless moments, to the great astonishment of both Gildor's and Elrond's people who were standing around, looking at them curiously. The eager conversation stopped slowly, as if they had waited for something... strange to happen.

'''Tis good to see you again, Erestor'', the Elf-Lord finally said, releasing the younger Elf's arm. ''You look good.''

''And you, my Lord'', Erestor replied with a slight bow. ''We all are glad that you could make it in time. 'Tis a great day for all of us. For Lindir above all others.''

''And an important one for yourself, no doubt'', said Gildor, for once without his usual, haughty smile. ''Your long labours with the boy will end now.''

''That they would'', Erestor agreed a little sadly, falling in step on Gildor's side while escorting the high-ranking guest to his usual temporary home, a nicely-built, otherwise empty house further down in the valley. ''It will be... strange, to say the least. I truly have become accustomed to having him with me all the time.''

Gildor nodded, and they walked in silence down the winding paths of the valley. The others, having their homes next to their Lord's, followed them quietly from some distance, to give them a little privacy.

''He will choose you, you know'', Gildor said after a while. Erestor shrugged.

''He might. He might make a different choice. We cannot know for sure.''

''*Every* one knows what his choice will be'', Gildor replied with an impatient gesture. ''Even I. Only you are blind enough to doubt his infatuation with you.''

''I *do* know about that'', Erestor said, ''though I never encouraged him. He deserves better.''

''In *that* we agree'', Gildor answered bluntly. ''The child is a rare gift of the Valar and should live according his high birth. But my opinion, or even yours, changes not the fact that he only has eyes for you. Mayhap getting finally what he has longed for in all these years will wake him from his childish dreams.''

''Erestor bit his lower lip; the casual remark, even though made without the earlier intense hostility Gildor used to show towards him, stung nevertheless. More so that he had to admit that the Lord of Edhellond was right. Lindir *did* deserve someone better than him, and were his long-nurtured roamntic dreams comforted by reality, mayhap he *would* realize that, too.

''That would be probably the best - for us all'', he replied quietly. Gildor gave him a sharp lookfrom the side but said naught. Still, Erestor had the feeling that Lindir's uncle doubted the sincerity of his words.

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

As it had become customary ever since Celebrían first introduced the Sindarin custom of the Chosing Ceremoní to Imladris, the feast was held in the Hall of Fire. Elrond took his high seat, as always during ceremonies, and his family sat on his side: his sons, including Erestor, on his right, Celebrían and Arwen on his left, also called the heart-side among Elves. Lindir was seated on the opposite end of the Hall, between the old wizard and Gildor, who both represented his family.

Glorfindel, who served as the Ceremony Master, being the eldest of Elrond's household, stood in the middle of the Hall with the Lady Aquiel, who had been chosen to assist him in his duties. They both were clad in forest green, their long, golden hair unbraided, for they took over the rôle of the forces of nature.

When the silver bells chimed, signalising the beginning of the festival, Glorfindel turned to Elrond and Celebrían, saying:

''My Lady, my Lord, at the beginning of the Middle Days, I announce you with joy that a child of our community has come of age. I respectfully ask you to allow him the step into adulthood and to give him your blessing when reaching this first milestone of maturity.''

''Let the father bring the child before us'', Elrond answered, as it was custom.

This, however, led to an awkward moment, for both Gildor and Radagast rose to bring Lindir before the Lord of the Valley. According to law, both had the right to do so, and every one in the Hall waited with caught breath whom the youngling would choose. Lindir looked from one to the other in anguish for a moment - then he reached for Radagast's hand. Gildor slumped back onto his seat in defeat, the pain over the rejection clearly visible for a fleeting moment upon his unguarded face. Then he straightened again, his usual, cold mask sliding back in place.

The old wizard now led his ward to the Lord's high chair, and Lindir kneeled, as he had been taught to do. Elrond looked fondly into those wide, innocent eyes, smiled and said:

''Lindir of Rhosgobel, long hath thou dwelt under my roof in the safety of a wwell-protected child, and we all cherish the memory of those years. But even the longest childhood has to end one day; and thy time has finally come. Art thou ready to give up the safety and freedom of childhood for the burdens and responsibilities of adult life?''

''I am ready, my Lord'', Lindir answered, though his voice trembled a little. Long has he waited for this very moment, yet now that it had come, he was more than a little scared.

''Then the Lady of the Valley and I welcome thee as a grown citizen of Imladris and grant thee all the rights and freedoms that come with this status'', said Elrond formally.

Then both he and Celebrían kissed Lindir on the brow, and after cutting off a symbolic lock that was left folating away freely in the evening breeze, the Lady Aquiel began to braid Lindir's hair in an adult fashion. She made two thin braids above each delicately pointed ear and weaved them together on the back of Lindir's head, fastening them with a butterly-shaped silver clasp.

Now officially an adult, Lindir rose to his feet and accepted the congratulations and best wishes of his friends and family, and every one looked at him in awe, for he semed to have matured many years in these mere moments - and was so radiantly beautiful as never before.

After all have embraced and kissed and congratulated the young Elf, Glorfindel asked the guests to take their seats again and turned back to Lindir.

''Lindir of Rhosgobel, 'tis the time-honoured custom of the Grey-Elves that every young one who has reached adulthood choose someone who would teach them the ways of loving. Hath thou made thy Choice?''

Lindir nodded gravely. ''Indeed, I have, Master Glorfindel.''

''Then name us the one of thy Choice.''

Lindir smiled, albeit with slightly quivering lips, and announced: ''I have chosen Erestor, the son of Hargil and Numuial, for my First Time.''

Glorfindel nodded. The choice surprised no-one, in truth. The whole valley knew that Lindir was in love with his tutor - and had been for a long time. The ancient Elf now turned to Erestor.

''Doth thou accept this choice, Erestor, son of Hargil and Nimuial?''

''I do'', Erestor answered quietly. Not that there would be any other choice, either. Refusing a youth on his Choosing Ceremony would have been the worst insult possible. Not that he *wanted* to refuse lindir, of course, and Glorfindel knew that, mayhap more certain that he knew it himself.

''So be it'', the Ceremony Master said with a smile. ''May the Valar bless thy Frist Time with joy, young one.''

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

Now, that the traditional words had been spoken, Lindir took his Chosen One by the hand and led him to his chambers, that - considering his recent status as an under-aged youngling - contained only an airy room to sleep in, with the inevitable adjoined balcony, looking to one of the inner gardens, a small bathing chamber and an equally small room for his clothes.

Part of the large bedchamber was made into a small study, with a tall, narrow writing desk in the best-lit corner - the sort at which the scribe had to write in the old, standing fashion - the beautiful harp he was given in Lothlórien standing beside it, and with a few shelves containing leather-bound copies of old books of lore. Copies that had been made by Lindir's own skilled hands.

Among other talents, he also had a beautiful handwriting, too, and Elrond gave him pemission to make copies for himself of the books he was most interested in - mostly books of ancient legends and music, but also of herbal lore. There were times when the Elders of the House wished Pengolod(2) hadn't left Middle-Earth after the fall of Eregion; Lindir would have made an excellent student of ancient tongues.

Erestor had been in this room before. Many times, in fact, since he used to be Lindir's tutor, and many of their lessons had been given here, in this very chamber. Yet this was a greatly different occasion, as the garlands of holly and red berries and other floral ornaments that had adorned the room showed at once, and, truth to be told, he felt a slight, nervous fluttering in his stomach, knowing that from now on their relationship would change for ever.

It took him a long time 'til he came to realize that Lindir had been in love with him through all those centuries the youngling had spent in Imladris (according to Elladan, who had seen it coming all along, he was a bit dense when it came to the matters of heart); and it took him even longer to admit his own feelings for the young Elf - well, he still was in denial about *that* part, at least to some extent.

Not that Lindir would not deserve to be loved - quite the contrary. Erestor felt *himself* unworthy of such a bounty. After all, the youngling was not only gifted and beautiful, he was of royal blood, too, even if he refused to be adopted into Gildor Inglorion's family.

But now the time of hesitation was over. Finally reaching his legal maturity - after such an unnaturally long period, due to his unique upbringing -, Lindir had made his choice, honouring Erestor with the role of the First Lover, who had to introduce him to the joys of flesh... but in their case it was more than just the time-honoured custom of Elves. Lindir had chosen out of love - something that was rare among the Firstborn who usually found the lover of their life hundreds of years *after* their First Time.

Elrohir and the Lady Aquiel were considered a rarity in this matter.

''There were times when I feared this day shall never come'', said Lindir softly, and in his wide, sea-hued eyes there was a light that could not have been seen anywhere else, not even in Valinor, *before* the poisoning the Two Trees. ''How my heart has yearned for this hour in all those long and lonely years, when you were at arm's length and yet out of my reach! How have I feared that my heart's desire shall never be granted! Yet lo! We are here now, and soon we shall become as one. Oh, what a very lucky Elf I am, indeed!''

Erestor similed and shook his head in sorrow.
''Nay, little one, speak not like this. You still have many years before you ere you shall choose your soul-mate. That is a matter of long and careful consideration, for a bond like such cannot be re-made, not even after the end of Arda. Make not any hasty promises - not to me and not to yourself. This is your First Time; an event of great importance for a young Elf, yet naught more.''

'''Tis everything I have ever wanted, and more'', Lindir replied, eyes dilating to almost complete blackness with desire. ''Had you rejected me, *indolírë*, I would have fled this body by sunrise and never returned from Mandos' Halls again. There is no-one else for me but you, and never shall be.''

He held out a slender hand and in the dim light of the scented beeswax candles it seemed to tremble; also, there was a faint glittering in his darkened eyes as if he would fight back tears - tears of bliss or tears of despair, Erestor could not tell.

''In all days of my life, I never felt such eagerness and such fear'', he continued, swallowing hard to be able to speak at all.

Erestor reached forth his own, somewhat broader hand (the inheritance from a father who spent endless centuries at an anvil, wielding the heavy hammer), and hesitantly his strong fingers, that knew the string of the bow just as well as the hilt of a sword, even if he only wielded the pen in those days, closed over the slender white ones stretched toward him, that would never even touch a weapon. Lindir breathed deeply at the contact, and it seemed to Erestor that the glitter of tears would flood his dreamy eyes.

''What would you fear on such a day?'', he asked gently. '''Tis a day of great joy, not only for you, but for us as well, who can release a beloved child from our care into maturity. You are your own Elf now - no-one can make you aught that you would rather not do.''

''I feared that you would reject me - again'', Lindir answered, his voice slightly trembling, ''just as you did a hundred years ago. That you would not feel the same for me I feel for you.''

"What I would or would not feel, is of no importence when a Choosing Ceremony is held," Erestor said gently, patiently, " even If I would believe that binding a young Elf of your descent and beauty and gifts to someone like me would be the right thing to do, regardless the passion I feel for you. Little one, do you know what you are doing?"

Gently he released the Lindir's hand and turned away, his cheeks burning, driven by the despair he always felt when Gildor reminded the dwellers of the valley of Lindir's true heritage.

"You have brought to your chamber the orphaned son of a mere jewel-smith wo is alive but for the grace of our Lord and who is hardly good enough to take care of his household. You, Ingwil son of Duilin, are a creature of light and air, a beautiful songbird bathing in the first pale sunrays of the blossoming spring, and I - I am but a sorted-out warhorse, limping through his life bothered by the remainders of old injuries!"

He spoke bitterly, with heated passion, wanting to convince the youngling to reconsider, to look out for a partner more worthy, but desperately fearing such a decision at the same time.

But Lindir only laughed at him, a gentle, merry sound like the ringing of water falling into the basin of a silver fountain.

"A songbird!" he chided, but his voice was full of warmth and tenderness. "No songbird would I be, but a mute fish without you, hiding in the darkest corners of a cold lake. And have you forgotten that faithful beast, my horse, that alone gave me some solace after Master Aiwendil had left? Were you not the one who seeked me out and found me in the stables, holding me in your arms to comfort me in the dark loneliness of that first night?''

Now it was Erestor's turn to swallow hart, because this was very true, and it seemed that that very first night Lindir spent in Imladris had already bound them together, without them knowing of it. It was him now who held out a hand, and Lindir, with the grace of an egret indeed, swooped upon him and threw himself in Erestor's arms.

They held one another tightly in this first true embrace, and their kiss was long and gentle, as natural as the spring rain. When at last it ended they did not let go of each other, but Lindir hid his face in the gentle curve of his beloved's neck, and now it was Erestor who felt the heat of tears swelling up in his eyes.

''My eyes have never seen the light of the Jewels(3), save the Evening Star itself'', he murmured, his voice trembling; ''nor had those of my fathers. ''But when the Lord Celebrimbor visited our house, he often told us, children about their great beauty. Yet I cannot belive that their light could even come close to the light in your eyes; and their beauty would fade in the face of yours.'' He paused for a moment, and now his voice regained its stability; it was solemn and intimate. ''My heart is full of it... full of *you*.''

He gently lifted Lindir's face, pushing the young Elf at arm's length from himself to be able to look into his eyes. The youngling's eyes were wide and dark - every bit of blue was gone from them, the only thing remaining the widened pupils and a deep trust, and Erestor felt his chest tightening with fear again, for such a limitless trust put a burden on the one who had been trusted not to betray the other, and he felt, once again, not strong enough to carry such a burden.

Once more he reached out, running his fingers through the youngling's silky hair, heavy in his hand like like the molten silver, mixed with gold in his father's workshop, where Hargil would make delicate jewelry from the rare alloy of *ithildin* to adorn the dark tresses of the moon-dancers, following the teachings of the visiting Dwarves.

/How strange/, he thought absently, /that I would compare the beauty of that whom I love to the precious metals my father loved so much - almost as much as he loved his own family./

He was brought back from his ill-timed musings by a soft touch on his cheek. The long fingers of the young minstrel were caressing his hair that he wore in a tight knot on his nape, in the fashion of the jewel-smiths of Eregion. He had returned to this hairdo after the his visit in Gildor's realm - unsure himself, why exactly he did; mayhap it was some unconscious re-bonding with his own roots.

''May I let down your hair?'', Lindir asked softly. ''I have not seen them unbound for so long... I liked them in braids, when the light could play with the dark tresses.''

Erestor smiled, feeling a little less nervous now, and nodded in agreement. The simple leather cord that bound his hair together and doubled over itself was no match for Lindir's nimble fingers, and it fell over Erestor's shoulders that were surprisingly broad for an Elf, though a Man mayhap would found his stature common enough. But he was not only the son of a hard-working craftsman, he had begun to learn his father's crafts at a very young age, lifting a hammer made for a Man grown as a young elfling still.

His hair was different from that of the nobles of the Eldar: dark, almost black, but with a hint of copper upon it, thick and slightly wavy, and though soft to the touch, a little coarse. Compared with the sleek glossiness of Lindir's hair, it even seemed rough - Erestor felt all together much too rough to even touch such exquisite beauty as Lindir's.

But the youngling did not seem disturbed over their differences at all. He finger-combed Erestor's hair with obvious delight - then he fetched a wooden comb from his bathing chamber, ran it through the dark tresses and re-braided them in a manner Erestor had wore his hair at the time he was brought to Imladris - well, almost. At that time Erestor's bbraids most certainly were not adorned with the same delicate lover's knots.

''Are you casting some sort of spell upon me?'', Erestor asked softly, for indeed, such knots were meant to bind the heart of those that wore them as well as his hair.

''None other than the power of my love'', Lindir answered solemnly, leaning near to place a gentle kiss on his lips. ''Would you allow me to remove your robes?''

''Can I deny you aught?'', Erestor replied with a question of his own, but his playfulness was gone at once seeing the uncanny depths of passion and sorrow in those dreamy eyes.

''Aye, you can'', Lindir murmured, ''yet I hope with all my heart that you shall not do so. Not tonight. Nay'', he added quietly, placing a slender finger over Erestor's mouth before he could have protested; ''you told me not to make promises I might not keep later. Now I ask you the same.''

Astonished by the wisdom of his young lover's words, Erestor simply nodded and allowed Lindir to undress him, peeling off slowly the many layers of gold-embroided, heavy ceremonial robes. He felt strangely vulnerable. Rarely had he before cared for the fact that his whole body was criss-crossed with old scars - truthfully, his few other lovers (Elladan before all else) had admired them greatly as the proof of his valiant fights that they really were. Yet now, facing the unblemished beauty of his as-yet untouched lover, he felt damaged and ugly.

And indeed, Lindir had vanished from him like a shadow, and he felt a strange ache in his hearts, thinking that the youngling, indeed, regertted his choice and would back out of it. Lindir, however, was only taking taking a lamp from the mantle of the small fireplace to light it from the fire with a straw.

"'Tis not the time to hide in darkness," he said, turning back to him with intense eyes. "I would want a better look at your honourable scars. I want to know them. All of them."

With that, he held out his free hand and led Erestor to his bed - the same square, oversized sort with a beautifully carved headboard, this one wrought into the shape of a white tree with golden blossoms - and gestured him to lay down. Then he sat on the bedrand, putting the lamp on the nightstand and scrutinized Erestor's scarred skin with deep concentration.

Then he reached out and touched the strange, puckered scar under Erestor's collarbone, the only remainder of a routine partol gone terribly wrong.
''This one'', he said. ''What caused it?''

''An Orc-arow'', Erestor sighed impatiently. ''Little one, is this truly the time to tell old wartime stories?''

''Wartime stories are of no interest for me'', Lindir replied, ''but now that you have gifted the unveiled sight of your body upon me, I want to learn it. All of it. *And* I want to learn the ways you can be taken from me.''

''What for?'', Erestor asked. ''One cannot always avoid all the perils life can bring. Not in Middle-earth. Not as long as all evils are not perished.''

''I know that'', Lindir said, ''but I need to be prepared. Time might come that you shall be forced to go to war again, and I would not be able to join you. I need to know what to expect. Now, tell me!''

Erestor sighed. The last thing he needed was re-living his vicious fights and completely ruin what promised to be a night of sweet pleasure. But he knew that Lindir had his own way to deal with violence and loss, and he saw that the youngling was mortified by the sight of his scars, some of which truly looked hideous, even after more than a thousand years.

So he sighed and told Lindir the story of the unlucky patrol. Strangely, it seemed not to upset the youngling. He simply nodded, thanked him and leaned down to drag his tongue sensuously over the puckered surface of what once had been a poisoned wound.

''Now it is mine'', he declared in a proprietary manner; then he slid his fingertips down to a long, thin scar on Erestor's left side, almost completely faded away during the immense length of time that had passed in-between. ''What about this?''

''I cannot be sure'', Erestor replied, starting to get into the spirit of things, ''most likely a dagger cut. I got it during the fall of Ost-in-Edhil as a little elfling. Our troups had to retreat so hurriedly, the Lord Elrond only detected it when it was already half-healed.''

''It matters not'', Lindir stated, giving the old scar a similar treatment, ''for this, too, is mine now.'' Then he trailed with his fingers a long, thick and still very ugly scar that run across Erestor's ribcage, from his right breast down to his left hip. ''What is this?''

''Werewolf attack upon the plain of Dagorlad'', Erestor said, shuddering from the mere memory of it. ''They would have eaten me alive if not for Gildor. Their fangs were so sharp, they cut through my mail shirt cleanly... I was halfway to Mandos' Halls when your uncle came along and slew the foul beasts with two short, hand-held blades.''

''He is *not* my uncle'', Lindir murmured more out of custom than true denial, kissing and licking along the horrible scar, ''not truly. Yet I am still very grateful that he saved you - for me.''

Erestor reached out to ran his hands through the silky cascade of moonray-hair, hissing softly with pleasure. Then a thought occured to him.
''May I ask you something, little one?''

''Mmm'', Lindir murmured incoherently, continuing his ministrations. It was rather... distracting, but Erestor could be as stubborn as the next Elf when he wanted to know something.

''Why have you refused to be adopted by Gildor? You *are* the last twig of the royal tree of the Finwëans, after all.''

Lindir let go of him, straightened and his face became hard as marble.
''If I had joined his family, he would never have allowed me to be with you. There is naught on this Earth or over the Sea I would give you up for. You are the one for whom I have waited all my life, and ere would I flee my body than bond myself to someone other.''

Erestor sighed. Regardless of his tender feelings towards the youngling, this was too much for him. He still was not prepared to bond himself, not out of fear for his own heart, but for that of Lindir. What if the passion of youth faded? Would Lindir still want him, and only him? Could he give his young lover aught that would be worth of sacrifying his own family, however far removed it might be? Or would their love end in bitter disappointment, with both their hearts broken?

He caught one slender hand and pulled it to his own breast, laying it flat over his heart.

''Let us not speak of such things, dear one'', he said gently. ''This is but your First Time, not a bonding ceremony. Once you asked me to teach you the ways of loving - and here I am, ready to do just that. Would you be content with that much for now?''

''If 'tis the blessed week of Choosing alone that you are willing to give me, then I shall gladly take it'', Lindir murmured. ''It will change naught in my heart.''

''That, at least I can give you now'', Erestor said. ''What is to come, we shall see as it comes. We cannot look into the times that are not yet, and there is no use to anguish about them. Come, dear heart, let me give you joy, as once you wanted to give it to me. Now is the time when we are allowed to do that.''

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

Far apart from the music and dance that crowned the first Eve of Enderi, in one of Elrond's gardens, two gold-haired Elf-Lords sat in sorrowful silence. They had been sitting there for hours now, not speaking a single word. It was Gildor, who finally broke the silence.

''And so it ends'', he said with a fatalistic sigh. ''I have fought so hard for this child - ever since I met him for the first time - and finally I lost. He was the last hope for the House of Finrod to have heirs, even though by adoption - now all hope is lost. Unless my parents had an other child in the Blessed Realm, that is. But for Middle-earth, our House is lost.''

''Or unless you should have a change of heart'', Glorfindel agreed sadly. Gildor shook his head.

''I cannot. I have tried it, Glorfindel... I tried it *very* hard. I told myself it would be my duty. But you know yourself what being soul-bound, *truly* bound, not by some ceremony only, means for one of us.''

''Oh, I know, believe me'', Glorfindel nodded. '''Tis strong enough to bring you back from the dead, should you still be needed.''

''So there is no second chance for any of us - is this what you mean?'', Gildor asked.

''Nay, 'tis not. *I have* got my second chance, after all, even though it means that I might have to wait for another Age to take it. But the true question is: *do* you want to be freed from your bond?'', Glorfindel asked back seriously.

''Nay, I want not'', Gildor answered. ''All I want is to be with him again. But that is not likely to happen before the end of Arda.''

''I fear not'', Glorfindel admitted; then, after some length of time, he asked the one question he had wanted to ask Gildor since the begin of this Age. ''Is this the reason why you still tarry in Middle-earth?''

''The mean reason'', Gildor nodded slowly. ''And the fact that here, at least, I still can be useful.''

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

End notes:

(1) Which means only six days in the Calendar of Imlardis. Just reminding you. ;-)
(2)''The most resourceful scholar Tolkien wrote about was Pengolod, a half-Noldo/half-Sindar Elf of Gondolin who joined the Lambengolmor, the Masters of Tongues, a school of loremasters founded by Fëanor in Aman and who (apparently) joined in the rebellion of the Noldor even though Fëanor had long since ceased to work with languages.
We know little of the history of the Lambengolmor. They studied Sindarin and probably some Nandorin and Avarin dialects in Beleriand, but much of their knowledge was lost when the Noldorin kingdoms began to fall. Those of the Lambengolmor who survived the destruction in the north eventually settled in Arvernien, and later moved on to the Isle of Balar with Círdan and Gil-galad, or else they remained followers of the sons of Fëanor. In the Second Age Pengolod settled in Eregion and it was probably there he (and possibly others) studied Khuzdul, the Dwarven language.
Pengolod was the only loremaster of the Lambengolmor to survive the catastrophic War of the Elves and Sauron, and when the battles were finished he took ship from Mithlond and left Middle-earth forever, last of his kind to grace Middle-earth. With him departed much ancient knowledge which had not been committed to books.'' (Michael Martinez: Them Dwarves, them Dwarves! Part 2)
(3)The Silmarils.

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