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.
Author’s
notes:
Time: (862, 3rd Age – after the death of King Eärendur and the division of Arnor)
Angelimir’s nickname, Maglilthadir (= Sword Dancer) was created and donated by the most generous Orchyd Constyne. *bows in gratitude*
Beta-read by the generous Larian Elensar. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Summary:
Elrond’s family is on their way to Lothlórien to witness
Arwen’s betrothal ceremony to King Amroth. They make a rest
near the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil, and Erestor faces a few memories.
CHAPTER 10: SLEEPING DEMONS
[The 36th day of coirë, in the year 836 of the Third Age]
The rather
impressive travelling party of Elrond’s household made its way
with comfortable speed southwards. There were not due to arrive
in Caras Galadhon before the end of the stirring season, and they
travelled on horseback; so there was no need to hurry. ’Twas
not unusual that someone from Imladris – in most times the Lady
Celebrían or her daughter – went to visit the Golden Wood for
a while; however, it very rarely happened that the Lord of the
Valley accompanied her, with almost his whole household, leaving
Glorfindel behind in charge.
But this was not
a common occasion, either. They went to witness the betrothal of
Arwen Undómiel with King Amroth of Lothlórien.
This time they
took the way through Eregion – well, the remains of it, to be
more accurate – as the High Pass was still covered with snow.
But further south, so the winged messengers had reported, the
pass of Caradhras was free already, so they could cross the
mountains without being forced to go through the great Dwarven
city under the Hithaeglir. That was something they would not do,
unless in dire need. Not that the Dwarves would refuse them the
entrance – the relations between Imladris and Moria were
passable, if not too friendly – but Elves generally disliked
enclosed spaces, more so those under the earth.
The only one who
would have no problems going through Moria was Erestor. He had
already been there in his early childhood and still remembered
the vast mansions and great halls of the Dwarven city with awe.
But even though he would not mind to see this small part of his
childhood again, he knew that Lindir would panic in the long dark
of Moria. The young minstrel would be hard-pressed to endure a
walk under the earth, without feeling the caress of sunshine and
wind upon his face. Lindir was not unlike the woodland folk –
which was no wonder, considering the fact that he had spent his
early years in Radagast’s airy wooden halls in Rhosgobel.
Many of
Elrond’s household shared Lindir’s feelings towards Moria,
thus Erestor agreed with Elrond’s decision to take the Redhorn
pass instead of the Dwarven mines. Besides, this way they could
go on horseback which eased their journey immensely. The
magnificent Elven horses of Elrond’s house – descendants of
those given to Fingolfin by Maedhros as part of his atonement –
were sure-footed and could walk the steep and narrow mountain
paths with ease.
Thus they
journeyed swiftly through the empty lands between the Mountains
and the River Gwathló, undisturbed by both beasts and Men. Wild
and beautiful these lands were, having long returned to their
original state, as no Elves had the heart to settle here after
the horrible fate of Eregion. Men dared not to cross the River
Glanduin, for Dwarves had no tolerance for trespassers into the
lands that they considered theirs after Celebrimbor and his
people were gone. The Dwarves had no true use for those lands,
but they kept them untouched by others, in honour of Celebrimbor,
whom they had considered a most valued ally and called
Dwarf-friend.
Though the
stirring season was to two-thirds over already, the air was still
chilly and the sunshine pale and cool when they reached a low
ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees whose grey-green trunks
seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills.
Their dark leaves shone and their red berries – wrinkled and
dried, but still present from the previous loa – glowed
in the light of the settling sun.
“Is this it?”
asked Lindir softly, slipping a slender hand into Erestor’s;
they rode close enough to reach each other with little effort.
Erestor nodded.
“It is. We have
come to Eregion – or what is left of its chief city,
Ost-in-Edhil of the once-white walls.”
“Have you ever
been there since… since its fall?” Lindir was not certain if
he should ask such things, yet he could not help it. He was
curious, eager to learn more about the reserved, solitary Elf
whom he loved with all the gentle passion of his youthful heart.
Erestor shook his head.
“Never…
‘til now.”
“But you do
remember what it was like back then, do you not?”
“Of course I
do. I was a little elfling during the Fall, but no toddler. I
could tell you about the gardens and fountains and orchards and
the white-walled mansions. I still can find the place where the
House of the Mírdain used to stand, with Minas Elenath, the
Tower of Stars that was Lord Celebrimbor’s home… or the other
gild houses. And I can show you what once was my parents’
house, if you want me to.”
“I do,”
answered Lindir solemnly. “I would be honoured to share your
memories.”
“Be careful
what you wish for, little one,” Erestor sighed. “It might be
less than pleasant, you know.”
They were
interrupted by Elrond’s orders to settle for the night, and for
a while there would be eager work to prepare their night shelter
and the evening meal.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
They made camp
outside the ruins of the city, for Elrond, too, had painful
memories concerning Ost-in-Edhil. Erestor seemingly vanished,
during the preparations, and Lindir could not find him, no matter
how much he looked. But the Lady Celebrían, who had visited
Celebrimbor’s halls with her parents in her youth, offered to
walk with Lindir around and share her memories of the early days
of peace in Eregion.
“Those were
good years,” she remembered, sitting with Lindir on the river
bank, while the waters of the Glanduin expanded before their eyes
in a great, gentle arch, so broadly that it needed an Elven eye
to glimpse whatever might have been on the other side, “the
ones before Annatar came to seduce and corrupt the Mírdain. For
the first time since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth, we
lived in peace, even with the Naugrim. It was when rumours
came that they had found mithril in the deep mines of
Moria that Celebrimbor decided to leave the High King’s court
in Lindon and come here to build his city. And many of the
artisans who once belonged to the gild of his father and
grandfather followed him. For a while, this was the most
sought-after Elven realm aside from the court.”
“I remember
Gildor mentioning it a few times,” said Lindir thoughtfully.
“He always seemed so sad when speaking of this place.”
“He and
Celebrimbor were close,” replied Celebrían, “closer than any
descendants of the two lines had ever been. Yet it brought him
naught but sorrow. And he clutches his own pain as if it were a
treasure.”
“Is that why he
seems so rude most of the time?” asked Lindir. Celebrían
smiled at the naively blunt question.
“He is not
rude,” she replied, “he is hurting. Too proud to ask for
help, or even to accept it when it is offered freely; but also to
afraid of letting the pain go, for that is the only thing he
feels he still can have.”
“Is he
right?” asked Lindir after an extended period of silent
contemplation. Celebrían shrugged, her beautiful face clouded
with sorrow.
“I know not. I
hope I shall never learn what it is like, spending yéni
over yéni shrouded in my own pain and sorrow. Mayhap it
would make me – or you, for that matter –
haughty and unpleasant or even cruel, just to keep ourselves from
getting hurt again. I cannot say,” she rose and extended her
hand to Lindir. “Come, little one. Let us walk around the ruins
and find out if I still can tell you what we are looking at.”
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Two thousand
years after it had been gone, burnt to its very foundations, he
still could see the two-store mansion, made of white stone, near
the bank of the Glanduin River, surrounded by trees and tall
bushes. The orchard in the back yard, protected by a high stone
wall against the cold winds coming from the Hithaeglir. The
small, artificial pond in the front yard, with the bronze statue
of a long-tressed Wingildi, one of Lord Ossë’s water spirits,
sitting on a rock in the middle, the water spraying high from her
raised hand. All he had to do was to close his eyes, and he could
even smell the sweet fragrance of his mother’s rose beds.
They had a rather
large house for a family of common birth, but there was room
enough in Ost-in-Edhil when it was built. And they did not live
there alone, either. Under the house Angelimir, his father’s
older brother had his smithy, where he worked with his aides.
Angelimir was a swordsmith and a weapons master, but he did not
want to join any of the city’s guilds, preferring to work
alone. His chambers – and those of his aides, when he happened
to have some – were on the ground floor. There he also had a
wide, airy room where he taught the younger Elves how to wield
the magnificent swords made by his own hands.
Erestor’s
father, Hargil, was not fond of weapons, and neither was Nimuial,
his wife. They were both born after the War of Wrath, during a
time of lasting peace, and they saw not the necessity of forging
weapons or learning to wield them. They believed the war belonged
to the past and that the peace would prevail.
But Angelimir
Maglilthadir, Angelimir the Sword-dancer, was different. He had
seen the last decade of the horrible war; had watched the lands
of his birth crumbling into the Sea, shaking under the wrath of
Valar, as a young elfling. The horrible images of death and
destruction were imprinted on his young mind too deeply to
believe in lasting peace.
So he chose to be
prepared. When their parents followed the call of Eönwë and
sailed to the West with the Host of Valinor, Angelimir remained
in Lindon with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the brotherhood to which
his father belonged, and he kept his underage brother with him.
He said that their parents had no right to take them away from
the only home they had ever known. Not unless the Sea called out
to them.
‘Twas a long
and bitter argument, but finally their parents gave in and sailed
without them. And now, almost two Ages later, Erestor wished his
grandparents had been more… persuasive. Granted, that might
have meant that his parents would never meet and he would be
never born. But at least his family would not be dead now,
either.
Still, he could
not help remembering his uncle with admiration. When he closed
his eyes, he could see the slender figure of Angelimir, clad in
dark leggings and a shadowy grey tunic, dark hair pulled back and
bound in a tight ponytail on the nape of his neck. Standing
barefooted in the middle of the sunlit fencing room, sea-grey
eyes half-closed, hawkish face taut with concentration, a long,
marvellously-forged sword held before him with a steady hand.
He could hear his
uncle’s sharp voice that used to capture the attention not only
of his pupils but also that of Erestor who lurked in a shadowy
corner, while Angelimir was teaching the young warriors of the
nature of a sword.
‘If you want
your sword to protect you and your loved ones, you must cease
thinking of it as a mere weapon,’ he used to say. ‘You must
think of it as a living thing, as part of your own body and soul.
You must bond with your sword, become one with it, and it
will never betray you. There are many weapons you can wield in
need to your defence, but only one sword that would become
part of you. ‘Tis not easy to find the one and only sword that
would utterly belong to you – but if you are lucky enough to
find it, you shall be able to stop armies on your own… for a
while anyway.’
Many times had
Erestor heard his uncle speaking these words – or similar ones.
And Angelimir lived up to his own expectation, tenfold. Erestor
had been taught and trained by the greatest of the Eldar, by
Glorfindel Balrog-slayer and Elrond themselves, and he had seen
such giants in battle as Gil-galad or Celeborn or Oropher of the
Greenwood, not to mention Gildor Inglorion in full battle rage.
But never had he seen anyone being as one with his sword
as Angelimir Maglilthadir.
Angelimir, the
Sword-dancer. Not without reason was his uncle called thusly.
When launching into a fight, Angelimir’s moves truly became a
dance – music captioned in motion. He became one being with his
sword, as if it were a living limb of some sort – a limb that
was quick and deadly. The rest of his body only served the
sword’s purposes, as if it had a mind of its own.
The sword had
become the very focus of Angelimir’s life. He had no family of
his own, though in hindsight Erestor realized that his uncle had
male lovers among his sword-brothers. Shield-mates they called
each other, forming a brotherhood of warriors in a time of peace,
with no families, no children, no other bonds than that of their
brotherhood and their trade. And the oath that they had sworn –
that they would protect their city and their people at any costs
and by any means necessary.
Sometimes Erestor
found the similarities between his uncle and himself darkly
amusing. Granted, he could never reach Angelimir’s skills with
the sword, but again, no-one else could. But he had trained and
fought with the same single-minded passion through the years of
his youth, And he, too, had male lovers only and chose not to
have a family, just like his uncle, living for his vengeance
alone for almost too long.
Of course, he had
been more fortunate. While he was saved upon the battle plain of
Dagorlad by the hands of Gildor Inglorion, Angelimir had been
overwhelmed and butchered on the steps of the House of the
Mírdain, before the great door, defending his Lord ‘til his
last breath. The few survivors said that Angelimir fought like
one possessed by a demon of wrath, the Orcs fleeing from his
sword in terror, and that it took the Dark One himself to take
him out, ere Celebrimbor could be grappled and captured.
When Elrond’s
troops finally reached Ost-in-Edhil, the city was already
ransacked, and of Angelimir remained naught but a handful of ash
and a lump of molten metal. The famous sword, made by his own
hands with long, patient labour, could not resist the fire of the
One Ring, after all. The remnants of it were found later by the
Dwarves of Moria, who did came to Celebrimbor’s aid
after all, albeit too late. The Dwarven-smiths re-forged it and
re-named it and gave it to Erestor when he reached maturity as
the only thing that remained of his family.
‘Twas to honour
Angelimir’s memory that Erestor later learned the art of
sword-making, even though he could never compare himself with his
uncle’s skills. Or with that of his own father, for that
matter. Much of what the Elven-smiths of Eregion had saved from
ancient lore, or re-learned with the help of Dwarves, was
irrevocably lost. Besides, Erestor had never felt the calling to
become an artisan. He was content to be a warrior for almost
twelve centuries; and when he could be a warrior no longer, he
unexpectedly discovered the quiet pleasure of acquiring knowledge
from his foster father and the Wise of Elrond’s house. But
while he never ceased missing his parents and little siblings, it
was Angelimir, the Sword-dancer, whom he felt closest to his
heart.
Which was one
more reason to be bewildered about Lindir’s steady pursuit of
him. The young minstrel despised weapons, could not be made as
much as touching them. And yet he sought out the company of one
who had been naught but a vengeful warrior for the greatest part
of his life.
Erestor had hoped
that after the Choosing Ceremony Lindir would finally let go of
him. Not that he would not find their passionate encounters most
pleasurable – as in everything else, the young minstrel was a
quick study in the things of love – but Lindir deserved better.
If only he could overcome his youthful infatuation for someone so
clearly beneath his own status and find a proper consort! Erestor
was prepared to step back as soon as this would happen, and tried
to keep his distance from his erstwhile pupil, so that Lindir
would not become even more entangled in his own emotions. It was not
easy for Erestor, but it was the right thing to do.
Unfortunately,
Lindir seemed not to care what was appropriate for someone of his
high birth, and he was every bit as stubborn and wilful beneath
that deceivingly sweet surface of his as his kinsman, the proud
and fierce Lord of Edhellond. Who, on the other hand did not
like Lindir’s choice of all, and made no secret of his
disapproval. Trapped between the two of them, Erestor could only
hope that Lady Galadriel would be able to offer him some useful
advice. As little as he liked the Lady of the Golden Wood, she
was closely related to both parties – and she had her mirror
that allowed one to see the future; well, at least the possible
future. Erestor hoped he would be granted a glance into it to
help sorting out his life.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Celebrían and
Lindir found Erestor further down the riverside, silently
contemplating the crumbled and charred ruins of what once must
have been a house. His face was blank and his whole posture
serene, yet he seemed less melancholy than they had feared.
“Is this where
your home used to be?” asked Celebrían gently. Erestor nodded.
“I was born
right here. We lived on the upper floor. My father had a small
private workshop here, though mostly he worked in the House of
the Mírdain. He was Lord Celebrimbor’s youngest assistant. But
sometimes he would have his own projects, and he worked on those
here. My mother had her workroom next to his. She was a weaver
and made tapestries. I remember one covering a whole wall in my
room… it showed a forest, with birds and squirrels. I liked it
very much when I was little, and so did my siblings…”
“Who lived on
the ground floor?” asked Lindir when Erestor drifted off, lost
in memories.
“My uncle
Angelimir,” replied Erestor.
He did not intend
to go into details, but saw Celebrían’s sable brow rise in
surprise.
“Angelimir the Sword-dancer?
He was your uncle?”
“Did you know
him, my Lady?” asked Erestor, equally surprised.
“For a short
while only,” answered Celebrían thoughtfully. “I used to
take lessons in swordfight from him, ere thing between my parents
and Celebrimbor took a turn for the worse. I was grieved when I
heard of his fate. He was a most extraordinary Elf.”
“I barely knew
him,” Erestor admitted. “I was very young at the fall of
Eregion, barely strong enough to lift a hammer meant for a grown
Elf, and my father did not want me to have anything to do with
weapons. But I admired him and often slipped into his training
room to watch him teaching the others in swordfight.”
“He was wedded
to his own sword,” said Celebrían thoughtfully. “Sometimes
he seemed as cold and hard as steel, himself. But there were
other times when I saw him laughing and jesting with his
shield-mates. And I even heard him sing – though his songs were
not gentle. He always sang of the great battles of the past.”
“He and my
father were very different,” said Erestor. “My father was an
artisan who lived for his trade and Angelimir was a warrior who
lived for his sword. And yet they loved each other dearly.”
“But did he
truly never have a family on his own?” asked Lindir. “Not
even in earlier times?”
Erestor shook his
head. “Nay. First, he had to raise my father who had been
barely more than a toddler when our parents left. And when my
father grew up and married, Angelimir stayed with us to protect
our family. He never trusted the peace to last and thought it
better to remain unbound.”
“Yet that means
not that you should spent your yéni in loneliness
as well,” pointed out Lindir, rather unsubtly.
Celebrían saw
with some concern Erestor’s face suddenly closing like a
released scroll.
“I do not
think that we should discuss this right now, Lindir,” said
Elrond’s first counsellor coolly. “Or at any time in the
future.”
Then he turned on
his heels and left, without as much as a glance at Lindir’s
crumpled face.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
In the next
morrow they continued their journey and crossed the Redhorn Pass
without any hindrance. Lindir, deeply hurt by Erestor’s cold
rejection in the previous evening, never left Celebrían’s side
and was in a dull mood, despite the beautiful weather and the
magnificent sight the mountains offered, glittering in the
sunshine like precious gems.
He was growing
tired of Erestor’s treatment of him. After his Choosing
Ceremony, he hoped so much that the ice was finally broken
between them. That Erestor would finally realize that he was no
longer a child and accept him as his lover… or mayhap, given
enough time, even a something more. Yet Erestor still kept him at
arm’s length, and the young minstrel had to seduce the solitary
counsellor every time anew if he wanted to be with him. And even
so, often had Lindir’s advances been rejected, though never so
harshly as in the previous night.
As much as he
tried, Lindir could not understand it. True, Erestor had
repeatedly said that Lindir deserved better, but for the young
minstrel that was a foolish excuse – and reminded him too much
of Gildor’s pointed remarks. He could not care less. He admired
Erestor. He loved Erestor with all his young heart, and he never
wanted anyone else. He never would. Why could Erestor not see
that?
Lindir was of an
age when young, unbound Elves merrily dallied among themselves,
seeking out new adventures and gathering knowledge in the gentle
art of love. Yet he had given his heart to the elusive Erestor at
a very young age, and though he could have many suitors, due to
his beauty, sweetness and unique talent, he wanted none of them.
But Erestor only let him share his bed during the great
festivals, when Lindir got restless and desperate and downright
pestering, and he more and more often felt lonely. In the hidden
depths of his heart, Lindir began to doubt whether his love would
ever be accepted.
Celebrían had
watched this awkward dance with growing concern, yet she could
find no way to help them. Oh, Lindir was open enough for her
counsel, but there was no way she could open Erestor’s
eyes. Ever since he had been chosen as first counsellor, while
still carrying out his duties as Elrond’s seneschal, Erestor
buried himself in his work even more, had grown distant again,
and his eyes became haunted. He was very much as at the time
before Lindir had come to Imladris. As if the solemn acceptance
of Lindir’s maturity, the fact that he had no longer a ward to
care for, had taken the light out of his life.
Elrond, too, saw
these unpleasant changes in his foster son, and he often talked
about it with his Lady, but at the end they had to admit that
they could do nothing to help him. And when Erestor mentioned to
seek out the Lady Galadriel’s counsel, Elrond felt relieved,
despite his sometimes tense relationship with Celebrían’s
mother. If Erestor were granted to look into Galadriel’s
mirror, it might set him straight – one way or another.
In that,
Celebrían agreed with her husband. Yet she was still worried
about Lindir. The young minstrel had suffered great losses, too,
and at a tender age. He had never known his parents, Aiwendil had
been forced to leave him in Imladris when he was barely more than
an elfling, and when he finally met his family, he was just not
willing to leave the only home he had ever known. Somehow
Celebrían had the feeling that the only ones Lindir truly saw as
family were Aiwendil – and Erestor.
Lindir had lived
through a most unusual childhood without serious damage. He
somehow had recovered from the shock of being separated from
Aiwendil. But Celebrían feared that the young minstrel would
never be able to live without Erestor. She just knew not
how to make the first counsellor understand this.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
They travelled at
a leisurely pace, but even so, it did not take them long to reach
the eastern borders of Lothlórien. As their coming had been
announced by winged messengers, a patrol of King Amroth’s
border guard greeted them as soon as they stepped under the
shadow of the tall trees that stood arched over a stream and road
that ran beneath the spreading boughs. In the golden light of the
early afternoon, the stems of the trees glittered like silver,
and there was a hint of fallow gold in their fresh, green leaves.
The quiet
Orophin, Haldir’s youngest brother was the patrol leader, and
among the young archers there was a tall, ash-blond, grey-eyed
warrior, whose sharp features seemed very familiar to Erestor.
Yet ere he could remember were he might know the young one from,
Lindir jumped from his horse and ran to the archer with a
delighted smile.
“Malgalad!”
he cried. “You are on border patrol already? Who would have
thought?”
“I have come of
age a few seasons ago,” Haldir’s eldest replied with the
stiff dignity of very young people who barely count as adults.
Then he laughed and gave Lindir a quick hug. They had not seen
each other since Lindir’s Choosing Ceremony, and back then
Malgalad had still been a child.
Under normal
circumstances such behaviour would have been frowned upon among
the Marchwardens of the Golden Wood. But in this case Orophin
only grinned at his nephew in a forgiving manner and turned to
Elrond and his family to greet them properly.
“Lord
Celeborn’s aide is waiting for you at Cerin Amroth,” he said,
after the traditional greetings had been exchanged. “King
Amroth also sends his regards and offers the hospitality of his
house, though he would understand if you preferred Caras
Galadhon, my Lord. ‘Tis the home of Lady Celebrían, after
all.”
“Indeed, I
believe it would be more proper if we accepted Lord Celeborn’s
offer,” replied Elrond with a smile. “Besides, we would like
to spend some time with our daughter, who certainly stays with
her grandparents.”
“She does,”
nodded Orophin. “Now if you will follow me…”
Following the
border guard, they rode slowly under the trees. A mile within the
wood they finally came upon the Ninglor, the stream that flowed
down swiftly from the tree-clad slopes that climbed back towards
the Hithaeglir. They heard it splashing over a fall away among
the shadows on their right. Its dark, hurrying waters ran across
the path before them and joined the Celebrant in a swirl of dim
pools among the roots of trees.
“This is the
Ninglor,” explained Malgalad to Lindir quietly, “the stream
most sacred to the woodland folk, who love the rainbow upon its
singing falls and the golden flowers that float in its foam when
summertime is over. Some of the Faithful, as they call
themselves, not even come to King Amroth’s house, though he
respects their customs greatly and shares their ways of living.
Still, a clan of them chose to remain among themselves, and while
they allow us to cross their territory to reach the King’s
house, they would not come forth from their hiding places as long
as we are near.”
Lindir found this
a little strange. But he only knew the Wood-Elves of Eryn Galen,
and those were a merry folk that traded with both Dwarves and Men
and visited strange places. The young minstrel wondered if he
came here alone later, these Elves would show him themselves.
Usually he could bring forth even the shyest creatures.
The travellers
now crossed the beautiful wooden bridge that arched over the
Ninglor and followed the path into the deeper woods, away from
the Celebrant, across the northern half of the Naith, in a more
or less straight line towards Cerin Amroth. There was no need to
hurry, and thus they enjoyed the fresh beauty of the stirring
forest, listened to the distant song of invisible birds and
talked with the border guards.
So they came, at
last, to the green hill of Cerin Amroth, crowned with the two
circle of trees, white ones on the outside and golden mellyrn
on the inside, and with the royal mallorn in the middle,
on which King Amroth’s house stood. The trees had grown quite a
bit since Erestor and Lindir’s last visit in the Golden Wood,
and as it was stirring season already, they were clad in the
fresh green of new leaves. What is more, here and there on the mellyrn
the first golden locks of flowering could be seen.
At the foot of
Cerin Amroth Haldir was awaiting them, wearing the fine green and
silver garment of a royal chancellor. He greeted Elrond in a
friendly manner – there was no need for any formality between
them – and repeated King Amroth’s offer to be the guest of
his house, which Elrond politely refused again, saying that he
had much to discuss with the Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon, but
that he would welcome a chance to visit King Amroth later. Haldir
showed no surprise; he only smiled and said that in that case he
will let them in the capable hands of Lord Celeborn’s personal
aide.
Erestor glanced
with interest at the mysterious Sinda who was staying quietly in
the background, clad in a soft, simple gown of shadowy grey. A
slender, dark-haired woman she was, with the name of Daeriel(1),
which seemed to match the elusive air about her. Erestor
remembered her from his previous visit and hoped that he might
get the chance to know her better this time.
Daeriel
originated from Lindon where she used to work for the royal
archives in Gil-galad’s times. ‘Twas said that she even
helped to tutor the children, Elven or mortal, who had been sent
to the court to become esquires. ‘Twas also said that she had
lost her entire family in the war of the Elves and Sauron, but
no-one knew aught for sure. The only certain thing to know of her
was that she did not want to flee to the West as so many of her
friends and associates had done, and that for a while she dwelt
in Edhellond.
It had been there
that Lord Celeborn met her and learned about her vast knowledge
and great archiving skills. So when he and the Lady Galadriel
moved back to Lothlórien, after the Battle upon Dagorlad, he
asked the calm and competent Sinda to join them as his aide.
Daeriel accepted the offer and had lived in Caras Galadhon
henceforth.
Now she stepped
forth and greeted Elrond respectfully and Celebrían, with whom
she had been friends for a long time, in delight. Then she asked
them to go with her and the honorary guard of the Galadhrim –
tall, white-clad archers with grey cloaks – to the Tree City,
where the Lord and the Lady of the Golden Wood already awaited
them.
This time even
Erestor was to stay in Caras Galadhon, since he had come as a
member of Elrond’s family. To everyone’s surprise, however,
Lindir showed no intentions to go with them.
“With your
leave, my lord,” he said to Elrond with a voice that sounded
more than a little unsteady, “I would like to stay here, with
my friends.” And he looked at Haldir and his family with
begging eyes.
“You are
welcome in our house, of course,” nodded Haldir, glancing
questioningly at Elrond.
“But you have
promised to sing on the betrothal ceremony!” Elrohir reminded
Lindir a little shocked. “And we need to play together before
it comes to it, or else we would shame ourselves.”
“I will come
and seek you out later,” promised Lindir. “Just not right
now. I… I need to be alone for a while. I cannot mingle with
all those unknown people in Caras Galadhon, not now.”
Elrond exchanged
a look full of understanding with his Lady. They both knew
Lindir’s sudden mood swings; there was no use forcing the young
minstrel to anything he did not want to do. Most of the time
Lindir was as pleasant and easy-going as in his childhood, but
when he got one of these moods – which usually had to do
something with Erestor – there could be no reasoning with him.
“As you
wish,” the Master of Imladris agreed. “But see that you come
over in time to work out the details with Arwen and the ceremony
masters.”
“I shall
see that he does so,” said Elladan, shooting Orophin a look
that was full of promises; the Lórien Elf answered with a shy
grin. “I intend to visit a few friends myself.”
Elrond shook his
head in a tolerant manner. If Elladan was about to bound with the
Elven half of his dual nature, his father was certainly not
trying to talk him out of it. And this way he could be sure that
Lindir would not forget his obligations.
“Then Lindir
may stay,” the Lord of Imladris decided, “at least for the
time being. Let us go to Caras Galadhon now. We shall meet again
when the time comes to prepare ourselves for the ceremony.”
TBC
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
(1) “Crowned with Shadow” (Sindarin). The name is courtesy of Claudio.
For unknown reasons, the accented e does not always appear when the file is converted to ff.net. My apologies, I cannot change that.