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 the Lady Gwenethlin and the individual Lórien Elves
belong to me.
Rating:
PG, for this chapter
Please read
Warnings before the Prologue.
Author’s
notes:
Time: the
year 862, 3rd Age – the end of the stirring season.
Summary:
Lindir wanders off from Cerin Amroth and has a most interesting
encounter – one which brings unexpected events in motion,
without his intent or knowledge.
As always, my
heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading and to
Erunyauve for pointing out some very useful websites to me.
CHAPTER 14: THE LADY OF THE FALLS
Once Elrond’s family departed for Caras Galadhon, Lindir was led to the guest chamber of Haldir’s house that, too, was situated on the royal mallorn, just on different branches. After the artistic beauty of the halls of Imladris, the room seemed small and simple, with a wood-framed mattress on the floor, an old-fashioned writing desk near the window, and a niche for his clothes, hidden behind a curtain, but Lindir liked it at once. It reminded him of the wooden halls of Rhosgobel, where he spent his early childhood under Radagast’s roof.
After having unpacked his bags – which took little enough time, as he had only brought a few change of clothes, several leather-bound parchment books (some for reading, others for taking his own notes) and his wondrous silver flute – he was fetched by Ammalas, Haldir’s younger son and escorted to Amroth’s house to greet the King of the Golden Wood. This being an informal audience, it took place in the royal study: a pleasant, airy room that was covered with bookshelves on all sides.
Changes come slowly to Elves, even to those of relatively young age, thus King Amroth looked not differently from the image Lindir had in his mind from his last visit. Only the eyes of the young King seemed older and more tired than last time. Apparently, holding his own against his powerful kin in Caras Galadhon had not been an easy task. Also, he wore no longer the rough but comfortable garb of the woodland folk but a long, sleeveless coat of silvery grey and a moss green silk shirt underneath, according to his rank and position.
“Well met and welcome in Lórinand, Lindir of Rhosgobel,” he said in his usual, friendly manner. “I am pleased that at least one of the Lady Undómiel’s friends has found my house worthy for a stay.”
“Master Erestor would have stayed as well,” came Lindir to his beloved’s defence at once, “and I doubt not that he will come and pay his respects, soon. Yet he has the status of a foster son in Lord Elrond’s family, and thus has to stay with them this time.”
“And what about you?” asked the King. “Are you not related to the Lady of Caras Galadhon by blood? Would she not expect you to stay with your own kin?”
“That is a kinship I never acknowledged,” answered Lindir, and Amroth could barely hide a smile, for the stubborn set of his jaw made the young minstrel more like Gildor Inglorion than ever. “I shall not be forced to keep company with people I feel no closeness with at all, even if we might share the same blood. Besides,” he added thoughtfully, “there is much more of the Lindar(1) in me than I have from the ancestors I share with Finarfin’s progeny. And even though not related to them in blood, my heart is like that of the woodland folk – I feel closer to trees and birds than to people.”
“I presume there would be exceptions, even in that,” said Amroth. Lindir nodded.
“There are. But even my love for those who share not my view on the world would not change who I am… or what I am.”
“And who are you, young one, pray tell?” the King asked. Lindir thought about it for a moment – then he shrugged.
“There are times when it seems to me as if I were a brood onto myself,” he said. “No matter what kind of Elves I meet, they all are different from me, though they seem perfectly at ease with each other or with themselves.”
“You must feel lonely, then,” said Amroth, knowing that particular feeling all too well. For no matter how much he tried to blend in with his Silvan subjects, his heritage made him different – and lonely. He often asked himself what it would take for the woodland folk to see him as one of their own. And if his union with the Lady Undómiel, forged for the good of the Golden Wood, would make his position easier or more difficult among his subjects.
“Sometimes I am lonely,” admitted Lindir, “and even a little lost. I often ask myself whether I would feel more at ease here… or someplace where the Sea is near. My heart is torn between the waves and the trees, and where I live now, I cannot have either. Not enough of either of them, that is,” he added, sending an apologetic thought to the wise and ancient trees of Imladris.
“Then why do you remain in Imladris?” asked Amroth, though he had the feeling that he knew the answer… or, at least, part of it. “Certainly, Lord Gildor would be glad to have you in his home, and so would I, should you not wish to dwell in Caras Galadhon. A minstrel like you is born only once in every Age – you would be welcome everywhere.”
“But nowhere would I be as free as I am in Imladris,” said Lindir. “Free to be who and what I wish to be, to do what suits me best, without obligations that are against my nature. Imladris has been my home for a very long time, and I am safe there as I would not be anywhere else. As I touch no weapons, not even to my own defence. My unwillingness – or inability – to take a life would have killed me long ago if not for Lord Elrond’s protection.”
Amroth looked at him in surprise. Like everyone else, the King of Lórien did not think Lindir capable of understanding his own situation so completely.
“You have grown up since we last met, young one,” said Amroth, letting his own surprise show a little. Lindir shrugged again.
“I might still be a child at heart, my Lord, as many say, but regardless what they think of me, I am no fool. I very well know that Arda Marred has no room for the likes of me any longer, and I also know that Master Aiwendil, though meaning well, made a big mistake when shaping me to become the person I am. Yet in Imladris I can forget that I am out of my true time. In Lord Elrond’s house I can pretend to belong.”
“And yet you do not – not truly, do you?” asked the King of Lórien gently. Just as he could never truly become one of the Faithful. Sometimes he asked himself how Thranduil and his whole family were able to merge with their people so completely, while he failed himself to do so.
“I could belong, if the one who could anchor me would cease running from me,” answered Lindir sadly. “Had I a bond with him, I could heal the wounds of his fëa, wounds that he had carried for too long. And he could heal my loneliness. But he is so full of fear, thinks so little of himself, and cannot see that we were meant for each other.”
“If he rejects love, given freely by a pure heart, then he is an utter fool,” said Amroth in sorrow. “I wish I had someone that loved me the way you love that foolish Golodh. I respect and admire the Lady Undómiel, and this union is most important for the two realms of the Golden Wood – yet I still cannot help but wonder whether we are making a mistake.”
“There are times when even Elves cannot follow the call of their hearts alone, or so I am taught,” said Lindir. “Mayhap the love you are lacking now, my Lord, will grow between the two of you in time.”
“I hope so,” Amroth sighed. “By the Lady Palúrien, I hope so. Or else our existence would be a cold and barren one.”
For a while, there was silence in the King’s study. Then Amroth placed a gentle hand upon the young minstrel’s shoulder.
“Is that the true reason you chose to stay with us? To be alone with your thoughts and feelings and sort them out?”
Lindir nodded. “I need to decide if I should go on with my pursuit – or seek out a different path. I am growing tired of being pushed away.”
Amroth looked at the younger Elf in
sympathy. “I hope you find the peace of your mind among us.
Lady Gwenethlin offered to look after your needs while you are
staying with us, and should you want anything from me, you only
need to ask Ammalas. He is my aide now and will see that you meet
me if you want.”
“I would never take up your precious
time, my Lord King,” protested Lindir, embarrassed. In truth,
he had always liked the young King who did not treat him as a
child, but he thought it unseemly to bother someone so important
and so busy. But Amroth only smiled; it was a somewhat sad smile.
“Believe me, the company of a true
minstrel would always be welcome. My duties as the King of
Lórinand are not always pleasant – ‘tis a lonely life I
lead, and friends are a rare and precious gift for a king.”
“Are you offering me your friendship, my
Lord?” asked Lindir in awe. As much as people loved him back in
Imladris, he had very few friends, mostly among the young
children who did not mind his naiveté and blunt manners. For the
adults, he still counted a child, despite his officially declared
maturity.
Amroth tilted his head to one side,
birdlike, and smiled again – this time without that faint
shadow of sadness. “I believe I am. Unless you find me unworthy
of such gift.”
Lindir became beet red in an instant.
Never in his whole life had he felt so profoundly embarrassed.
Not even when he had cluelessly walked out into Celebrían’s
garden, only to realize that “sampling the roses” could have
very different meanings in the Lord and Lady’s vocabulary…
“My Lord, if my manners were lacking,
I…” he began nervously, regretting, not for the first time,
that what Lord Elrond called proper manners seemed to
elude him, no matter how hard he tried. But Amroth interrupted
him with a smile and a raised hand.
“’Twas only a jest, Lindir. Not a very
good one, I admit, but the blame for that is all mine. Now, you
need not to call me ‘Lord’, if you agree to be friends with
me. You are not my subject, nor are you of lower birth – on the
contrary, I am told. And friends call each other by name.”
“That… that will require some getting
used to,” admitted Lindir, his face still bright red from
embarrassment. He might have been rightly accused of improper
behaviour at times, but a king was a king nevertheless.
“I know,” Amroth nodded, “but
believe me, you will be doing me a favour. ‘Tis tiring to be
King all the time.”
They both laughed, and for a moment,
Lindir felt completely at ease. He hoped the Lady Arwen would
find King Amroth as good a company as himself. He hoped they
would be happy together, despite the circumstances that had led
to their union. They both deserved to be happy.
The conversation was interrupted by Ammalas, who needed to talk to his King about some urgent matters. Lindir took his leave from Amroth and descended the royal mallorn, taking naught else but his flute with him. He went nowhere without the precious instrument that was his only remaining link to Radagast and to a childhood spent in peace and innocent joy, under the care of the grumpy old wizard.
For a while, he walked around on the green mound of Cerin Amroth, enjoying the softness of the spring grass under his bare feet, humming to himself and to the golden stars of elanor and pale green bells of niphredil that were in full bloom already. But after some time, even the few Elves passing by had become too burdensome a company. He wanted to be alone. Alone with the old trees, the soft breeze and the unseen birds of the forest, so that he could let his troubled heart and mind rest.
Thus he wandered off from Cerin Amroth, unconsciously retracing the path they had come just hours earlier, ‘til he finally reached the banks of the Ninglor. It seemed to him as if the merrily running water had called to him, called him there. He climbed down the steep bank, sat cross-legged upon the grass and listened to the singing of the rainbow-crowned falls. It was incredibly peaceful here, and as he watched the golden flowers floating in the Ninglor’s foam, it seemed to him as if the burden had been lifted from his heart a little, and he could breathe more easily. After a while, a wordless song arose from the depths of his heart and merged seamlessly with the music of the waterfalls; and for the first time in a very long while, he was at peace.
He knew not how long he had been sitting there, singing with the waters and the light breeze, his eyes closed and his heart wide open to let in the healing powers of the earth and the comforting whispers of the ancient trees. Yet after some time he felt that he was no longer alone, and he looked up and saw a woman approaching from the other side of the stream, gracefully as a light-footed deer.
She was not as tall as the daughters of the Noldor, to whom Lindir had grown accustomed during his centuries in Imladris. Slender and supple and strong as a young tree, she much more reminded him of the Silvan maidens of the Greenwood. She wore a long, pale gown, adorned on the seam and on the upper arms with broad, brightly-coloured woollen strips, woven with intricate patterns. Her loose, sleeveless surcoat was light brown and open on both sides, down to her hips, in old Silvan fashion. Her rich brown hair, unbraided but many individual locks were decorated with small wooden pearls, fell in soft waves beyond her knees and its colour had already begun to change to a lighter brown with the approach of spring. It was held together by a thin silver circle upon her brow.
Very young she seemed, and her heart-shaped face, though it could not be compared with the elegant beauty of the Lady Lalaith and even less with that of Arwen Undómiel, was gentle and lovely nonetheless. But in her bright, chestnut-like eyes there was time-ripened wisdom and a knowledge deeper than the ancient lore of the Noldor – a wisdom that came from the dark heart of the Earth itself.
She crossed the bridge and Lindir rose in respect and bowed, for indeed, she reminded him of the Wise Women of the woodland folk – the Lady Gwenethlin, for one, or Lady Lálisin, the Queen of the Greenwood, whom he had met a few times during his childhood. The woman smiled and inclined her head in greeting.
“Who are you, young one?” she asked in her soft voice, and Lindir felt not like protesting. For despite all her youthful loveliness, he could feel that this woman was no young maiden. She had an invisible aura of authority that only age and power could give to a person. “I have never seen you in these woods before.”
“This is only my second time in Lórinand,” answered Lindir, instinctively choosing the older name of the Golden Wood, out of respect toward its inhabitants of old. “And during my first stay, I mostly kept company with the minstrels.”
“You are one,” the Silvan lady said; it was not a question. “Do you have a name, young minstrel?”
“Lindir,” he answered. “Lindir of Rhosgobel.”
“Lindir – ‘one-who-sings’,” she nodded. “The name suits you. I have heard your voice from afar, from my house near the falls. I found great delight in your singing.”
“Then I am honoured, my Lady, as I am told that the woodland folk here seldom show themselves to strangers,” said Lindir. “May I ask your name and why you changed your customs for me?”
“I am called Nimrodel,” she answered. “And as I already told you, I live here, on the other side of the stream. My house is upon one of those old beeches; though I doubt that you would find it without help. But it was your singing that called me forth from the solitude of my home. I wanted to meet the minstrel who has been granted such a rare gift.”
Lindir blushed profoundly, and not out of modesty alone, though he was not used to such open admiration and so many compliments. In Imladris, people took his talent more or less for granted, as they were used to it, and though he was beloved by all, respect was not something he was given often.
But more than that, the name of Nimrodel was not entirely unknown for him. Many tales were woven around the elusive Lady of the woodland folk, yet he only knew one person who had ever seen her face to face, the Lady Gwenethlin, Haldir’s mother. That the Lady of the Falls would come forth, only to meet an unknown and rather unimportant minstrel from a far-away valley, was unheard of… and the greatest compliment that could have been made to him.
“The Lady Nimrodel?” he asked with great respect. “I am truly honoured then. Never had I thought that the Princess of the Silvan folk could find delight in my humble talent.”
But Nimrodel only laughed, and her laughter was soft as the spring rain. “If you ever truly lived with Aiwendil Bird-lover, you would know that the Faithful had no Kings, nor Princes. Some of us kept the old ways, even after the Years of Darkness, when the others yielded to the rule of Sindarin princes.”
“Is that the reason why your people avoid not Caras Galadhon only but the realm of King Amroth, too?” Lindir asked. “Do you feel that the others of your folk have betrayed their old ways?”
“Once all these forests belonged to the Faithful,” she answered with a melancholy smile; “and the great forests reached from the Ash Mountains ‘til the Blue Mountains – and beyond. In those times, a squirrel could travel on the treetops across all Middle-earth – and so could we. Ere the Golodh began their war with the Dark One, who then murdered our trees with fire and poison.”
“’Twas not the fault of the Noldor that the great forests had to burn,” said Lindir. “Had they not come back from the West, mayhap we all would be yrch today, twisted to hideous monsters in the pits of Utumno.”
“Instead we have become strangers in what once used to belong to us,” she replied, her gentle eyes growing cold. “The Golodh intrude our forests, what is still left of them, and take our trees to build their houses on the branches. They make the forest to something it was never meant to be.”
Lindir looked at her in surprise. “I fear I cannot see what you mean, my Lady. Lórinand seems not to have changed since my first visit, and that was two hundred years ago. Which is a much longer time for the woods than it is for an Elf.”
“That is what I mean,” Nimrodel answered. “Life means change, young one; the changing of seasons, of shapes, colours and tastes. Yet the forest seems to be frozen and had been that way for hundreds and hundreds of years. Not where I live, or the others of my kind. The outskirts of the woods change with time, as it has been since this part of Arda took shape. But the forests around Caras Galadhon – they just are. They stand there and do not speak to us any longer. They have fallen into a dream from which there is no awakening – unless in death itself.”
“And you believe the Noldor did this to the trees?” asked Lindir with a frown.
“I know the magic of old that has lingered in water and soul, earth and tree, fire and wind from the dawn of time,” said Nimrodel. “When the stirring season comes, I can feel that magic in every green leaf that unfolds by springtime. I can hear the giggle of the green saps as they crawl upwards under the bark of each tree. Yet I can also feel some other power in the forests; one that is not natural to our woods. And where it is strongest, the trees fall in silence.”
“Caras Galadhon?” risked Lindir the tentative question. Nimrodel nodded.
“I have never been to the Tree City myself,” she said, “but the Lady Gwenethlin has. Once in every yén, she travels to those forests, to see how the trees are doing. The mellyrn have never spoken to our people, of course, as they are strangers to our forests, and we cannot understand their tongue. But at least they used to talk among themselves in earlier times. Now they all are fallen quiet, save the ones upon Cerin Amroth, and even their dreams are elusive and strange, as if they were under some sort of spell that has removed them from the changes of time.” She gave Lindir a questioning glance. “What are the trees like in the West, were you come from?
“There are no mellyrn in Imladris,” answered Lindir thoughtfully; “but the trees are old, very old. Some of them, like the Great Oak, had already been there, in full growth, when Lord Elrond found the valley, thousands of years ago. They are sleepy sometimes, more so when the Lady Celebrían is not at home to talk to them, but they seldom refuse to speak to me. Although the trees of the Greenwood were certainly a lot more talkative,” he added.
“The Greenwood has been as-yet untouched by the greedy hands of the Golodh,” said Nimrodel, “ and I hope its King will see that it remains the way. After all, he wedded one of us and respects our ways. No other stranger has ever done so.”
“King Amroth does,” said Lindir, instinctively defensive of his new friend.
“He tries,” replied Nimrodel, “I have to give him that. But his great-uncle, the Lord of Caras Galadhon, has abandoned the old ways thousands of years ago, when he married a Princess of the Golodh. And Amroth’s mother, though she was one of us, died too young, ere she could teach her son the ways of the Faithful. What is more, unlike Thranduil, he does not truly have the strength to keep the intruders out of our woods.”
“You have mentioned the Faithful several times by now, my Lady,” said Lindir. “Yet I still do not know whom you mean with that. Are all Wood-Elves considered Faithful?”
“Nay,” answered Nimrodel. “The Faithful are those who refused to leave the lands of their birth when Aldaron(2), the Lord of Forests, called the Quendi to follow him to the West. Those of our clans who had not been taken by the Hunter(3) before the rising of Ithil and Anor, wandered off to find a safer dwelling. Those led by Nurwë found it in what is the Greenwood now, while the others, whose chieftain was Morwë, settled down in the White Mountains. Some of them – quite a great number, in fact – merged with those Nandor Elves who had turned back from their westward journey and became the Silvan folk.”
“Oh, said Lindir, finally putting together the seemingly random pieces, “you are one of the Avari then? I thought there were no more of them in Middle-earth.”
“We do not accept the names the Golodh gave us,” replied Nimrodel, anger burning in her eyes. “But if you want to use that name, then yea, I am one of the Avari, and I am proud of it. Why should I be ashamed of what I am? My ancestors did not run under the wings of the Valar and did not leave, pouting, when the Valar failed to protect them as they had promised. Nor were our people the ones who slew their own kin three times, in pursuit of some gemstones. And yet they dare to call us Moriquendi! We might not have seen the Light of the Two Trees, but at least our hearts are not dark; nor have our hands been soiled with the blood of our own people.”
“Those who have committed hideous crimes against their own are no longer among us,” pointed out Lindir. “And their children have fought long and hard to atone for the sins of their fathers.”
“One of them is still here,” replied Nimrodel, “and whatever powers she wields, it turns our forests into a place that is alien to us. So far, this… influence only encircles Caras Galadhon, but it is slowly leaking out into the other parts of the wood already, and we know not how to stop it. Our strength comes from the wet soil, the trees, the waters and the winds – when our own woods become estranged from us, there is naught left we could turn for strength.”
For a moment, she looked at the rainbows upon the waterfalls with sorrow. Then she sighed and seemed to shake off her bad mood.
“We shall see what can be done,” she said. “For now, at least these parts of the wood are still healthy and full of strength – and now that springtime is coming, our strength, too, will be renewed. Have you ever wished to witness the Awakening Festival of the Faithful, young minstrel? We do not invite strangers to our ceremonies, but with you, I am willing to make an exception… if you agree to sing to us.”
Lindir hesitated. An invitation like that was spoken once in a lifetime of an Elf, and he would have loved to accept it, but he had other obligations already. And regardless of what some might think of him, he took his duties very seriously.
“’Twould be a great honour for me, my Lady,” he said, “but I am already expected to sing on King Amroth’s betrothal ceremony. I gave my promise and cannot let him and the Lady Undómiel down.”
“There is no need for that,” said Nimrodel, “as the betrothal will not take place any sooner than in twelve days. Our Festival starts tonight and lasts six days, not more.”
“You know about the betrothal?” asked Lindir in surprise. Nimrodel shrugged.
“I have been invited. King Amroth means it when he says he would like to keep good relations with all Quendi who live between his borders. Not that we would accept his rule,” she added with a wicked grin, “but we let him believe that those are actually his borders, not ours.”
Lindir laughed, not concerned about his new friend at all. He could feel the genuine fondness in the Lady’s voice and knew the Avari – the Faithful, he corrected himself – would not turn against the young King, unless Amroth would do something utterly foolish. Which was rather unlikely, knowing him.
“Are you coming to the ceremony?” the young minstrel asked.
“I might,” answered Nimrodel lightly, “if only for the chance to irritate the Golodh Lady of Caras Galadhon. She should not think that we fear her, just because we choose to avoid her company. Besides, if I had to choose between her and King Amroth, I would choose Amroth every time. At least he respects us and leaves us alone.”
“In that case I gratefully accept,” said Lindir, already excited about the chance to take part in a genuine Avari festival. Nimrodel smiled.
“Then come with me and see what no stranger has seen, ever since our people moved to the Golden Wood,” she said.
She extended her hand and Lindir took it, following her happily, forgetting everything else – even to leave a message for his hosts.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As the whole Naith was buzzing with preparations for the upcoming great feast – the ceremony was to be held in Cerin Amroth – no-one noticed Lindir’s disappearance ‘til the evening meal. This was traditionally served in the open, as the weather was pleasant and the Elves of Lórien preferred to spend most of their time outdoors, in the company of each other and the trees.
The servants of Amroth’s house built up the long tables upon sawn rings of old trunks in no time, so that the maidens could cover them with the fine green cloths that had a woven pattern of yellow and white flowers along the seams, as it was springtime. Were it summer they had straw-coloured ones, while in autumn and in the fading season brown ones with a pattern of yellow and red leaves and in winter white ones adorned with the shapes of forest animals were used.
Once the tables were all covered, the maidens started carrying out the dishes and other eating utensils. The red earthenware dishes, twice-burned and decorated with the images of plants and animals, had been made by a small colony of the Faithful and traded for other wares made by the folk of the Naith; for ropes made of hithlain, for example, or those famous grey clothes the secrets of whose making was known to the Nandor Elves alone. Only the spoons, forks and knives were made of metal – of silver, to be more accurate, and they found their way here through the travel routes to the Greenwood.
The kitchens – low wooden pavilions, situated on the ground rather than on the treetops – were like an anthill, too. One could cook in the tree-houses, of course, on small, closed iron ovens filled with charcoal, if secrecy was needed. But in peacetime like this, the inhabitants of the Naith – including the King and his court – preferred the common kitchens and the common tables. The Elves of Cerin Amroth all had kitchen duty for a certain amount of time in each season, and the King himself was no exception, even though the common opinion stated that cooking was not one of Amroth’s special talents. Those who had visited the Greenwood for some reason, often wished that their King had more in common with his kinsman in this area, as King Thranduil counted as one of the most excellent cooks in all Elven realms, even if nowadays royal duties seldom allowed him to put on the apron.
On this particular evening, however, some less important Elves had volunteered for kitchen duty, so that Amroth and his court could attend more important matters – like their guests. Many visitors from other realms were expected to witness the union of two of the most important Elven Houses of this Age, and the Lady Gwenethlin, still the chatelaine of Amroth’s court, had to keep an eye on them and on all the preparations. Gildor Inglorion and his Wandering Company had already arrived, and though the Lord of Edhellond stayed in Caras Galadhon, many of the Company walked over to Cerin Amroth, to greet old friends, be reunited with old lovers – or find new ones for the upcoming Spring Festival.
Therefore it was no surprise for anyone when Elladan, too, returned shortly before sunset, just when the King and his court took their customary places at one of the tables. He was simply greeted by the Elf standing closest and told to take a seat next to Orophin. It had been an open secret for a hundred years or so that Elrond’s eldest had a fleeting affair with the rather shy Marchwarden, on and off as their respective duties allowed. Orophin never left Lórinand, but Elladan had come to visit him several times during the recent decades, and his visits usually lasted a few moons – moons that he spent in Cerin Amroth rather than in Caras Galadhon.
At first this caused a little bewilderment in both realms, and it was said that the Lady Galadriel did not approve, nor did she hesitate to make her grandson well aware of her disapproval. The Lord Celeborn, however, apparently had no worries about the issue, and thus Elladan was left alone to do as he pleased. In truth, his parents were even relieved that his interests turned to Elves for a change, even though it was likely to be a short-lived change. And Orophin was not the desired bonding partner for someone of such high birth anyway. Nor did he wish to bind his life to Elladan forever, truth be told.
Yet for the moment they both seemed content enough with what they had, and the folk of both Cerin Amroth and Caras Galadhon accepted it. Orophin was careful enough to avoid the Tree City, but Elladan moved freely back and forth between the two realms and was welcome in both. So nobody did as much as raise an eyebrow when he indeed sat down next to Orophin, draping a loose arm around the Marchwarden’s waist and exchanging a light kiss with him before reaching for the wine cup. They usually were less demonstrative with their attraction, but it had been a long time since they last met, so everyone benevolently ignored the little display.
The food was excellent, Elladan found, perhaps even better than in his grandparents’ court. According to the season of the loa, roasted rabbits and pheasants were served flavoured with sage, decorated with hard boiled eggs, followed by honey cakes and fresh strawberries. Everyone was clad in light green and pale yellow, and the women wore the faint scent of jasmine and roses. Though Anor was still visible over the western horizon, gracefully-shaped beeswax candles – gold, green and yellow ones – were already burning on the tables, in beautifully crafted silver candlesticks adorned with amethysts, aquamarines and bloodstones. These candlesticks were part of Amroth’s inheritance, among the few items his father was able to rescue from Doriath before its destruction.
Also, on each table were two baskets, made of young willow twigs, filled with soil and with fresh flowers of the new loa. No-one would think of picking the flowers and let them die in mere days, of course. They were carefully and lovingly unearthed with the roots, re-planted in the flower-baskets during a small ritual and brought to the tables in a merry procession. Some of these customs were known in Imladris, too, as the Lady Celebrían brought them with her from the Golden Wood, but Elladan never found them as natural as they were in Lórien, though he willingly joined them every time.
“Today’s cook has truly outdone himself,” he said, patting his stomach contently. “That sauce to the meat, made of the preserved berries from the last hrív, was truly an inspired idea.”
Orophin grinned. “I shall forward the compliment to Rúmil. Ever since he parted ways with the Iron Maiden of Caras Galadhon, his whole passion has gone into his cooking – much to everyone’s delight, though we do feel sorry for him. A little.”
“To tell the truth, I was going to ask you about that parting,” said Elladan with a frown. “I have met Calaglinel in Grandfather’s court, but she was elusive to downright rudeness. What happened? They seemed happy enough last time when I visited the Golden Wood.”
Orophin sighed. “It has been coming for a long time, I deem. Relations between the two realms have remained… tense, to put it mildly, despite the planned union of the two Houses. Lord Celeborn is trying to balance between King Amroth and his own Lady, but as both are stubborn and strong willed, this is not an easy task.”
“I can imagine,” Elladan loved his grandmother dearly, but even he had experienced the formidable side of the Lady Galadriel, which made him develop a healthy respect towards her. Orophin nodded.
“Well, Rúmil is not easy to frighten, and he even dared to visit his lady in Caras Galadhon a few times – only to find that Calaglinel was a very different person at home. Tempers ran high between the two of them, and in the end Calaglinel decided that having a relationship with someone from King Amroth’s court would be betrayal against the Lady Galadriel. Thus she ended it – as cold and simple as it sounds.”
“Rúmil was devastated, I deem,” said Elladan. Orophin nodded again.
“Of course. For reasons I cannot fathom, he was very much in love and would even wed the Iron Maiden, had she consented. They do not say ‘love is blind’ without a reason. But to be honest, the rest of the family was quite relieved.”
“Relieved?” repeated Elladan in surprise. It was a rare occasion that his lover would talk so much about family matters – that he would talk so much to begin with – but maybe Orophin felt the need to finally get these things off his chest, and simply decided to trust him. “Why ever would you be relieved?”
“I assume you have heard the tale of Calaglinel?” asked Orophin. Elladan nodded and he continued. “We were afraid that things between her and Rúmil would end badly all the time. No matter how hard she fought to overcome her upbringing, Calaglinel was raised by yrch, after all – and that left behind traces that cannot be wiped away. She is loyal, she is passionate, she is fierce, that is true; but in a cold way. I very much doubt that she can truly feel love. And our mother fears the same. ‘Tis not her fault, but it cannot be helped, just as a severed limb cannot be grown back.”
“Or just as Lindir will never be aught else but a child in his heart,” added Elladan with a fond smile. Then he looked around the colourful circle of Elves sitting at the tables, searching for the young minstrel. “Speaking of which, where is Lindir anyway? I wanted to look after him, to make sure he is all right. Mother says he is in a rather fragile state of mind right now.”
“Strange,” Orophin, too, looked around, but could not find Lindir either. “He should be here, like everyone else. Wait here for a moment, I shall ask the guards if any of them have seen him.”
He left in hurry, staying away for quite some time, and when he returned, his fair face was clouded with concern.
“It seems that no-one has seen him after he went to meet our King, shortly after your arrival,” he said. “Apparently he was seen walking towards the Ninglor in the early afternoon, but it is as if he had disappeared into thin air afterwards.”
“The Ninglor?” That sounds like Lindir, all right,” said Elladan. “He loves sitting at waterfalls – those are his favourite hiding places back home. And when he has one of these strange moods, he usually hides very well. Once he managed to evade us for nineteen days, though the entire valley was looking for him.”
“That is all nice and good,” replied Orophin, clearly worried, “but the woods beyond the Ninglor belong to the Faithful, and they do not like to be disturbed.”
“Who are the Faithful?” asked Elladan, having no knowledge of the oldest dwellers of the Golden Wood either.
“The Old Clans,” explained Orophin. “The ones your kind calls the Avari. Some of them are still there, hiding in the deep woods, following the old ways. The mother of our mother was one of them, and so was the mother of King Amroth. We know not how many of them are still out there – most of them have followed King Oropher to the North, back in the Second Age, ‘tis said, others have merged with the Silvan folk, so their numbers cannot be too high. But they are very protective of their territory, and we respect that.”
“I cannot believe that they would harm someone like Lindir, though,” shook his head Elladan. “They are Elves, after all, just like ourselves, and everybody likes Lindir. Even the Dwarves who sometimes visit Imladris are charmed by him.”
“I do not think they would harm him, either,” said Orophin. “But these are the days when they celebrate the awakening of the earth after her winter slumber, and they do not tolerate intruders during one of their festivals. They might confuse Lindir, leading him with strange songs and false voices deep into the woods and then abandon him there so that he would not disturb their rituals. Such things are known to happen, so we stay away from their part of the wood in these days. But Lindir is not familiar with the paths of our forests – he could get lost and come to serious harm by accident.”
“Surely the trees would aid him,” said Elladan. “He is almost a Wood-Elf in his heart; I have to see any tree or bird or beast yet that would not help him, were he in need.”
Orophin shook his head. “I fear you do not understand. The trees beyond the Ninglor are utterly loyal to the Faithful. They would refuse to talk even to us, should they feel the need to protect them. They surely would not talk to a stranger, not even one as charming as Lindir.”
“This is dire news,” said Elladan, slowly becoming worried himself. “Lindir knows his way around a forest, but he cannot protect himself against any attack, not even against that of some wild beast. And should any harm come to him, not only would Gildor Inglorion skin us all alive, but we could also count on Aiwendil’s wrath. An enraged wizard is not something I would want to see anytime soon.”
“Nor would I,” Orophin agreed. “Yet at the moment I am more concerned about Lindir’s safety than about my own hide. We should ask my mother what to do. She is the only one who has regular contact with the Faithful; she might have a word of advice for us.”
Elladan found that a good idea, and so they sought out the Lady Gwenethlin, who listened to them patiently. When Orophin had told her all that he knew, she smiled and asked, “Have you asked the birds already?”
“The birds?” repeated Orophin blandly. His mother laughed.
“Young Lindir was raised by Aiwendil. The trees might remain silent about his whereabouts, but the birds, beloved by the Brown Wizard, will not. After all, Lindir is practically his son; and the young one has learnt the speech of the birds before learning those of Elves and Men.”
“That is true,” Elladan agreed. “But where would we find the right bird to send out looking for him?”
Lady Gwenethlin smiled. “In that, I can come to your aid,” she said and gave a short, melodic whistle akin to that of a songbird.
A few heartbeats later a small finch appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and sat on her outstretched hand. The lady spoke to the little bird in some arcane dialect that sounded vaguely like the Silvan tongue but was much older than that. The finch listened to her, tiny head tilted to one side, small, round eyes glittering in the fading sunlight. Then it unfolded its wings and flew away.
Lady Gwenethlin turned to her son and his lover again.
“My little friend will look for young Lindir,” she said, “and be assured that she will find him, wherever he might be hiding. Be comforted now and forget your worries – nothing will happen to the minstrel. I promise.”
“Do you have the power to make such promise, my Lady?” asked Elladan, still very much concerned. He did trust Orophin’s mother, but he had promised to look after Lindir, and he did not like the fact that he could not keep his promise.
“I do,” Lady Gwenethlin replied simply and returned to her table. It seemed that the issue was closed for her – for the time being anyway.
Orophin laid his hand upon Elladan’s forearm in a gesture that was both comforting and affectionate. At times like this he felt keenly how much younger the Peredhel was and what a sheltered life he led in the well-protected valley of Imladris.
“I understand your concern,” the Marchwarden said, “but I ask you to trust Mother. If she says that Lindir will be fine, then he will be fine. Mother has sufficient authority, even among the Faithful. But if it eases your heart, we can go to the Ninglor ourselves and look for the young one.”
“In truth, I hoped to spend this night in a more pleasurable manner,” murmured Elladan ruefully, “yet I cannot rest while Lindir is still missing. Let us go to the Ninglor and search, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” replied Orophin good-naturedly. “We still shall have a walk under the stars, at the singing waters, even if we choose to waste such a beautiful night with futile search.”
He brought two of the famous shadow-grey cloaks of Lórien that made the wearer almost invisible among the trees – one for himself and one for Elladan – and soon, they were walking the same path Lindir had chosen in the early afternoon.
The forest was peaceful and quiet, aside from the very faint echo of singing that came from afar, beyond the stream. Even in the dark, it was easy for Orophin’s well-trained eyes to trace Lindir’s light footsteps, and soon they found the place where the young minstrel had been sitting for a while on the Ninglor’s bank.
“He seems to have spent quite some time here,” said Orophin. “The grass has had no time yet to recover and still shows the contours of his legs and rear. At least several hours, I would guess.”
“He probably watched the waterfalls or listened to their music,” answered Elladan. “He does that all the time at home. But where could he have gone from here?”
Orophin shrugged. “His track leads to the bridge. I presume he crossed it.”
“Then so should we,” urged Elladan. “We should find him ere he gets in any trouble.”
“Elladan,” Orophin sighed, “he has been gone for hours. If there is any trouble, he has already found it. And crossing the bridge tonight would not be a good idea, trust me. The Faithful might have tolerated Lindir, for he is quite unique in his way, but they surely would not tolerate you. Or even me, for that matter.”
“I would listen to him, Golodh, if I were you,” said a voice from some distance, in a heavily accented Silvan dialect. “He knows what he is talking about. Cross the bridge and you will find some serious trouble. That I can promise.”
Elladan felt his anger raising, and was just about to give a not too friendly answer. Orophin, however, obviously recognized the voice, for he grabbed Elladan’s arm, holding him bodily back from confronting the invisible guardians.
“Our apologies, Rhimdir(4),” he called out to the dark figure suddenly appearing at the foot of the bridge; then he acknowledged the presence of a second guard with a nod, “Amaldor. We meant not to intrude.”
“Then do not so,” replied one of the guards curtly. They were still so much hidden in the shadows that it was hard to know which one.
“I fear that is not so easy,” said Elladan between clenched teeth. “We are looking for a young minstrel who is missing. We need to find him.”
“You can end your search,” said the other guard. “Your lost minstrel has been found. In fact, he was not lost for a moment. He was invited to witness our Awakening Festival – by the Lady Nimrodel herself. He is safe and sound and seems to enjoy himself greatly.”
“And no-one of you thought of sending a message to Amroth’s court where people are worried sick about him?” asked Elladan sharply.
The guard shrugged. “That is not our concern. He is old enough to think of such things himself – if he did not, he must have a reason for it. You, on the other hand, should leave now.”
And with that, both guards merged into the shadows again. There could be no doubt, though, that they were watching the bridge with suspicious eyes.
“We better listen,” whispered Orophin, dragging his lover back towards Cerin Amroth. “Now that we know Lindir is safe, we could perhaps put your earlier plans for tonight to good use.”
Though still angry a little with the Avari guards, Elladan laughed and followed the Marchwarden back to Amroth’s dwellings. The night was still young, after all, mild and full of stars. There were better things to do than worrying uselessly.
TBC
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) The Singers.
An alternate name for the Teleri.
(2) Sindarin name
of the Vala Oromë.
(3) Morgoth.
Apparently, he roamed the dark forests of Middle-earth before the
rising of the Moon and the Sun, abducting Elves, whom he later
twisted to Orcs. The shape he took is supposed to be a deceit, so
that the Elves would fear Oromë, should he find them.
(4) According to HoME
7 – The Treason of Isengard, Rhimdir was an old, rejected
name for Rúmil and Amaldor one for Amroth. I use these names for
Avari as they are an old and conservative folk.