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. Fíriel still belongs to Deborah. The structure of the archery contest belongs to Arctapus, simply because I don't know a thing about archery and could not imagine how such a contest would be done. But my manly Elves wanted to show off before their girlfriends and I wanted to give them a chance.. Only Erestor’s family and the members of the Wandering Company belong to me.
Rating: PG for this chapter.
Please read Warnings before the Prologue.
Author’s Notes:
We learn a little about Elrond and Gildor’s former relationship and why Imladris acutally was found; there is less about Lindir and Erestor this time and more about other characters, I hope you don’t mind that it got a little eclectic. Quite frankly, I’m glad to have overcome my serious writer’s block even so far.
Before I go on with my story, I’d have a request to all my valued readers. Please, people, if you have questions or something seems inconsistent to you, contact me personally before you label my stories as something that they are not. I don’t like using the blocker system because I’m all for free voicing of opinions, but if I have to, I’ll do.
So, for the 1000th time: this is not an AU. I have not changed any of the established facts in the trilogy, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion or The Unfinished Tales. This is a series of ’’missing scenes’’, filling the huge gaps of canon with my imagination. You are free to disagree with my take on story and certain charactes. However, that will make this story not an AU. It was never meant to be one, nor will it ever be.
CHAPTER 6: STIRRING OF HEARTS - LALAITH
[Mettarë(1) in the year 639 of the Third Age.]
Sitting in the now-empty study of the Lord of the Valley, Erestor, seneschal of Rivendell and chief counsellor of Elrond's House, felt drained. His day had been a busy one, just like the one before, starting early – and, most likely, due to end very, very late. Preparations for tomorrow’s celebration of the welcoming of tuilë(2) had to be made, but at the same time also the usual investories had to be taken, for the seasonal year had reached its end with the current day of mettarë, and tomorrow a new year was going to begin with yestarë(3), invoking the upcoming spring.
While originally founded to be a fortress, Imladris had grown to a sprawling settlement of great beauty, merriment and quiet peace during the Third Age. For his part, Erestor welcomed this turn of events. He had seen enough bloodshed and death already. The quiet life in the Last Homely House suited him well.
Except of this time of the year, of course. Although Lindir had grown to become a very useful aide for the Master of the House, taking over a good part of the seneschal’s duties, Erestor felt drowning in work. As if the usual preparations had not been enough, they also had Gildor’s people staying with them for another cold season, the usual visitors from the Havens and from the allied kingdoms of Men, and Haldir of Lórien, too, dropped by a few days ago, with a message of Lord Amroth, the new King (although Erestor had the sneaking suspicion that Haldir only volunteered as a messenger to see Fíriel again – the two of them had become increasingly close during the recent years).
The Wandering Company had established a temporary home in the valley during the last decades; they would come at the beginning of hrívië(4), once in every fourth or fifth year, stay til the beginning of the new seasonal cycle(5), then get restless again and set off to other places, as it was their custom. During their visits, Erestor slowly got to know them better, and even befriended some of them, mostly the smiths among them, who worked in the smithies of the valley, regularly and with gusto.
The closest he had become with Findobar, the jewel-smith, who worked with crystals mostly – not with crystals made of refined glass but with the sort that had to be cut from the very heart of the mountains. There was a place near Imladris that was rich in those rare gifts of the hills, but no-one among the permanent dwellers of the valley would know the finer tricks of crystal-cutting, so Findobar’s lessons were very much asked for. When he had the time, Erestor went down to the workshops himself, to try his hand on his father’s crafts once again – and detected with surprise that he had not forgotten everything he had been taught in his youth.
As it was custom among the Wandering Companies, Findobar travelled with his whole family: his father, his older sister and her family, his wife and two grown children, of which the younger one had recently been married and was now with child – a rare occasion among Elves in these days. This was the reason why the company chose to return to Imladris once again; Tinwiel’s daughter was to be born in the first half of the spring season, and she wanted to give birth in the safety of Elrond’s well-protected realm.
At least one of the reasons, Elrohir thought with a wry smile, for there could be no doubt about that the Lord of the Company himself had entirely different motivations. Every one with eyes could see how deep Gildor Inglorion had fallen for the Lady Arwen, ever since her Choosing Ceremony, more than thrice ten years ago. He would never miss a chance to return to Imladris – and to her.
As for Arwen, Erestor could not be sure. Elrond’s daughter was as hard to figure out as her father, and her only confidant had been the Lady Aquiel so far, who answered all careful, probing questions with an enigmatic smile, naught more. The only known thing was that Arwen and Gildor continued their relationship every time the last Finwëan prince visited the valley with his people.
Nay, not he only one, Erestor corrected himself, for it also was clear how much Elrond disliked this relationship, even if he politely tolerated his wife’s cousin-from-afar in his house – and in his daughter’s bed.
’’Why does the Lord of the Valley so loathe Gildor?’’, Erestor dared to ask Celebrían once, a good ten years into the whole affair. ’’Would he not be a worthy consort for the Lady Arwen? Not only is he the last rightful Heir of Finwë, he is also considered as one of the Wise – after all, he had Edhellon(6) re-built and proved to be a true leader of his people, forming the bond of leadership with them and judging their gifts rightly(7).’’
’’I cannot say’’, Ceelbrían replied thoughtfully. ’’He never speaks of Gildor – at least not about the times they spent in Gil-galad’s court together. Something must have happened between the two of them – soemthing that Gildor had clearly ovecome since then, while my husband has not.’’
’’And you, my Lady? Want you not to know what it might be?’’, Erestor inquired.
Celebrían shook her head.
’’Nay; if he wants not to speak of it, then ’tis pobably better for me not to know. It might make things between my cousin and I… tense.’’
’’Do you approve him being your own daughter’s lover?’’, Erestor asked.
’’I think not that it would last’’, Celebrían answered with a smile. ’’They are too different – and much too headstrong, both of them. Besides’’, she added, suddenly very serious, ’’I believe if Arwen choses to bond wih a King, she would choose one who still does have his kingdom – not an Exile, bereft of his rank and powers.’’
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Lyrical laughter from the garden interrupted his musings – it sounded like tiny silver bells in a light breeze or like the falling of water over a stone cliff. He rose from his seat to stretch his limbs a little and stepped out on the balcony.
As he had expected, it was the Lady Aquiel – no other being could laugh quite like her, no Elf, no bird, not even the wind on the surface of a quiet lake. Her laughter rang like a crystal waterfall – which was the reason why Lindir gave her the epessë(8) Lady Lalaith(9), shortly after her arrival. Aquiel accepted the name with another silver laughter, but so far she had only allowed her young cousin to call her like that.
This time, however – to Erestor’s slight surprise – she was not in the company of Lindir, whom she had become close with during the recent years, but in that of Elrohir. The younger son of Elrond sat on the rand of a fountain, while Aquiel was working on his hair with a silver comb, smoothing out the tangles and making delicate braids with obvious delight.
Erestor could understand her enjoyment, having made the same many times, first to Elrond and later to his children. Unlike average Elven hair that was like heavy silk to the touch, the hair of Elrond and his children had that rare quality that made it almost weightless, floating by the slightest breeze like a halo around their faces. The twins found it annoying and usually wore their hair in tight braids, like the Silvan folk while on longer journeys, but the Lady Arwen enjoyed it greatly.
Orgof, the eldest minstrel of Gildor’s people, who was blessed with having seen Lúthien Tinúviel with his own eyes, swore that this was something they inherited from Lúthien herself, and that their hair had to be at least partially enchanted, just as Lúthien’s had been(10) – not that any proof for that would have been found so far.
Aquiel’s skilled fingers now wove the thin braids into an intricately-woven coronet on the back of Elrohir’s head – it was the same hairdo that Gildor wore on that feast in the Hall of Fire when they visited Imladris for the first time in many hundred years. It was called ’’the King’s Braid’’ for reasons Erestor knew not – but it suited Elrohir well, emphasizing his noble features and dark beauty. It made Erestor think of Dior the Fair, the son of Lúthien and Beren and heir of Thingol, whom he only knew of old lays, of course, but he doubted that even Dior could have been nobler and more fair in face than Elrond’s sons.
Elrohir now rose from the fountain-rand, checked his looks in the water and laughed. He said something that Erestor did not understand, for he kept his voice too low even for the keen Elven ears to understand, but he had to be teasing, for Aquiel laughed again that silver laughter of her and gave him a jab between his ribs with her elbow. Elrohir laughed, too, caught her arm, spun her around – and kissed her soundly.
Erestor went numb on the spot where he was standing. For years now had he watched the playful teasing between Lindir and his cousin, and at times he almost believed there would be something more. Sure, they were related, but only from afar – far enough that the laws and customs of the Firstborn would allow a bond – and a marriage – between them, and the Lady Aquiel, in Erestor’s opinion, would have been just perfect for Lindir. Being doubtlessly the stronger one from the two of them, she could have protected him, and being an appentrice lore-master, she would have much in common with him. Not to mention the deep love for music and poetry they shared. Yes, it would have been the perfect match.
But it was clearly not meant to be, Erestor thought, watching Aquiel and Elrohir kissing with growing passion in the garden, not caring who might see them, I only hope it shall not break Lindir’s heart.
’’It seems Elrohir finally gathered his wits to show his feelings’’, the soft voice of his young charge said behind him, and Erestor nearly jumped from surprise – he had not heard Lindir coming.
’’You knew about this?’’, he asked, unbelievingly.
Lindir laughed.
’’Of course! Elrohir had been pining after the Lady Lalaith for years… like a lovesick puppy. I have put a lot of effort into bringing them together. It was not easy!’’
’’You have?’’, Erestor arched an eyebrow. ’’I thought you were… interested in winning the Lady Aquiel’s heart yourself. And if I remember rightly, you nearly let yourself be seduced by Elrohir once.’’
’’That was long ago’’, Lindir answered with a shrug and a smile, ’’and had mostly to do with too much feywine. I was but a child.’’
’’You still are a child, little one – at least by law’’, Erestor remainded him gently.
Lindir gave him one of those shy smiles that always made him blush, without a reason.
’’I know, Master Erestor. And I love the Lady Lalaith not. I mean, I do love her as a friend or an older sister, but naught else. She is family, after all. But Elrohir – now he loves her very much.’’
’’The feeling seems mutual’’, Erestor remarked, looking after the two love-birds who finally left the garden, heading Aquiel’s chambers with a dreamy look on their faces. Lindir nodded.
’’I have known of her feelings for quite some time’’, he said, ’’for she found it easier to speak to me about it than to the Lady Arwen. And I have known of Elrohir’s love even longer. Yet they were both too proud to make the first move. I am glad that Elrohir finally came to his sense, instead of wasting another hundred years or so.’’
’’Our Lord will not be happy’’, Erestor murmured. ’’He was hard-pressed to accept Lady Arwen’s choice already, and now Elrohir…’’
’’Why?’’, Lindir asked. ’’Lady Lalaith is naught like her uncle: she is friendly and wise and gentle – yet she still has her rank, matching that of Elrohir’s. Why does our Lord dislike Gildor Inglorion so much?’’
’’That’’, said Erestor slowly; ’’is something I would like to know myself. Lord Gildor is not the most pleasant person at times, but such a thing has never made our Lord dislike someone before. Not in this extent. I wish I knew what is behind all this. It would make me easier to handle things. Moreso now that Gildor’s people visit the valley regularly.’’
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two days later, with the festivities of the Spring Festival in full roll, Erestor was still pondering over this question – this time with Glorfindel. They were putting down targets for the archery contest that was due on the same afternoon, and already many fine archers had announced their wish to participate.
’’Did you see our Lord’s face when Elrohir came in the Dining Hall the day before yestereve?’’, Erestor asked. ’’I cannot understand why he reacted as he did. He became pale like Death itself, and there was a cold fury in his eyes I have only seen during battle before.’’
’’’Twas the way Elrohir wore his hair’’, Glorfindel told him matter-of-factly, surveying the shooting field with narrowed eyes. The farthest targets were barely visible, even for his own keen sight, in spite of the brightly-coloured ribbons that marked them – perfect for the best Elven archers.
’’The ’King’s Braid’?’’, Erestor asked in surprise. ’’Why? Does Gildor not wear his hair in the same fashion every time and again?’’
’’He does’’, Glorfindel nodded, ’’and that makes our Lord not very happy, either.’’
’’Why?’’, Erestor truly was at loss. ’’I have no great love for Gildor myself, but he does have the right… he is the last true descendant of Finwë, after all.’’
’’Nay, he is not’’, Glorfindel corrected him in the same patient manner he used when Erestor was but a young elfling, given into his care for tutoring. ’’Lindir is the last one, as you very well know, whether he accepts this or not. Yet our Lord dislikes the ’King’s Braids’ for a more… personal reason.’’
’’Which is…?’’
Glorfindel sighed.
’’You are much too young to be aware of certain things. The ’King’s Braid’ got its name for this was how the last High King of the Noldor, Ereinion Gil-galad, wore his hair in the height of his power. It has become a symbol of High Kingship as well as of the very aera of his reign.’’
’’Nay, you must be wrong’’, Erestor frowned. ’’ I have seen the High King when I was very young – he always wore his hair unbraided.’’
’’You only saw him at wartime’’, Glorfindel said; ’’as a warrior-King, mustering his armies – or as a fierce fighter in battle. But you have never been to his high court in Lindon… never seen the glamour of his House… never seen him as he was at peacetime: noble and venerable and wise and very fair(11). He was a great King, cursed to live in those lesser times – beloved and admired by his people, and the young princes in his court were competing with each other for his favour.’’
Erestor stopped walking and looked at Glorfindel with widening eyes. The pieces of a long-pondered riddle began to come together in his mind.
’’Gildor…?’’
’’Not in that way’’, Glorfindel shook his head. ’’But he considered himself as second in line for High Kingship, and disliked it greatly that Gil-galad favoured Elrond above anyone else. He accused our Lord to have gained his position at the court through… personal services, to say it mildly.’’
’’How could he dare!’’, Erestor cried in dismay. ’’The High King would never have favoured an unworthy prince, just because… because…’’
’’Just because he was his lover?’’ Glorfindel finished for him. ’’’Tis true, and in his sober moments Gildor knew it, too. Yet he felt himself in disadvantage, and unjustly so – and, remember, he was rather young at that time. He lashed out at everyone he could.’’
’’Our Lord was not happy about this, I deem’’, Erestor remarked drily.
’’Nay’’, Glorfindel agreed. ’’I cannot be certain, of course, but I think the endless animosity between him and Gildor was what made Elrond leave the court in Lindon and found Imladris. At the end, this decision saved the lives of many of our kin – but I think he still has not forgiven Gildor for making him leave.’’
’’And yet’’, said Erestor thoughtfully, ’’without Gildor’s jealousy we might not be alive now; and our Lord might not have his family safe and sound… he might not have a family at all, had he remained with the High King. And that truly would be a waste.’’
’’The paths of the Valar could be twisted at times’’, Glorfindel admitted, ’’and the thoughts of Ilúvatar remain veiled for everyone but Manwë himself. ’Tis hard to foresay what certain deeds would result in the future.’’
’’The strangest thing is that Gildor seems to have found his right place in a changed world’’, said Erestor. ’’He is the Lord of the South Haven after alll, even if he does not live there permanently; and he has his people bound to him, even if the ones who follow him on his travels are few in number.’’
’’’Tis the way of the Wise: to adapt to the changes of the world’’, Glorfindel nodded, ’’and the sad irony is, that Gildor Inglorion does possess all the qualities a High King would need to reign – yet he was born too late to actually exercise those vital powers. ’Tis a bitter loss for our kin – for he would have made a great King, given the chance.’’
’’More so than our Lord?’’, Erestor asked, somewhat doubtfully.
’’In certain ways’’, Glorfindel said. ’’Elrond is one of the wise: a Master of the lore like few else have ever been – and a great warrior if the need arises. But in the heart of his hearts he is a scholar and a healer first. He would make an excellent First Counsellor for a warrior-King – as we could see while he served Gil-galad –, but Gildor would make a better King. To be a great King, one needs to be ruthless at times, not wise only – Gildor has more of that in him than our Lord.’’
’’And I am certainly the witness of that’’, Erestor murmured. Glorfindel nodded again.
’’He has much of the young Finwë in his demeanour, regardless the ages that separate them – and the Vanyar and Telerin blood that had been mixed into the family. But it matters little now, that he has become the Lord of a mixed folk. He leads them well, and they would follow them to the Black Fields of Mordor, would he ask them.’’
’’Do you believe that he would approve the love between Elrohir and the Lady Aquiel?’’, Erestor asked.
Glorfindel thought about it for a moment.
’’’Tis hard to tell’’, he finally said with a shrug. ’’First we have to see if the whole affair lasts longer than a few seasons. They are still very young, both of them; it would be a mistake to bond themselves thus early(12).’’
Erestor agreed with that whole-heartedly, and after a last, thorough examination of the shooting field they returned to the Great House to finish their preparations for the evening. Despite all the help they had received, there still was much work to do.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The silver bells chimed, sounding dinner and all arrived, sitting about the table of the Dining Hall, according to rank. Elrond sat in his chair at the head of the table, as it suited the Lord of the Valley, with Gildor as the highest-ranking guest on his right and Glorfindel on his left. In the middle of the table, against the woven clothes upon the wall, there was a chair under a canopy, and there sat the Lady Celebrían, seeming as queenly as ever, with her children on one side and the Lady Aquiel on the other.
Men sat on the left side of the long table, the ambassador of Valandur(13), High King of Arnor with his escort and the messengers of the far-off city of Men in Greenwood the Great, a city called Dale, for it had been custom ever since the founding of the kingdoms of the Men of Númenor that their representatives came to the great festivals in Imladris, and after a while Elrond extended his invitation to other allies as well.
Elves sat in groups on the right side, talking together, in a colourful mix of different Elven realms: the dark-haired dwellers of Imladris, Haldir of Lórien with his tightly braided, ash-blonde mane, so very unusual among the Silvan folk, some silver-tressed Falathrim from Círdan’s people and the members of Gildor’s Company, with all their various looks, the Nandor Elves standing out of them with their auburn locks that had got considerably lighter in color with the coming of spring.
Lindir stood beside Elrond's chair, attending to his Lord as was his duty. He looked in Erestor's direction at times, mostly as he felt his tutor's eyes upon him, not wanting to disappoint him with any mistakes. He sighed internally and willed himself to outwait the day. He had no interest whatsoever in that archery contest, since he despised weapons of any sort, but he was looking forward to the long song-sharing and tale-telling night that was due to follow in the Hall of Fire.
After dinner, Elves and Men rose, walking past the courtyard to shooting field behind the house. Due to Erestor and Glorfindel’s labours in the morning, all targets were duly set, the colorfully-ribboned little stakes being driven into the great expanse of the wide, rolling lawn that stretched out before them. The shooting was made to come difficult at best – the very challenge every good Elven archer loved. There were appreciative murmurs among the crowd, and many whispered compliments to the seneschal for making the shooting ground this challenging.
Haldir of Lórien looked around, noting great archers gathering for the begin of the contest. It promised to be a hard one this year. There were the sons of Elrond, for one thing. Though fairly young, they were known to handle their bows – made in Lórien, by the hands of the greatest Elven weapon-makers, by the way – exceptionally well. Which was small wonder, considering that he had taught them himself in the Golden Wood, many years ago.
Then there were some true bow-masters in Gildor’s Company, too: Durithel and Denilos, both of Nandorin descent, and what’s more, rumour said that Durithel was related to Beleg Cúthalion(14), the greatest archer that ever walked the Earth – and almost as skilled. Orontor, their third companion originated from Lórien (Haldir had known his father who fought alongside him in the Battle upon Dagorlad), so he had to be good as well. The fourth one, Thorndor, was a young Noldo whose abilities he could not guess.
Haldir looked down the shooting field, noting the farthest stave bearing a red ribbon. He measured the distance with experienced eyes and checked the wind, determining that with skill and silence he would make every shot a sure hit. He caught the encouraging smile of Fíriel and nodded slightly. Nay, he could not fail before the eyes of the woman who meant more to him than anyone, save his late wife. It was by the Lady’s grace alone that they met again, and though one day they would have to depart Middle-earth as well as each other, their remaining days were blessed by their love.
Erestor, as it was his duty, gave the sign to the begin of the contest, and the first archer stepped up to the line and raised his bow. A cheer rose up as the arrow landed near to the stave that marked the farthest point. The shooter, a Ranger from Cardolan, who came with the ambassador of King Valandur, smiled proudly and bowed, gathering the compliments of the crowd. It was a considerable achievement among such fine archers – most of them Elves whose eyes were much keener than his own.
Haldir watched, nodding his approval to the many fine shots and considering his own. Save Durithel alone, he was probably the best archer there, at least among the tested ones and he had little worry about his own shooting. But today he had someone aside of his pride to shoot for. Fíriel had seen him before many times, and yet he looked forward to show his skill for his lover once more.
Elrond sat in his chair, Celebrían, Gildor and Glorfindel sitting with him, and he applauded at the best shots along with the others, yet his eyes strayed to Elladan again and again as he watched his tall, strong and beautiful son awaiting his turn. He sighed, the pleasure of the moment filling him with joy, and when Celebrían squeezed his hand in joyful anticipation, he nearly jerked. He glanced at his wife and exchanged with her a smile full of parental pride. Both their sons were fine archers, but Elladan by far the better of them.
The older twin stepped up, putting an arrow on his bow-string and the crowd grew silent, watching as he focussed his eye on the farthest stave beyond. After a moment he let go, and the arrow flew away with incredible speed, hitting its mark unerringly. Everyone gasped and Lindir ran out, checking the shot against the red-ribboned stave. They were wedged together, rammed into the ground with great force, and an astonished murmur ran through the crowd when he came back and said so.
Elladan smiled contently and turned, glancing at Elrond, who sat clapping, leaning towards Celebrían, whispering something in her ear. Then he turned away, just to meet the jealousy-stricken glance of his brother. It surprised and even a little hurt him – til he saw the anticipation on the Lady Aquiel’s face, and all of a sudden he wished he had failed his shot. While it was true that Elrohir could not reach his skills with the bow, he truly did not need one more victory… not when it made his brother feel ashamed in the eyes of his Lady.
Haldir smiled, too, as he waited, taking his shots, and when he had fired four times, was declared the best shot of the contest, to the great delight of Fíriel. He also saw what the others might not have detected – that Elladan slightly held back by his other shots, even so slightly that it would not be obvious that he let his brother overtake him by a hair’s breadth. Erohir was too overjoyed to notice this, and Aquiel beamed with pride.
As he finished collecting his arrows and turned to walk back from the shooting field, he noted that a small crowd of Elves and Men were gathered around the place of honour, listening intently to something Gildor was saying. The look on Elrond's face was hard to read, but Haldir could tell that the Lord of the Valley was not pleased. Hurrying up, he got in on the end of Gildor’s suggestion.
’’What say you, Lord Elrond’’, the Lord of the Wandering Company said with mock respect, ’’should we show these young puppies how the princes of Finwë’s House were taught to handle their weapons in the times long gone?’’
Haldir watched with a raised eyebrow as everyone waited for Elrond's response. Neither himself, nor half of the archers from Gildor’s own people could truly be called ’’puppies’’; actually, both he and Durithel were considerably older than Gildor himself, and even Denilos was at least of Gildor’s age. But it was obvious that Gildor wanted to tease his host a little – and mayhap even to prove his skills in the eyes of the Lady Arwen.
Finally, after a moment of tension, Elrond answered in a flat voice:
’’If you feel the need to participate, Lord Gildor, I wish not to hinder you. ’Tis your own choice. I for my part need to prove nothing.’’
Feeling somewhat disappointed that Elrond did not accepth his challenge, Gildor rose and unfastened his robe. Handing it to young Edrahil who was standing behind him, serving as his aide during the Festival, he motioned to Durithel. The archer walked over and stood, looking at him in askance.
’’May I use your bow, Durithel?’’, Gildor asked, holding out his hand.
’’Most certainly, my Lord’’, Durithel handed over the magnificent weapon, made following the traditions of the archers of Doriath, and Gildor took it, testing its strength against his own. It was longer than the average Elven bows, longer even than the ones made in Lórien, which were considered the best ones in these days. With a nod of approval, he pulled three arrows from the quiver on Durithel's back, walking towards the shooting line and placing two of them on the ground.
Arwen watched him, her heart in her throat. Gildor was a renowned warrior, Erestor could tell stories about his last battle for hours, but Arwen has not seen him shoot in all the seasons that he had spent in Imladris. She had no idea how skilled he was with a bow at all, having been a sword-fighter mostly. She knew Gildor took this risk to gain her respect – and that he could lose that of his people in exchange, should he fail.
It was eerily silent as Gildor took aim, Durithel standing beside him, the other two arrows in his hand. The archer watched with caught breath as his Lord carefully measured his shot, driven by the need to prove himself to the Lady of his heart.
Finally, Gildor let go of his string and the arrow flew in a high arc skywards. Everyone gasped, thinking that he had made a mistake by aiming high instead of straight and that the shot would lose its strength much too soon. But Gildor clearly knew what he was doing. The arc placed the arrow so close to the redr-ribboned stave that it almost touched Elladan’s first arrow.
Durithel, who had taught him this trick in the first place, laughed out loud, bowing in respect to his Lord, who laughed as well, relieved that in spite of the recent lack of practice, his well-trained muscles still remembered the necessary moves. He shot two more arrows, each one landing as perfectly as the other and when he finished, he handed the bow back to Durithel.
’’Thank you, my friend – for the loan as well as for the archery lessons.’’
’’You are most welcome, my Lord’’, the Nandor Elf grinned. ’’’Tis good to see that I was not wasting my time with you in your reckless youth.’’
All laughed while Gildor donned his robe again and followed his host inside, all the while taking the congratulations of the other archers. Into the Hall of Fire they went, and Lindir and the other young Elves became busy pouring wine and listening to the tales of older times as the elder among them began to recite them.
Merry laughter and sweet talking, long-winded singing and roundelays out in the courtyard carried them on into the night, and when the guests finally began to leave, everyone was of amiably high spirits. Erestor had overseen the work of the younger Elves putting the rooms and terraces in good order, and by the time he was ready to retire, he was pleasantly tired. Preparing himself for a well-deserved, restful night, he could hear Lindir summing Íre rávanna(15)), the oldest spring song known to Elves, on his nearby balcony.
Hríve taltie mi orontilmar,
losselóti firir úrenen.
Menel mire mi andúne-rilmar,
Anar taure ata cuit' ar nén.
Tule rato alcarinqua laire,
helwa-ahyala ve falmali
culde nandar vaita áre-faire
ar nu aldar liltar ehteli.
Aiya merye súri! Yé, tulinye,
et rávanna, aiwenórie,
lalmi, versilinnar, i melinye,
oron, nén, nai cenuvanye te.
Ata cenuvanyet ve nésesse,
hilya nenna nelle liltale,
hlare lindo lindale tauresse,
ailinello alqua-tyalie.
End notes:
(1) The last day of the seasonal year.
(2) The spring season.
(3) The first day of the seasonal year.
(4) The winter season.
(5) Which means, in our count, that they actually spent at least
four months in Imladris, the winter season lasting 72 and the
stirring season (the last one of the year) another 54 days. So,
they pretty much became part of the life of Rivendell.
(6) No, he had not, actually. It's only my twisting unimportant
canon facts a little to give Gildor more credit. There is no
proof that the south haven of the Silvan Elves that still was
said to exist in some way near Dol Amroth during the Ring War
would be built upon the ruins of Edhellond.
(7) About the unique bond of an Elven leader and his/her folk,
see: ''Who is like the Wise Elf'' by Michael Martinez, where he
postulates that Gildor, indeed, might have been considered as one
of the Wise.
(8) Nickname.
(9) Laughter.
(10) Lúthien could make her hair grow in one night so long that
she could weave a cloak of it that made her invisible.
(11) We are not speaking here of Gil-galad as he appeared in the
movie.<g> The same is true for my portrayal of Elrond. Or
his sons. Or even Arwen. It is a matter of taste, after all.
(12) I know that in ''Morgoth's Ring'' is written that Elves
would mate and marry at the age of 50 - but the simple truth is,
I find it rather unbelievable. With a life as long as Elves have,
with 50 they still are little more than babies. And, as I said, I
go with canon facts as they stay in the trilogy, The Sil and The
Unfinished Tales - if I would try to take any remark in any
private letter of Tolkien under consideration, I would stop
writing altogether. Some of you probably think that would be the
best solution - in that case, nobody forces you to read my work.
(13) Valandur (462-652, 3rd Age) was the 8th High King of Arnor.
He was slain in unrecorded circumstances.
(14) Legendary archer of Doriath in the First Age - a friend of
Túrin and slain accidentally by him. Cúthalion means
''Longbow''.
(15) ) ''Desire to the Wilderness'' - this is actually the Quenya
translation of the Swedish spring-song ''Längtan till landet'',
translated by Mins Björkman, found on the Mellonath Daeron
linguistic website. Needless to say that it doesn't belong to me.