SEASIDE CONVERSATIONS
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.
Rating: G
Dedication:
for Isabeau with love. Happy birthday!
Summary:
Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, has an unexpected visitor.
Foreshadows of the upcoming dark days are discussed
Author’s
notes:
This short story
is my birthday present for Isabeau of Greenlea, since the actual
story I am writing in honour of this big event – the AU called
’’Seal On My Heart’’ will not be finished ere she reaches
Bilbo’s age, it seems. :((
Alas, I’m late
with this one, too, so my sincerest apologies, and I hope you
still like it. :))
Imrahil’s
castle has been conceived in the likeness of Mount St. Michel in
Normandy (France), for that is how Isabeau said she could imagine
it (well, more or less, anyway). All facts about Imrahil’s
family (except the name and fate of his wife) are from “The
Peoples of Middle-earth’’ (HoME 12), courtesy of the birthday
girl, who generously allowed me to borrow her take on the Lady of
Dol Amroth.
This is a
pre-LOTR story, happening eleven years before the Ring War –
shortly after Gandalf has discovered Isildur’s Scroll in Minas
Tirith. There are absolutely no canon facts that I know of
indicating a friendship between Gildor and the Lords of Dol
Amroth; nor such that would prove (or contradict) the idea of
Gildor Inglorion being the Lord of Edhellond. Just to make things
clear. :))
Many heartfelt
thanks to Snicklepop for beta reading.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
[The 23rd
day of Narquelië (Narbeleth), in the year 3008 of the Third Age]
[Dol Amroth,
the Castle of the Ruling Prince](1)
Shortly before
sunset upon the shores of Belfalas, in the southwest of Gondor,
the golden autumn day was turning into an unusually cool evening,
and Imrahil son of Adrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, was
thinking of turning in early, as well. Not that anyone would be
waiting for him, though: his bedchamber had been cold and lonely
ever since his beloved wife died a few years ago. And now,
after having dealt with the Lord Denethor and his councillors for
days, made worse by a hard and swift ride home, he longed for
peace and some rest.
Dúnedain
longevity notwithstanding, the bloom of his youth was gone. And
at times, he did feel the burden of years weighing heavily
upon his shoulders, even though he hardly looked older than
forty, and there was but the odd silver thread in his raven-black
hair. Yet still, on this particular afternoon, he felt as if the
burdens of all his sires back to the founding of Gondor were
weighing upon his shoulders.
The title of a
Prince was given to the Lords of Dol Amroth by Elendil himself,
with whom they had kinship. They were a family of the Faithful
who had sailed from Númenórë before the Downfall and had
settled in the land of Belfalas, upon the high promontory of Tol
Ondren,(2) much later named Dol Amroth. Although
Imrahil was not yet the Ruling Prince, the Lord Adrahil had been
weak and sick for years now, and Imrahil had been assuming his
father’s duties for some time now(3).
It was a great
responsibility, but Imrahil had been ready for the burden of the
office. In fact, he welcomed it – it took his mind off his
grief over Nimrien’s passing(4), giving him
something useful to do. Even though some days spent in Minas
Tirith, like the recent ones, made him wonder if he truly had
made such a good exchange.
He sat down
heavily in his favourite armchair that stood invitingly near the
fireplace of his private library and rubbed his forehead. He only
had been at home long enough to take a bath, but – unlike other
times – the soaking in the hot water failed to make him sleepy.
’’I am too
tired to sleep’’, he murmured absently, massaging his temples
with long, sword-calloused fingers.
’’You are
pushing yourself much too hard,’‘ the calm voice of a woman
answered, and Tirathiel, the aunt of his late wife(5),
stepped forth from the shadows.
Imrahil grinned
fondly at his aunt-in-law. Tirathiel was considerably older than
him, a rather elderly lady even by Dúnedain standards, and she
always wore that stern, hard-to-please look upon her thin face
that even the most valiant Swan Knights found downright
frightening. Being a widow herself, she was clad in black and
silver all the time, her iron-grey hair tightly braided and the
single braid twisted into a knot covered with a cap of silver
lace – a knot so tight that it made every one’s scalp hurt at
the mere sight. People often compared her to the Queen
Berúthiel, save for the lack of cats.
Only those who
knew her well – like Imrahil himself and his closest family –
were aware of the fact that the Iron Lady, as she was frequently
called behind her back, had a heart of pure goodness under that
hard shell of hers. Without her help (she was a skilled healer,)
Imrahil could never have managed to get through the long years of
Nimrien’s slow and painful illness – or now, through the
equally slow but unstoppable deterioration of his father’s
health. Imrahil greatly appreciated her presence – more so
since Amrothos and Lothíriel were still but young children.
Tirathiel had
been the powerful matriarch of their family ever since the day of
his wedding, and not only helped him take care of his wife and
his father, but spoiled and chastised him under four eyes as if
he were a child himself. She also ruled everyday life life in Dol
Amroth Castle with an iron fist, frightening the seneschal and
the servants halfway to death. Working from sunrise to sunset,
and often beyond, gave her life a purpose, and Imrahil was
grateful for her. Tirathiel’s presence and constant care kept
the family together.
’’Did you
have to fight the Steward about every single thing again, no
matter how insignificant it was?’’ she asked casually.
Long ago, in her
youth, she had been a lady in the court of Ecthelion II, but her
acerbic nature had made her less than popular in noble circles.
She often used to have heated arguments with a then-young
Denethor, despite – or more so because of – the similarities
of their natures. That she wrote beautiful poetry in what little
spare time she had, mayhap no-one knew, save Imrahil himself.
‘‘The Lord
Steward was slightly… agitated,’’ the Prince answered in a
diplomatic fashion – which earned him a sarcastically raised
eyebrow from the old lady.
’’More so
than usually?’’ Tirathiel asked in her customary wry manner.
’’What happened this time to upset him so terribly? Did he
catch his younger son playing the harp again?’’
Imrahil could not
suppress a very un-princely bark of laughter. Unlike others, he
knew that the relationship between his brother-in-law and his
nephews was far more complicated than the apparent preference
Denethor showed his older son – something that those who
belonged not to the family could not understand. And Imrahil knew
that Tirathiel was also aware of this.
’’Nay,’‘
he then answered, quickly sobering again. ’’He caught Faramir
accompanying Mithrandir to the Hidden Archives.’’
There were not
many things that still could truly surprise the Lady Tirathiel;
she had seen much strangeness in her many years in the court.
This time, though, she was genuinely surprised.
’’Mithrandir?’’
she repeated in awe, caught off guard completely. ’’Now I am
certain that some odd thing is going on in the world. He has
not visited Minas Tirith for what? Ten years? Twenty? Or even
longer? I cannot remember. Yet I do seem to remember what
he told me during his last visit: that the Lord Denethor showed
him less welcome than was the wont of the Lord Ecthelion towards
a member of his Order.’’
’’And yet, he
has visited Minas Tirith since then, even though his
visits have been few and far between, not to mention rather
short,’‘ Imrahil replied thoughtfully. “And always was
Faramir eager to learn from him, no matter how little time or
patience Mithrandir had. This never failed to make Denethor
seethe with anger, though he was careful to conceal his ill
feelings.’’
’’You cannot
blame him for that’’, Tirathiel answered with a shrug. “He
fears that Mithrandir is taking his place in his son’s heart,
much as he lost his place in his father’s heart those
many years ago to a stranger, though he had given his best to
please Ecthelion. Of Boromir, he can be certain, for Boromir has
the mind of a soldier – he would never question or disobey his
father. But Faramir…’’
’’Faramir is
as loyal and obedient a son as his brother is!’’ Imrahil
exclaimed, feeling very protective about his younger nephew.
Tirathiel nodded in agreement.
“True. Yet he
and Denethor are very much alike, and I believe that is why the
Lord Steward feels uncomfortable around his younger son.’’
’’They are
not alike at all!’’ Imrahil protested.
“On the
outside, mayhap they are not’’, Tirathiel agreed. ’’Yet
they are very much alike in the inside. Does Faramir not have the
shrewd mind of his father? Does he not share Denethor’s
interest in ancient lore, art and poetry? Can he not read
people’s hearts and make Men and beasts obey his will, just
like his father? Does he not share the gift of foresight all
Dúnedain of royal descent are cursed with… more or less?’’
Imrahil met her
eyes reluctantly, for all that Tirathiel said was true, of
course. She knew the sons of Denethor as well as she knew
Imrahil’s own children, for they had spent many a summer in Dol
Amroth in their youth.
’’He will be
a great help and support for his brother once stewardship passes
over to Boromir,’‘ he said. ’’The two of them shall rule
Gondor well.’‘ Then he added the old running joke. “Unless
the King should return.’’
But Tirathiel
laughed not. She, too, was foresighted like many of the noble
families of pure Dúnedain blood. And what her dreams revealed
made her fear the future.
’’There may
come days in these times when things happen that no-one would
have expected,’‘ she said thoughtfully. ’’So be careful
what you joke about. That Mithrandir returned to Minas Tirith
might mean more than a simple visit. Much more.’’
’’That I
know,’‘ Imrahil sighed. ’’Mithrandir wastes no time for
unnecessary journeys. What do you think he is up to?’’
’’I know
not’’, Tirathiel replied. ’’Yet someone else might.
Mithrandir is not the only unexpected visitor these days.’’
’’Oh?’’
Imrahil raised an eminently elegant eyebrow. ’’And who, pray
you, has honoured us with such a visit?’’
’’Someone who
has not darkened our doorstep for a long time,’‘ Tirathiel
replied with a wide grin that almost split her face in two.
’’I shall send him in – with a bottle of your best
wine, in honour of the rare occasion.’’
With that she
left in a hurry, leaving a somewhat flabbergasted Imrahil behind.
If the last remark – and that rarely-seen grin – was any
indication, the visitor must be an unusual one, indeed.
A moment later
the door opened again, and in stepped the visitor, his soft
footfall causing almost no noise at all. He was tall, taller even
than Imrahil himself (which was a rare thing indeed,) and slender
like a big, sleek cat, albeit reasonably broad through the
shoulder, at least in the measure of his own people – for the
pale skin and the delicately pointed ears gave him away at once
as an Elf.
He wore casual
clothes: a silver-hued tunic and black leggings with light shoes
and a long, midnight-blue cloak; but his easy, slightly arrogant
demeanour showed that he was used to giving orders and being
obeyed. His long hair, unbraided save a single plait on the top
of his head to keep it out of his face, lay heavily upon his back
like molten gold. He wore no ring, no jewellery, nor any weapons,
yet he still managed to have a dangerous air about him.
His face,
although beautiful like all Elven faces, had a certain hardness
hidden in the elegant features – a hardness that told of many
bitter memories collected during a very long life. High
cheekbones – and coldly glittering grey-blue eyes resembled the
Sea on a stormy winter morning – only added to the air of
haughtiness that enveloped him like a second cloak.
Regardless of
this, however, Imrahil was genuinely happy to see him. As
Tirathiel had said, this particular visitor had not darkened his
doorstep frequently in recent times.
’’Lord
Gildor!’’ he exclaimed, rising from his seat more cheerfully
than he would have thought himself to be capable of even a moment
earlier. ’’How good it is to see you again! It has been a
long time…’’
’’Too
long’’, Gildor Inglorion, the Lord of Edhellond – a small
Elven haven and a few dozen even smaller Elven settlements
scattered between Dol Amroth and the Ringló-vale – replied
amiably, clasping forearms with the Prince. Then he circled
Imrahil gracefully like a hunting cat, inspecting him thoroughly.
’’You have changed surprisingly little, though. ’Imrahil
the Fair’ – I would say you still give that name sufficient
honour.’’
Imrahil could not
help laughing. He had known Gildor since his birth, practically,
considering the centuries-old custom of the House of Dol Amroth
to ask the Lord of Edhellond’s blessing for their children –
a custom that had its roots in the history of their family.
According to the tradition of their House, the first Prince of
Dol Amroth to wear this particular title was Galadhor, born a
thousand years before Imrahil’s time, the son of Imrazôr the
Númenórean, who dwelt in Belfalas, and the Elven-Lady
Mithrellas, one of the handmaidens of Nimrodel, the
often-sung-of. There even was a family legend telling that
Mithrellas entrusted the fate of her mortal husband and children
to Gildor Inglorion ere she stole away from them to sail to the
West from the haven of Edhellond(6).
No-one knew, of
course, if there was any truth behind that legend, and no-one had
ever dared to ask the Elf-Lord about it. However, it remained a
fact that Gildor, who had no family on his own, had always acted
as a sort of Elven godfather towards the offspring of the
princely House. The young Princes and Princesses of Dol Amroth
were often invited to Gildor’s own House in Edhellond (in the
rare years that he spent at home, that is,) even though mortals
usually were not allowed any further than the harbour. Imrahil
himself had spent two full years living under Gildor’s roof –
way back in his adventurous youth when he was temporarily at odds
with his father and unwilling to act the part of a prince as it
had been expected of him.(7).
But in the end,
he was forced to return home, of course, for Gildor was leaving
for the North with his Wandering Company and flatly refused to
take him along. Gildor had explained that mortals could not
afford the luxury of wasting time on a simple journey, unlike the
wandering Elves, for whom travelling was the only way of life.
Imrahil always suspected that there was more behind Gildor’s
refusal; that there mayhap were places along the travelling route
of the Elves where mortals would not be allowed or welcomed, but
he knew better than to ask.
However, the
short years he had spent in Gildor’s house were of great value
for him. He had come to know the Elves and their customs better
than any Man, unless they were raised by Elves, for he was
allowed to share freely in every aspect of Elven life – and he
had taken advantage of every opportunity. At times he wondered
whether his old-fashioned, strongly opinionated brother-in-law
would choke in dismay or simply frown disapprovingly if he were
to discover Imrahil’s… adventures… in Gildor’s court.
’’Oh, I have
changed, in many ways,’‘ the Prince of Dol Amroth replied,
but Gildor only smiled and shook his golden head.
’’Not in
aught that count, you have not. Not in your heart, and I am glad
to see it. Men get lost so easily among the concerns and sorrows
of their hearts. ’Tis good to see that you have kept your fire,
in spite of all the hard times fate brought to you. The blood of
Númenórë runs deeply and strongly in you.’’
Imrahil eyed him
suspiciously. Flattery was not part of Gildor’s nature, so when
he started giving compliments, there had to be some hidden
meaning.
’’What are
you up to?’’ the Prince asked, releasing the servant who
brought the wine with and absent nod. ’’Niceties from your
mouth always indicate some ulterior motive. And you make no
surprise visits without a reason.’’
’’I freely
admit to both,’‘ Gildor laughed – a deep, pleasant sound
that never failed to make Imrahil shiver slightly, even though
his juvenile infatuation with the Elf-Lord had been thirty years
past, and had not lasted long, even then.
The amused glint
in those sea-hued eyes revealed that Gildor was well aware of
(and used to,) his young human charges falling in love with him
at a certain age – and getting over the whole affair with equal
speed. He had gone through the same thing with various sons and
daughters of the princely House many, many times, and considering
the enthusiastic tales Elphir and Erchirion(8) had
told after their first extended stay in Edhellond nearly a year
ago, the trend was still far from ending.
Imrahil shook his
head in silent amusement over the past repeating itself in such a
blatant manner, then remembered his duty as the host and poured
them both a generous amount of the wine.
’’So, my
Lord,’‘ he said, sitting down again and nodding towards the
other comfortable chair on the other side of the fireplace. “What
is the true reason for your coming?’’
Gildor turned the
finely-cut crystal goblet between his long fingers a few times,
as if he wanted to admire the play of light in the ruby depths of
the excellent (and very costly,) Haradrian wine.
’’Mithrandir,’‘
he answered simply. Imrahil’s whole answer was an arched
eyebrow and a noncommittal ’’Ah?’’ The Elf-Lord sighed, a
glint of impatience appearing in his eyes.
’’Do not play
games with me, Imrahil of Dol Amroth! I know that Mithrandir has
come to Minas Tirith, but alas! I have no time to go and seek him
out before he leaves.’‘
’’As if you
would as much as even go near Minas Tirith at all,’‘ replied
Imrahil wryly, for as long as he could remember, indeed, none of
the Elves dwelling in Edhellond had been willing to set foot in
the White City. They were of the Silvan folk, mostly, and the
seven stone rings of the Watchtower of the South seemed like a
trap to them – or like a prison. Just as they were for
Finduilas, he added sadly, remembering how his beloved sister
had faded to death in that very city, far away from the Sea that
she loved so much. ’’Besides, he has left already.’’
This seemed to
surprise Gildor, and Imrahil could not blame him for that.
Surely, ’twas rather unusual from Mithrandir to come and go in
such hasty manner. In earlier times, when the Lord Ecthelion
still was the Steward of Gondor, the wizards (most frequently
Curunír the White) used to spend weeks or even moons in the
huge, shadowy halls of the Steward’s Library – or, less
frequently, in the chambers of the Hidden Archive – to study
one or another obscure old tome or torn parchment scroll.
Imrahil still had
vague memories of those times, when he had been a very young boy
visiting the court with his father. He remembered the bent,
grey-clad form of Mithrandir, sitting at the library table,
indulging in deep conversation with a young, raven-haired
Tirathiel about legends and prophecies and ancient history.
’’Left
already, did he?’’ Gildor murmured, waking Imrahil from his
memories. ’’Have you, by any choice, spoken to him? Do you
know why he came in the first place?’’
’’Nay,’‘
said Imrahil regretfully. “For I was occupied with the Lord
Steward and his councillors, debating more important affairs of
state.’‘ His wry face clearly spoke of his
less-than-flattering opinion of the aforementioned councillors.
Gildor smiled.
’’Who would
have thought a mere thirty years ago that you would grow into
such an astute diplomat and responsible leader of your
people?’’ he said teasingly, yet not entirely without
fondness.
’’Certainly
not my own father,’‘ Imrahil replied dryly. “For at least
ten years, he lived in never-ceasing fear that after three
thousand years the line of the Princes would end with him.’‘
’’And not
without reason, I must add,’‘ the Elf-Lord said, with slight
disapproval behind his seemingly easy manner. ’’There were
times when even I had my doubts that you would ever calm down and
get settled.’’
’’You are not
that much settled yourself,’‘ Imrahil pointed out, slightly
irritated; at times the Elf seemed to forget that he was not
sixteen years old any more.
’’True,’‘
Gildor admitted. “But living on the road is not something I
would wish for one whom I consider a friend. Going on adventures
can be fun as long as you are young, but leading a restless life
as I do is for Elves alone; and even only for those of our kin
who have naught – or no one – to keep us in one place.’’
His eyes grew
wide and became unfocused as if he were listening to some voice
only he could hear. Imrahil was certain that he did hear
something, indeed – the faint and far-away call of the Great
Sea that not even dwelling upon its shores could quiet.
“Sea-longing’‘ this was called, and nearly all Elves fell
victim to it, sooner or later; even some of the Silvan folk,
whose roots in Middle-earth were deeper than those of other
Elves. It was said that once the Sea called, Elves had to
follow, or they would fade away.
Rarely did Gildor
speak about himself, yet Imrahil knew that he had been born in
Middle-earth and had lived there since the beginning of the
Second Age – which meant that he was more than six thousand
years old. The mere thought of such incredible age made the
Prince of Dol Amroth shiver at times. He envied not the
fate of Elves – on the contrary. His own life was but a wink of
an eye for them; yet, Imrahil had seen so much pain and death,
and had suffered so many bitter losses already, that memories of
them alone had become a burden hard to carry.
Sometimes he
asked himself what dark memories, what horrible losses might lie
hidden behind Gildor’s guarded face? Six thousand years worth
of memories – how could the Elf-Lord live with them? Was that
the reason for his aloofness, the seemingly haughty distance he
kept from every one? Or was it only the different nature of the
Elves that no amount of closeness could make understandable for
him, a mere mortal?
Imrahil could not
understand the Lords of Númenórë of old – the ones who
rebelled against the will of Ilúvatar… against the fate that
was gifted upon them. Why would they have wanted to endure the
slowly growing weariness of the Elves? A weariness that grew
slowly and inevitably over the Ages, ’til it became unbearable
and sent them fleeing over the Sea? He most certainly did not.
The burden of a mortal lifetime was more than enough for him.
’’You know
naught then of what might have brought Mithrandir to Minas
Tirith?’’ Gildor asked, clearly disappointed, and Imrahil
wondered briefly why this seemed to be so important to the
Elf-Lord. As Gildor had told him several times, Elves had their
own labours and sorrows and were little concerned with the ways
of other creatures upon earth.
’’I spoke to
Faramir shortly before I left for home,’‘ Imrahil said. He
bothered not to explain who Faramir was; though the Steward’s
family had no contact whatsoever to the Elves, Gildor knew them
very well, even if only from Tirathiel’s descriptions – or
Imrahil’s own.
’’Still the
wizard’s pupil, is he?’’ the Elf-Lord asked with a faint
smile, showing his familiarity with what ever was happening in
Minas Tirith. ’’A shame that he had to become a Ranger
captain. He would make an excellent lore-master – and an
Elf-friend, just like his great-aunt.’’
’’What about
his uncle?’’ Imrahil asked, slightly insulted. Gildor cocked
his head to one side and scrutinized him in a strange, bird-like
manner – an arcane gesture that he had unknowingly picked up
from his Silvan subjects. It usually unnerved people –
particularly mortals – very much.
’’You have
learnt much,’‘ he judged with genuine fondness. ’’But,
you are still much too restless in your heart to become fully
immersed in lore. Which is a good thing, for your people would
have little use of you otherwise. They need a ruler, a leader,
not a scholar. You will do nicely.’’
Imrahil laughed
again and shook his head forgivingly. Elven bluntness was
something one had to learn to appreciate. ’Twas probably best
that Denethor kept no contact to the Elves that dwelt within
Gondor’s boundaries – Gildor and Denethor would have been at
each other’s throats all the time. Still, it pained the Prince
that Elves and Men had become thus estranged in these days, and
that in the slow march of time each kind walked further down
their sundered roads. For even in Gondor, Men now feared and
misdoubted the Elves, save those who lived in close proximity
with them and knew a little of Elvish ways. Once again, Imrahil
felt very privileged and grateful for his time in Edholland. For
that time has made him know Elves better than most Men.
Gildor, it
seemed, guessed the thoughts running through Imrahil’s mind,
for he looked at him with a smile and sympathy in those otherwise
so cold eyes. Imrahil recalled with relief that Gildor could not
read other people’s minds without their consent, and returned
the smile. Despite all that sundered them, they still were
friends – a rare thing between Man and Elf in these days,
indeed.
’’Well?’’
Gildor asked, returning to their original topic. ’’Could
Faramir tell you aught about the purpose of Mithrandir’s visit?
Mayhap the wizard was less secretive towards him, his only
willing pupil in that city.’’
’’Why is this
of such great importance for you?’’ Imrahil asked. ’’Was
it not you who warned me not to meddle in the affairs of wizards
for they are subtle and quick to anger?’’
’’Yea,
’twas me,’‘ Gildor nodded. ‘‘And as far as you
are concerned, my advice would be still the same. As for me,
though, there are times I cannot avoid some meddling.’’
’’I always
thought Elves were reluctant to give any advice,’‘ Imrahil
teased.
’’We
are,’‘ Gildor agreed. ’’For unguarded advice is a
dangerous gift, even from the wise to the wise, and all courses
may run ill. Yet sometimes we have no other choice but speak our
mind – and I know you and your kindred well enough to assume
that you will use my advice with care.’’
’’I am
honoured’’, said Imrahil with a mock bow, without rising from
his seat. ’’This still explains not, though, why you should
have such an urgent interest in Mithrandir’s affairs.’’
“I have known
him longer than you,’‘ Gildor answered seriously. “In
fact, I was the first one ever to run into him on one of our
travels, long before any other Elves or Men noticed his presence(9).
And since I feel in my heart that you might need to see more than
just the most urgent needs of your own lands, I shall tell you
this: Mithrandir and his fellow wizards are considerably more
than the cranky old lore-masters they seem to be. They are the
great movers of the deeds that have been done in the past, and
are still to be done, now that the Elves are leaving these shores
and even the memory of us is fading to legend.’’
’’What deeds
are you speaking of?’’ Imrahil asked, sensing the shadow of
dark foreboding rise in his mind.
’’They were
sent by the Valar to help overthrow the Darkness that has risen
again,’‘ Gildor nodded in the vague direction of Mordor.
’’The true nature of their quest is not known to me, as they
never revealed their purpose to anyone, save perhaps the Lady of
the Golden Wood, and in her councils I have no part. Yet the
fight against the Dark One is the only reason I still am tarrying
in Middle-earth, instead of following my people to the West. And
that is why I must know what Mithrandir was doing in Minas
Tirith. My Company is about to leave for the Grey Havens once
again – this is a long journey on foot as we travel, and I must
know where I am needed more. For I cannot turn back and run home
when something unexpected happens. I have to plan
carefully.’’
’’And yet I
cannot tell you much,’‘ said Imrahil apologetically.
’’For all Faramir knew was that somehow Mithrandir got leave
of Denethor (how I do not know, for the Lord Steward usually
guards his treasury jealously) to search among the hoarded
scrolls and books that are kept in the Hidden Archive. Also,
Mithrandir would search and would question every one above all
else concerning the Great Battle that was fought upon Dagorlad in
the beginning of Gondor, when He whom we do not name was
overthrown.’’
’’He is
questioning the wrong people then, I deem,’‘ Gildor’s
customary arrogance resurfaced for a moment, only to give way to
deep concern again. ’’Your people were not the ones who
fought in that battle. I was.’’
Imrahil knew, of
course, that Gildor had been the Lord of Edhellond long ere
Gondor was even founded (well, long in mortal measure, anyway,)
and that always made him wonder. As beautiful a little town as
Edhellond was, at the end it was naught more but a little town.
And yet, the last descendant of the most proud and powerful Elven
Kings ever had chosen to live there – or on the road, when the
wanderlust overcame him and his company. Even after all the years
he had known him, Gildor still remained an enigma in Imrahil’s
eyes.
’’Also, he
was eager for stories of Isildur,’‘ the Prince added as an
afterthought, returning to the topic at hand. “Though of him
our wise had less to tell; for nothing of his end was ever known
among us.’’
To his great
surprise Gildor straightened all of a sudden, clutching the
armrests of his chair so hard that the knuckles of his hands
sprang forth white. White was his face, too, as white as chalk
– and there was such raw pain upon it that one unguarded moment
that Imrahil gasped involuntarily. That sound seemed to snap the
Elf out of his momentary shock, and his casual mask slid back
into place, his ramrod-straight body relaxing into his usual
proud but easy carriage.
’’You know
what ’tis all about, do you not?’’ Imrahil asked softly.
“’Tis still
more a guess, really,’‘ Gildor sighed. ’’Though I am
almost sure that I am right. Nay, I cannot tell you aught of it
– for the sake of your own safety.’’
’’I am very
well able to care for myself, you know,’‘ the Prince said,
mildly annoyed.
’’That I
know,’‘ Gildor nodded. ’’Yet if I am right, (and alas! I
see not how I can be wrong in this,) we have something to fear.
The roots of this thing reach far back into the Second Age, back
to the War between the Elves and Sauron that caused the fall of
many Elven realms as well as the destruction of the great forests
of Eriador. If what I fear should come true, the Last Alliance of
Elves and Men, the many cruel battles fought and the uncounted
deaths in those battles, all were in vain.’’
’’And yet you
still are unwilling to tell me more about it,’‘ said Imrahil.
It was not a question. He knew Gildor too well to be wrong.
’’That I
am’’, answered Gildor. ’’For there still is some hope,
however small, that I might be wrong, after all. ’Tis better to
let sleeping dragons lie, unless we can be certain that they are
already awake.’’
’’What will
you do then?’’ Imrahil asked. ’’Ride back to your town
and prepare for war?’’
’’I need not
to do so,’‘ Gildor answered. “For we are prepared,
all the time, even if it does not seem so. Besides, I have come
by ship, this time. Nay, I would like to stay the night, if you
do not mind. I wish to see your father and your children again
– and say my farewells, in case I should not return
again.’‘
’’Do you
intend to leave Edhellond?’’ asked Imrahil in surprise.
’’Are you leaving for the West? But could you not do so from
your own harbour?’’
’’I
could,’‘ Gildor nodded. ’’But nay, I am not leaving, not
as long as the Dark One still sits in Mordor like a spider in the
middle of its net. Yet I have some close kin in the northwest,
and I intend to protect them, should what I fear come true.
Edhellond has her Council that can lead and protect her better
than I could with my mind elsewhere. I shall suggest them to work
with you, should the need arise. As for myself, I shall leave
with the Company in six day’s time. This might well be my last
journey – and our last meeting. I know not.’’
’’I would
regret if it were,’‘ said Imrahil.
’’So would
I,’‘ Gildor replied. ’’With my closest kin dwelling far
in the northwest, your House has become something akin to a
family for me. And should I come to the Blessed Realm one day,
even there I shall never forget how you and all of your ancestors
have filled the emptiness of my house with laughter and
song.’’
He rose from his
seat and walked to an open window, staring out at the
never-resting waves of the Sea that rolled foaming against the
coast.
’Our time here
is almost over,’‘ he softly murmured. ’’I had hoped to
have enough time left to invite your younger children as
houseguests, too. But, it seems not so that I will have that
chance. For even if I do return to Edhellond again, it shall be
but for a short time. Long have I suppressed the Call of the Sea
in my heart, but ’tis getting stronger and louder with every
passing year. When this last war is fought, I shall be gone…
one way or another.’’
’’So there will
be war again, you say?’’ Imrahil felt drained. Of course he
knew the war with the Dark Lord would come – they all did. But
Gildor’s words made him understand that the war was closer than
he would have thought – and that unnamed evil the Elf-Lord
refused to speak of filled his heart with dread.
’’Do we have
a chance?’’ he asked. “Or shall we end up like those
unfortunate slaves that are said to dwell around the Sea of
Núrnen, labouring restlessly just to feed the Orcs and other
fell creatures of Mordor?’’
’’I know
not,’‘ Gildor said with a sigh, still not turning back from
the window. ’’You are turning to the wrong person for hope
– for I have had none for a very long time, even by Elven
measure. But I swore an oath at the mutilated corpse of the one
who meant everything to me that I shall see the Dark One
destroyed. And I shall not rest, nor seek out the peace of the
Blessed Realm, ere I truly see it happen.’’
’’So ’tis
vengeance that keeps you still here, is it,’‘ said Imrahil.
It was not a question, either.
’’I call it
seeking out justice,’‘ Gildor answered with a shrug and
returned to his seat. ’’But at the end it might be the same,
indeed. For I cannot find peace; not here, nor in the Blessed
Realm, ere the Shadow is defeated.’’
’’Or you get
killed yourself,’‘ Imrahil added.
’’There are
worse fates for an Elf than spending some time in Mandos’
Halls, however long we may stay there’’, said Gildor.
’’We could be captured and twisted into some hideous monster
as happened to many of our kin in the Elder Days.’’
Imrahil nodded.
Few Men did still know of the true origin of Orcs; he was one of
those, having learnt some Elven lore from Gildor’s people.
‘’But that
was in the Elder Days, when the Great Enemy ruled over most of
Middle-earth,’‘ he said. ‘’The Dark Lord we are fighting
now might be powerful, but I doubt that he would be strong enough
to accomplish the same horrible deeds.’’
‘’He is not
as strong as his Master was,’‘ Gildor nodded gravely.
‘’And he has even lost much of his own strength. But so have
we… and he might grow stronger yet, much stronger, while our
numbers dwindle and our strength is fading away. The Elves cannot
be of much help when the fighting comes, my friend. Your kind
will carry the bulk of this burden – you would do better to
prepare for it.’’
‘’So we are
alone in this?’’ Imrahil asked, a hint of accusation in his
voice.
‘’Nay,’‘
the Elf shook his head. “We shall do what we can. You know how
much the Silvan folk love their land; they would do every thing
in their power to protect it. Yet we are but a few windswept
leaves, compared to the forces of the Enemy.’’
‘’What do you
intend to do, then?’’ asked Imrahil. ‘’For I know you
better than to believe that you would lay your hands on your lap
and watch the fighting from the outside.’’
Gildor sighed.
‘’I shall seek out counsel… mayhap even help. There still
are Elven strongholds in the North and the West – and wisdom
and power greater than my own. This journey shall be a very long
one indeed – taking turns to reach every one of these places.
And should I learn aught of true importance, I shall send you
messages from afar.’’
‘’If you
can,’‘ Imrahil said, knowing all too well how easily message and
messenger could get lost on the darkening paths of these days.
Gildor nodded.
‘’If I can,
yea. But you need not worry, my friend. For thousands of years
have the Wandering Companies travelled the paths of Middle-earth,
carrying tidings from one realm to the other – we shall find a
way. Dark as our days might be, there still is some hope.’’
‘’Even if the
very thing you seem to fear so much should come true?’’
Imrahil asked doubtfully. Gildor gave him a shrug and a sad
smile.
‘’Even that
evil has been defeated once already… though I know not if it
can be done again. The Elves do not build the paths of fate –
we only walk upon them.’’
‘’And you ask
me to follow you blindly out of trust and for our friendship’s
sake,’‘ Imrahil noticed dryly. The Elf shook his head.
‘’Nay – for
‘tis not a path you could follow, even if you wanted. You shall
have to choose your own path and walk upon it, regardless of the
costs… sooner than you might believe.’’
‘’Elves!’’
Imrahil said with a snort. ‘’Elves and their riddled speech!
You really enjoy confusing me, do you?’’
‘’I tell you
as much as I can… or as it seems wise to me,’‘ Gildor
answered seriously. ‘’Knowledge could be both a strong weapon
and the source of great harm. I am trying to give you the weapon,
without causing any harm. Do you not trust me any more?’’
‘’You know
that I do,’‘ replied Imrahil quietly. ‘’Or else we would
not be having this conversation. For my entire life, you have
been my friend and my mentor in more ways than I can count.
Still, I would prefer it if you were willing to share your mind
with me some more.’’
‘’I
cannot,’‘ Gildor said. ‘’For I, too, have learnt much
about mortal Men through you and your people, and I have come to
understand that too much knowledge can be harmful for mortals: it
can make you hesitate when it comes to hard decisions. I wish you
to be free in your decisions. I wish you to be safe. And that you
cannot be when I put things in your head that might or might not
happen – shadowy tales and old lays that might distract you
from your chosen path.’’
‘’I see there
is no way to convince you to change your mind,’‘ Imrahil
sighed. ‘’So, I shall not waste my breath on it. ‘Tis
getting late. I shall ask Tirathiel to have your old guest room
prepared – now that Elphir has his own chambers, it is
available again.’’
‘’I am
certain that she has already taken care of my
accommodations,’‘ said Gildor with a smile. ‘’Yet I would
like to see your children ere I turn in for the night, if you do
not mind. That little girl was not even born the last time I
visited your home.’’
‘’They should
be getting to bed, soon,’‘ Imrahil rose. “And so we
better hurry up.’‘
The Elf rose,
too, and they left the library together, going down a long
corridor towards the end of the west wing, where Imrahil’s
younger children had their bedrooms. It was time to lay down
their concerns for a while and wish the young ones a peaceful
night. For indeed, no-one could know how long the uncertain peace
was still going to last, and as long as it tarried, one had to
value every moment of it.
Here endeth this
tale.
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Oct. 23, which is Isabeau’s
birthday. I give the name of the month both in Quenya and in
Sindarin, since a Noldorin Elf-Lord would use the former while a
Dúnadan Prince of the South the latter. According to the
Appendices only the Dúnedain used the Sindarin months’ names.
(2)
I had to come up with a different name for the place, since at
the time of Gondor’s foundation Amroth still was alive and
kicking; Tol Ondron was supposed to be an island in the middle of
Anduin, similar the Carrock in ’’The Hobbit’’; an idea
that Tolkien rejected afterwards.
(3) Actually, Adrahil died in 3010, also
two years after these events. I simply assumed that he was
feeling poorly and Imrahil had to take over.
(4) In the
stories of Isabeau and Altariel, whose leads I follow considering
the princely family, Imrahil’s wife died about seventeen years
before the Ring War of a female-type cancer. Her name comes from
these noble ladies, too. :)
(5) Originally,
Tirathiel is named as the sister-in-law of Imrahil. I
misinterpreted the information first, then got so enamoured in
the idea of this matriarch living under Imrahil’s roof that I
intentionally did not correct my mistake. And yes, I know that a
word like aunt-in-law does not exist. But it sounds so funny…
(6) No, there is
no such legend that I know of. The whole relationship between
Gildor and the Princes of Dol Amroth is the product of my
imagination.
(7) Another fact
made up blatantly by me.
(8) The first and
second born sons of Imrahil. In 3008 (T.A.) Elphir was 21,
Erchirion 18 years old.
(9) Except for
Círdan, I would say. Gandalf could have hardly come to land in
Mithlond without the Shipwright or his people noticing it.