Chapter 1. Sent by the Valar? 

In which Oropher returns to Lindon after more than a thousand years, only to find out that some things never change…while others do.

Lindon, year 1545 of the Second Age.

“Well-met, and welcome to Lindon, Lord Oropher, your arrival is most unexpected.” Círdan greeted the three travel-worn elves in the wide yard before the stables with an apologetic grin.

“Unexpected indeed, I can see that you are totally unprepared, Master Shipwright,” the Sindarin lord grunted, dismounting with a tired smile and accepting a goblet of spiced wine from a pageboy, as stable hands took care of his and his escort’s mounts and two young attendants picked up their packs. “We’ll keep our bows, lad,” he warned, after one of his travel companions scared the well-intentioned young ones with a feral grunt. “My apologies, Círdan,” he continued with a sarcastic smile, wiping his mouth with a gloved hand and returning the goblet to the boy with a brief nod. “I forgot this must be common practice in this most sophisticated court, this meeting point of many races, this great city well-used to receiving travelers from the most distant parts,” he joked, exchanging an affectionate arm grip with his host. “So very different from my rustic realm…”

“You are not seeking passage into the West, I hope, for although there is a ship ready to depart, I doubt her crew would be willing to carry you and your sharp tongue,” Círdan retorted amiably, greeting the Sindarin lord’s escorts, who had been offered wine as well. “Come, follow me,” he added, signaling to the pages to lead the way into the great stone building. “The king offers comfortable accommodations for you in his most sophisticated court, if you would accept his hospitality?” he joked, stopping on his tracks before the great door and looking at Oropher with a mockingly worried expression on his face. A chuckle rumbled in the Sinda’s powerful chest.

“Of course we will!” he laughed, patting Círdan’s back. “And we will eat his food and drink his wine! We have not crossed the empty lands of Middle-earth to be kept at the doors like unwelcome intruders!”

“Have you not, now?” Círdan asked, amused by the other’s outgoing mood. “To what do we owe then the pleasure of your company, and that of your escorts?” he inquired with a curious glance at the stern, silent elves clad in green and brown who followed Oropher with the agility and wariness of wild cats.

“My guards,” the Sinda said briefly. “Idhren and Bronadel.”

“Welcome to the Havens, my friends, I am Círdan the Shipwright,” he offered kindly. “Did you really feel it necessary to come to Ereinion’s halls protected by your bodyguards, Oropher?” Círdan prodded after returning the guards’ silent bows. “He is not one to hold a grudge for long, I warn you,” he added teasingly as he guided them into the spacious, welcoming entry and into a wide passage that led to the guests’ area of the main building.

“I ignored that particular, but it speaks highly of his upbringing, my congratulations.”

“I feared that life in the forest would soften you mood, my friend,” Círdan laughed.

“It is not like you to worry beforehand, Círdan, so I’ll take that as a token of friendship,” Oropher observed merrily. “But the truth is that the lands have become unsafe, and the long leagues of Eriador are plagued with trouble and dangers,” he sighed more soberly. “And that is what brought me here, to seek consultation with Gil-galad…”

“You will have to try harder if you expect me to be your key to Ereinion’s audience hall…These are your chambers,” Círdan said then to Oropher’s guards, pointing at an open door at their left and dismissing the two boys who had just left the guests’ packs in the appointed rooms. “Your king’s are right opposite yours. This passage ends in a wide open yard that you can use at your convenience.  Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he added kindly. At a brief nod from Oropher the two guards muttered their thanks and closed the door behind them.

“A couple of talkative fellows,” Círdan observed, opening the door to Oropher’s chambers and entering before the Sinda.

“Am I not to make myself comfortable?” Oropher complained with a smile, nodding in appreciation at the sight of the spacious, elegantly furnished room and the wide window that opened directly to a green court with many trees. “I do not want to keep you from your obligations, which surely are numerous in such a big palace…” he joked as Círdan poured two glasses of wine.

“Of course, of course. But first I want to know what brings you here, in case it is truly urgent…”

“I bring a message from Amdír,” Oropher sighed, sitting on the bed and pulling off his travel-worn boots of soft buckskin. “And worrying news from the East as well. Is that urgent enough?”

“I think so,” Círdan admitted calmly. “I know that you must be tired from your journey, but Ereinion is presently closeted with his advisors and some other guests, and we were precisely debating the situation in Eriador….”

“Can I take a bath first?”

“Pray, do! Everything is ready and I’ll be waiting here,” Círdan nodded placidly, making himself comfortable on a couch and sipping at his wine. With a not too discreet movement, he kicked the mud stained boots under the bed and looked up at his guest with a bland smile. “I seriously hope that you carry some other footwear in there,” he commented.

“And I will have to see to my bow!” With an exasperated groan, Oropher searched his pack for fresh clothes and boots and hurried into the bath chamber.

                                           ~*~   *   ~*~

“So Galadriel took refuge with Amdír? We heard that much, but still I found it hard to believe…”

“Amdír has a gracious, great heart…Too big for his own good and that of his people at times,” Oropher spat quite disdainfully as he followed the Shipwright along stone-walled passages illuminated by the last rays of sun entering through the wide and numerous windows. He strode confidently, tall and self-assured as if he were at home. He wore the green and brown of the Silvan elves with the same pride with which he had once donned Thingol’s grey, Círdan noticed as he cast a brief look back at his guest and shook his head reproachfully.

“He is also a wise ruler. It does no good to ignore what is going on beyond your borders,” he pointed out, and had the pleasure to see Oropher blush. “Here we are,” he added, stopping before a tall door.

A cloud of heads turned to look at them gratefully as Círdan pulled the door open, distracted from the sea of maps that covered a wide table, Oropher had the time to notice before a strained voice greeted them with forced glee.

“Lord Oropher! It was most kind from you, crossing Middle-earth to pay us a visit after so long, and to distract us from these endless discussions!”

“I fear you are sorely misinformed, Lord Gil-galad,” Oropher rumbled in his deep voice, inadvertently bumping into Círdan as they both hesitated about the right order of appearance, thus spoiling the solemnity of his entrance. He finally followed the Shipwright into the room and nodded regally at all the familiar and unknown faces that watched him with some trepidation. “I came not out of courtesy. I bring a message and a warning from King Amdír of Lórinand, which you would do well in heeding,” he announced in a serious, imperious manner, meeting the steady, appraising, faintly amused gray gaze of the Noldorin king.

“Of course -how could I think? Please do take a seat; you must be tired from your long journey… Let me introduce you to the company. Our dear guests, this is Lord Oropher of Doriath, whom we had neither seen nor heard of since he left these shores in the early years of this age…But, thankfully, we have our sources,” Gil-galad said courteously to his audience. There was no trace of mockery in the Noldorin king’s voice, but Oropher caught the brief, defiant glare he flashed at a golden-haired Elf sitting at the most distant corner of the long table. “Elrond, please?”

“Lord Oropher gathered a host of followers and traveled to Nenuial, and then crossed the Misty Mountains around the first ennin of this age,” the half-elf informed the rest of the table. “He dwelt in Lórinand for some time, among the people of King Amdír, and around the eight hundredth year he crossed the Great River and established an independent settlement among the Silvan elves of East Lórinand,” Elrond added with an effortless smile.

The peredhel had grown into whatever his duties were in Gil-galad’s court, Oropher deduced from the half-elf’s position at the king’s side, the exquisite cut of his clothes, the easiness with which he addressed the audience and the dim air of welcome in his courtly manners.

 “An independent kingdom, Lord Elrond. And I am glad to see that you too are faring well,” he returned the greeting coolly.

“Let me introduce you to our guests, King Oropher,” the peredhel went on, undisturbed by the correction. “To your left, Master Bror, from the dwarven mansions in the Ered Luin, and who has traveled extensively the lands to Khazad-dum and back. Before you sits Chieftain Baghan of the Druedain of Andrast, the lands that stretch from the southernmost end of the Misty Mountains to the coast. By his side, Master Maentêw from Eregion, whom, I guess, you knew long ago in other lands…”

Oropher had managed a stiff bow to the dwarf while glaring warningly at the lurking smiles in many faces around the table, his dislike of the race well-known to almost all present there. He had then offered a polite nod to the stumpy, broad, sunken-eyed creature that Elrond had introduced as Chieftain of some unknown people without betraying surprise or dislike at his less than favoured looks. But the sight of his former fellow captain in Doriath, the one who had refused twice to follow his leadership, first into the woods of Ossiriand and later to Nennuial and beyond the Mountains, almost broke Oropher’s studied composure.

“Of course,” he said, nodding curtly to the dark haired, wan and pale-looking Elf who sat closest to the door. “Although Captain Maentêw always managed to get on the wrong side of things,” he added with a scorn that was hard to disguise.

“I hope that does not mean at this moment, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad observed evenly. Oropher slowly turned his eyes from his former friend’s face.

“So do I, my lord Gil-galad, so do I.”

“You already know Merenel, who is in charge of the fleet; Hîrvegil, the troop commander, Erestor, our chief counselor, and Elrond, our herald,” Gil-galad continued after a brief, tense silence, pointing at his advisors. “Last, but not least,” he waved lazily to the golden-haired Elf sitting at the other end of the table, opposite to Maentêw, “Lord Glorfindel.”

For a fleeting moment Oropher met a pair of unbearably bright eyes that could only belong to an Exile, and he stared at the fair, glimmering face that radiated wisdom and inspired trust. He searched his memory furiously, trying to place the name and the face among the survivors of Sirion, to no avail. So engrossed was he that he almost missed Gil-galad’s question.

 “…As Círdan surely informed you, we were discussing the situation in the lands to the East, so perhaps your message could be delivered now?”

“It would save us time,” Oropher agreed. “Although, I must warn you, Amdír’s words were somewhat harsh…”

“I trust you to deliver them in the most offensive manner, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad sighed. “Please, go on, it seems we are short of bad news lately…”

“Well, perhaps some background knowledge would be needed…”

“If you deem it absolutely necessary…”

“It would be useful for better understanding. The realm of Lórinand lies beyond the Misty Mountains and around the Great River. Its boundaries to the north…” Undeterred by Gil-galad’s subtle hints, Oropher launched into a detailed explanation of the disposition of the lands, only to notice that the attention at the table wandered off quickly to the maps, the goblets, the weavings on the walls and other matters of equal strategic significance.

“Here, this is Onodrim Galen –Fangorn Forest. Its northern borders meet Lórinand’s southern ones…” Maentêw’s voice rose above the rumour of conversations that buzzed around the table, showing a hurriedly sketched map to Lord Glorfindel. Oropher cleared his throat pointedly and looked around with plain disapproval.

“So, as Elrond said, you moved beyond the River on the year eight-hundred, Lord Oropher? Is that not the date when Galadriel moved from Lindon to Eregion with a host of Noldor?” Glorfindel asked then, looking at the exasperated Sindarin lord with genuine interest.

“I wonder if that was a coincidence!” Merenel’s malicious comment came out too loudly amidst the sudden, slightly guilty silence that had followed.

“My father was a child in Khazad-dum when Celebrimbor first met Narvi,” the dwarf chimed in from Oropher’s side. “It was earlier than eight-hundred, I reckon…”

“We are not truly interested in the exact dates –we already know, actually. I’d move forth to the bad news,” Erestor suggested in a helpful whisper, addressing Oropher over the dwarf’s head.

“We have been discussing the layout of the lands this and the other side of the mountains for a couple of days now, Oropher,” Elrond informed him from the other end of the table, “So perhaps…”

“But we do not have yet a precise outline of the forest lands beyond the Anduin,” the troop commander objected, discarding Merenel’s dismayed groan with an imperious gesture of his hand.

“I can see that your councils are as orderly as they used to be, Lord Gil-galad,” Oropher blurted out finally, looking around in hopeless exasperation. The Noldorin king nodded silently, as one who has received a compliment, but could not hold back a minute grimace.

“I am sure that Lord Oropher will gladly give you a hand with the maps later, Hîrvegil,” Elrond tried to appease the troop commander, “but I suggest that we allowed him go on with the facts for now…”

“And I can also train your scouts to actually keep out of sight when watching a road,” Oropher offered with a wide, innocent smile. “I will help you with the maps as long as you join us, Lord Elrond,” he added with malicious glee, emptying his quiver in one single assault. “You are very talented at map-drafting, if I remember rightly…”

“That is Erestor’s gift, I am still an apprentice” the peredhel retorted quickly, placing a restraining hand on the troop commander’s arm, who seethed at the insult. With a convincing glare, he managed to freeze the chuckles around the table. “Do not let us distract you from your report,” he added, flashing a wolfish smile to the Sindarin lord.

“Indeed. I settled down East of Lórinand in the year eight-hundred and seventy; almost an ennin after the Noldor arrived in Eregion. The population in those lands consists mainly of scattered groups of Silvan Elves and some of the Teleri who did not cross the Misty Mountains during the Long March. They lead nomadic lives and roam a great forest area, east and north. Among them there are tales of a vast shadow that covered the mountains once, long ago, and then disappeared. They also remember the first migrations of the Edain. Until the Fall of Beleriand they led easy lives, little disturbed by the events west of the Mountains and in the north of the world. But since then, they say, the song of the forest has changed twice in their reckonings.” An interested silence sat over the audience, and Oropher could feel the tension brewing around him.

“Twice?” Only Círdan dared interrupt.

“So they claim. Their measure of time somewhat differs of ours, but we have been able to establish that some time around five-hundred of this age the first signs of disturbance were felt in the forest.”

“Felt by the Silvan?”

Oropher cast a long, pondering look at Elrond, but it was the strange, stone-like creature who answered the half-elf’s question in a harsh, guttural voice.

“By the forest. Change in the water. Stone. Wind. The Druedain felt it as well.” Oropher winced for a moment at the creature’s halting, deeply accented Sindarin but recovered quickly.

“Exactly. That is what the Silvan report. The song changed to an ominous tune, the wildlife vanished from certain areas of the forest, in which the trees became dark and twisted and plainly…dangerous. The waters sang differently as well… It all disappeared about four ennin ago. I know, for I felt it myself,” he explained. “It seemed as if the forest had bloomed all over, and glades that had been barren or gloomy for ennin suddenly flourished and thrived. But that lasted not long, I fear.” He paused for a moment to enjoy the attention and then continued. “About fifty sun-rounds ago…”

“A moment, if you please, Lord Oropher,” the musical voice of the golden-haired lord cut him in the middle of the sentence. “You said you moved to East Lórinand? My apologies,” the elf added, raising his hands and casting a winsome smile around the table. “I am a newcomer, I am just trying to understand,” he offered by means of explanation.

“Yes, Lord Glorfindel, East Lórinand is what the woods beyond the Great River were named of old,” Oropher answered patiently.

“So you are a vassal of King Amdír’s, are you? He is King of Lórinand and you hold East Lórinand in his name?”

Oropher managed to answer calmly after a deep intake. “It is an independent realm now, as I have already stated. King Amdír and I are good friends and allies.”

“See to it that Lord Glorfindel is included in your map-drafting session, Elrond,” Gil-galad pointed out merrily, now clearly enjoying the situation.

“But surely Amdír is a vassal of yours, Gil-galad? You are the High King, aren’t you?” But for the absolute innocence in the persistent Elf’s expression, Oropher would have sworn that he was before an extraordinarily reckless warrior, rather than a clueless one.  He sat back and enjoyed watching as that silly grin vanished from Gil-galad’s face.

“Amdír is a good friend and ally,” the Noldo finally grunted. There was much shifting and throat-clearing around the table, but the next question seemed inevitable.

“And Lord Oropher?”

All eyes fixed on him, Oropher allowed his face to relax in a contained, polite smile.

“Lord Oropher is trying to deliver his messages, Lord Glorfindel.” Though courteous and controlled, Gil-galad’s cold voice had a hint of warning that Oropher did not fail to recognize.

“In the last fifty sun-rounds things have deteriorated quickly.” He picked up his tale hurriedly, hoping to delay the first kinslaying of an age that had begun in peace. “The same symptoms ail again our eastern borders, and there are greater areas of forest that have gone again wild, impenetrable, and dangerous even for the Silvan. Bands of Orcs have been sighted on the wide plains east of our borders. There are refugees arriving at our forest, Silvan elves who had always lived to the south east, and they talk of great rumour and trembling in the land, and great fires and dense fumes, and evil Men and worse creatures attacking settlements and putting forests to fire…”

The picture was only too familiar to those around him, and he knew that his bad news was not totally unexpected. 

“We keep some trade agreements with Dorwinion, a Mannish settlement in the East, beyond a great lake,” he continued, “and the reports of late have been so worrying that I finally decided to consult with Amdír. In Lórinand I heard the news from Eregion, and met with the lady Galadriel, who told us about the situation there, so in the end we agreed that the matter was serious enough to –eh, seek consultation with other elven realms,” he said, settling for a non compromising statement. “It is clear to us that some evil is lurking in the East, although what relation, if any, it has with the problems in Eregion and what we have found across Eriador actually escapes our knowledge.”

“That is what we are discussing here, Oropher,” Gil-galad nodded worriedly. “Master Bror has informed us that the roads to Khazad-dum are no longer safe, and that human settlements have been attacked very often in the past years across Eriador. He also spoke of a new danger arising in the North, but that we can discuss in detail later,” he added with a tired sigh.

“And the timing that you mention coincides as well with what we know of the movements of Annatar around Eregion,” Elrond pointed out. The troop commander assented excitedly.

“And from Lord Oropher’s reports it sounds as if he were gathering a force in the East,” he pointed out, scowling briefly at the Sinda.

“You mentioned a warning as well, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad raised a hand to stem conversations around the table. Oropher sighed and nodded.

“Your Númenorean friends have devastated the eastern lands of Eriador, Gil-galad,” he began brusquely. “They have violated all agreements reportedly reached with you through your kinswoman, the lady Galadriel, and they have cleared out such vast expanses of once forested land than one can only think they have declared war on trees. This alone would be enough to fight them back, lest they will cross the mountains in their ravaging, but there are also other problems. They have dislodged many human settlements, fisher folks, forest men that had lived there unmolested for ennin and that are now wandering the lands, homeless and enraged. To the west they dare not travel, lest they trespass into the lands of the mighty elven king, so they refer to you,” he added, managing to conceal almost all irony from his voice. “So many of them have crossed to our side of the Mountains and more are coming up from the south, and mingling, Amdír and the Lord of Fangorn Forest fear, with the wild men that are settling in the East. It is King Amdír’s demand that you stop that wreckage, lest he is forced to make war on your allies,” he finished his tirade in a firm, admonishing voice. Gil-galad nodded silently, looking troubled.

“King Amdír’s concern is also that of Chieftain Baghan,” Elrond began after a dense silence. “The Druedain live between the Númenorean haven of Vinyalondë -Lond Daer, for you- and the Sindarin haven in the bay of Belfalas. They have also reported the same problem. Merenel could see for himself the extent of deforestation in his last journey there, and the Hîrdawar was here to discuss the problem several sun-rounds ago,” he added gently.

“To no avail, it would seem,” Oropher grunted.

“The matter is more complex than it appears at first sight…or from beyond the Misty Mountains, Oropher,” Círdan expressed his opinion for the first time.  “What worries me is the prospect that all those refugees may be allying themselves with the Annatar...and that they might be armed with the weapons Celebrimbor so foolishly allowed him to carry away when he departed, as Maentêw reported.”

“I fear that is only too likely,” Merenel sighed worriedly. “The Númenorean foresters complained sorely that these men, to whom they brought iron and taught the art of smithery, were now turning their gifts against them…”

“No doubt instigated by this Annatar,” the troop commander put in.

“Who is taking advantage of their resentment at being expelled from their lands,” Erestor pointed out warningly. “That is a dangerous hatred that will burn on for a long time.”

“Wait a moment,” Oropher chimed in, looking around warily. “Perhaps this has been discussed before, but how are you so sure that this is actually that Annatar’s doing? I mean,” he claimed, “have you got proof that he is not whom he claims to be, an envoy of the Lords of the West?”

“You have met with the lady Galadriel, or so you said, Oropher,” Maentêw began in a tense, low voice, watching his former friend intently. “Did you not listen to her words…Or did you choose not to believe her? What other proof do you need but the trouble he wrought in Eregion?”

“She spoke of a revolt and fights for power, and an upheaval in the city’s politics that displaced her from a position of authority,” Oropher glared at the pale-looking elf. “We all know how prone the Noldor are to those things…I am sorry, but it is true,” he added, flashing a quick glance at the king.

“Go on,” Gil-galad waved his hand dismissively. “You are my guest, enjoy yourself…”

“All I am asking…”

“I was there, Oropher, and you were not,” Maentêw interrupted harshly, in a voice that trembled slightly and that made Oropher cast a searching glance at his ashen, care-worn face. “You and I have both lived under the wise rule of one of the Maiar, and -believe me- this had nothing to do with that!”

“We have for long felt that some evil stirred again in Middle-earth, Oropher, and it was partly due to that reason that Celeborn and Galadriel traveled east,” Gil-galad chimed in gravely. Oropher turned his attention to his host with some effort, bewildered by the shadows of pain and fear lining Maentêw’s face. “I like nothing of what I have heard of this Annatar, from his name to his deeds, to his claims that he only wants to help us increase our knowledge and power over Middle-earth,” the king continued in a serious voice. “I have refused to admit him in my realm, and I have sent warnings to Eregion and Númenor, yet I admit that your concerns are only understandable and well-founded. What do you think, Lord Glorfindel?”

The air became still in the crowded chamber, like in a glade before a sudden summer storm, Oropher thought, as all eyes turned to the golden-haired Elf who followed the exchanges with a neutral look on his fair face.

“I agree that Lord Oropher’s concerns are understandable,” he answered carefully. “Sire,” he added, a heartbeat later.

The silence became greedy then.

“I am glad to hear that.”

It apparently took longer than it used to, to make Gil-galad lose his composure, Oropher thought idly, fascinated, as the rest of the table, by the underlying tension between the two lords.

“And what would you say to appease those concerns?” the king pressed on in a silky, soft voice. “Do you think it possible that the Annatar is, after all, a messenger from the Valar?”

They locked eyes again, and Oropher felt a subtle change in the quiet disposition of the golden-haired elf, who suddenly seemed to radiate a power that reminded him of what he had at times glimpsed in Queen Melian.

“I am not deep in counsel with the lord Manwë, Lord Gil-galad,” Glorfindel eventually answered in a low, conciliatory voice. “Yet I do know that there is little that he cannot do within the boundaries of Arda if it suits his designs…”

“Well, in any case Lord Oropher would agree that…” Erestor began nervously, but the king raised a hand.

“Come, Lord Glorfindel, you were a renowned captain once, and one who was held in high esteem in the councils of King Turgon, if the tales are to be heeded,” Gil-galad taunted him coldly. “Give me an answer that I can use, without slighting the undisputed freedom of the King of Arda, of course,” he added provokingly. “With what you have heard in these past days, and all the reports that you have went through, do you think it likely that this Annatar is what he claims to be, an emissary from the Valar sent here -or allowed to remain- so that the Elves would increase their power over Arda and would make Middle-earth as blessed as the Western shores? Do you think that may be true?”

Oropher did not heard the golden-haired Elf’s soft answer to those ominous words, busy as he was searching his precarious and muddled knowledge of Noldorin history frantically. He was still trying to place that King Turgon that had been mentioned when Gil-galad turned to him, a bit brusquely.

“So, you see, Oropher, that even one who is indeed come from beyond the Sea doubts this Annatar’s claims. Is that proof enough for you?”

He nodded. It was better than gaping.  Come from beyond the Sea? He shook his head and looked again at the strange Elf-lord with the blazing eyes then at Gil-galad, then nodded again, hating the ghost of a smirk that tugged at the king’s lips.

“Much has been discussed in these days, my friends,” the Noldorin king sighed then, his voice again pleasant and controlled. “Lord Oropher’s news only confirms what we already feared. I suggest that we leave it here for the day. In the morning we’ll discuss what measures can be taken…and we shall address the issue of the Númenorean’s careless management of the eastern forests, which King Amdír has so straightforwardly brought to our attention,” he added, rising from his chair and waving to his guests to remain seated.

“I must apologize, for another business will keep me from sharing the night meal with you,” he offered with a shy smile. “Please make yourselves comfortable, my lords, we’ll meet again tomorrow,” he said, and with a courteous bow he disappeared quickly through a side door.

“Dinner will be served in the common room, down the main stairs, at sunset. A bell will summon you there, my friends,” Erestor announced over the rumour of conversations that had awaken as soon as Gil-galad left. “Did you find your accommodations to your taste, Lord Oropher? We tried to fix a couple of trees inside your chambers, but the scouts did not warn us of your arrival with time enough…” the Nandorin counselor approached him and patted his back in welcome, grinning playfully. Oropher’s attention, though, was fixed on Maentêw, who was getting up laboriously, aided by Merenel and Glorfindel.  

“What happened to him?” he whispered to Erestor, watching as his former friend painfully straightened himself up and picked a staff from Glorfindel’s hands, giving a couple of tentative steps while leaning heavily on Merenel’s arm. As he walked from the table, Oropher could see that his right leg was splinted from knee to ankle and his thigh was heavily bandaged. 

Somehow perceiving Oropher’s gaze, the wounded Elf lifted his head and met his eyes.

“Amdír was convinced,” he spat disdainfully. “But you had to doubt. Although I suppose you’d think Amdír had been influenced by his Noldorin guest…”

“Peace, Maentêw,” Oropher sighed. “It was my right to ask.”

“Of course,” the other nodded briefly to hide a wince. “Didn’t you wonder why Amdír did not inform you before?” he spat angrily, and made for the door as fast as his wounded leg allowed.

“It is a long story, Oropher,” Erestor told him seriously. “And one you’d better get from the source. Now, shall I see you to your quarters?” Seeing that Elrond was waving frantically to his fellow counselor, Oropher dismissed him with a regal wave of his hand.

“I doubt I’d get lost in a stone building, Erestor, you have my leave,” he pronounced, enjoying the other’s glare and the fact that he had, for once, caught the playful advisor at a disadvantage.

                                           ~*~   *   ~*~

Two hours later, Oropher still walked the long corridors of Gil-galad’s stronghold. Not that he was lost, he told himself firmly, as the deep voice of a bell, probably the one that announced the night meal, reached him from farther away than he had expected.

Some time during his wandering along spacious hallways and open courts he had decided that he was exploring his surroundings, rather than looking for the right passage to his chambers, and had then relaxed. Being well acquainted with his surroundings would give him the advantage in case of…Well, just in case.

“This had to be Celebrimbor’s doing,” he muttered in contempt, leaning on a low wall that lined one of the several gardens that he had passed in his wanderings and trying to figure out his way back. The view was breathtaking, as Arien was about to disappear beyond the horizon and her trail had set skies and waters aflame in an amazing display. Grudgingly, he had to concede that the building was wonderfully and smartly contrived, taking full advantage of the tall cliff that had been Ingil Ingwion’s preferred outlook back at the time when the whole city –cities- were still a dream, and the refugees from drowned Beleriand camped in uncomfortable disarray in the surrounding lands.

The palace itself did not look as he had feared, neither imposing nor massive, and was rather a succession of different buildings for different purposes, perched and encased on different levels on the cliff and gracefully linked by gardens, orchards and bowered alleys.

At a certain point he had descended a flight of stairs and had taken a wrong turn, apparently, and now the great doors back to that section were closed and he was at a loss about the fastest way to the main building. Yet the stroll had served to distract him from his thoughts –and the ghostly memories summoned back by Maentêw’s unexpected presence.

Encouraged by a persistent rumbling in his stomach, he finally forgot his pride and questioned an Elf who was busy lighting the torches in the gathering dusk.

“Two flights up, you pass the weapon master’s lodgings, turn right and behind the stone bench in his court there is a path that will lead you fast and easy to the back door of the main hall, my lord,” the elf instructed him obligingly.

Oropher had no trouble finding the secluded path to which opened the back windows of chambers and workshops, and was hurrying along it when a beautiful voice singing a sad tune caught his attention. He stopped for a moment to enjoy the melody that floated lazily on the wings of a soft breeze from a terrace below where he stood.

“That song will always remind me of you,” the soft female voice sighed tenderly. Oropher could not hear the answer, which seemed to come from indoors, and out of curiosity he risked peering from behind the bushes that lined the path, which was actually a narrow ledge that ran over another level of lodgings that opened to a wide shelf over the cliff edge. Leaning forth precariously he caught a glimpse of sweeping silks and a dense cloak of glossy dark hair that flew freely around a tall, slender elleth who danced playfully in the middle of a torch-lit garden.

“I am so glad that we can spend this night together,” she was saying. “Look there, the sky is blazoned with stars, and all are shining so brightly… Did you command them to do so?” she asked merrily, walking barefoot on the soft cushion of grass and extending a long pale hand to her invisible partner.

Oropher was about to draw back discretely, leaving the couple to their gentle courtship, when the answer came and froze him in place.

“I willed them to remain there forever, so this night would never end.”

It was Ereinion’s voice; deep, rich and husky. Oropher could distinguish the Noldo’s tall frame as he walked into the garden and faced the elleth, his back to the now deeply amused Sinda. “But they only consented to shine brighter than ever for you tonight, my dear Miluinn, so I would not miss the sight of your face for a single moment…”

And a very demanding business you had tonight, Gil-galad, no wonder you were quite short of temper by the end of the meeting, Oropher chuckled quietly, trying to gain a better sight of the Noldo’s progress.

Just when he thought the dashing king was about to bend down and kiss his delightful companion, a heavy hand landed on Oropher’s back and almost made him jump. Thankfully, a firm handgrip on the neck of his tunic prevented him from falling upon the wooing couple.

“You are here!” An angry voice hissed. A strong arm pulled him back into the safety of the narrow path, out of the couple’s earshot, and only then could Oropher distinguish the worried features of Idhren, the eldest of his two guards.

“I was exploring the palace, I am not hungry,” he whispered in annoyance, straightening the folds of his cloak as well as his battered dignity.

“I am glad to hear that…” his guard grunted not too respectfully. “I wouldn’t like to lose you, since I have already lost Bronadel…have you seen him, my lord?”

Oropher shook his head, sighed and groaned in dismay, quickly resigning himself to the fact that the night would probably be a long one not only for Gil-galad and his beautiful lady.

TBC.

Time line and other useful information:

I am following the many drafts in the “History of Celeborn and Galadriel,” in the Unfinished Tales.

According to this, the first signals of a new shadow were felt around Second Age 500.

The building of Eregion began around 750 of the Second Age.  

Aldarion, the first Sea-going king, reigned around year 800 SA in Númenor, and was a good friend of Gil-galad. He established the Númenorean port of Lond Daer and the settlement at Tharbad, and began cutting trees there for his ship-making. It is also said that during that time he met with Galadriel, who was already in Eriador.

Sauron as Annatar first appeared in person in Eriador and Lindon around SA 1200. Gil-galad refused to treat with him but he managed to charm Celebrimbor and his fellow smiths. There was a revolt, and according to the draft I am following here, Galadriel crossed Moria and took refuge with Amdír in Lórien, while Celeborn, disregarded, remained in Ost-in-Edhil.

Around S A 1500 Annatar went away from Ost-in-Edhil to his refuge in Mordor, where he began forging the One Ring.

In the draft “Glorfindel” in “The Peoples of Middle-earth,” Tolkien suggested that Glorfindel had been sent when Sauron first arouse during the Second Age, to help those who would oppose him, and he also said that he had been determinant in the war in Eriador.

The dates concerning Oropher’s movements are my own invention, since nothing is clearly known.

The Druedain appear in ROTK as those stone- like people who guide Theoden's riders across their secret road through their forest. In the second Age they were more numerous, and some had also sailed to Numenor.

Chapter 2. They led their lives free of care.

In which Oropher bites his tongue repeatedly, Glorfindel redresses a tense moment or two and Elrond and Erestor are playing games -yet again.

 “What were you doing here, anyway?”  

“I was going back to the main building when the song caught my attention…”  

“This is not the way to the main building, Oropher, had I not found you…”  

“A gardener showed me this short cut…”  

“A gardener?”  

“Well, I do not know who he was, actually. He was lighting torches…”  

“And you trusted him?”  

“Idhren…” Oropher drew in a deep breath and tried to regain control of the hissed conversation. The fact that his Silvan subjects were even more distrustful of strangers than himself had seemed a good thing to him…until that moment. He was about to remind his overzealous guard that they were in Gil-galad’s stronghold and safe haven after all, but then remembered the less than praising remarks that he had made about the Noldorin King on their trip there.  

“Yes?”  

“Forget it. Where is Bronadel, then?”  

“I wish I knew. He went to the courtyard, saying that he wanted to talk with the trees there…and disappeared.  I fear he may be… in trouble.”  

“Where did you look for him?”  

“Every courtyard and tree from the main building to this place,” the guard grunted curtly. “But this is too huge and full of stones. I would not hear him, even if he is actually kept in the stronghold,” he warned ominously.  

“Let us get out of here,” Oropher groaned, grabbing his guard by his shoulder and dragging him along the path before they interrupted Gil-galad’s dedicated courtship with a formal accusation of abduction. “Did you ask anyone?” he asked patiently once they were at safe distance from what he supposed was the king’s private garden.  

“And shame you, my lord?” the guard seemed troubled by the mere thought. “A Silvan never loses his way...nor is caught without a fight!”  

“You are right, of course,” Oropher agreed with a scowl, despite the fact that the missing guard was of Nandorin descent. The troop commander would die of a fit of laughter if he ever got word of this –Oropher  told himself, wincing as he remembered how he had mocked the skills of Hîrvegil’s scouts earlier. Of course he could not go now and admit that he had *lost* one of his guards.  “Let us go back to our chambers, to see if he has returned there by chance. If he has not, we will decide our next steps.”  

“After you,” the guard grunted gruffly, crossing his arms stubbornly. It took a moment for Oropher to realize that Idhren, too, was lost.  

“But…whence did you come, then?” he could not help asking. He sighed in dismay as the guard reluctantly pointed at an open window in a building behind them.  

“At least you left your bow in your chambers,” Oropher observed with relief. A gruff, wild-looking Silvan caught trespassing into someone’s lodgings armed with a yew longbow would cause severe distress to their diplomatic mission, he reasoned, choosing to overlook the fact that the two long and deadly sharpened knives strapped to Idhren’s sides would have had the same effect, had he been caught. “Come, let us follow this path, the gardener said it led straight to the back door of the main dining room…”  

Since they had agreed to first check their chambers in case Bronadel had gone there, they soon disregarded the gardener's instructions and took the first turn available that seemed to take them back to the front side of the building where the main corridors and courtyards lay. And so they managed to get lost again.  

“I am sure that it is this way…”  

“We should have followed the path until we got to the main dining room, which is one level below the council room. We could retrace our steps from there…”  

“I do not know, since I have not been to the council room, but I do remember this yard, and this fountain and these beeches, and I tell you that our chambers are over there…”  

“Trust your guard, Oropher; he has better sense of direction than yourself…” The rough, if faintly amused voice cut Oropher’s retort. He turned around to find Maentêw watching them from one of the windows that opened to the courtyard. “Your chambers must be in the rowan courtyard, the second from this one, in the main building,” he explained, waving in the direction Idhren had chosen.  

“Meaning that we are more important guests than yourself, since we are lodged in the main building?” Oropher’s patience was growing too thin not to allow himself a bout of mean witticism.  

“Meaning that the Steward is sure that I will not wander around and get lost,” Maentêw retorted good naturedly. “Not with this leg,” he added then, more soberly. “I saw one of your guards -I suppose he was, since he wore your coulours- speaking with Lord Glorfindel earlier, if that is what you were looking for,” he added, “and then they walked away together.”  

“See?” the guard’s voice sounded ominous. Oropher rolled his eyes.  

“Wait, Idhren, Lord Glorfindel did not strike me as particularly dangerous…only exasperating. Where did you see them?” he asked then his former friend, who now leaned heavily on the open window.  

“Before the library. You have no idea of who Glorfindel is, have you, Oropher?” Maentêw chuckled despite his now obvious discomfort. “I must sit now,” he panted, wincing in pain. “If there is anything that you want to argue about you know where to find me…if you do not get lost again,” he still managed to joke, closing the window and pulling a heavy curtain to hide from their sight.  

“Shall we search that library, then? He sounded as if this Glorfindel is no common lord.”  

“Ah, here you are, Lord Oropher!” Again a voice interrupted him when he was about to lose his patience. “Lord Elrond asked me to look for you. He feared you would miss dinner…I am Taranel, King Gil-galad’s secretary,” the smiling, gentle-looking Elf introduced himself hurriedly, seeing the frown in the guard’s face. “If you two would follow me…”  

“I… one of my...”  

“I had word sent to your other guard, my lord,” he informed them with a courteous smile. “He is also welcome for the night meal. This way, if you please?”  As he was leading, Taranel missed the heated –if muted- exchange between Oropher and his stubborn guard who finally agreed grudgingly to follow them, instead of raiding the library, wherever this might lie, in search of his missing companion.  

“I must apologize if we have been somewhat remiss in our hospitality, Lord Oropher,” Taranel offered as he guided them through a well lit stone arch into an exquisitely furnished hall. “There is much commotion in the house these days, what with tomorrow’s event, and then people arriving and all…But please let me know if you lack anything…”  

Tomorrow’s event? Gil-galad is betrothing himself to that lady and I arrive in time to witness it?” Oropher could not hold back a chuckle. The thought that the king could be already married never crossed his mind, since he still saw him as the fledgling ruler he had left behind several ennin ago. Surely the news of his coming must have dampened Gil-galad’s joy, he thought amusedly. “I understand perfectly, Master Taranel, be at ease. Certain moments are simply to be treasured,” he added pompously, and then felt a bit offended that his magnanimous comment was met by a puzzled look and a noncommittal grunt by the otherwise extraordinarily well-mannered secretary.  

The well-known sound of Erestor’s voice blowing at its coldest saved him from bringing up another subject for conversation. Instead, he and Taranel were suddenly very busy hurrying after Idhren, who had bolted towards the voice with the eagerness of a hound who has just picked up a fresh scent.  

                                               ~*~  *  ~*~  

Glorfindel glowed his way happily to the main dining hall, smiling and bowing courteously at the maids he met on his way, hurrying to fulfill who knows what important tasks and still managing to cross his path again -and smile at him- every twenty paces or so.  

“The light of a reborn is even brighter than that of those who beheld the Trees, child, for it shines with the strength of a fëa that has been renewed.” Lady Vairë’s reassuring voice still echoed in his ears. “The joy of a new fëa is something not even Yavanna could ever recreate,” the Valier had added then with gentle irony.  

It was as if the deep peace that pervaded him and his clear understanding of things that were beyond grasp –gifts obtained after his healing sojourn in the Halls- shone from within his fëa and bathed those around him. He feared nothing and no one, and he saw deeper and farther than any other Elf in Middle-earth, save perhaps Círdan, and his inner light reflected his harmony with Arda, rekindling hope and attracting people to its blazing trail, or at least it had been so back in Aman.  

“You can shroud it as you see fit, but nothing in Arda -save death- has the power to quench the pure light of a reborn, Glorfindel.”  

“Lord Glorfindel!”  

The Lady Vairë had never met Master Erestor, Glorfindel thought dryly, as he instinctively dimmed and cloaked his bright appearance, before peeking through the open door to Gil-galad’s chief counselor’s study.  

“You were by chance calling my name, or was that one of your musical moments, Master Erestor?” he asked innocently, entering the impossibly neat study. The chief counselor stood by the fireplace, reading several parchments at the same time, and apparently did not notice the sarcasm.  

“The linens in your chambers have been changed seven times in the past two days, Lord Glorfindel,” the counselor grunted without lifting his eyes from his reading.  

“Does it say so in those parchments?” Glorfindel marveled. “I know nothing of it, Master Erestor,” he added in a conveniently humble voice at the murderous glance that suddenly speared him through. “But now that you mention it, I thought of informing you about the unusual flood of maids around that wing…I carried out a research and found out that I am the only guest staying in that area, so perhaps there is some problem with the rotations, something that surely will not require the full attention of the King’s chief counselor,” he added graciously. “Unless linen is considered a strategic issue in Lindon…”  

“You would be surprised to learn what Shipwrights and Mariners consider strategic issues, Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor retorted venomously. “At this moment we are all quite frantically involved in housekeeping duties for special reasons...And you know perfectly well why maids crowd around your quarters…and everywhere you go.”  

“It is not my fault, Master Erestor… I do not understand what all this fuss is about. Some of the King’s captains are Calaquendi as well…”  

“Yet none of them is so ostentatious in his display! You blaze so inconsiderately that…”  

“Why would I refuse to share the light that comes from the One, the very joy of creation?”  

“…That one of these days you will outshine Eärendil himself. Of course, Elrond can always make use of your talents to signal his position to his Adar but still…”  

“Lord Eärendil is always perfectly aware of his son’s whereabouts, Master Erestor,” Glorfindel explained soberly. Provoking the king’s counselor was his pleasure, but in good faith he could not let pass a chance of enlightening his audience.  

“So he needs not your permanent glowing, as if you were a one-elf duplicate of the Tower of Barad Nimras!”  

“Curious, that you should mention the tower! Regarding the matter of the household linen, I remember a conversation with Lady Aredhel that surely…”  

“Lord Glorfindel!”  

Erestor’s growl had been freezing cold, but before he could answer, he perceived a new threat behind him. In a fluid motion Glorfindel glided to his side and turned around, to find himself faced with a crown of dark chestnut hair that topped a menacing-looking Elf. The fact that said Elf had to crane his neck to look into his prey’s eyes did not mar the impression, in Glorfindel’s opinion, that he had been tracked by the newly incarnate fëa of Celegorm’s hound.  

“Ah, Lord Glorfindel, Master Erestor!” the face of Gil-galad’s secretary as he followed the angry-looking Elf into the study showed a curious mixture of aggravation, amusement and relief.  

“Master Taranel?”  

“I was guiding Lord Oropher and his guard to the dining hall…”  

“Something must have happened along the way, then, since the dining hall is not in my study –nor has ever been…” Erestor looked pointedly at the stern Silvan guard, who watched Glorfindel intently.  

“Yes, of course, but…”  

“Is there anything that Lord Glorfindel or I can do for you…or for your guard, Lord Oropher?” Erestor finally offered, his eyebrows rising impossibly high to flee his mounting annoyance.  

“The dining hall?” Guessing that his menacing tracker would not try to dispose of him immediately, Glorfindel risked a hopeful smile. “I was going there as well. Care to join us, Master Erestor? You can rant about the bed linen while we eat. That seems not fare enough for a counsellor who is burdened with such heavy matters of state,” he prodded merrily, pointing at the plate with bread and cheese on the counsellor’s desk.  

While Erestor growled and Taranel chuckled, Glorfindel passed an arm over his hunter’s shoulders in a clever move, openly turning aggression into friendship while steering him towards the door, waving for the others to follow them. “You must be Idhren, are you not?” he addressed the tense guard, who nodded gruffly in assent. “I met your friend Bronadel earlier.”   

“And where is he, now?”   

Glorfindel looked back in surprise, for the almost panicked question had come from Erestor, who knew him too well to suspect any discourtesy towards the King’s guests from his part. He sighed, as they all proceeded along the corridors.  

“He asked me for a way down to the city. Apparently he was looking for a distant relative… who turned out to be Master Curuhen, the chief forester’s assistant… ”  

“Indeed!” Idhren relaxed visibly. “Bronadel wondered if he would be able to locate him…”  

“And you left Lord Oropher’s guard where, Lord Glorfindel?” The golden reborn elf shook his head patiently. It was beyond his understanding why Master Erestor always used that condescending, exasperated tone with him.  

“In Master Curuhen’s workshop, naturally.”  

“And was he there?”  

“Of course he was not!” Now Glorfindel was sure that worrying about the household issues was dulling Erestor’s wits dangerously. "Surely you remember that Curuhen was sent with Gildor’s patrol to explore those strange claims of the men in that settlement beside the Great Old Forest…”  

“…At my behest, if you remember,” Erestor ended curtly. “So that leads me back to my question, which I should have phrased more accurately, it seems. In whose company did you leave Lord Oropher’s guard, since Curuhen is currently abroad?”  

“Curuhen’s wife and one of their sons were at the workshop…and they were only too glad to welcome Bronadel,” Glorfindel explained mildly. “They offered to escort him back after dinner,” he turned then to Idhren, and was pleased to see that the guard assented gravely, apparently satisfied by his explanations.  

“I am most glad to see that the position as official thorn on the King and his chief counsellor’s side has been filled by someone so talented,” Oropher chimed in, chuckling helplessly at Erestor’s scowl and Taranel’s horrified gasp.  

“If you mean by Lord Glorfindel, I regret to tell you that you are sorely misinformed, Lord Oropher,” Erestor retorted. “He was sent to offer help and counsel against the shadow of evil that might arise anew, and to help unite those who would oppose it.”  

“Exactly,” Glorfindel said, turning to face Oropher and casting a grateful look at Erestor. Was that irony on the counsellor’s smirk?  “What had you thought?” he asked the Sindarin lord kindly.  

“He thought that you were here to provoke Gil-galad and myself, and help us get rid of boredom and routine…As it was his privilege in his time,” Erestor blurted. Glorfindel smiled courteously at that.  

“I fear I do not understand…”  

“It is of no consequence, Lord Glorfindel,” Oropher said hurriedly. “I must have mistaken the king’s enthusiasm for exasperation…”  

“Here we are!” Taranel’s voice sounded a bit strained in Glorfindel’s opinion, as he opened the door to the dining hall.  

Meals were seldom a ceremonial occurrence in Lindon, as Glorfindel had experienced since his arrival there a sun-round ago. Most often consisted on an undetermined number of members of the king’s staff gathering at the dining hall or even the large kitchen and helping themselves from trays of different dishes on display on a long side table. Glorfindel liked the custom, for it enhanced informal communication among the king’s closest assistants in a relaxed atmosphere. And it also allowed him to observe them freely, without the constraints of a more formal setting.  

It was quite late tonight, and only Elrond, Hîrvegil and Taurlong, the captain of the King’s guard, remained at the table, savouring a last goblet of wine over a couple of parchments.  

“Look who is there! I heard that you managed to lose one of your guards, Lord Oropher,” Hîrvegil greeted them cheerfully.  

“Says the troop commander one of whose captains just managed to lose a couple of scouts and two mules in a forest,” Erestor retorted sharply while Orpher regally disregarded the jab, busy inspecting the food on the side table.

“The news spread quickly…” the troop commander cast then a worried look at Erestor.  

“Gildor’s messenger met me right after seeing you. I do more than keeping track of Lord Glorfindel’s finery,” Erestor shrugged, and a chorus of laughter followed his remark. Glorfindel looked around and smiled politely. Of course he knew that they were baiting him. He could read them clearly, yet it made him wonder that they never seemed to pick up his own jokes, so he decided to remain silent. Only Círdan –and Elrond- seemed completely at ease in his presence, but the Shipwright was surely down at the quays, overseeing all details for tomorrow’s event, he pondered sadly.  

“Shall we tell Gil-galad?” Elrond asked doubtfully.

“What is the problem?” Taranel chimed in. All faces turned to the troop commander’s undoubtedly worried face.  

“I asked Gildor to take a handful of warriors and foresters and join the Númenoreans who went to explore the Great Old Forest to the north east, beyond the Downs… Do you remember that the settlers complained that there were evil and strange things going on there?”  

All assented. The Men in the settlements around Nenuial and the hills to the east were friendly to the elves, but they felt more comfortable confiding their worries to the Númenoreans, whom, in turn, went to the Elven King for counsel about the lands.  

“Gildor has just sent a worrying message,” Hîrvegil continued, smiling forcedly, “saying that the forest is actually full of strange and malevolent creatures, as the Men complained. Two of the Men’s mules were –ah…quite…trapped by trees, apparently, and they also lost track of the riders, although they cannot tell in which direction, because suddenly the forest began to close in around them, forcing them towards a marshland, and they had to fight their way back with torches…”  

“I doubt that Gil-galad could do anything about that tonight,” Taranel observed dryly, breaking the long silence that followed Hîrvegil’s account.  

“Chieftain Baghan reported similar incidents on his way here,” Elrond informed slowly. “He said that the remaining forests in Enedwaith and Mininhiriath were full of tension and mistrust…and that the trees set deathly traps on unsuspecting travelers.”  

“Did the Druadan cross the Old Forest?” Taurlong inquired. Elrond shrugged.  

“He did not tell…”  

“The black-hearted trees can walk long distances,” Oropher’s guard said then, amidst the heavy silence. “And there are other things deep in the forests that are rotten and like not living creatures.”  

“You mean like the darkness that you observed in your forest, Lord Oropher?” Hîrvegil’s voice had lost now all traces of animosity, Glorfindel noticed. Oropher and his guard exchanged a brief glance, and then the king nodded silently.  

“It is not necessarily the same thing,” the guard explained.  “There are places, deep in the forests, where the trees are wild and dangerous, yet still trees. But there are other evil things that sleep deep in the roots of the land and may awake at the slightest provocation –the houseless, it is said among us, but also evil beings that were chased away into hiding at the time when the Great Hunter still roamed the lands of Hither.” 

“You surely are more familiar with these eerie things than the rest of us, Lord Glorfindel,” Hîrvegil said then. The golden elf-lord shook his head thoughtfully.  

“Master Idhren is right, I think,” he sighed, refraining from commenting that he had spent the greatest part of the last sun-round, since his arrival in Middle-earth, exploring the borders of Lindon and studying the mannish settlements beyond the borders. “Not all evil things were allied with Morgoth, yet all rejoice when darkness gathers. I’d say that we need a deeper search of that Old Forest, and a closer view of what is going on to the east…”  

“That is exactly what we intend to propose to Gil-galad,” Hîrvegil nodded seriously.

“And we will need a deeper knowledge of what is going on beyond the mountains,” Taurlong added, looking at Oropher, who kept his gaze impassively. It seemed to Glorfindel that the Sindarin lord could not hide a minute wince, and he wondered about the reasons behind his apparent reluctance.  

“We will discuss that tomorrow, our guests have travelled far and surely will be eager to retire early,” Elrond suggested with a courteous smile.  

“Not to mention that you all want to check your finery for tomorrow’s event,” Oropher added with kind sympathy. Glorfindel raised surprised eyes from his goblet and caught the equally perplexed looks around the table.  

“Eh…Oh! It was a joke, was it?” Elrond finally managed, as the rest pretended not to pay attention to the conversation.  Even Glorfindel, who had just met the Sindarin lord, could tell that had been a wrong decision.  

“I was not joking,” he retorted seriously. “Actually, I would like to attend.”  

“It is a very simple ceremony, Lord Oropher,” Erestor began placatingly.  

“Only close kin and friends…” added Elrond.  

“I doubt that huge numbers of close kin will be disturbed by my presence in this particular case,” Oropher grunted, clearly set on witnessing the ceremony even if he had to dress up as an adornment.  The King's secretary chose to feel affronted by this statement.

“That was most discourteous, Lord Oropher.”

“I cannot see how a plain truth can be considered a discourtesy, Master Taranel.”  

“Do not be so humble, Oropher,” Erestor retorted. “We all know your talents…” 

“I am overwhelmed, Erestor.”  

“As if such a thing were possible…”  

“I will be glad to escort you, Lord Oropher. The main quay at sunset. I am a newcomer as well, so they cannot understand our interest in witnessing such a thing…But no finery is needed,” Glorfindel chimed in to put an end to the discussion. By the startled look on the Sindarin lord’s eyes he feared that he was ready to continue with the argument, but thankfully the door opened and an errand-runner whispered something into Taranel’s ear and then bowed and disappeared discreetly.  

“Your missing guard is back in his room, Lord Oropher,” the king’s secretary informed with wicked glee.

                                                  ~*~  *  ~*~

Dinner ended not a moment too early in Oropher’s opinion.  

Idhren had been restless, unconvinced and ready to pounce on Lord Glorfindel in order to extract from him the truth of Bronadel’s whereabouts –in a painful manner, preferably. It had taken all of Oropher’s authority to restrain him. And then the news about the dark things in a forest apparently not so distant from the Havens had filled him with dread. A new shadow was definitely spreading across Middle-earth and, no matter how much he disliked the prospect, he knew that he would not be able to keep himself apart from the decisions undertaken beyond the eaves of his peaceful forest, a forest that was also besieged by inexplicable darkness and threats.  

“The page will lead you to your chambers, Lord Oropher,” the king’s secretary informed them at the door. “Breakfast will be served here at sunrise. Have a good rest.”  

The youth led the way carrying one of those crystal lamps which seemed to burn forever without coal or oil. A needless display, Oropher grunted inwardly, since the corridors were splendidly lit.  

“Wait, lad,” he said, placing a hand on their guide's shoulder. “I already know the way to my chambers, and I would like to visit the library before retiring for the night...could you show me where it is?” Oropher tried to ignore the conniving wink that Idhren cast his way.  

“Most certainly, my lord. I will first guide your…”  

“We can both go to the library.” The young Elf opened his eyes in surprise at the feral tone in Idhren’s voice.  

“Just tell me which way and then lead my guard to his room.”  

“And if Bronadel is not there…”  

“Of course, Idhren.”   

Their guide finally gave in with undisguised reluctance, for surely that contravened his orders most thoroughly. He gave precise indications to Oropher resignedly before resuming his way to the guests' area, followed by a tense Idhren.  

Oropher found the entrance to the library easily. He was not completely sure of what he was looking for, but there were several things that disturbed him.  

The golden elf-lord intrigued him, as well as the unusual tension that seemed to colour everybody’s exchanges with him. Surely he was some powerful Exile, but for the life of him he could not place his name or his house. And he also wanted more information about Eregion and the evil aroused there, but he would not ask Maentêw if he could avoid it. He felt outraged –but also strangely saddened- by the fact that his former friend had apparently sought refuge in Lindon rather than crossing the Mountains and joining his kin in Lórinand.  

The library was a long stone hall with shelves carved on the walls and wooden bookcases that towered high and ran aligned in several parallel corridors to the other end of the chamber. Oropher picked up one of those crystal lamps from a huge desk at the entrance and began his search idly, picking up leather volumes or carefully bounded sheaves of parchments randomly –and discarding them lazily.  

“Poisonous roots!” he cursed softly, dropping a book with silvery flowing Tengwar on its blue leather cover.  

“Yára Nolohinin” he read with distaste, shaking his hand as if it burnt. How typical of Gil-galad, he thought in annoyance, to keep books in Quenya in his library! His curiosity piqued anyway, he opened it and skimmed the brightly coloured parchments which showed beautiful drawings and short sentences.  

It was a Noldorin book of lore for children, he surmised, seeing the famed Two Trees of Aman shining in all their glory, and other trees he had never seen and he presumed must have grown in the Blessed Realm. Perhaps that was one of the few treasures left of Elrond’s childhood, it suddenly occurred to him, and for the first time he felt a twinge of compassion at the half-elf’s hard life. A couple of hissing voices behind the farthest line of bookcases brought him out of his bout of sympathy.  

“Let us ask Oropher!”  

“You saw him today, Elrond. He was not inclined to disclose much about the outline of the lands beyond the Mountains... Not that I fault him. You and I talking about maps…He must still hold that against us!”  

“But this is different…”  

“Ask Maentêw. His knowledge is the same and he is far more agreeable. Ereinion would not mind knowing that Maentêw took part...If my own memories of Doriath are not enough for you.”  

“Maentêw’s leg is shattered to pieces! He cannot walk down to the maps room and help us! And I would not risk carrying it all upstairs…”  

“And Oropher will insist on meddling in everything…did you hear him today? Why on Arda was he so keen on attending tomorrow’s event?”  

“Calm down, Erestor. Perhaps, as Glorfindel said, they are newcomers; they have never seen it...Look, this is what I was looking for, we can go now.”  

“Oropher has, trust me.”  

Oropher hardly managed to hold back a quiet laugh.  Of course he had! He had attended more betrothals than he cared to remember; his own son’s most recently, in a magnificent display of joyous trees and elves that no seaside ceremony could ever match, of that he was sure.  

“He is plotting something,” Erestor continued ominously. “And what was that comment about the finery? What does he know?”  

“Perhaps he heard something? You are openly distressed by the household linen issue, if you do not mind my saying…” Elrond chuckled. Oropher could not see them but now it sounded as if they were getting closer to his position, so he began looking around frantically, searching for an escape route or a hiding place.  

“Not that you and Hîrvegil are faring much better with the kitchens, my friend,” Erestor retorted crossly.  

“We do what we can. But it is not easy…”  

“Of course it is not! It looked like a great idea then, to oversee the household tasks for a while so Miluinn would see that we could actually manage for ourselves and would not feel guilty, but now I just want to get over with it all and forget about laundry and bed linen…”  

Oropher kept walking silently in the opposite direction, until he reached the end of the bookcase-lined corridor, so he did not hear Elrond’s answer. Gil-galad is marrying the housekeeper? He wondered. He covered his lamp with his cloak and waited in silence. Elrond and Erestor seemed to be approaching the door, so if he remained there in silence and darkness he had a good chance of not being seen.  

“I will find a way to trick Oropher into helping us,” Elrond affirmed, placing his lamp on the table. “There is the slightest chance that he might even enjoy it…”  

I will, Peredhel, Oropher vowed darkly, all protective feelings towards the orphaned half-elf forgotten. But there is the slightest chance that you will not enjoy it as much as you expect!  

“At your own risk, Peredhel,” Erestor sighed, as he held the door open. “I cannot see the point of enlisting him in this task…or Glorfindel, by the way. No one knows how Gondolin looked like, so why bother?” he sentenced, closing the door and leaving behind a dumbstruck Oropher.  

Even *he* had heard of the Hidden City of the Noldor.

TBC

Vairë The Weaver: is Mandos’ wife. As I see it, she would instruct the reborn as they were released, showing them their old lives and their renewed, bright threads in her tapestries.

The tower of Barad Nimras: In his short career as the most prolific architect in Beleriand, Finrod built the tower of Barad Nimras in the Havens. The official reason was to set a permanent watch over the Belegaer, in case Morgoth attacked from the Sea.

Celegorm's hound: Huan.

Enedwaith and Mininhiriath. The lands between the Isengard and what later became The Shire (roughly speaking)

Chapter 3. A shadow arises that hates us.

In which Ereinion bristles, Glorfindel worries, Erestor squirms, Oropher muses and Círdan is his usual accommodating self.

Oropher woke up to the unexpected sound of exasperated hisses that sooner called to mind the harsh bickering of a couple of angry finches than the proverbial silvery ring of elven voices.

“Come on, you grumpy boar, are you afraid of water?”

“Mind your mouth, sapling, or you’ll find yourself planted in one of those oversized boats...”

“They are called ships, Idhren…”

“Who cares? I’d rather explore those forests where they say strange things are going on…”

Oropher groaned and looked up at the reddish canopy, where his guards welcomed the new day. Last night he had spent a long time in the library after Elrond and Erestor left, reading about Gondolin *and* its Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, and puzzling over the fact that a lord with the same name was now serving in Gil-galad’s court. Tired of pondering that strange affair, he had retraced his steps back to his quarters, wondering idly whether Bronadel was actually back.

He had found his two guards happily settled under the mighty rowan trees in the courtyard, their comfortable chambers forsaken for the steady breathing of the trees and the familiar vault of the stars. He had joined them gladly, and had listened to Bronadel’s tales about his newly found family, watching the lively glitter in the young guard’s eyes as he spoke of the relentless dance of the waves and the mighty ships that carried their people over the Sea. Idhren listened with mild amusement and ill-concealed interest, and by the time Oropher wrapped himself in his cloak against the welcoming trunk they were discussing a morning escapade to the shipyards.

“Bronadel, make sure that grumpy squirrel does not drown,” he called out tauntingly now. Soon a rain of ripe berries showered him. He looked up to see Idhren’s serious face peering from one of the lowest branches.

“And you make sure that you do not get lost again, my lord,” the Silvan guard warned with a mocking grin, jumping nimbly to the ground. “What are your plans for today?” he asked then, as Bronadel too came down, straightening his tunic and fastening his belt.

“More meetings, it would seem,” Oropher sighed.

“I hope that you will be free by sunset, my lord,” the younger guard chimed in. “There is a very moving ceremony going on at the main quay, I’ve been told, and you will also be welcome to attend...”

“We shall meet there,” Oropher grunted, entering his chambers with a frown.

So his guards were welcome to Gil-galad’s private celebration while he almost had to force his presence there? Oropher was not in a very friendly mood as he made his way to the main dining hall for breakfast, but as soon as he opened the door he was suddenly immersed into the other subject that had puzzled him since last night: the golden elf lord.

“We are not here to discuss the eventual shortcomings in the King’s military strategy but to find solutions to the problems that we now face, Lord Glorfindel!” Gil-galad sounded exasperated as Oropher entered the hall. “You must remember that this land was supposedly free of evil, when we settled down here,” he continued, fighting to keep his irritation under control. “This is a small realm; we do not have the numbers to keep the wide leagues of Eriador under constant watch, so we weaved a net of alliances, that in case something arose we would be informed!”

Oropher made his way to the long side table, biting back an amused chuckle at the perplexed look in Glorfindel’s face. The king and his counsellors seemed to have been working over breakfast, for the table was covered in maps and parchments and several pieces of fruit seemed to have been used for signalling strategic places. Oropher helped himself to a full plate while discreetly listening to the debate that took place at his back.

“And it is working most properly, my lord,” the elf lord agreed mildly. “All I meant is…”

“We have almost finished updating a map of western Eriador, with the position of the last attacks,” Elrond chimed in cheerfully, in a brave attempt at appeasing the king. “And Hîrvegil and I have been working with Chieftain Baghan regarding the eastern lands...”

“Good job, Elrond. I bet Lord Glorfindel finds your initiative worth of praise,” the king grunted crossly. “Perhaps he will volunteer to check their accuracy on the field, since he finds our maps so inadequate.”

Oropher took advantage of the dense silence that followed to walk to the main table and take a sit beside the troop commander, who hurriedly gathered his maps to make room for Oropher’s breakfast.

“Good morning, my lords,” he offered brightly. “Did I miss something?” Several heads nodded tensely towards him.

“Barely,” Círdan observed from the other side of the table, carefully cutting an apple into strikingly symmetrical pieces. He leaned forth and shook his head. “I must agree with Glorfindel, though. These maps are good for nothing. How long since you last updated this?”

“I do not think many mountains have arisen since we last traveled east, Círdan,” Erestor grunted, feeling personally affronted. “And we have detailed sections from Ost-in-Edhil to Tharbad…”

“According to Chieftain Baghan, half of these forests do not exist anymore,” the Shipwright insisted, pointing at several places in one of the parchments.

“Updating those maps presently is our main concern, as I have just said,” the king grunted, casting a resentful look at Círdan’s suspiciously amused face.

“Merenel can help you there. Our charts are more accurate than this, even if we map from the sea-shore.”

“You are most gracious, as always, my lord.”

“Glad to be of service…”

For a moment Oropher almost pitied Gil-galad, knowing how infuriating Círdan could be, and how immune he was to fierce looks or frowns. The King must have remembered it as well, for he soon stopped trying to glare a hole into the mariner’s forehead and turned his attention to other matters with a deep sigh.

“I have asked Taurlong to estimate how many companies from the Home Guard can be devoted to oversee the troubles in Nenuial and the rest of the road to Ost-in-Edhil and Khazad-dum. We must know if there is a connection between those attacks and the troubles in Eregion and beyond the Mountains,” he said, casting a grave look at Oropher. “I hope you will help Elrond and Hîrvegil with the outline of the lands around the Great River…”

Elrond chimed in before Oropher could object.

“I thought our main concern was the East…”

“It still is. But we must know if the enemy has already gathered followers around us, lest we are caught between hammer and anvil in case of an invasion,” Gil-galad explained grimly.

“The scattered human settlements in Eriador would fall quickly in case of an attack…” the captain of the king’s guard pondered worriedly.

“They will not, if we manage to identify the threat, and convince them to fight together, and we can bring Celebrimbor back to sanity, and return control of the city to Lord Celeborn, so we can count with Ost-in-Edhil’s troops, whatever their might is,” the troop commander retorted. “That is why we need as many companies as you can spare, Taurlong,” he added with a wry smile. Glorfindel risked a question then.

“What about the Númenoreans?” 

Oropher lifted his head from his meal with sudden interest, in time to see Gil-galad frowning mightily towards the imprudent elf lord.

“We will need their help to convince the scattered mannish settlements to follow Hîrvegil’s plan,” the Noldorin king finally offered, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

“I see. So you do not intend to warn them about stopping their ravaging to the East, do you?” Oropher burst out angrily.

“I am assuming that Annatar is gathering a powerful army beyond the Mountains, and that he might attack us from the East, crossing through the gap beyond the region of Calenardhon. In that event, we would need the ships and strength of the Númenoreans in the haven of Lond Daer, and their fast access inland through the Greyflood, if we intend to hold both Ost-in-Edhil and Lindon,” Gil-galad admitted in a low voice.

“So they are welcome to fell down as many trees as they wish while they await said attack…”

“Amdír is a good friend and ally,” Gil-galad insisted. “And his concerns are mine. But I need to come up with a strategy that will ease Amdír’s worries without inviting the Númenorean king to withdraw his support…I would like to discuss the whole issue with you privately, Lord Oropher, as soon as my councillors have finished researching some minor details,” he added meaningfully, casting a warning glare at Glorfindel at the same time.

“I will hear you,” Oropher nodded tersely, plainly disappointed with the king’s explanations.

“That is far more than what I had dared to hope, my thanks,” Gil-galad quipped with a sarcastic smirk. “Taurlong and I are expected at the forges presently,” he added brusquely, standing up and nodding to the captain of his guard. “We’ll all meet later at the quay, I am told,” he said with a forced smile, walking to the door and leaving them to their breakfast.

“When do you think we could meet to start checking the maps with Lord Oropher, Hîrvegil?” Elrond asked with meticulous politeness. Oropher suddenly remembered the peredhel’s words last night in the library and tensed inwardly, readying an excuse.

“Not before noon, Elrond.” The troop commander seemed annoyed. “I am most worried presently with this side of the mountains, anyway… and the Druadan could help us with that, while the dwarf plays in the forge with Gil-galad and Taurlong…”

“Where is the Chieftain?” Erestor asked then. “I have not seen him this morning…”

“We met with him earlier,” Elrond explained. “And after that he said he needed time in the forest. He was not very happy with Gil-galad’s explanations,” he admitted, casting an apologetic look at Oropher. “But he said he understood his position.”

“Not an easy one,” Oropher conceded in a thoughtful voice, distracted running the whole scene in his mind again. The awed silence that followed shook him, so he looked around worriedly. “What!”

It was Círdan who answered in his gruff manner.

“You are spoiled, Oropher.” Everybody tensed around the table, but Oropher just raised his brows.

“Spoiled?”

“Ennin ago you would have insulted Ereinion for his arguments and most assuredly you would have walked away in rage…and look at you! Now you are even trying to understand his motives!”  Scattered chuckles died quickly at the dark look in Oropher’s face. He watched Círdan through narrowed eyes, then stood and walked away.

“You offended him,” he heard Elrond’s accusing voice before he closed the door behind him.

                                                    ~*~  *  ~*~

Glorfindel worried as he hurried across hallways after Erestor.

He worried not because of the clear signs of evil arising around them and beyond, or that malevolent Annatar sowing dissension in Eregion, or a new batch of dragons sighted by the dwarves in the distant cold northern mountains.

Nor because of the evil things found by Gildor in the Great Old Forest or the dangerous shadows in the woods of Lórinand, or the dark fumes in the lands to the east.

All that he had seen before: shadow and evil stalking the lands and Elves gathering together to fight it off –or die trying.

Well, they were gathering together now, and he had a wide experience both in fighting and in dying.

But he was worried by words.

That was not a strange occurrence, since he was of the Noldor, and his kin placed great value in the power of words.

So he had spent the night pondering, remembering, and pondering again.

“I am most glad to see that the position as official thorn on the King and his chief counsellor’s side has been filled by someone so talented…” The Sindarin king had pointed out merrily the night before. And then, “I must have mistaken the King’s enthusiasm for exasperation…”

And after more pondering, Glorfindel had decided to test his doubts carefully at breakfast.

And now he worried seriously.

So he had taken advantage of the sudden disbandment after Oropher’s exit and had jumped after Erestor along the corridors and downstairs to the heart of the palace, the place where some of the most important daily routines took place, in search of counsel.

“Erestor, wait, there is something I need to ask you…”

“Ask ahead, then…I suppose someone so skilled must have learnt to talk and walk at the same time at some point in one life or another…”

The narrow stair barely allowed two people abreast, and there was a regular traffic going upstairs, so Glorfindel resigned to follow the chief counsellor and almost shout out his worries.

“I... Good morning… Do not think that I am… Excuse me…”

“I do not hear you… Wait, what is that? No, I do not think we will be using that today… handkerchiefs, perhaps…You were saying, Lord Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel could not answer, pressed against the wall, his voice muffled by a huge wicker basket containing delicately embroidered napkins and a table cloth.

“Apologies, Lord Glorfindel,” the maid who carried the basket chirped merrily. “I did not see you shine your way down…Master Erestor blocks even the sun,” she joked in a loud voice that pretended to be conspiratorial.

“I hear you...”

“Erestor…”

“I am waiting…”

Glorfindel took in a deep breath and let go of it once the maid disappeared up the stairs. “Do you find me exasperating, by chance?”

“Only when you try to blind me with your most ostentatious blazing, of course,” Erestor shrugged coolly. He had reached the corridor that led to the palace laundry and turned around -and up- to face the elf-lord, who still stood on the last step of the staircase. “What was that important question?” and then, “Ah!” as he took in the worried expression in Glorfindel’s face.  He cleared his throat and looked around. “This is not the most appropriate place,” he began, as maids crossed hurriedly between them in their comings and goings.

“It is as good as any other. It is a simple question, and I’d say you have already answered…”

“No! I mean, that was not an answer! I did not take it as your question,” Erestor seemed now honestly worried. “Of course we are all very glad for your presence,” he began earnestly. “It is only that it…causes some…disturbances, tensions, I’d say…”

“Good day, Lord Glorfindel!”

“Good to see you down here, my lord!

“Oh! Thank you, Lord Glorfindel! This was most brave from your part, to finally cornering him!”

Maids walked past them hurriedly, busy with their daily tasks, and they greeted the golden elf-lord with easy familiarity. Glorfindel opened his arms and shrugged, casting a questioning glance at the chief counsellor.

“Tensions? You mean because the maids go to my chambers repeatedly pretending to change the linens when they just want to talk to me? Is that all?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

Erestor literally squirmed under his direct glance, and suddenly Glorfindel perceived an inner wave of regret and chagrin that showed not on the counsellor's usually detached front.

“Come, I think we can speak here…” Erestor led him to a small alcove in the stone corridor where bed linen, towels and table cloths were neatly piled in carved shelves.

“Look… I apologize if we have somehow made you feel not welcome here…” he began, looking honestly concerned. “These are troubled times, as you know, and while timely, your arrival is a bit…puzzling, disturbing, I would say. Perhaps sarcasm is not the best way to deal with newcomers,” he admitted with a wry smile. Glorfindel sighed.

“I meant not to complain, Master Erestor. I just want to be of help, but suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps I am imposing my presence and my abilities here…and making an annoyance of myself.” Erestor shook his head.

“Forget it. You are a valuable presence here. And if you are worried by Oropher’s words yesterday, let me tell you that you are a long way from reaching his standards as insufferable thorn on my side, although I must admit that you have the potential to get there some day,” he added comfortingly. “Oropher is also a good and old friend,” he explained then at the elf-lord’s puzzled expression. Glorfindel nodded with relieved understanding.

“And the King?” he asked then doubtfully.

“Oh, he too can be pretty annoying and infuriating when he sets his mind on it, but he is also a good, brave, decent ruler. That is why he and Oropher get together in such a genial manner…”

“You mean I better speak to him…”

“You learn quickly,” Erestor nodded approvingly. “But please, do not forget that this is Middle-earth, Glorfindel. We have learnt by force to be distrustful and to take excessive precautions...Even among our kin. You are a joy for us in your bright sincerity and openness, but also a reminder of how much we have lost,” he added more seriously.

A tall, strong maid peeked into the alcove, smiling cheerfully and cutting Glorfindel’s answer.

“Did you tell him, Lord Glorfindel?”

“If you but just give me a moment, Mistress Faelum,” he answered with a conspiratorial smile.

"Tell me what?”

“Well... you know that problem with the maids crowding at my chambers?” At the impatient gesture in the counsellor’s face the elleth vanished in a judicious move and Glorfindel hurriedly went to the point. “They were trying to convince me to tell you that they are perfectly capable of dealing with the household tasks without Miluinn, but they threatened to stop doing so unless you –and Elrond, Círdan, Hîrvegil, Taranel- stopped meddling in,” he finished softly, wincing as he awaited the explosion. It was Erestor’s turn to disconcert him, though. The counsellor broke in a relieved fit of laughter, patting the golden elf’s back as tears streamed down his face.

“Did they, now? That is the best news I heard in half a moon,” he cried between laughs. “For my part, I resign presently; did you hear that, Mistress Faelum?” The smiling face of the maid reappeared behind Glorfindel’s shoulder.

“I do. And about time, I say! But it would be of help if you passed word on, Erestor,” she insisted. “These past days have been a nightmare for the household!”

“And you had to tell Lord Glorfindel, of course…”

“Miluinn was having too much fun out of it, and I was not sure if I would be able to hold my temper, if I confronted you or Círdan,” the formidable maid admitted easily. “He has been a proper arbitrator, don’t you agree?” she added, pointing at the golden elf-lord, who smiled quite pleased of himself.

“Indeed. So good that I think I am going to take advantage of his talents right now in another delicate mission. Since my presence down here is no longer required, will you please let it be known over there while I instruct Lord Glorfindel in his new assignment, Faelum?”

“With pleasure, Master Counsellor!”  

“My thanks. See Glorfindel, you have already met Lord Oropher, have you not?” he asked as he dragged the Noldo along the corridor. A burst of cheers and laughter coming from the laundry and the gardens made him turn his head briefly and shake it in mild annoyance.

“Faelum has told them.” Glorfindel informed quite unnecessarily. “What is it about Lord Oropher, then?” he asked with an innocence that most of the times was as exasperating as he intended it to be.

“Well, you know about the project in the Map Room, since you are also part of it, if a much delayed contributor, I might add…The thing is Elrond is deeply interested in enlisting Lord Oropher’s help there, since he was a ranking officer in Thingol’s court…”

“And why doesn’t Elrond ask him?” Glorfindel had apparently surmised what was expected of him but was not beyond provoking Erestor a little more. “Elrond’s mother was Thingol’s heir, if I am not mistaken. So Amdír and Oropher should be Elrond’s allies, rather than Gil-galad’s?” he pressed then, carefully hiding his mirth at Erestor’s despair.

“It is not that simple! See, I promise you an update on those hidden tales, issues that surely did not reach Finarfin or Ingil’s ears…but I need you to convince Oropher to help Elrond there. He will not trust Elrond because of …a certain… misunderstanding, a deplorable incident concerning maps at the very beginning of this age.”

“And you think he would hold a grudge for so long?”

“Let us call it just…understandable misgivings,” Erestor answered virtuously. “But I am sure that he would not doubt you. You inspire trust, after all…”

“I will do my best,” Glorfindel promised seriously, now intrigued by the Sindarin king and his connection to Elrond. That seemed something worth exploring.

                                                    ~*~  *  ~*~

Oropher worried, though moderately, from a terrace close to the dining hall, where he had found refuge after staging his regally disappointed departure –thanks to Círdan’s tactful remark.

And he really had reasons for worrying.

To begin with, the symptoms of what he had hoped would be a local bout of shadow arising in the east had turned out to be a widespread sign of a new darkness that was growing dangerously and threatening the western lands of Middle-earth again.

Then there was the proverbial Noldorin blindness to everything except their own strategies and priorities –something he had known would arise at one point or another.

And of course the fact that, with a new shadow spreading across the whole of Middle-earth and not simply beyond the eaves of his forest, there was little hope that he would avoid being dragged into the events of the Age.

None of those things worried him overly.

He had survived many wars in his long life, and he knew that the key was being ready for what might come. He was doing what was right, now, abandoning his self-imposed exile and sharing news with the rest of the elven realms, lest his small kingdom was forgotten and thus easily destroyed when the dams were broken.

Admitting that their peaceful existence had come to an end had been hard, but he had suspected it as soon as he heard Amdír’s news about the revolt in Eregion, the restlessness in the lands and the roaming bands of Men crossing to their side of the mountains. There was little else to do but accepting what was coming and choosing the course of action that would best ensure his people’s well-being on the long run.

To be honest, he had to admit with surprise, what bothered him most that morning was Elrond’s suspiciously friendly attitude and that evening’s celebration. Or rather, what he was going to wear at that celebration, for despite the half-elf protests that it was a private, very simple ceremony, he would not suffer his dignity -that of his people- to be insulted. 

“Are you offended? It was not my intention.” So deep was he in his brooding that he did not hear Círdan approaching him until the Shipwright put a hand on his shoulder. He started and looked at the bearded, impassive face in which the grey eyes sparkled with the steady amusement of one who understood the private joke of the Powers.

“Offended?” It was impossible to be angry with the Shipwright, and besides it was a useless affair. “Nay, Master Shipwright, you were right! But you made me feel nostalgic. Those were good times, were they not?” he quipped longingly, shaking his head and chuckling helplessly.

“Well, we had just survived a gruesome war and the loss of our lands…you were not exactly thrilled by the situation, if I remember rightly.”

“Ah, but I could afford being angry and nasty and terribly mean, Círdan. Those were new beginnings, we were carefree then, when we thought we had defeated the shadow…”

“Not exactly ourselves…”

“You are right. When we thought that the shadow had been defeated and we were allowed to continue with our easy lives as they had once been…”

“Our lives have never been *that* easy, Oropher, not for lasting periods at least.”

“And what if I pretend that they have been?”

“As long as you do not believe it…”

Oropher sighed mournfully. They were standing on a wide balcony, watching the waves lapping relentlessly the base of the cliff wall. “Look at us now, being civil and polite, and even playing at being allies.” 

“It is a welcome change from when you called him Brith-galad and objected to everything he said or did,” Círdan observed merrily, trying to get a hold on his cloak, which swirled and danced most uncomfortably in the wind, pretending not to see Oropher’s most menacing glare.

“You know what I am talking about,” the Sinda complained, shaking his head. They stood in silence for a while, and then Oropher sighed in a lower voice.“Evil is back again, Círdan, isn’t it?”

Círdan’s fit of laughter was far from what he had expected, and he looked at his host in mild outrage, as the Mariner shook in mirth.

“Back?” he chuckled merrily. “But it never went away! This is Arda marred, my friend. Evil swells and shrinks in every age, and we must face the tide…or sail away! There is no other choice, Oropher, no deceiving ourselves…Come, give me a hand,” he added encouragingly, seeing the brooding look that had suddenly settled on Oropher’s face. “It is my part to check that there is wood enough on the fireplaces and in the stores in the common areas…”

“It is not easy to admit that we may be yet again facing evil embodied, though,” Oropher sighed after some time, as he followed Círdan into studies, offices, meeting rooms and kitchens, in what was apparently an unnecessary routine since everything was in place.

“Of course it is not. We felt the first stirrings when hardly four ennin of the new age had passed,” Círdan sighed, poking at the huge fireplace in the main council room and staring at the flames, lost in memories. “We did not want to believe it, but by the time Aldarion set foot on these shores, the reports from Eregion were enough to convince Ereinion to ask King Meneldur to send us any strength of Men he could spare." He looked up to Oropher with a worried look on his bearded face. "We hoped then to stem the rise of this new power, but it retreated into the East, reinforcements did not arrive...and nothing was done, although we kept our watch. Three ennin later, Annatar began sending emissaries to Eregion and Lindon. Ereinion refused to treat with him…but Celebrimbor fell into his trap. We have been expecting war since then, so that is why, despite our inaccurate maps, we know what is going on almost everywhere…except beyond the eaves of your forest, Oropher.” 

“I know very little of all this,” Oropher admitted thoughtfully. “I had no idea that things had been going on for so long.”

“We were busy this side of the mountains…and we trusted Amdír to keep Galadriel and Celeborn informed of what was going on beyond.”

Oropher nodded. He and Amdír had parted in very good terms, but he had kept his isolation strictly, until he considered it utter folly to continue ignoring what was going on before his own borders.

“I see that the watch has been kept. But Amdír will be expecting a solution," he warned.

"For the deforestation...or for the Men invading your peaceful side of the Mountains?"

"For both, as you are well aware." Oropher admitted easily. "More Men will mean more devastation in the short run, and we price our forests as they are now."

"Give Ereinion a chance," Círdan urged him. "You know well that he cares deeply for the woods..." he added, and Oropher laughed openly, acknowledging the memory.

"Well, at least he has taken good care of the forests that I entrusted to him around here," he conceded good-naturedly. "I will listen to what he has to say, and let us hope that he comes up with a solution that satisfies all involved. He has grown up into a fine king, Círdan, you must be very proud of him,” he observed with a sincere smile.

“Well, he has many talents. I like to think that we just helped him grow into what was already there. But I think that you have grown up finely as well…” Oropher chuckled ironically.

“I may be young to your eyes, but no longer a sapling.”

“Oh, I know! I mean not in years, but in wisdom,” the Shipwright laughed merrily. “Come, there are more places we need to check,” he added, guiding him to another corridor. “It seems to me that you have found your place and thus your peace of mind, Oropher, and so you are able to look with sympathy and benevolence upon the rest of Arda. You are a far more agreeable person now,” he added with an ironical smirk. “How are Sîriel and Thranduil?”

Oropher chuckled again to hide his emotion. He knew that the Shipwright was right, that he had finally found his stability and peace of mind, and that his wife and son had been the source of his strength and his most steady support through those turbulent years.

“They send their greetings. Sîriel is delighted in our new forest home, and Thranduil…he is my joy and my pride,” he added simply. Círdan smiled in understanding.

“I know the feeling. You left him in charge in your absence?”

“Certainly. He is ready for that, and also eager to prove himself of worth to our people. Tell me why we are doing this, Círdan?” he asked then, annoyed as the Shipwright continued opening doors and checking wood supplies, which were unfailingly in place.

“Oh! Our housekeeper is leaving us, and Ereinion and Elrond thought that we should oversee the household for a while, so she would not feel guilty… needlessly, of course, but the young ones thought it necessary…” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Marriage will suit him splendidly,” Oropher sentenced with a knowing smile. “Thranduil is…a different Elf since he married Gaildineth. More focused but at the same time more relaxed, as if he took more delight in life.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Círdan answered politely. “Send my congratulations to Thranduil.  Being a grandfather no doubt will be the end of you!” he poked then, as Oropher pretended to frown imposingly. “But I doubt that marriage is high on Ereinion’s mind presently,” Círdan added thoughtfully. Oropher stopped dead on his tracks, but the Shipwright did not notice. “And then, he would have to find a suitable counterpart first, someone interested as well in the business,” he reasoned.

“As if that would be a hindrance…”

“What makes you think that the House of Finwë is a preferred source of husbands, Oropher?” Círdan stopped now in the corridor and turned to look back at his Sindarin friend with a puzzled look on his eyes.

“Well…why would it not?”

“There are too many cases of them being outstandingly short-lived in the lands of hither, to begin with,” Círdan pointed out dryly, and for the first time Oropher saw the fierce, deep affection that the harsh shipwright held for his foster son.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, knowing now that he was not attending Gil-galad’s betrothal after all.

“It is not your fault,” the Shipwright shrugged and resumed walking. “Nor his, by the way. But I will not bore you with Noldorin history...Why are we talking about Ereinion’s marriage anyway?” Oropher shook his head and sighed.

“I... yesterday I went for a walk before dinner and I saw him…them... Well, I thought I had seen them,” he corrected himself. Admittedly he had seen nothing, except what he had guessed.

“Oh, I see!" Cirdan chuckled fondly. "He was having dinner with Miluinn, our housekeeper. A ship departs today at sunset," he explained while Oropher battled the urgent need to bang his head on the stony wall. "And after so many years she is finally answering the call. We will all miss her dearly, she is a relative of mine, but Ereinion was closest to her. She took care of him in his childhood, after his naneth died soon after giving birth. Her husband was killed in the Nirnaeth, and she lived with other survivors in hiding in Mithrim for several years, until they fled to Balar. During that time they fostered Tuor… And she is also Voronwë’s aunt, she took care of him when he was sent to Mithrim as a child to spend some summers there…before Turgon and his people deserted Vinayamar. But you do not know who is Voronwë...”

“Pray, enlighten me.”

“Voronwë was chosen by Ulmo to lead Tuor to Gondolin. He was the only survivor of the last ship that Turgon sent to the West in search of help…Voronwë was the son of Falmiriel, one of my sister’s granddaughters…and Miluinn is Falmiriel’s sister.” Oropher listened in silence and then shrugged.

“I suppose that I could spend more time in the library…”

“Or you could listen to the tales. There are people here who lived through those hard days. Back then, Miluinn took charge of our household… and of us. Her arrival was a blessing for Ereinion; he was distraught after the fall of Fingon…And her presence was a great joy for Tuor, as well, when the refugees from Gondolin arrived in Sirion...” Círdan's voice faded away in fond recollection.

“And she is departing now?”

Círdan sighed, opening a wide door and leading the way into a clear, clean circular hall. They nodded to a healer who sat behind a desk and followed the wave of his hand.

“The shadow is regaining strength, and many feel that they cannot go through it one more time. Miluinn battled her sea-longing for many ennin, but we finally convinced her to depart,” he sighed, opening another door and entering a plainly furnished chamber. “How is it all going, Elrond?”

Elrond raised his head from his patient's leg and smiled openly.

“Better than expected. The thigh is healed; I’ve taken away the stitches.” Oropher met Maentêw’s impassive face and nodded politely.

“Good to hear that. I want to discuss certain details with you, if you have a moment…”

“Well, yes, but...”

“Oropher will help Maentêw back to his chambers, will you, Oropher?” Círdan asked with an innocent smile. Oropher groaned briefly, knowing that he had been cleanly manoeuvred into it. Maentêw’s face looked equally delighted.

“Of course, I will take care,” he managed through clenched teeth, hating the satisfied smile on the Shipwright’s face as he walked away with Elrond.

TBC

According to the UT the first stirs of evil were felt about the year 500 of the S.A. Aldarion was king from 883, (sixth King of Numenor). Ost-in-Edhil was founded in 750 and Sauron came himself to Eregion and Lindon around the year 1200 of the S.A. The revolt against Celeborn and Galadriel took place around 1350-1400. Sauron departed Eregion around the year 1500, to begin the forging of the One Ring. The invasion of Eriador began around 1695.

Miluinn is an invented character placed in canon events. There was a group of grey Elves who fostered Tuor in Mithrim and then fled to Balar, and Voronwë was indeed a relative of Cirdan's on maternal side.   

In "New Beginnings" Oropher provoked Gil-galad calling him Brith-galad, which means "pebbles of radiance" in mocking reference to the polished stones (rather than jewels) that back at that time adorned the king's shield. 

Also, Oropher and Ereinion have an argument concerning the wood for building the fleet that would carry Elros' people West. Oropher ended up in charge of a group of foresters that showed the Edain how to care for the forests while cutting down the trees they needed for their ship building. 

Chapter 4. Words May Reopen Wounds.

In which friendship overcomes exasperation and old grudges, Oropher vows to learn a new trick and two stubborn horses pick up an argument.

“And they actually believed that Annatar could teach them the secret of galvorn?” Oropher shook his head in puzzlement and emptied his goblet in one long swig.

“I told them I doubted it was possible to replicate…and that was the end of my career among the Mírdain,” Maentêw admitted resignedly. “I was separated from their councils and kept under severe watch… and it was only a question of time until word reached Annatar that I was plotting against him and smuggling information to Moria and Lórinand. They put me under arrest at my home for almost a quarter of an ennin…after some time spent in Annatar’s dungeons.” Despite Maentêw’s light tone, Oropher knew him too well not to perceive the slight tremor in his voice and the shadow that darkened his features.

“It serves you well, why would you like to be one of the Mírdain, after all?” He chose levity, seeing the restlessness in his old friend’s tense body. At first startled by the harsh rebuke, Maentêw soon relaxed and chuckled briefly.

“It was not I who used to lead secret forays into Eöl’s forge when we were but shootings, if my memory serves me well…”

“But I did it for the sake of the challenge,” Oropher retorted with a sincere smile. “You were always the best at the forge…”

They were sitting in Maentêw’s room, drinking watered wine and catching up with news, the ice broken after a long exchange of poisoned barbs and sharp recriminations that had more or less cleared the air between them.

“Such thirst for secret knowledge…” Oropher shook his head reprovingly and Maentêw sighed, almost amusedly.

“You would have fallen for his tricks as well, had you been there and a wise and powerful being came and promised to unveil before you the hidden words that govern stone and root, and the fabric of time, so you would be able to arrest decay and ban suffering from your beloved forest,” he rebuked his friend in a soft voice. Oropher looked at him sharply.

“That’s what he did? And how is it that you managed to see through his tricks while the rest were beguiled?”

“It is not that simple, Oropher. I was among those who greeted him enthusiastically and followed his teachings eagerly. I did not stand against Celeborn and Galadriel, or the others who warned us against the Annatar’s growing sway upon Celebrimbor, but I did not try to stop the revolt either,” he admitted with an abashed expression.

“What made you change your mind, then?” Oropher was curious, in spite of himself. He had vowed to keep away from court machinations, and Celeborn’s problems in Ost-in-Edhil were, in Oropher’s opinion, just what he deserved for meddling with those Noldorin intruders. But he was beginning to feel that there was more to the whole tale than his own prejudices, so he resigned to be dragged into the root of the problem.

“His goals. His eagerness to keep everything under control, to order growth and direct shape all the time…We do that with trees as well, after a fashion, but we never force them against their nature…not to suit our purposes disregarding their well-being…”

“Yet we do that in the forge…and the Noldor do that all the time with stones…” Maentêw shook his head.

“Come, Oropher!” He sounded truly exasperated. “You need not pretending before me. I know that you hear their pleased song as well as I do.” He waved around them gracefully. “These stones are contented; they are part of something and they love what they are. And Annatar did that…in the beginning. But soon it was clear that he sought dominion rather than understanding…”

“And Celebrimbor?”

“He was so blinded by all that Annatar had to teach him that he barely listened to anyone…He would spend days closeted in his forge without food or company, testing metals and trying secret techniques…eager to surpass Annatar, I would say.”

“But he allowed you to be tortured,” Oropher accused sternly. It had never crossed his mind that he would ever pity a son of the House of Fëanor, and he was not about beginning now. He bit his lip in chagrin, though, at seeing his friend shivering and paling at the unpleasant memories that he had evoked.

“He barely knew what was going on in the city…why would he care for a bunch of traitors?” Maentêw retorted harshly, resetting the iron grip on his emotions. “Celebrimbor was raised to power when Galadriel and Celeborn were displaced,” he continued in a hoarse whisper, “but he cared not for ruling, allowing Annatar to take effective charge of the city, and to subject all, even the Mírdain, to his merciless rule.”

“Not unwilling subjects, one would think…”

“The loss of freedom is not like leaves falling in Narbeleth, Oropher. It is something more insidious, more subtle…” His long fingers rubbed a twisted knot on the polished wooden surface of the table. “More like those blights that grow unnoticed from within and kill the tree when you less expected it,” he explained thoughtfully. “We worked hard, and learned hidden knowledge and cared not much for what was going on in the city or beyond…”

“Until...”

“In my case, until Annatar offered to teach us the secret of galvorn, as I told you. I doubted openly that Eöl would have disclosed that secret to anyone and my defiance enraged him. He taught his son, didn’t you know that? He said then…” Maentêw shivered again. “I had never before seen such cold malevolence and such hatred in one so fair of face and wise of heart…”

“And?” By now Oropher was completely clueless. What the Dark Elf had to do with all that was beyond his understanding. Maentêw snorted impatiently

“Your wilful ignorance is a trial to patience, Oropher. It is said that Eöl’s son was captured by Morgoth’s minions and brought to the Dark Enemy’s presence, and that he betrayed Gondolin’s location and his own secrets trading them for his life…How else could have then Annatar heard of the secret of galvorn?”

“So you figured out that Annatar must be one of Morgoth’s lost minions, accepting the truth of Noldorin tales without doubt...” Not that he had ever felt much sympathy for the Dark Elf, but it was a sharply honed habit, to distrust the Exiles.

“Well, I am guilty of that, yes,” Maentêw chuckled sarcastically. “You can check with any of the survivors from Gondolin if you doubt it. There are still several of them lingering in these shores...”  Oropher shook his head placatingly.

“I’ll trust your word. So they banished you from their fellowship and, out of resentment, you rejoined Celeborn’s side and began conspiring, until they caught you and put you under arrest. But how did you end up here with that expertly broken leg and thigh wound?” he asked flippantly. Maentêw shook his head, took a deep breath and shrugged.

“You got the tale as if you had been there,” he spat dryly. “Most of the Mírdain Annatar kept busy forging weapons to be used in freeing distant realms to the East, subdued by evil Men who had strayed form the Valar and had sought alliance with dark things in Middle-earth, he claimed.”

“He was preparing to attack the Númenoreans?” Oropher asked in incredulity and Maentêw sighed sadly.

“It is quite clear now, but at that time we only thought of testing the new techniques at the forge and we cared not much were those weapons were going to be used…Meanwhile, Celebrimbor and his most talented fellows were busy in a secret project under Annatar’s personal supervision, although I suspect that Celebrimbor was actually pursuing his own ideas, just trying to use Annatar’s knowledge for his own purposes…A contest of wills, I suppose, but I do not doubt that Annatar won that one.

“And what project is that?”

“I do not know for sure, but for what I have gleaned, the Mírdain have been meddling with the breath of earth and water and stone, binding it in the forge into metals to which the fëa of the wielder is also tied –following Annatar’s secret knowledge. How far they have reached still remains a mystery to me.”

“That is…sick.”

“It did not seem so in the beginning…” Maentêw admitted sadly, apparently lost in recollection. He shrugged with some effort and cast a guilty look at his friend. “More than thirty sun-rounds after Celeborn talked Celebrimbor into releasing me from Annatar’s dungeons and into his custody, Annatar departed the city with a last shipment of weapons, claiming that he was going to wage war in the East, and promising that he would be back to oversee progress on their secret project…” Oropher shook his head but Maentêw lifted a hand and stopped his comments.

“With Annatar gone, and Celebrimbor busy in his own project, Celeborn –and those around him- were less tightly watched. We began searching the surroundings, and soon we found out that there was an increasing number of roaming forces of Orcs and dark men harassing the mannish settlements, dwarven caravans and our own borders. Skirmishes and attacks have increased dramatically for the past ten sun-rounds…”

“So that is why Galadriel is luring Amdír into war?” Oropher stood up suddenly and paced the room in agitation. “Celeborn is using her position in Lórinand to stretch his power beyond the Mountains? Or is that Gil-galad’s hand?” He hit the table with both hands before his friend, demanding an explanation. Maentêw shook his head and laughed bitterly.

“Stop it, Oropher; Galadriel and Celeborn see the Númenoreans as allies, even if they do not approve their ravaging of the forests…they have nothing to do with this idea of Amdír’s, so do not let your old hatred overrun your wisdom...”

“My wisdom sent me beyond the Great River, to leave in peace among the Silvan…away from court machinations and fights for power!”

“That was your wounded pride,” Maentêw struck mercilessly and met Oropher’s glare impassively. “It has always been that way, you run into the forest like a wounded animal, to heal there or die, but why are you here now, Oropher?” he taunted his friend with sudden passion. “Why did you come out from your shelter?”

Oropher bit back an angry retort and gave himself a moment to ponder all that he had heard. He breathed in deeply and took seat again, forcing himself into a calm stance.

“I must know what is going on outside my borders,” he admitted slowly. “And you have not yet told me why is it that I again find you in Gil-galad’s company and not in your best shape…”

Maentêw smiled briefly, remembering another fateful encounter, amidst the woods of Ossiriand, during the War of Wrath.

“The long leagues of Eriador are no longer safe,” he retorted with a scowl, “as you surely have found for yourself. We were attacked by orcs and by men on our way to bring Celeborn’s messages to Gil-galad,” Maentêw explained sombrely. “Orcs armed with our own newest, reinforced weapons,” he added bitterly. “Two of my companions were killed. Three of us were badly injured, and were rescued by a caravan of dwarves that had also been attacked…we crossed a couple of burnt settlements on our way, and I hardly made it here,” he sighed, looking down at his wounded leg. “War is brewing all around us, Oropher,” he sighed finally, pointing at the route they had followed on the map spread upon the table. “That was basically Celeborn’s message to Gil-galad. We must gather together or we will be swept away.”

“We are safe,” Oropher insisted stubbornly. “It will be very difficult for an army to cross the mountains with full gear,” he shrugged, casting another look at the maps spread on the desk.

“So you like to think.” Maentêw grunted. “And when the lands of the West have fallen under Annatar’s army, what will become of the peaceful realms of the wood elves? Shall he leave them alone? You are wiser than that, Oropher…”

“Well, no one came to ask for our insight or help, or to warn us. Why did Celeborn send you to Lindon, rather than to Lorinand? Are we to be kept ignorant of the dangers and the strategies until the mighty Noldor once again decide what to do with us? You are very wrong if you think that I will run along whatever role the Noldolordling plans for us, even if he manages to convince Celeborn and Amdír to follow his foolish plans…”

“Oropher cut it, will you? Celeborn is in constant contact with Amdír and the Lord of Moria! Why Amdír kept you from the conversations, I can only guess, but given your reaction it is plain that he feared exactly this!”

“But Amdír is threatening war against the Númenoreans...”

“Amdír had to find a plausible argument to send you here without losing face, and the trees are a good pretext, but he only wanted you to get an accurate assessment of the situation for yourself!”

Oropher sighed and passed a hand over his brow, closing his eyes briefly and summoning his thin patience, forcing his mind to concentrate on the facts and to forget his resentment and distrust. He finally lifted narrowed eyes and studied his friend for a while.

“We are a good team, Maentêw,” he groaned. “But I doubt I can forgive you for putting your talents at Gil-galad’s service, rather than serving your own kin.”

“That is your problem, then. We have always pursued the same goal through different means, yet you will not forgive me for choosing Sirion rather than following you into Ossiriand after the fall of Dior,” Maentêw noted with equanimity.

“And was I so wrong?” Oropher sighed bitterly, pain and hurt still flaring in his eyes, despite the long ennin. The merciless slaughtering of his people at Sirion still weighed heavily upon him.

“You cannot blame yourself for others’ decisions, my friend,” Maentêw sighed softly, seeing the anguish in his friend’s face. “You cannot protect people form their own mistakes, nor follow their path in their place. It happened, and you did what you could to prevent it…”

“I will not let that pass again, Maentêw, you can be sure of that. My people will not be dragged into a war they do not seek nor desire…”

“That is why you are here,” Maentêw nodded in a conciliatory voice. “Because, no matter how much you fool yourself saying that retirement is your choice, you are not able to keep yourself apart from the great events in Middle-earth…”

“I must know what is going on, so I can avoid being swept away blindly…”

“You must know so you can give your warnings and choose the right path, and lead the way so others will follow into safety, and mourn and blame yourself for those who would not. That honours you,” Maentêw cut him forcefully, with a tense smile, “but Middle-earth needs your wisdom and your talent, my friend, not your guilt and resentment.”

Oropher opened his mouth then thought better of it and closed it, hit by the accuracy of his friend’s assessment.

“You know me too well, even better than myself,” he sighed after a while, forcing a bashful smile. “What should I do then, according to your wisdom?” Maentêw smiled back briefly and nodded slightly, acknowledging the hard won victory implicit in Oropher’s question.

“Listen to Gil-galad with an open mind. The forests of Enedwaith are gone for now, but there are another worries before us. He will not keep information from you, and will in exchange ask for your insight… He is not beyond asking for good advice wherever he can find it,” he added at Oropher’s sceptical frown. “And I am sure that he intends not to impose any foolish plan upon you…He knows you can do that perfectly on your own…”

“Maentêw…”

“I apologize. Open that chest, please. Let me show you what we have learnt from the dwarves. I have maps of wide routes north of your realm that would allow a quick pass to an orc army down from the mountains. You are not as safe as you deem…”

“And why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

                                          ~*~  *  ~*~

Emboldened by his success with Erestor, Glorfindel went in search of Gil-galad; eager to clear up things with the king as soon as possible so they could concentrate fully in the darkness that was gathering around them.

After some searching he found the king in the palace forge, sitting on a work table, dangling his feet and looking with polite interest while the Master Armourer, the troop commander, the dwarf, an assistant and Taurlong argued over what seemed a piece of helm.

“Ah, Lord Glorfindel, I hope we are not invading your forge and disturbing your project,” Gil-galad greeted him with the mildly sarcastic tone that he always used with him. Glorfindel winced, reminded of yet another unintended offence he had caused when he had courteously refused choosing his weapons from the king’s own armoury, saying that he preferred to forge them himself. Gil-galad had taken that as an insult, and took every opportunity to remind him of his blunder.

“Actually I was looking for you, sire,” he answered, bowing politely. “I wondered if you could spare me a moment for a private conversation…” Gil-galad fixed him in a grey, searching gaze and then shrugged.

“Not at this moment, I am afraid,” he sighed, pointing at his company. “Master Bror was sure that his kin could at least reach –if not surpass- the craft of their forefathers and forge us dragon-proof helm masks,” he explained, waving towards the piece of metal in the Armourer’s hands, “but it seems that all of us are but pale reflections of a more glorious past,” he finished with hardly disguised bitterness.

“It can be reinforced, I’d say…” the Master Armourer began doubtfully, while the dwarf groaned in pain, and Glorfindel noticed that he had blisters forming on his face, surely the result of an unsuccessful test. The defeated tone in the king’s voice caught his attention.

“And perhaps temperature…” Taurlong sounded unconvinced but eager to lift up spirits. Gil-galad shrugged tiredly and jumped to the ground, straightening his tunic distractedly.

“Call me when you have tried again. I am sorry, Master Bror,” he offered kindly. “It was not my intention to diminish the merits of your people.”

“Perhaps your words held more truth than we suspect,” the dwarf retorted wickedly. Glorfindel winced, expecting a harsh rebuke, but Gil-galad just smiled and shrugged, leaving the forge without looking back.

“What was that about?” Taurlong asked to no one in particular.

“He is not in his most optimistic mood today,” the troop commander pointed out, and all nodded remembering the tall ship that awaited the high tide at sunset, down at the main quay. “I just met Elrond on his way to join the Chieftain of the Druedain in the archery range, Lord Glorfindel,” Hîrvegil continued. “If you too have a moment to spare, and are able to find Lord Oropher, I would be willing to have a look at our maps in my office with you all.”  Recognizing a command when he heard one, Glorfindel nodded briefly and went in search of Elrond.

He found him alone before a mark, shooting in deep concentration, so Glorfindel decided that he would rather borrow a practice bow and a quiver and join him than discussing maps with the stern troop commander. He waited in silence until Eärendil’s son finished a series and acknowledged his presence with a mischievous smile.

“So, did you manage to catch up with Erestor?”

Glorfindel smiled back. For all his troubled upbringing and mixed heritage, the half-elf was easier to deal with than anyone else in Lindon, except Círdan. His bluntness and inquisitiveness reminded Glorfindel of Tuor, whom he had loved deeply, yet at times he also glimpsed Turgon’s serious, intelligent gaze in him. He took a deep breath and tensed the bow, testing its feel.

“I did. He sends word that you are relieved of all household tasks,” he added with a playful smile. Elrond’s relieved chortle did not surprise him.

“Ossë be praised!” the half-elf laughed. “This was not one of my best ideas, yet I would not have admitted it before Erestor for anything. How good are you with a bow, Glorfindel?” he poked playfully, and soon they were engaged in a loud contest that included all kind of shameless tricks played on one another while they took turns at massacring the targets.

“And the chieftain?” Glorfindel asked, gesturing with his head. Elrond took careful aim and pierced the centre of Glorfindel’s mark.

“He understood Gil-galad’s position. He is now worried that an eventual invasion will catch them in the middle. We know not exactly where Annatar is gathering his forces, but his most probable course will lead him to cross close to the land of the Druedain. He is now worrying over how they can avoid that wave…”

“Oh, now that you mention it, Hîrvegil told me that he would meet us now in his office to discuss the maps with Oropher,” Glorfindel added casually just before Elrond released his last arrow.

“And you tell me now?” Elrond groaned, as his arrow hit the mark slightly displaced from where he had aimed. “Anyway, I doubt that Oropher is available presently,” he continued, walking to retrieve his arrows, which clustered tightly around the central part of the mark. “I left him with Maentêw this morning…” He started slightly as he heard the soft thud of an arrow hitting the wooden mark by his side.

“Was not that dangerous? It seemed to me that they were not in the best of terms…” Glorfindel asked with a most innocent voice, meeting Elrond’s glare with an impish grin.

“No more dangerous than what you have just done,” Elrond groaned, retrieving Glorfindel’s arrow and dropping it to the ground defiantly. “You’ll have to pick it up yourself. They count each arrow back at the armoury,” he reminded the elf lord casually. “They will go over the fall of Doriath again, and then Sirion, the ruin of Beleriand, Oropher’s departure to the East...” he sighed with a shrug as he walked back to his side, but Glorfindel noted the faintest bitterness in his voice. “A good argument serves to reopen wounds and clean up infected grudges,” he added, the cloud quickly lifted from his face. “They will be the best of friends again once they tire of shooting witty barbs at each other…”

“Do you think I should try that with Gil-galad?” Glorfindel asked abruptly. For the first time since he had met him, the Peredhel seemed at a loss. “Haven’t you noticed that the King seems a bit…uncomfortable when I am around?” he prodded mercilessly. Elrond cast a quick glance towards the trees that lined the archery range and sighed in a lowered voice.

“I… perhaps...”

“Do you think he resents my presence? You know him well, Elrond, you were there when he refused to swore me into his service...” Glorfindel insisted, seeing that the half-elf was trying to avoid the question.

That had puzzled him at first, Gil-galad’s refusal to accept his pledge, but he had not worried much, thinking that perhaps it was a habit in that court to let some time pass before swearing in a new arrival. But almost a sun round had gone and the situation was not improved, so now he was sure that he needed doing something about it. Elrond’s guarded expression only confirmed his thoughts.

“That was strange,” Elrond said thoughtfully, casting a cautious look around again. “I mean… he was worried before your arrival, but…I fear… the fact that you come from…” he gestured widely towards the sea and sighed. “It is as a confirmation but yet also almost a joke from the Valar. As if they said “there is indeed a new evil arising so we send you a one-warrior army?” At Glorfindel’s raised brows he hurried to explain. “Meaning no offence, of course! He has not broached the subject before me, Glorfindel,” he admitted honestly. “But I can well understand that he feels confused, and that your arrival only confirms our worst fears…while doing little to appease them.”

Glorfindel was about to retort when a mocking voice interrupted them, coming from among the trees.

“Well, well, well, I was told that I would found you practicing with your bows, but I can see no arrows hitting the mark…”

Oropher entered the archery range in his self-assured manner and with a wide smug smile designed to exasperate those around him, Glorfindel decided, fully determined not to give him that pleasure.

“Did you push Maentêw downstairs, Oropher?” Elrond poked, resisting as well the Sindarin lord’s obvious provocations.

“Of course. We Wood elves are savages, as you well know…But we can still show you some manners with a good bow in hand,” he added. He unfastened his cloak and flicked it carelessly away, while he bent down and picked up the Druedain Chieftain’s bow that was lying on the ground. He tested it carefully and smiled approvingly.

“Not bad, though I prefer longbows myself. Will you lend me your arrows, if you have nothing useful to do with them, Lord Glorfindel?” he asked with a charming smile as he walked to a stop beside them. About to inform the haughty Sinda of what he had just done, Glorfindel caught the mischievous glitter in Elrond’s eyes and shrugged briefly, surrendering his quiver to him.

It took a brief moment for Oropher to take a deep breath; a brief caress to the unfamiliar bow, a quick lighting of energy concentrated on his powerful back and with a deathly swish the owl-feathered shafts that were crammed in Glorfindel’s quiver danced smugly on the centre of the wooden target.

“Impressive!” Glorfindel whistled with open admiration.

“Standard performance, Lord Glorfindel, if you want to survive in the forest,” Oropher answered, waving away the praise with false modesty. Elrond took advantage to poke him.

“I thought you said you lived in peace in your eastern realm?”

Before Oropher could find an appropriately scathing retort, the king’s secretary came from the opposite side of the practice grounds.

“Lord Oropher! Good to find you! My lord Gil-galad invites you to join him in a ride, if it pleases you, so you can discuss certain matters of interest,” Taranel said with such display of protocol and courteous bows that Glorfindel and Elrond exchanged surprised glances.

“It will be my pleasure, Master Taranel, as soon as… By Elbereth, what is that?”

                                          ~*~  *  ~*~

Oropher never saw it coming.

He had been watching from the tree-lined edge of the archery range as Glorfindel and Elrond shot with definite mastery, and had decided to join them in a fit of playfulness. After all, he was in a good mood, despite the worrying news that there were dragons awakening in the mountains of the north and that the orcs now roamed the trade routes that the wild men and dwarves had been using since the first age in their dealings in that side of Middle earth.

But Maentêw’s maps had also given him a wider impression of what the territory looked like to the north, and the extension of the forest in whose southern tip his small realm thrived had filled him with joy and eagerness to explore…once the immediate threat was dealt with.

And he had recovered a good friend he had missed since the fall of Doriath set them upon different paths. He had left Maentêw to take some rest, after discussing maps and strategies at length, and had wandered off again, satisfied, until his pacing took him to the practice grounds.

So he had stepped into the archery range with his best air of superiority, ready to play a couple of games upon the Peredhel…while studying the elf-lord that he now knew was not just another Exile but also a reborn.

Eager to show them how to shoot a bow, he had uttered provoking remarks, while unfastening his cloak and carelessly throwing it to rest upon an ugly stone statue placed under the eaves of the tree line. He had found a medium-sized yew bow carelessly forgotten on the ground and armed with it he had impressed the two Noldor with an effortless display.

He now looked around to see where to leave the powerful bow and retrieve his cloak to follow Taranel to the stables, and he almost jumped out of his feet at the sight of the seated stone statue, half-covered under his cloak, coming to life and standing nimbly in the shape of the Chieftain Baghan.

“By Elbereth, what is that?” Oropher could not hold his surprise, to Glorfindel and Elrond’s merriment. “I… my apologies, Master Chieftain,” he managed, still awed by how the minute Druadan had so easily confounded his allegedly sharp senses. The chieftain let escape a curious gurgling happy noise and soon Oropher found himself laughing good naturedly together with Glorfindel, Elrond and Taranel, so contagious was that creature’s happiness.

“Druedain learnt from trees and stones,” he explained, still laughing, in his halting, almost impeded speech. “Lord of the forest, best bowman Baghan has seen. I’d like to bless your bow as well, if you do not mind,” he added respectfully, proffering Oropher’s cloak with one hand and extending the other, obviously expecting the Sinda to return his bow to him.

“I…Oh, this is yours?” Oropher was now blushing ferociously, and he returned the bow meekly. “I apologize deeply, Chieftain, I did not know, I did not see you, I thought...” The creature picked up a strange expression in those dark eyes.

“Blessed by friendship and honoured by talent. It is now stronger. Thank-you,” he said formally. Oropher nodded in return, amazed at that creature, whose kin he had never heard of or seen before, but who, despite his ungainly looks, seemed well different from the clumsy Edain.

“It is a good bow,” he affirmed, “and it is wielded by a noble and firm hand. I will be honoured if the Chieftain later blesses mine.” The creature grunted his assent, and Oropher smiled, bowing respectfully before him. “And I would be pleased if you also consented in teaching me that strange skill of sitting stone like till you can pass for a tree,” he added, ignoring Glorfindel and Elrond’s amused snorts.

“Druedain learn from stone and tree,” the creature repeated with that contagious laughter of his, which set them all again chortling helplessly. “The Lord of Trees surely knows better!” he added, but he looked immensely pleased that the powerful elf lord would praise him.

“You can try later,” Elrond suggested with apparent innocence, “And we will tell you who is better...”

“Yes! But we should throw them acorns or something, to test their stillness,” Glorfindel added laughing merrily as Oropher followed Taranel from the archery range with an exasperate shake of his head.

“I had never heard of such creatures,” he commented, still in awe, as they crossed the practice grounds towards the stables.

“They are ancient people,” Taranel informed him obligingly. “Their ancestors arrived in Beleriand with the third house of the Edain, it is said, and they lived in Brethil by the grace of King Thingol, though others of their kind remained this side of the mountains…”

“I had no contact with the Edain in Beleriand,” Oropher explained harshly. “I commanded the defences of the Eastern Marches.” Taranel nodded in silence, and Oropher winced, aware that the pain and hatred still flared through his words.

“They are very proficient in forest lore and hunt,” Taranel continued after a short pause. “The wild men fear them, and also the orcs, which makes them powerful allies…here we are!” he announced then, unnecessarily, since the complaining whinnies of a young stallion almost deafened them as they entered the stone paved yard form a narrow way between two buildings.

“He is not in his best mood today, my lord,” a clearly amused stable-hand was telling Gil-galad, who stood firmly in the middle of the yard, his legs slightly apart, his hands on his hips, frowning and glaring at a young grey stallion that reared up and whinnied angrily, shaking his head furiously, apparently unwilling to submit to his master’s will.

“He is not the only one,” Gil-galad grunted warningly, tilting his head slightly and not allowing his steed to break eye contact. The skittish horse finally agreed to stand on his four, but would not stop shaking his head and casting sidelong glances to his alleged master, as if gauging how decided he was to keep the fight.

“Such master, such mount,” Oropher sentenced aloud, but he had the good grace of not stepping into the yard, but walk along the edge of the buildings, trying not to disturb more the obviously nervous animal. Gil-galad did not bother to look at him.

“Should I say that I missed your barbs, Oropher? Everybody treats me so kindly around here!”

“It is not like Círdan, to spoil you like that, but who knows?” Oropher retorted, as he reached the entrance to the main stable in time to see the young horse finally allowing his rider to pass a hand around his neck and lowering his big head so Gil-galad could pat him between the twitching ears.

“We have chosen a more collected stead for you,” the Noldo pointed out, laughing as the big horse nudged him for the expected treats. Oropher frowned immediately.

“My mare is better mannered and more resilient than anything you can offer. She is descended from an astounding, unmixed breed in the vales of Anduin. I will not mount any other,” he shot haughtily, entering the stables with a firm step.

“She is amazing indeed, my lord,” one of the stable masters agreed as he followed Oropher inside the stable. He smiled as she spotted him and greeted him with nervous happy snorts, playfully stomping the walls of her stall. “And she has recovered nicely from the long trip, but what my lord Gil-galad meant…”

“How are you, Baranhên?” Oropher paid no attention to the stable hand, busy greeting his faithful mare and treating her to a handful of dry apples from the barrel in the opposite wall. “I need your talents today, my friend,“ he whispered conspiratorially to the beautifully shaped mare, rubbing her between the ears. “We will need of your patience and good manners, for I am sure that the company wholly lacks them,” he added, pleased to see how the mare nodded in assent and pierced him with intelligent eyes.

“We are ready,” he added, winking at the amused stable hand to open the stall and make way for the obedient mare, who followed her master without complain and with great shows of appreciation.

“When you are ready, my lord,” Gil-galad greeted him, after loudly and dutifully appreciating the beautiful traits of Oropher’s mare to his guest’s satisfaction.

Soon they were trotting through a narrow trail flanked by pines and hemlocks. The ground was covered in dry grass, and moss and pine acorns, and the trees loomed tall and high, blocking a sun that climbed low in that season. Oropher breathed in deeply, savouring the fragrance of resin and the silence of the forest in an autumn morning, the muffled sound of hoofs and the occasional call of birds. His companion was blessedly quiet for a while, and soon Oropher managed to catch the contented murmur of those trees, who, surprisingly enough greeted their passing with the warm familiarity that he usually perceived at home.  As he got used to their voices, he had to admit that it was Gil-galad whom the trees greeted with such pleasure, and he shook his head in amused chagrin at his own prejudices. He chortled silently and leaned forth to pat his mare’s neck, urging her on, since the trail now was wide enough to allow the two of them riding abreast.

“I hope you will not complain of the state of your forests, Oropher,” Gil-galad told him, as he cast him a mildly amused glance.

“Except for the fact that they now greet you as their lord, I cannot complain, young one,” he finally admitted grudgingly, smiling inwardly at the pleased smile that suddenly brightened up the young king’s usually serious features.

Soon all peace was ended as Gil-galad’s temperamental steed began biting and pushing Oropher’s peaceful mare at every occasion, to Gil-galad’s perverse amusement.

“Training a horse requires a level of skill that your other responsibilities surely prevented you from acquiring,” Oropher grunted exasperatedly as he tried to avoid the ill tempered horse’s bites. Gil-galad smiled and patted his horse’s neck soothingly.

“I think we need more space,” he laughed, urging him into a mild gallop that caught Oropher by surprise.

The trail winded up slightly and they rode at a faster pace for a while, until they got out of the forest, and Oropher slowed down his mare to better observe the breathtaking landscape. The crown of the hill was bare, and it had a beautiful view of the sea, the palace and part of the city to their left, and a long wide beach of white sands right below them. His memories of the land were clear, yet he did not remember that feeling of awe that he always experienced before the mighty sea. The voices of the trees comforted him from behind, and he was grateful for that, fearing that the shrill of the seagulls and the roaming of the waves would pierce him too deeply and make him lose himself.

Gil-galad had dismounted by a copse of overgrown shrubs and was unpacking a light bundle he had carried with him, while instructing his horse.

“Be gentle to the lady, will you? I know, I know. Haughty, conceited, self-assured, impossible… look at me, I put up with him calmly. Why cannot you do the same?” he asked, pretending to be talking confidentially to the horse but perfectly aware that Oropher was right within earshot. The Sindarin lord sighed tiredly and dismounted in turn.

“You are allowed to chase him down the hill, Baranhên,” he instructed his mare. "Do not let the youngling get at you.” He turned to Gil-galad with a falsely bright smile.

“Shall we let them play together, you think?”

Gil-galad sighed and shook his head amusedly. “They will find a way to get along, I suspect,” he offered with a winsome smile. “Come; let us see what Cook readied for us…”

They sat on the ground, backs against boulders which protected them from the cold breeze form the sea, while the shrubs swayed and danced madly.  Gil-galad unpacked a couple loaves of recently baked bread, pieces of cheese and dried meat, nuts, apples and two pieces of his favourite honey cakes. He placed it all over the cloth in which the meal had been wrapped and proffered his waterskin.

“Lindon’s best,” he said with a brief smile. “The King’s brew.” Oropher smelled it cautiously and then drank tentatively. He tilted his head and eyed the waterskin with curiosity.

“It is…strangely appealing,” he finally decided, drinking again, surprised by the dry, fruit flavoured sharp taste. Gil-galad smiled thoughtfully.

“Not all things perished with the drowning of Beleriand. This wine comes from vines descended from those my uncle Turgon once grew in Vinyamar. Before departing he gifted several to Círdan, so he could continue producing his preferred wine. They adapted quite well to the conditions around here, soil, wind, humidity and temperature suit them perfectly, it would seem. We trade for red wine with the Númenoreans, but this is the white wine of our land.” 

“I am honoured that you shared it with me then,” Oropher nodded with sincerity, perceiving that the Noldo was offering peace before entering serious matters. “But now, please, drink yourself as well, so I am completely assured that it is not poisoned,” he quipped, returning the bottle to its owner.

After a brief swig Gil-galad sighed and looked around.

“There are a few things that we must discuss, Oropher, but first I must offer you my sincerest apology,” he began in a serious voice.

TBC 

A/N :

Galvorn: a special metal devised by Eöl, whose secret only he knew.  

Mirdain: the fellowship of smiths gathered around Celebrimbor in Ost-in-Edhil. 

About the Druedain: their origins, their forest lore, ability to remain sill to the point of being confounded with stone statues, their physical appearance and their contagious laughter are all taken from the essay “ The Druedain” in the Unfinished Tales. A very interesting race. 

In the previous chapter, Gil-galad and Oropher went for a ride and stopped upon a tall cliff to hold a serious conversation.

Chapter 5. Upon the Rocks of Strange Shores.

In which two kings have a civil conversation, a white ship sets sail to the West and those remaining enjoy themselves as best as they can.

After a brief swig Gil-galad sighed and looked around.

“There are a few things that we must discuss, Oropher, but first I must offer my sincerest apologies,” he began in a serious voice.

“I hear you.” Somehow, Oropher managed to bit back a sarcastic retort and waited calmly while Gil-galad rearranged his position against the rock and picked up a piece of bread.

“As I told you yesterday, we have known for long of this new shadow arising in the East…”  

“You said that was the reason why Celeborn and his wife travelled east and established a city this side of the Hithaeglir.”  

“Well, yes…among others.” Gil-galad cast him a wary look. “For several ennin we thought the land was free of evil, but that lasted not too long. When the Númenoreans returned and began exploring to the south our worst fears were confirmed. Though they were convinced that it was the work of evil men, we knew better.”  

“What are you trying to tell me, Gil-galad?” Oropher was amused in spite of himself by the Noldo’s uncharacteristic hesitation. Gil-galad breathed deeply and shifted uncomfortably.  

“At a certain point, around the sixth ennin of this age, I asked Tar Meneldur King of Númenor for what strength of men he could spare to defend Eriador from an invasion that I feared might come through the gap of Calenardhon, south of the Hithaeglir. We thought that between the great rivers and the mountains we could contain an eventual attack that would...”  

“I do not recall being informed of that.”  

“You were not,” Gil-galad admitted with his maddening self-confidence. “And that is why I am offering apologies on the first place. In those years, and following a wider strategy, the Lady Galadriel met with Aldarion, the King’s heir, at Tharbad, and encouraged him to establish a permanent post there, upstream, in close connection with the haven he was building at Vinyalondë, suggesting that he could benefit from the abundance of wood and the easy transportation down the river…”  

“I knew she had something to do with that,” Oropher raged, his mouth curved in the spiteful scowl he had perfected through ennin. “She sold our forests to those tree-eaters!” he accused heatedly.  

“I distinctly recall hearing you say quite often that the trees belonged to none except themselves…” Gil-galad reminded him with a brief smile. Oropher bit his tongue for a moment.

“Yet they trust us to defend and protect them…”  

“I will assume the blame for that, of course,” the Noldo dismissed his concerns with a lazy wave of his hand, a movement he had mastered with the years, Oropher noticed wickedly. “But we will discuss that matter tomorrow. Let it be said for now that it was not Galadriel’s intention to see those forests destroyed. We all thought the Númenoreans knew better,” he added thoughtfully. “We taught them, after all…” Oropher’s temper flared again at that and he jumped up on his feet, knocking down the wine flask in his angered hurry.  

“Now you are blaming my son as well as myself? You are amazing in your cheekiness, Noldolordling, whom do you think…” he almost choked in his anger, his tone so harsh that both horses neighed in worry from their invisible locations.  

“Calm down, Oropher, you need not kicking my wine if you don’t like it,” the Noldo observed evenly, completely unperturbed by Oropher’s fit. He picked up the flask and tucked it safely by his side. “I have already said that I assume the blame for that, although I would not presume being responsible for it. It is a story that goes back to the early First Age of the Sun,” Gil-galad added with a wistful smile. “I am sure you will enjoy hearing the full tale tomorrow since, as you already guessed, we Noldor are somehow to blame for the Númenorean’s talent for forest ravaging.”

“I did not doubt it for a moment,” Oropher grunted brusquely, though a bit unsettled by the underlying bitterness in Gil-galad’s words. “So she did not mean it but the result was that she encouraged the Númenoreans to make use of those forests until they laid them waste,” he summed up, sitting down in deliberate, slow movements and resuming his meal.  

“As you say. What I want you to understand, Oropher, is that when we knew for sure that a new shadow was arising we assumed that its targets would be Eriador and Lindon, and so we planned to block him and fight him in the south, using the rivers and the Numenoreans’ harbours as barriers. I did not send word to Amdír or yourself because we thought the Shadow would leave you alone on its first assaults, and I doubted you would be bothered by our plight, since you could very well flee north and be safe for a while in the denser woods there, in case we fell,” he admitted with no trace of resentment in his deep voice. Oropher waited in silence, just pondering the Noldo’s words, calm and silent as the forest while a predator stalks his prey. Gil-galad toyed with a piece of bread and searched his face for a trace of his thoughts.  

“I doubted you would be eager to engage in preparations for a war that was uncertain and would not affect you directly,” he sighed as Oropher made no sign. “But I should have kept you informed of what was going on…”  

“Indeed, although it seems that you have learnt your lesson well…or is there anything that you need from us right now, and that is why you force yourself to inform me?” Oropher poked purposefully, enjoying his temporary advantage. Yet Gil-galad had grown indeed, he had to admit, as the younger king kept his calm and shrugged in acceptance. 

“Both, one would say. The Numenoreans’ help took too long to arrive and by then the threat was apparently dispelled, so we never informed you. But when Annatar first showed himself openly a couple of ennin later we admitted that the danger was serious enough to send warning to all our allies. I sent word to Lórinand and Eregion, as well as to Númenor and Khazad-dum. After that, there has been a continuous exchange among them and with us...”  

“Until Annatar had it cut out,” Oropher prodded mercilessly. “I sometimes wonder what kind of High King you are, Gil-galad, that your subjects disobey you so graciously and allow such a dangerous enemy to dwell within their walls and to take charge of one of your cities…”  

“I am not Elu Thingol, if that is what you mean,” the other retorted in a slightly exasperated voice. “Do all the trees and elves in your forest obey your commands, I wonder?” he shot back in feigned curiosity.  

“Of course they do not,” Oropher had to admit, wincing slightly as he remembered the impenetrable stretches of unexplored woods east of Nenuial full of wandering, unruly Nandor, the dark huorns that hid in the heart of Onodrim Galen and the numbers of slightly less dangerous, stubborn, self-willed and independent Silvan that openly resented and challenged his ruling. “But they allow me to protect them, and for that they grant me their trust, their strength and their power…”  

“Exactly.”  

Oropher hated the soft, satisfied smile that graced the Noldo’s serious face.  

“I am king by consent, Oropher, much as yourself, I suspect,” Gil-galad continued after a pause. “So I do not presume that I can command obedience from elven settlements across Middle-earth, but rather I assume that I am the one who will be in charge of withstanding the brunt of the attack when the Shadow that lurks in the East arises again…as well as the full force of his hatred. That is my heritage. After all I am the son of an Exile…and kinslayer, am I not?” he added hoarsely. He sighed deeply to control his emotions and then continued in a voice that was much lower. “The Elves thrive freely in Middle-earth in this age, and look not for a king to rule them and order their realms…They expect me to keep the watch so the Firstborn can linger in these shores freely, and to be ready to lead an army and find death in battle if that is what it takes to keep the way West open. And I am only glad that I can fulfil that duty,” he added in a humble, resigned voice that moved Oropher deeply.  

“You are a dangerous company to keep, then,” he quipped in an attempt at enlivening the mood. “Now you almost make me feel grateful that Annatar found us of so little importance to his machinations that he left us alone and contented in our woods…”  

It was Gil-galad’s turn to stand up impulsively, and Oropher watched in surprise as the Noldo took a couple of steps towards the cliff and stood there for a moment facing the now darkening sea, apparently regaining his composure, his fists closed tightly and his back tense as he breathed deeply.  

“Scorn not your luck,” he finally said in a tight, stern voice. “Or would you rather see your people targeted by evil so it made you feel important?” The voice was now mocking but Oropher could not find an appropriately scathing retort, as Gil-galad continued speaking almost to himself. “It is said that of the three Elven kindred Morgoth chose the Noldor because he gauged us the more bendable to his designs. And he was not disappointed,” he added in a hoarse whisper that was almost stifled by the whistling of the winds that whipped from the seashore and piled threatening clouds over the haven. Oropher winced at the sadness that echoed in that admission, but found himself unable to comfort the obviously troubled king.  

“You are blinded by you own prejudices,” Gil-galad sighed, facing the Sindarin king with a sad look in his serious face. “And because Annatar chose us as his target you decide it means that we are superior and then hate us for that,” he affirmed, stepping back and sitting again by Oropher, who kept a stubborn silence for lack of better option. “Have you ever stopped to consider that we have been again chosen by darkness, and that our pride and thirst of hidden knowledge have twice caused us to fall prey of vain promises and evil enemies? Would you be proud of that, were you in my place? For I would not envy you, had our roles been reversed.” He paused for a moment and then shook his head sadly. “Do not rue that you were spared the temptation, the bitterness and the shame, Oropher. I doubt I would have had the strength to resist his treacherous words had I not counted with Círdan’s wisdom and Elrond and Erestor’s staunch support,” he admitted in a voice that trembled so slightly. 

“So powerful is he, then?” Oropher tried to keep a light tone to hide the fact that he was deeply impressed by what he had just heard. He was well aware that his dislike of the Noldorin king –as well as much of his age-long grudges against his kin- was mostly a blend of whimsical prejudices, mixed emotions and a deep resentment born out of mistrust and hurt, a mix he had been comfortable with for a long time. But the truth of Gil-galad’s mild accusation had hit him deeply, and now that he had seen the situation from the other’s point of view, he was for the first time able to see clearly that the threat was upon all of Middle-earth and that joining forces was more necessary than ever, Noldor or not. Surprised by the prolonged silence he parted with his musings and turned to look at his companion.  

“He…” Gil-galad seemed lost in unpleasant recollection, but he forced a false smile when he noticed Oropher’s keen gaze on him. “I would say that he is insidious…” He extended a long hand, picked up the wine flask and took a long swig, as if to gather his strength. “As if… as if he could read deep inside your most hidden hopes and desires and…offered to accomplish them for you…” The Noldorin king’s voice was barely a harsh, bashful whisper.  

What are your deepest hopes and desires, youngling, that you keep them hidden even from yourself? Oropher wondered as he grabbed the wine flask and bought time before speaking again.  

Insidious.  

Maentêw had used the same word earlier that morning, and had confronted him with a deep, uncomfortable truth: “You would have fallen for his tricks as well, Oropher, had you been there and a wise and powerful being came and promised to unveil before you the hidden words that govern stone and root, and the fabric of time, so you would be able to arrest decay and ban suffering from your beloved forest.”  He could not deny that, or the fact that, as Gil-galad had pointed out sagely, the Mírdain deserved to be pitied rather than scorned. But the deeper truth was that now they were all endangered by that mysterious enemy.  

“Do you have any idea of whom is he that we are fighting here?”  

“Both you and I were busy elsewhere, while Lord Eonwë dispensed his judgment as he saw fit,” the Noldo answered with undisguised bitterness. “As far as I have gathered, there were several among Morgoth’s ranking minions that were allowed to wander free by the Herald after they repented, it is said…but if there ever existed an account of their names and stations it must  be kept in Valinor, for I have not seen it,” he added with a forced shrug.  

Oropher returned a twisted smile, acknowledging the memory of their first fateful meeting in the forests of Ossiriand while the War of Wrath raged in the north and Beleriand trembled and shook and finally drowned under the waves.  He was sure that the Noldo knew or suspected more than he was disclosing about the true identity of their enemy but, on the other hand, he looked so uncomfortable with the subject that for once Oropher pitied him and decided not to press the issue.  

“And Lord Glorfindel?” he asked instead, pretending innocence.  

“What about Lord Glorfindel?” Gil-galad looked at him in utter bewilderment.  

“How are you so sure that he is indeed an envoy of the Valar?” The Noldo let escape a very unkingly huff.  

“He is as exasperating as it can be expected of a former very powerful lord of the Exiles,” he explained with barely restrained annoyance. “And he offers nothing, except headaches and a continuous reminder that the eyes of the Valar are fixed on the House of Finwë…I suppose you are not jealous because of that as well?” Gil-galad asked then in mock worry. “I would gladly send him to you if he but followed any of my commands…” Oropher chuckled in sympathy. Having a somewhat independent, powerful lord constantly looking over your shoulder was not a feeling he would relish either, and he knew for certain that Amdír, as well, had been relieved when he had taken his people across the Great River.  

“So, apologies accepted, young one,” he said in a businesslike tone, leading the conversation again to the matter that interested him most. “Now, what is it that you need from us that brought you to take such a painful step as apologizing to me?” he demanded in his usual, slightly mocking tone.  

“Keep your eyes open,” was the curt answer. “And send word as soon as the enemy sets in motion. That’s all I ask of you, Lord Oropher. Amdír and Celeborn have reached an agreement with the Lord of Moria and they will support each other in case of attack, but joining their alliance is your own decision. I am only asking for your cooperation in intelligence, for the safety of all the peoples of Middle-earth,” Gil-galad ended in a voice that was again serious and self-confident.  

“No traps.”  

“You have my word.”  

“No more secrets.”  

“I will share all the information I possess. After that, I am in your hands.”  

“No taking part in your war games.”  

“You would be welcome but, as I have already said, that is your decision.”  

Oropher studied the remains of their meal and looked around to see that his mare was, after all, keeping her ground calmly against the impatient young stallion. He smiled briefly and shook his head.  

“Very well. I shall send forth patrols and establish a watch over the eastern lands, and I will keep Amdír updated of the enemy’s slightest movement. That’s all I can promise.” He raised a hand to stem Gil-galad’s words. “Like yourself, youngling, I am king by consent. The Silvan have lived for long in peace and secrecy, mingling not in others’ problems, and I have grown used to that…”  

“I know. And I would not ask otherwise of you. That is how we all want to live, be it in Middle-earth or perhaps beyond the Dividing Seas…” Oropher caught the softly mournful tone in Gil-galad’s voice and suddenly remembered the ship that was about to set sail. “Enjoy your peace while it lasts, Lord Oropher,” the Noldo added with a sincere smile, “yet rest assured that your forest and your people are also my concern.”  

“Now you are worrying me, what does that mean exactly?” Oropher retorted, and was rewarded by a clear, truly amused laughter from his host, who shook his head and offered him the wine flask, chuckling helplessly.  

“It means that I could send Lord Glorfindel as my ambassador before your court…” Gil-galad suggested wickedly. Oropher almost choked on the strong, fruity wine.  

“Did I give you the impression that I would accept your ambassadors?” he watched the Noldo through narrowed, threatening eyes. Gil-galad shrugged, sobering up as he packed the remains of their meal.  

“I would consider Maentêw as yours, if you saw it fit...his loyalties lie with his kin, Oropher,” he hurried to explain as he saw the cloud on Oropher’s expression. “You two have simply chosen different ways of serving your people…”  

“Indeed. After all he has been by your side since we parted after the fall of Doriath…” Oropher took a deep breath and banished those bitter memories. “And keeping your company does not seem to suit his health, if I may say so,” he added with a tight smile. “I will ask him to come to the Greenwood with me, Gil-galad. You have good friends here to guide you and support you,” he added at the king’s raised brows, “and I need someone who knows me well enough to stop me being a self-centered, grudging Sinda…just from time to time.”  

“I thought that was your lady wife’s role.”  

“She could do with some help. I can be too stubborn at times.”  

“You are joking. How’s the Lady Sîriel?”  

“Relishing her new life in our huge, lively forest. She sent warm greetings to you and made me promise that I would not harass you…More than necessary.” Gil-galad chuckled as he stood up, stuffing the bundle with the remains of the meal and the wine flask into his pack and strapping it to his back.  

“She can be satisfied then. Until now you are behaving in a way that would make her proud of you,” he pronounced seriously, looking around and whistling a soft call to his horse, who came trampling and neighing over the windswept bushes. “I thank you for your understanding and your cooperation, Oropher,” Gil-galad said, patting his horse’s head in welcome. “I never thought it would turn out so smoothly,” he added with a grateful smile.  

“Well, you have grown up into a wise king, youngling. It is no longer easy to make you lose your temper.”  

“I have had good masters, I must admit,” Gil-galad chuckled good-heartedly and Oropher nodded in acquiescence. “My councilors are surely finishing drafting maps, and perhaps you would like to join them and give them a hand with…”  

“You do not think you can trick me into falling into the same trap again, do you?” Oropher grumbled, his hands on his hips, frowning menacingly at that new show of disrespect. “I heard Elrond and Erestor in the library last night,” he continued in anger at Gil-galad’s puzzled expression. “You all want to fool me with whatever silly joke you are plotting in the Hall of Maps… I am disappointed that you cannot come with something new… if you really feel the childish need to embarrass and irritate your allies, that’s it." 

“The Hall of Maps?” Gil–galad seemed completely clueless.  

“I thought you would be familiar with your massive stronghold by now… isn’t there where maps are drafted? I was inclined to think so because of the name...” the Noldo shook his head and rolled his eyes in annoyance at his disrespectful counselors, Oropher decided, reluctantly aware that he was again going beyond the limits of basic courtesy due to a host.  

“I do not know what you are you talking about…” Gil-galad admitted with an exasperated sigh. “The Hall of Maps is Master Pengolod’s den, the place where the few documents that survived the fall of Beleriand are kept...as well as some old maps of Valinor that my father sent along as a present to Círdan.” He shook his head again and shrugged helplessly. “Our maps are being drafted by Hîrvegil in his study…as far as I am informed. I am not aware of any trick plotted against you, my lord, and I assure you that I will make everything within my reach to call the responsible to task. I do not think this is the time for thoughtless jokes that might estrange an ally. I apologize again to you,” he added with a worried face that made Oropher cringe.  

“It is enough for me to know that you are not involved,” he reassured the worried Noldo, forcing the closest to a friendly expression that he could manage without letting his  amusement show. “I can defend myself.”  

“I know you can. Do you think you will be able to find your way back?” Gil-galad asked, seeing Oropher’s mare approaching them at her leisure. “I am going for a longer ride...I will be back for the ceremony at the quay,” he explained in a lowered, suddenly tired voice.  

“I would love to ride as well, if you do not mind the company…” Gil-galad seemed uncertain for a moment, then surely remembering his manners he nodded and smiled graciously.  

“You are welcome. It seems that our mounts have reached an agreement,” he observed, seeing that Oropher’s mare walked past his stallion without fussing. He patted his steed’s neck and mounted nimbly, urging him to make more room for their guests.  

“As long as they keep their distance. Now lead if you can, youngling!” Oropher joked, urging his mare on as he mounted and thus earning a precious advantage.  

He rode away in joy, not worrying whether Gil-galad was following. The wind from the coast blew on his face and he could hear the contented song of the healthy forest to his right, making itself heard above the constant roaring of the treacherous sea. But the sea-song held no sway on him, he thought briefly, relishing the peace and happiness that almost overwhelmed him. He was back in the midst of things, he had recovered a long-missed friend and he had the certainty that, for the first time, the protection of his people would depend entirely on his decisions. He would not fail them this time, he vowed, letting escape a shout of joy as his mare, sensing his burst of energy, broke into an exhilarating gallop. 

                                                                       ~ *~   *  ~ *~

“It is perfect! Look at that!”  

“And you have not yet seen the latest additions, Miluinn…There Elrond, help me…now, what do you think?”  

“Erestor! That is wonderful!”  

“It was Elrond’s idea!”  

“Círdan helped as well...have you seen this?”  

“He is going to love it! I wish I could see his face…”  

“Miluinn, do not...”  

“Perhaps I should not go, not yet…”  

“Miluinn, please...”  

Glorfindel watched in silence, slightly apart, standing by the heavy door to the Hall of Maps while Erestor and Elrond exchanged pained glances and Miluinn failed at holding back her tears.  

It was the first ship that sailed west since his arrival, barely a sun-round ago, and Glorfindel was still shocked by the amount of heartache and anguish that such event left on its trail.  

As an exile in his previous life, he still remembered the despair of the Crossing, the deep longing for the Blessed Shores, and the grim knowledge that there was little left but fighting to the bitter end and hoping that Mandos would be kind to their faer.  

The sea-longing was a mystery to him.  

And it pained him to see that something so natural as following the call of an inner voice would cause such suffering among those leaving and those remaining. To him it was clear as the fabric of the faer that lingered in the healing light of Mandos’ halls; following the call –whether in death or in life- was the path of joy for a Firstborn. All the pain and doubt and suffering surrounding that decision had to do with the marring of Arda and the weight of evil that slowly seeped into those who fought bravely on the shores of Middle-earth.  

He had known Miluinn and her family in his previous life, and had enjoyed their kind hospitality more than once in fair Mithrim when the Sun was young, so it pained him doubly to see her so torn between her loyalty to those she was about to leave behind and the sea-song. And yet he did not know how to ease her burden.  

It was not that he was not allowed to speak about Valinor –except about those who had been released as well from Mandos’ care, and of those he had met a very few, anyway. But the same ineffability of his experiences rendered him speechless, apart from everyone. There were no words –he had found- even in the language of the Valar, to explain the depth of enlightenment and understanding that came with the experience of being reborn, and as far as he had gathered from his conversations with those who dwelt in Eressëa, crossing the Belegaer had a very similar effect, according to their own measure, upon those who came from Middle-earth.  

“You seem eager to get rid of me…”  

The misery that echoed in Miluinn’s teary voice brought Glorfindel back from his musings in time to catch Erestor’s almost pleading glance. Without thinking, he took a couple of steps forward and into the midst of the tight exchange.

“Miluinn,” he began softly, wondering what he would do next. She fixed deeply saddened eyes on his.  

“You will take care of him as well, Glorfindel, will you?” she asked beseechingly. “I fear I will not forgive myself for leaving him behind…what am I going to say to his naneth? I was there when he was born and she…”  

“The light of the One lives most pure in Valinor, Glorfindel, and it is stronger in those reborn. To one coming from the East it seems as if the whole land suddenly pulsed brightly through a curtain of heavy rain that washes away all pain, and guilt, and doubt and heaviness of heart. The light floods them and the knowledge that they are home sprouts within them, like new leaves come spring.” Olórin’s teachings came to his mind unbidden when most needed. He took Miluinn’s hands in his and pulled her closer.  

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, so softly that he almost doubted he had spoken aloud, concentrated in reaching out for her troubled faer. He would not show her visions, but he let her experience the peace and calmness that pervaded his soul, hoping that it served to comfort her and strengthen her resolve. He heard her soft, surprised gasp and then felt her relax against him, drowning in his light and allowing his strong, steady song to calm her fears.  

“It is good to know that your blazing can be so comforting…and not just blinding. Shall we go now?” Glorfindel blinked at the faintly amused sound of Erestor’s voice. For a moment he had been lost, guiding Miluinn beyond her sorrow and doubt. Now she was reassured and ready, he could feel as he slowly and carefully disentangled his faer from hers. He had glimpsed the nature of the sea-longing; the thin, golden threads that pulsed insistently everywhere, steadily spreading their brilliance through the fabric of the faer despite the ties and bundles of other worries. With tender care, he had managed to unravel the knots and quiet her anxiety, until all that was left was that golden, powerful pulse that tinged even her deep love for those she left behind, and the certainty that one day she would meet them beyond the seas, together with her own lost family.  

“Thank you, Glorfindel,” she sighed gratefully, standing on her toes to put a tender kiss on his cheek. “I think I am ready now.” She cast a longing look behind and then raised an admonishing finger at the golden lord. “But promise me that you will devote some time to this, and that you will finish it as we agreed, that is all I ask of you…Of you all,” she added, turning to Elrond and Erestor. “Promise me that you will finish it in time. The time draws closer and there are still many unfinished parts…”  

“Oropher will help us here,” Elrond informed her in a falsely cheerful voice as he covered again their secret project with a cloth. “And I will make sure that Glorfindel finishes his part today. Are you sure, Miluinn?” he asked softly, worried for her. She sighed and nodded.

“I am now, Elrond. I now know that Glorfindel will take care of all of you. I wish that you all came with me,” she whispered, and offered them a beautiful, self-conscious smile. “But I know that your duty lies here. I am sorry that I cannot stay…”  

“Do not feel sorry, Miluinn!” Erestor proffered his arm and led her gently to the door. “You have been our strength and comfort for longer than we had the right to expect. And now that we have Glorfindel, you can relinquish your duties regarding the household into his capable hands, while you ready a comfortable place for us beyond the waters,” he pointed out in irony. “We are going to miss your iron fist…”  

“I am humbled by such honour, Master Erestor, to be appointed Miluinn’s successor in a task in which both Elrond and yourself have failed so miserably,” Glorfindel retorted with a bright smile, and was glad to meet Erestor’s grateful look while Miluinn laughed wholeheartedly.  

“I must admit that I found your efforts endearing,” she chuckled, “although completely unnecessary. You will be fine if you make sure that you stay away from the new housekeeper, Erestor,” she added with a wink. “Although I do not doubt that she will appreciate Glorfindel’s presence…”  

“Oh, well,” Erestor shrugged. “The late comers are always the preferred. Do you have the key, Elrond? We don’t want Ereinion to wander in unexpectedly and uncover his surprise while it is still unfinished…”  

“There isn’t much chance of Ereinion getting lost down here,” Elrond observed as he pulled the huge wooden door forcefully and secured the eagle-shaped lock. “He would not run the risk of bumping into Master Pengolod unnecessarily,” he reminded them with a chuckle.  

As they walked the torch lit corridors commenting the almost legendary antipathy between the king and the grumpy lore master from lost Gondolin, Glorfindel reflected on what had just happened.  

As a reborn soon used to the plain clarity of the Blessed Realm, where everybody wore their feelings and intentions openly, he had felt as if he was again blinded and deaf among the dark creatures of Middle-earth. It pained him to have to search beyond the coarse surface that even his elven kin had to grow to protect themselves from the harshness and dangers of those lands. Only Círdan, and Eärendil’s son, were clear as crystals for him to read, as he was for them, and so he always forgot that it was not the same with the rest; that he needed to attune himself to them and search for their inner light if he wanted to be of any help.  

You have been a fool, he told himself, looking around with his keen senses alert and only then perceiving in all its power the true glow of the faer of his companions, shinning pure through the thick layers of years, grief, wariness, strife, death, loss and longing that covered and somewhat distorted it.  

“Where do we go now, Miluinn?” Erestor asked softly. “We are yours to command.”  

You have to learn again to look for what is not visible; Glorfindel chided himself as he perceived clearly the weight of grief, longing and melancholy underlying Erestor’s apparent exuberance. But he also caught the strengthened hope and the wonder and awe, and he knew that he had not only helped Miluinn, but his two friends as well, and that comforted him.  

“Thank you.”  

He heard Elrond’s words in his mind and cast an appreciative smile towards the son of Eärendil, who walked deep in thought by his side, his bright spirit shinning openly to him.  

“I am still learning” the golden elf lord admitted, and then, challenging Erestor, he allowed his own feelings of gratefulness and understanding pour forth and reach his companions, while at the same time managing to keep his glowing under control. A knowing, slightly amused smile cast briefly over a shoulder was all he got form the stern counsellor who led the way, entertaining Miluinn with his witty, barbed chatter. Glorfindel returned the smile and nodded slightly, for the first time since his arrival certain that he had indeed found his place. 

       ****

Later that evening Glorfindel joined the friends and families of those departing in a quiet, sober gathering at the quay. The graceful ship nodded elegantly, tenderly cradled in a slowly rising tide. Her white sails glistened full in a soft evening breeze, the menacing clouds that had somewhat darkened the spirits earlier that day finally dispelled. The evening was as still as it could be wished for, and as Arien slowly took her path to Valinor across a limpid sky, to send word of the departing vessel, a soft, beautiful music rose from the crowded quay, a hopeful call to the Lord of Waters to embrace the white ship and see it safely into the West.  

“He will not miss it, will he?”  

“Of course he will not, Hîrvegil. Calm down. He went for a ride with Oropher…” Erestor caught the troop commander’s pointed glance and chuckled despite himself.  “You can join Oropher’s guard,” he smiled, pointing at the tall Elf that paced the quay nervously, from the ship to the table and back again. “He seems to have lost his companion as well as his king!”  

The members of Gil-galad’s household were gathered at one of the long wooden tables that had been dragged from the shipwrights’ workshops. Families and friends gathered at the quay to share a last meal and songs while the moment of leaving arrived. Miluinn sat there beside Círdan, dressed in white and silver and wrapped tightly in her cloak, watching around her as if she wanted to stop time or capture the moment in her mind to relish forever, Glorfindel thought as their eyes met and he winked encouragingly to her. A soft murmur caught their attention then, and they all looked up to see the two kings emerging from the tunnel which ran under the cliff and connected the protected haven with the long beach at the other side.  

“Now that is going to be amusing,“ Hîrvegil informed as he watched Oropher’s eldest guard make his way towards his lord, who was apparently busy trying to comfort his skittish mare, reluctant to follow the kind aides that had come to greet them.  

“You do not think that Ereinion led Oropher down that steep trail into the beach?” Elrond wondered aloud. “Of course he did,” he answered himself in disbelief, given whence they had emerged. “No wonder Oropher looks flustered; his mare surely had never seen the Sea…”  

They all chuckled amusedly as they watched Ereinion make his way calmly towards them, greeting the people in the long tables scattered across the quay and those sitting at the stone benches carved on the cliff wall where on sunny days fishermen mended their nets. Oropher, on his part, followed his guard to the ship with a look of exasperation that was visible despite the distance.  

“Do you think he intends to sail?” Taranel asked. The youngest of Oropher’s guards had insisted on visiting the ship and was still on board. He had developed an instant fascination towards the sea, to the point that some joked he would depart that very same day.  

“Now that would be a great shame for Oropher,” the troop commander chuckled wickedly. “To come with two guards and to return with just one…” They were trying to dispel the gloomy feeling and think not much of Miluinn’s impending departure, and so their speech was careless.  

“It would be a great grief,” Círdan interjected sharply, joining their conversation for the first time. “Bronadel is Oropher’s steward’s only son. This is not a matter for jokes, Hîrvegil,” the Shipwright added severely, frowning mightily. Glorfindel could tell that the mariner was deeply affected by the whole event. Before Hîrvegil could apologize, Ereinion reached their table and slipped between Elrond and Miluinn, making room for himself with a curt nod around.  

“Would it have been too much to ask that you showed due respect to a visitor and allied king?” he groaned in an unaccustomed brunt manner. Watching the winces around the table, Glorfindel sighed minutely and waited.  

“It was a joke, Gil-galad,” his secretary told him appeasingly, after a furious exchange of glances in which all brave warriors and captains refused to confront their obviously annoyed king. “No harm intended. Bronadel has no intention of sailing…he is just exploring the ship with Merenel…”  

“The ship? What happens with the ship? I was speaking of the Hall of Maps!” A tense, worried silence blanketed the king’s table, and he smiled in triumph, aware that he had caught them. “Oropher heard you two conspiring last night in the library,” he pointed accusingly at Elrond and Erestor and scowled. “And then he accused me of not being able to come up with an original trick to fool him…” He raised a hand to stem explanations. “I do not want to know about whatever silly joke about maps you are planning. This is unbecoming and most irresponsible in the current times.  I will not tolerate it.” Amused by how quickly the conspirators accepted the lecture and showed due compunction, Glorfindel almost forgot to wipe his smirk from his face before Gil-galad took notice.  

Thankfully Miluinn laid a calming hand upon Ereinion’s and smiled softly, distracting him. “Will you drink with me, my lord? I am sure that you can chastise these lords conveniently later in the evening…”  

One voice rose in song at that moment and they all lifted their goblets and drank to Miluinn, and to all those taking ship that evening. The moment had arrived and Gil-galad let escape a deep sigh and stood again, holding Miluinn’s hand. They led the way towards the ship, and it was the signal for all those remaining to exchange hugs and arm grips with those departing. The torches and lamps were lit on the stony walls and the song faded slowly, until there was no sound left but that of the sails trembling in the breeze and the soft caress of the waves on the ship’s expectant hull.  

“Go in peace, my friends, and with the blessings of those who remain behind upon the rocks of these strange shores that have been your home until now,” Gil-galad began in his beautiful, deep voice. “Memory is the treasure of our kin. Keep us in your thoughts and feel not the pain of the separation, for it is Eru’s will that we all shall meet again beyond the waters. We will not forget you, and the knowledge that you are safe and joyful in the Blessed Realm will keep our hopes up. We who remain in the lands of Hither will do our best to keep your homelands safe until our time comes, in turn, to join you in Valinor. May Ulmo lead you in haste and may the winds of the King of Arda greet you upon arrival. Go with our gratitude and our love,” he added in a voice that did not break, and as if on cue, a long line formed and those departing paraded before Gil-galad, who stood stoically by the plank with Miluinn by his side.  

Even from that distance Glorfindel could appreciate the effort that it took the King not to let go of his sorrow, as he embraced each of those departing and shared an encouraging word or a smile with them. Slowly and in deep, respectful silence the line came to an end and only Miluinn was left of those who were to sail. She hugged Círdan tightly and then turned to Gil-galad and buried herself in his embrace, and to those watching it seemed that she hesitated for a moment. It was the King who playfully held her around her waist and led her on board, and then bowed deeply before her with a brave, gallant gesture. He descended quickly, without looking back, and with a brief gesture he signalled to the sailors to remove the plank while he walked to stand beside Círdan to watch as the ship sailed by and those departing crowded the gunwale, hoping for a last glimpse of loved ones and not less loved lands.  

Again a sweet voice rose bravely in song, and others followed, for in music the Lindir expressed their sorrow and hope best. About to choke in the depth of emotion that flooded the secluded haven of Harlindon, Glorfindel was suddenly distracted by Oropher’s flippant comments.  

“A very simple ceremony indeed. I expected more celebrating…”  

“There is a great feast every time they begin to build a new ship to sail west, I have been told,” his younger guard informed him gladly, his youthful voice full of awe. “But the parting is a very simple ceremony, only close kin and friends. It is a sad event, after all…”  

“But such a small place to gather… We are too tightly packed in this quay…” Fortunately no one was paying attention to Oropher’s comments, too deep in the song and the feeling of the moment. Bronadel, though, had learnt his lessons well and continued to enlighten his king obligingly, not really noticing that Oropher was joking to hide his emotion.  

“The ships usually depart from Mithlond, but this one was special, since the King’s housekeeper sailed away, so he wanted it to depart form the place that had been her home in this age, and the closest to drowned Beleriand…”  

“Privileges of rank, I suppose,” Oropher retorted distractedly, but his eyes met Glorfindel’s and the Noldo could see the deep sympathy and compassion that shone there.  

After many songs, and while the white ship was still a clear dot in the darkening horizon, the crowd began to disperse quietly in small groups that whispered softly, comforting each other.  

“My uncle’s family is holding a celebration dinner, my lord,” Bronadel offered eagerly. “As assistant to the chief forester he was in charge of selecting the appropriate trees for this ship, and the foresters celebrate after their manner every time the ship departs…even if my uncle is out of town presently…would you like to attend?”  

“We thought you would like to join us, Lord Oropher,” Hîrvegil began cautiously, exchanging worried glances with the rest of the conspirators. “A good fire and a good wine and old stories to share…” 

“I will join Bronadel’s family. They are my friends as well. But I will accept your invitation any other day,” he answered with undisguised sarcasm. “I hear that we still have some maps to discuss.”   

“You can join us after you are finished in Curuhen’s house,” Elrond offered hesitatingly. “Ours will be a long celebration...will you escort him back to the palace?” he asked Oropher’s guards.  

“I can pick him up on my way back,” Glorfindel chimed in, making up his mind after a short pondering. “I need to talk with Gil-galad,” he explained pointing to the other end of the quay, where Gil-galad and Círdan still stood in sad contemplation.  

“I do not need an escort. I think I will be able to find my way back to the palace and down to the Hall of Maps without much problem, my lords. Have a pleasant evening,” Oropher chuckled at the discouraged look in the faces of the conspirators and took his leave from them relishing the feeling of triumph.  

“What has gotten into him?” Taranel wondered, shaking his head at the Sinda’s strange behaviour.  

“He still remembers a silly joke back at the beginning of this age,” Elrond chuckled despite himself. “Let us go and do what we can, my friends. As Miluinn said today there is still much left and the time is getting shorter…. We will manage to trick Oropher into helping us or just figure a way to carry Maentêw downstairs,” he added, shaking his head and taking the way back to the palace followed by the rest of the king’s closest friends.  

“Not now, Glorfindel.” Erestor stopped by the golden lord and followed his fixed gaze. A group of shipwrights had joined Círdan and Gil-galad. “This is a bittersweet moment for the shipwrights…and they claim Ereinion among them every time a ship sets sail west. He belongs with them tonight…and they will help him cope. He will feel better in the morning,” he added, patting Glorfindel's shoulder encouragingly. “Come and help us figure how we trick Oropher into helping us without letting Ereinion know.”  

“Knocking him senseless and locking him in the Hall of Maps for the rest of his stay?” Glorfindel joked, shrugging resignedly as he watched Gil-galad allowing himself to be dragged away by the group of shipwrights.  

“I think I like that plan,” was Erestor’s curt answer as they took the countless stone-hewed steps up the cliff and back to the palace.

 TBC

A/N

In “New Beginnings” and by Gil-galad’s decision Thranduil and a group of friends, under Oropher’s direction, end up teaching Elros’ people to manage the forest in a respectful, harmless way as they got wood for their shipbuilding.

Oropher’s distrust of Elrond and Erestor goes back as well to an event told in "New Beginnings," when these two played a trick on an unsuspecting, overzealous Oropher, making him believe that they possessed secret maps of unknown elven realms.

Chapter 6. All Things Now Grow Cold.

In which a bunch of grown-up elves play hide and seek, some misunderstandings are straightened out and Glorfindel has an upsetting revelation.

There was the wide court and the singing fountain before the king’s mighty tower, and the small arch -almost hidden- which led through a narrow, stone paved passage to a secluded garden with the most stunning view in all Gondolin… All was there, clear in his mind as if he were again sitting under his favourite orange tree playfully declaiming Salgant’s last ode with exaggerate feeling. If he closed his eyes, Glorfindel could almost hear the conversations that flowed freely every time they gathered in that private spot –friends again, instead of king and his captains, drinking mead and eating fruit from the trees and playing games and singing songs.

Fingolfin’s house in Tirion had had such a secret, walled orchard with a wondrous view, Glorfindel remembered clearly, and it had become Turgon and his friends’ meeting place in their youth. If it had first been Fingon’s he had never known. When planning his hidden city, Turgon had been careful to include many memories of fair Tirion upon Tuna for the comfort and enjoyment of the Exiles. For all the years that Gondolin stood tall and free, that secluded yard had become the only place where he would relax with his friends and allow himself to be simply Turgon son of Fingolfin, rather than Turgon King of Gondolin, bereft husband, son and brother.

Memories tasted differently in Middle-earth, Glorfindel thought vaguely, bending over the huge replica of Beleriand -in which Gil-galad’s friends had been busying themselves for almost a sun round now- to better observe the details. When Erestor had first asked for his help in the project he had been tempted to refuse, worried that the memories would be too hard for him to work through.

On the contrary, he had found unexpected relief in revisiting those places and events, a relief that could not be achieved in the Blessed Realm -despite the tales and songs- for amidst that blissfulness everything else seemed so distant that life in Middle-earth –not to mention death- sounded like an old tale from a strange land to a reborn.

That was my life, and that was myself, Glorfindel thought as he considered the appropriate dimensions of the orchard’s walls in regard to the tiny, delicately carved figurines that sat under the trees. I would not renounce to anything that is part of me. So engrossing was the process for him that he would get lost in thought and recollection for the greatest part of the time that he was supposed to devote to the construction of Gondolin, and now he was well behind the rest.

But tonight he was catching up, he thought, working with dedication while his companions drank wine, sprawled in comfortable armchairs, and shared well-known anecdotes. Miluinn had been an important part of Círdan’s household, Glorfindel knew, and her departure was deeply felt by all of them.

“I had not seen Círdan so moved since Tuor departed,” Hîrvegil sentenced, pouring another round of wine. “Well, he was every time Eärendil set sail,” he corrected himself, “but still Tuor…”

“Miluinn was his closest remaining relative this side of the dividing waters, there is nothing strange about him being moved,” Erestor cut harshly. “I bet as soon as she sets foot ashore she will ask audience with Olwë and will have some words with him concerning his hurried departure,” he added, forcing faint smiles from the rest and somehow lifting the mood.

“I would not be surprised,” Taranel followed his example. “Do you remember how she rebuked Olvárin when he refused to set foot in Middle-earth?”

“And how she scolded Elros when he wouldn’t greet Celeborn and Galadriel when they joined us from Nenuial?” Elrond added with a soft, wistful smile. 

“Ah, what a couple of troublesome, strutting pair of brats you two were,” Erestor groaned fondly. “We were lucky that Miluinn had such a good hand with children!”

“We were no longer children by then, not even by elven standards,” Elrond protested good-naturedly, and they all laughed.

“With grown-up children, then,” Hîrvegil corrected. “The thing is she was well-trained. I always wondered how her son was…” 

“Orodben was calm and patient as his adar,” Glorfindel chimed in, barely rising his head from the model. “But he had Miluinn’s determination and dry sense of humour. And he was a very good cook.”

“You met her in Beleriand, did you not?” Elrond asked in curiosity, as all faces turned to the golden elf lord. In all those ennin they had heard nothing beyond a few anecdotes about her lost family. “Tell us about them, Glorfindel. Miluinn used to say that anyone who had lived long enough in Middle-earth carried their fair load of loss…and so she would never speak of hers.”

“Erestor must have met them as well,” Glorfindel frowned briefly, surprised by the expectation in all faces.

“Barely,” the counsellor retorted. “She had already travelled north when I reached Eglarest. I think she only returned there once or twice before the moon first rose...”

“Well…She was married to a healer called Nestadalf and they used to live with many other grey elves around the hills on the western shore of Mithrim,” Glorfindel began resignedly. “They greeted us cautiously when we first reached the northern shore…but soon they welcomed us openly and helped us settle down. Miluinn’s son, Orodben, was a great hunter, and he knew the lands from Mithrim to Nevrast better than anyone else. He soon became Fingolfin’s chief messenger between Barad Eithel and Nevrast; that is how I got to know him well… Oh, and for a while he supplied us with a particular mix of herbs that enriched and flavoured the wine greatly, or so he claimed…but you must have heard that tale, Master Erestor,” he added with a quiet laugh. “I suppose it was a subject of widespread hilarity across Beleriand long after Nevrast was deserted and its vineyards abandoned…”

“Indeed,” Erestor nodded with a wicked smile. “But I can see that we are well behind in several places, my friends,” he admonished then, surveying with keen eye the huge model. “I’d suggest that we followed Lord Glorfindel’s example and set our minds to work. We promised Miluinn that it would be finished in time!”

“Come on, Erestor, tell us what is all that about…”

“There will be time for old tales once this is finished,” Erestor grunted.

“Let us say that the reds produced in Vinyamar fitted not Fingon’s taste, and so he took to drinking a vintage produced in Mithrim…and even sent it to his cousins, much to Turgon’s annoyance,” Glorfindel supplied obligingly. “Irked in his pride, Turgon hired Finrod’s best winemaker and sent her to Mithrim in secrecy, to investigate the key of the Sindar’s winemaking. At that time, Orodben would come to Nevrast with his saddlebags full of different dried herbs that only grew around Mithrim, which, the winemaker claimed, were the secret of that flavoured wine. For long Turgon and his vintners tried with those herbs –to no avail- and sent messengers back to the winemaker, asking her for the exact mix…But by the time we moved to Gondolin she had not returned, and so we never learnt the secret of that powerful red.”

“Perhaps she sent the recipe to Finrod instead?”  Hîrvegil pointed out amidst laughs. “Nargothrond was famed for its cellars, I have heard!” Glorfindel smiled.

“Who knows? All I have learnt of the winemaker’s fate is that she remained in Mithrim and became a good friend of Miluinn. A couple of ennin later she married Fingon and gave birth to his only son,” he added softly, enjoying the awed, surprised expressions around him and meeting briefly Erestor’s approving glance.

“And now, my lords, let us start working,” the stern counsellor warned, barely managing to hide a chuckle of his own at the memory.

Grunting in agreement Elrond, Hîrvegil and Taranel joined Erestor and Glorfindel by the huge table, still chuckling about Turgon’s wine.

“Has anyone seen Taurlong? Nargothrond looks only half-finished!” Elrond commented as he searched the pile of coloured pebbles, straws and pieces of wood to finish building the wall that had circled the settlement in Sirion. Each of them had been charged with the part of the land that they had known best.

“He remained in the city. A couple of his closest friends sailed away tonight,” Taranel informed. “Who is going to take charge of Doriath?”

“Erestor.”

“Oropher.”

Elrond and Erestor had spoken at the same time and the rest laughed.

“Come on Erestor, you heard Ereinion tonight,” the king’s secretary sighed with a friendly wink. “We better not involve Oropher in our games…”

“Glorfindel said he would take care of him… and we can always ask Maentêw. I spent barely a couple of ennin there and got to know very little of the realm…This has to be perfect,” Erestor insisted stubbornly.

“Well, it is not as if Ereinion…or any of us could tell the difference, Erestor. None of us ever set foot beyond that girdle while it stood,” Hîrvegil objected. He seemed reluctant to include the short-tempered Sindar in their project.

“It is important, still. Of course, I can always send for the Lord –or the Lady…”

“Not in time, I deem. I will go and find Oropher,” Glorfindel volunteered before Erestor decided to send him to Eregion in search of Celeborn. “I bet he is curious to learn what we are doing here…” With that he took his leave and walked away, leaving his friends to discuss –once again- whether they were aiming at chronological or rather geographical accuracy of detail.

                                                   ~*~* ~*~

"So this country is slowly bleeding away, as its people desert it? No wonder that even the stones sounded so aggrieved by the departure of the ship.”

“Not just this country, Idhren. Several of those departing were Nandor from Nennuial…and I have been told that ships set sail to the west from Edhellond, south of Onodrim Galen, as well. The sea-longing strikes without warning, it is said.”  Oropher had to smile at the expected snort of contempt from his guard.

“I cannot understand how an Elf can ever be lured by the Sea…it is unnatural…something so huge and unpredictable...”

“That is the very nature of the Lord Ulmo, I’d guess. But I am with you. I cannot feel its pull at all.”

“And why would an Elf seek contentment beyond the waters? Crossing that natural division has only brought pain and confusion to those going forth and then coming back, so they apparently end up not knowing whether they belong here or there, if the tales of your people are to be heeded…”

“It is said that they find peace once they reach the Blessed Realm...to the point of never wanting again to look upon these shores…” 

“Well, they did return once at least, didn’t they? And some even twice.” Idhren shook his head and voiced his incredulity.

His guard’s words made Oropher pause briefly. He was descended from one of the Eglain who had retreated inland in despair after reaching the Great Sea and finding that Olwë had finally set sail without them. His father had been one of those who had heeded the call, one of those eager to see the light of the trees and the faces of the Powers, one who had been forced to remain against his deepest wishes out of loyalty towards Elwë. Was that unfulfilled longing somehow embedded deep within himself, only awaiting the right moment to awake, he wondered in trepidation not for the first time? He cast then a brooding look at his guard, a Wood Elf descended from those who had rejected the Long March and had never before crossed the Misty Mountains. Could the sea-longing ever get a hold on him?

“How long do you intend to remain here?” his guard demanded in his brusque manner, jolting him out of his musings. They were climbing a winding, tree-lined road that led back to Gil-galad’s residence, after an entertaining evening with Bronadel’s family. Oropher’s mare, apparently recovered from their wild ride along the beach, followed them mildly.

“I do not know. At least until we get an answer to our message. I want to know if Gil-galad intends to do anything regarding the Númenorean’s devastation… Is there anything bothering you? ”

“Bronadel,” was the curt answer. “Did you see him tonight? I fear that he is getting too involved…he wants to go sailing! Why did you let him come? He is too young and impressionable!”

“I brought him because his father asked me to,” Oropher sighed in a low, pained voice. “He has been dreaming of the Sea and of meeting his sea-going relatives since he was an elfling…”

Idhren shook his head in disbelief. “And you agreed? Knowing that the sea-longing could awake in him and that Bronadir would lose his only son to the Sea?” The Sindar were definitely a mystery to Idhren, much as the Exiles were to himself, Oropher thought wryly.

“Bronadir thought that he would be comforted knowing that his son had actually reached the Havens safely, rather than having him disappear one day and never knowing whether he had made it to the Sea or not,” he explained. It had been a painful decision, and he suffered deeply for his best friend’s grief.

“I think I am going to drag him to those dense forests that stretch a couple of days from here until you decide that it is time to return home. He needs a good dose of tree-song to clear his mind!” Idhren sentenced menacingly, and then glared irately at Oropher’s amused snort.

“You are welcome to try…”

“Of course I will…Look out!” he added then, his voice lowered to a barely audible whisper.

Oropher tensed immediately and instinctively raised his hand to his sheathed knife.

“What is it?”

“There, under those alders behind the stone wall…”

“I can see nothing…”

“Of course you cannot. But a moment ago there were four elves sitting there.”

In their long years together Oropher had learnt to trust Idhren’s sharp senses and his natural distrust of everything, exaggerate as it might seem at times.

“So?”

“They surely intend to play a trick on us.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That we returned them the favour.”

“Agreed.”

A bend on the road offered useful cover as the two stealthy silhouettes jumped behind the stone wall that lined the way and crawled along it until they reached the cover of a thicket of alders and beeches that stretched upwards towards the pine-lined training grounds. The waxing moon joined in the game too, hiding behind an opportunely passing cloud. Running noiselessly and sheltered by the friendly trees, Oropher and Idhren reached the back of the place where Idhren had glimpsed the elves sitting before. With a brief signal he took to the branches and waited to make sure that Oropher had climbed as well. From that vantage point it was easy for them to spot at least three crouching elves, who now lay in ambush behind the stone wall.

Advancing silently from branch to branch, Idhren and Oropher fell upon them in accorded motion. The startled guards turned around to find themselves faced with unsheathed long knives.

“Look, what do we have here?” Idhren wondered, waving his knife menacingly, though at safe distance from one of the elves.

“The king’s guards, if I am not mistaken,” Oropher chuckled, recognizing one of the faces and suddenly noticing that they were all unarmed. Did they mean to shout us into submission? He wondered; then said aloud, “We have been truly lucky, Idhren, we have bested the King’s guards!”

“And I have been even luckier,” a mocking voice came from behind them. Oropher and Idhren stiffened as they heard the unmistakable sound of a long iron being unsheathed. “I have beaten The King and his guard. Now surrender your knives to me, my lords, if you please...”

They turned back slowly to find themselves before the captain of Gil-galad’s guard. “You did not think that you had caught us unawares, did you?” Taurlong added with a lopsided, smug smile.

A sudden noise from the road made them all jump and turn wildly, only to find that Oropher’s mare had obediently followed the path as instructed and had reached the appointed place in time to offer a safe escape to her lord in case it was needed. The six startled elves laughed ruefully as the mare showed her nose above the stone wall and snorted in disdain. They had barely returned to the argument of who had bested who when again a strange sound, this time a gurgling, merry laugh, interrupted them.

“King and guards!” the guttural voice of the Druedain Chieftain caught all of them by surprise, coming from above. The small creature jumped nimbly to the ground, his bow in full draw and two arrows nocked. He let escape again his contagious laugh and Taurlong finally gave in.

“Twice in the same night… I’d say that we really need some training, my friends,” he admitted to his fellow guards with a reluctant chuckle while he sheathed his sword. “Congratulations on your stealth, Lord Oropher, it seems that you have mastered the art of hiding behind trees...”

On any other night, Oropher would have left the insult pass.

But this was not that night.

On one hand, he was not sure of what Idhren would do once his king stepped away from his left foot, where he had instinctively stood even before Taurlong finished speaking.

And then there was that strange gleam on the captain’s eyes –the sadness and restlessness that Oropher had glimpsed barely concealed in the faces of many of those standing by the quay, and even later, at Bronadel’s relatives’ house; a longing and a struggle and an unnamed rage that bubbled inside them and looked for a way out. The king’s guards surely needed a workout, and he could very well do with some exercise while taking the chance to humble Gil-galad through his overconfident guards. So he decided to answer accordingly to the provocation and turned to look at his seething guard, without freeing his foot.

“It used to be a matter of discussion among the Sindar whether the Noldor had the same keen night sight of our kin,” he sighed nonchalantly, “although I always held that they would not, as it came out clearly now...”

“On the other side, it is not the first time that I see a couple of wood elves caught by surprise by a Druadan, and in your case –as I have heard- it would be twice today, my lord,” Taurlong retorted, his annoyance obviously mounting at Oropher’s insolence.

“Taurlong, I think…” one of the guards apparently feared that the situation would soon get out of control, and he was not mistaken, Oropher thought idly, seeing Idhren’s clouded face.

“Since your warriors seem in need of practice, Captain, I would very gladly offer our advice to improve your fighting skills in the darkness, if you are interested?” he suggested with exaggerate generosity.

“While you learn to remain stone still?” Taurlong shot back wickedly, pointing at the smiling Druadan. “Perhaps you can serve as practice target?”

“I might consider your proposal if you were but a little less inept with your bows…”

“Why don’t we go to the practice range?” another of Taurlong’s friends suggested pointedly, piercing them with a warning glance. Oropher nodded graciously and stepped back obligingly with a brief bow.

“After you, my lords. We trust your keen sight…”

                                           ~*~  ~*~

Glorfindel’s senses were sharper now than they had been in his previous life, or so it felt to him.

Or perhaps it was that, used to the calm, predictable life in the Blessed Realm, the onslaught of emotions, voices and sensations in Middle-earth kept him in constant, awed alert, when he was not carried away in deep contemplation.

But that night he needed not his full concentration or his sharpest senses to stumble upon what he had set out looking for, although at that moment he did not know exactly what he had found.

The clamour of mocking, vexed, encouraging voices mixed with a bubbling, contagious laughter that he knew well by then wafted playfully across the front terraces and gardens of Gil-galad’s residence, unusually empty at that time of the reasonably warm evening. Surrendering to curiosity, Glorfindel tracked the unbecoming din to its source, down in the training grounds.

When he arrived, though, the place was silent and deserted, except for a lonesome figure perched on the fence that surrounded the archery range.

“I have met Dwarves who are stealthier than you, Lord Glorfindel,” Taurlong commented peevishly, casting a warning glance at the approaching elf. 

“I could not see the need for stealth, since I was approaching a mighty racket,” he argued. “Or perhaps I dreamed of it?”

“Lord Oropher felt the need to improve our skills in night fighting...”

“That is so kind of him!”

“And Chieftain Baghan also joined in.” There was something in Taurlong’s expression that Glorfindel could not point out exactly, like a sparkling, contained mirth. “And then the Dwarf found us…”

“That is very encouraging,” Glorfindel approved eagerly. “If we are going to be forced to fight, it will be god that we learn how to do it together, like long-time allies…”

“Then Oropher discovered that we were a harder lot than what he expected,” Taurlong continued with open, malicious glee. “We trounced him as often as he did with us. It was not pretty…we ended up fighting each other all over the place,” he added with a smile that meant that it had been pretty indeed. “He thought he could rout the High King’s personal guard and found himself on a tight spot…of his own making, since he rushed in, head-first in our trap…”

“Where are they now?” Glorfindel asked in mild worry, fearing that, carried away by their enthusiasm, the Sindarin king and his opponents might have ended up with the healers.

“I do not know. We split up in two groups. The King’s guards against Oropher, Idhren, the dwarf and Chieftain Baghan…It is our turn now to chase them down,” Taurlong explained with unrestrained ferocity, pointing at the opposite edge of the archery range. Only then Glorfindel noticed the perfectly hidden figures of three elves who blended perfectly into the straight shadows of the tall pine trees. 

“I’d say that you stand a good chance against those wood people. Your guards are very good at keeping out of sight!” he nodded in appreciation. After a long pause in which the captain did not move or acknowledged his praise Glorfindel continued speaking.

“Erestor wondered where you were…”

“They are all in the Hall of Maps, I gather?”

“Indeed. There is still much work left…”

“And Erestor sent you to bring me back?”

“If you are not otherwise busy…”

“I am busy sulking,” the Captain affirmed surly. “And I do not feel like sharing memories tonight.”

Refusing to take in the wave of distress and rejection that radiated from the troubled Elf, Glorfindel patiently made his way through the dense net of conflicting emotions until he found the wide, raging depths of grief that had been stirred that night. There was anger and pain and longing, all mixed with worry and melancholy that weighed heavily on the stern captain.

“There is no guilt in sailing…or in remaining, Taurlong, just the answer to a call stronger than any other,” Glorfindel began.

“May Mandos grant me death on the battlefield before I ever desert my king,” the captain spat out hoarsely, turning challenging, pained eyes to the other elf lord.  

An owl hooted in the quiet night, breaking the tense silence that had suddenly grown between the two elves. Glorfindel turned his head towards the lines of tall trees and smiled briefly.

“As one who twice forsook the lands of his birth pursuing what I thought was my path, I believe it is the will of Iluvatar that his children follow their hearts, according to their wisdom and wherever they may lead them. It is not in our hands to cure Arda of its marring, and it is wisdom to know when we have reached the limit of our abilities.”

“Go and tell Ereinion that,” Taurlong sighed bitterly. “Tell him it is not because any fault of his that his people sail away, that the shadow grows everywhere while our numbers dwindle steadily towards safety, that we are forced to surrender forests and mountains to the enemy…or to the careless devastation of the Edain…”

“I intended to,” Glorfindel nodded eagerly. “But Erestor told me that he would remain in the city for the night…There is no failure in what he is doing, in what you are all doing, Captain. Pretending otherwise would be arrogance. There is no more that could be done with our limited strength…”

The owl hooted nervously and Taurlong shook his head towards the trees that now danced awake in a soft breeze, urging him.

“Those are considerations too deep for my taste, Glorfindel, but I appreciate your efforts. Now by your leave, I have a rash Sindarin king to lure out of hiding. That will surely help enliven my mood faster that any words of comfort...”

“Good luck, then” Glorfindel smiled at the eagerness in the captain’s glittering eyes. “Although I would not put it past Oropher to have learnt something from your previous attacks,” he warned with a chuckle.

“Advice for advice,” the captain stopped for a brief moment to consider Glorfindel’s words, and a wry smile enlightened briefly his stern features. “Perhaps you would like to go and sit in the terrace of the library rather than returning directly to the Hall of Maps,” he suggested with what to Glorfindel looked like a conniving wink that he could not understand.

“I might,” he agreed cautiously. “After all, I was sent to bring Oropher back with me, so I’d rather not incur in Erestor’s displeasure tonight...”

“Do as I tell you and in return I will enlist Oropher’s help to finish the replica,” Taurlong promised before slipping into the shadows of the night.

Shrugging as he watched the four elves fan out soundlessly into the dark, expectant forest, Glorfindel decided to follow Taurlong’s suggestion and steered his steps towards the library, at the back of the huge building.

The sea was calm as far as elven sight reached in that silvery night. There were a few passing shreds of mist, hurrying in the darkness towards early morning appointments and barely dimming the glorious light of the stars and the almost full moon. Tilion and Eärendil seemed deep in conversation, surely watching over the white ship as it took the Straight Road, Glorfindel thought as he stood in the long terrace, enthralled by the deep stillness that shrouded that night of partings.

A bored sigh coming from his right broke the spell. Glorfindel turned his attention to the stone benches that lined the walls of the library not fifteen paces from where he stood. He spotted then an elf sitting cross-legged on the farthest bench, surrounded by thick, leather-bound sheaves of parchments.

“A nice view, isn’t it?” The deep voice sounded tired but still mildly provoking. Caught by surprise and finally understanding Taurlong’s hints, Glorfindel approached the sitting elf.

“Ereinion?”

“Only kin and closest friends call me that.”

“King Gil-galad, then…”

“Gil-galad will do. Every time an Elf older than myself calls me King I am tempted to look over my shoulder, for I seriously doubt he’s addressing me…”

At the dim glow of the Fëanorian lamp Glorfindel caught the faintest trace of a self-mocking smile in the young king’s face, so he forced himself to restrain his exasperation. “I wonder if your atar knew what he was doing when he sent you to the Havens,” he grunted instead of snapping. “You have grown all of Círdan’s strange sense of humour…”

“Well, I have heard that King Turgon would not recognize a joke even if it was told twice and in Quenya, on the other hand.”

“That’s not… far from truth, indeed,” the golden haired elf admitted with a fond smile. “But he was a good king. And a good friend as well.”

Ereinion sighed again as he carefully disentangled his long legs and stretched them lazily before him, putting the heavy volume aside on top of the pile.

“I know. My father missed him deeply.”

A deep silence followed. The waves moaned in the coast, crashing idly against the cliffs in steady rhythm while Glorfindel searched furiously for a harmless subject of conversation

“I…Erestor told me that you would spend the whole night in the city…” he began slowly. “I did not expect to find you here…”

“I hope I do not disturb you,” Gil-galad answered testily. “But the library is big enough so we need not meet…”

“One would suspect that the High King’s quarters would be big enough to house a private library, so he needed not run the risk of being bothered by uninvited guests,” Glorfindel retorted, unable to stem his annoyance at the king’s belligerence.

"Mine is surely more humble and unkingly than the courts you are used to, Lord Glorfindel,” Gil-galad explained with feigned, mocking modesty. “Around here the King has no trouble doing his own research in the public library,” he said, patting the pile of parchments at his side. “And nighttime is the only time when I can be sure that I will not be distracted by Master Pengolod’s irksome remarks. But do not let me detain you,” he added quite curtly, waving distractedly towards the darkened library.

With great effort, Glorfindel managed to rein in his exasperation and forced himself to remain. There was more in the king’s scathing words and provoking manner than the grief of Miluinn’s parting, or his patent displeasure towards Pengolod and himself. Disregarding Gil-galad’s clear dismissal, he took seat by his side.

“Do you resent everything that comes from Gondolin?” he asked innocently. He heard Ereinion chuckle softly and shift his position on the bench, his stance still defensive yet not wholly rejecting Glorfindel’s presence.

“Not everything,” he said softly, turning his head to look at the reborn. “Meeting my cousin Idril was one of the greatest joys of my life,” he recalled in a warm voice. “Her family became mine and that was a mighty gift,” he added, the challenge again ringing in his deep voice mixed with longing and reawakened bittersweet memories.

Sitting there in silence, Glorfindel could perceive for the first time the carefully built walls that the young king had raised against his well-intentioned prodding. He could feel Gil-galad’s sorrow and defeat, his guilt at what he perceived as his failure at protecting his land and his people. And still there was something more powerful, a deeper suffering that pooled behind his polite, firm rejection of Glorfindel’s attempts at getting close to him. The elf lord was at a loss at guessing what could be the cause for such strong feelings.

“So I suppose that Master Pengolod treats you as one of his disciples…” he ventured, remembering the lore master’s proverbial grumpiness and harshness.

“I do not care to be reminded of my poor command of my mother tongue by one who had the fortune of being raised in a court where Quenya was spoken openly and daily,” Gil-galad admitted hoarsely after a long pause. “It was difficult for a child to understand why he had to apologize every time a word in his own tongue slipped in conversation,” he elaborated, shrugging with studied casualness that did not fool Glorfindel.

“It was very impressive tonight, down there at the quay…” he said then, trying a different approach. “Your words rang so adequate, and I think that you comforted them…”

“It is the least that I could do,” the king sighed tiredly. “They feel bad for leaving, when it is our fault that we cannot keep the shadow from growing and surrounding us. We will fight to the very end,” he remarked firmly, “but every passing ennin it becomes clearer that we are fighting a long defeat. I cannot fault them for not wanting to witness it,” he admitted softly, “yet it is still a sad event, every time a ship departs. I wish I could make it a happier occasion for everyone, that I could spare them all the grief and sorrow.”

“Not all tears are bad,” Glorfindel observed gently. “They feel sad because they answer a soul-consuming call without renouncing to their love for their land, their people and their king. Their grief is their gift to you, King Gil-galad, and their sea-longing is not of your making, as it is not your lot to free Arda of its marring...” He had intended his words to be of comfort, so he was quite surprised by the king’s heated reaction.

“Of course it is not my lot!” he shot back angrily, and in one swift movement he was standing before the elf lord, glaring down at him. “I am the son of a kinslayer, Glorfindel; do you think I am not aware of my doom? All that is expected of me is that I am ready to lay down my life fighting the Shadow as my sires did. I am well aware that I am not the one the Powers look at as the one who might heal the land…and I can also see that you were not sent here to help me,” he spat, an unbearable sorrow spilling out with this words.

“I…I do not...” Glorfindel shook his head, taken aback by the barely contained despair that rang in the young king’s words. “It was you who refused to swear me in your service, Gil-galad,” he argued. “You would never accept my pledge!”

“Let us not deceive ourselves, Glorfindel.” The king shook his head tiredly, walking away from the elf lord and taking seat again, this time on a tree stump that served as side table. He rested his head on his palms, his elbows on his thighs, and sighed dejectedly. “We both know that you were sent to protect your king’s line, I can well understand that…”

“Are you not of King Finwë’s line as well?”

“Not of the blessed one, I thought you knew that…”

“You are not under the Doom of Mandos, Gil-galad. The Valar granted forgiveness to the Noldor and opened the way west to all those who would sail there,” Glorfindel objected. He was trying hard to see beyond the hopelessness and sorrow that pervaded the king’s words and demeanour.

“And still I chose to remain here, a king in Middle-earth rather than a low ranking elf in the land of Eressëa, one among many others…” his voice sounded now worried and distant. “At times I wonder if I am not just retracing my father’s mistakes, contradicting the Valar’s decrees out of pride ad rashness…”

“Did the Valar command you to sail west?” Glorfindel asked softly. He was now sure that he had found his way into what really troubled the king, but he was treading carefully, leading him cautiously.

“Not exactly. They just advised…”

“The Valar’s advice has not always been good for the Quendi, as history teaches us. They do not know our nature, nor fully understand our fate, so they cannot always discern what is best for us. So unless you remained here out of spite and rejection, you should not feel that you have disobeyed them.”

“Now I am ready to believe that you were expelled from Valinor because you insisted on speaking thusly to the Powers,” Gil galad chuckled mirthlessly. “Nay, I simply thought it was my duty to remain here and hold the lands free until all the Quendi had sailed safely west,” he said, speaking almost to himself. “But then…”

“Then?”

“Then Annatar came and…he offered us power and dominion over the lands and growing things, and the knowledge to turn this into the fairest elven realm, beyond Valinor’s measure, so we would envy not those beyond the sea…and none would ever sail away again, blessed forever in the shores of Hither where Time would not reach us…” His voice caught in his throat and he hid his face in his hands, breathing deeply, fighting to regain his composure.

“His words spoke to my mind, Glorfindel,” he admitted softly, abashedly, looking up with a pained expression on his face. “It was as if he had looked into my soul…I fear that deep inside I long for a blessed kingdom in Middle-earth, away from the Powers, as Fëanor did…” he sighed in a choked voice.

“You resisted temptation, Ereinion,” Glorfindel began, leaning towards the worried king, trying to comfort him. “That is all that was demanded of you. Those who have walked in darkness tend towards light more eagerly. Anyway, who would condemn a king for wishing peace and blissfulness for his people?”

“You tell me,” the king sighed with a twisted, bitter smile, although he did not object to the use of his name.

“Me? What do I have to do with this?”

“It is clear to me that there is shadow and darkness in this Annatar, and still I cannot fully reject or condemn his offers, since they match my own deepest wishes,” Gil-galad shrugged, regaining his firm grip over his emotions. “So the Valar expect that I will fail before this darkness…and they fear that I will fail to protect Eärendil’s blessed line…yet again,” he added in a soft, hurt whisper. “That is why you were sent, to protect Elrond, is that not so? Even if I once swore that I would shield him with my very life…”

That was -Glorfindel felt- the true reason for Gil-galad’s rejection of his presence. But that was as well Annatar’s evil doing, he raged inside, corrupting duty into self-doubt and the call of the One into utter defeat and guilt for those who remained. Failure and shame oozed now from the king like sap from a young tree deeply wounded by a brutal axe blow.

“I would not say that I was exactly sent here, to begin with,” Glorfindel sighed, searching for a way to reassure Gil-galad while keeping the secrets he was not allowed to disclose –and those he was not yet ready to share. The king had again buried his face on his hands and did not move at Glorfindel’s words.

“I was not sent,” he repeated softly. I was just…allowed to come back. I mean,” he continued, noticing that this time Gil-galad had lifted his head in surprise. “Darkness stirring again in Middle-earth was widespread subject for conversation as new arrivals reached Eressëa. For those who never left Valinor it was impossible to understand that anyone would wish to remain in a land where shadow lurked again…”

He stopped for a moment to gather his memories. “But none who has lived in the lands of Hither can wholly forsake Middle-earth with its wild pace, its dangers but also its untamed beauty,” he continued in a soft, wistful voice. “I cannot explain how it happened…All I can say is that I was not blinded by guilt of shame or regret, and as I gained a deeper understanding of my mistakes I was filled with an unbearable desire to live again, and once I lived, I wished to feel again the breath of life mingled with death, to walk the paths that lay beyond the Mountains East of Beleriand, to redress my faults and help defend the land.”

He looked beyond the now fully interested king and sighed, lost in recollection. “Despite all its harshness and loss I used to love life in Middle-earth, Ereinion, so one day I said aloud that I would gladly return to these shores to help those lingering here resist the new shadow...” He shook his head and barely managed to contain an amused chortle, remembering his own amazement when Olórin, who had been present that day, had nodded as if he had said something sensible.

“And somehow my words reached Manwë…and I was granted my wish,” he added simply.

It had not been exactly that way. He remembered clearly his anticipation as he was summoned before Mandos, Ulmo and Manwë while Olórin supported his idea and the Valar toyed cautiously with the possible consequences and finally agreed to the experiment. He also remembered Finrod’s shame when he had tried to join in the journey and had been denied permission with the same finality with which Glorfindel had been granted it.

All that he could not tell, but it was not necessary, he knew, seeing the expectant look in Gil-galad’s face and feeling how his carefully built walls began to crumble down as hope ate at them like water at sand mortar, until the dam broke.

“So Eärendil did not send you?” he asked in a hoarse voice, lifting his eyes to the evening star that shone brightly over them that night, a half worried, half hopeful look on his face. “He was not disappointed that I would fail again to protect his son? He did not instruct you to look after Elrond?”

“We did not have much time to talk about that,” Glorfindel admitted. “Of course I told him that I would look after his son…but he asked me to look after you as well,” he added, and was pleased to see the awed, grateful light that shone in the king’s worried features. “Eärendil was barely a child when Gondolin fell, Ereinion. But he grew to know you and love you, and he looks down fondly upon you as well as upon his son, never doubt that,” he told him softly.

“I failed to protect his people and his family in Sirion…then we lost Elros to the Gift of Men…” Gil-galad recalled sadly. “I feared he would not trust me to be able to protect Elrond now that darkness rises again,” he admitted. “And I feared that you were the confirmation of that assumption,” he added softly, casting an apologetic glance at the golden elf lord, finally allowing his comforting glow to reach him.

“You are carrying out your duty as it is expected from one of the House of Finwë, Ereinion,” Glorfindel said, wishing that the young king could ever get to know the love and pride that his family and his people in Valinor took in his deeds. But he had vaguely foreseen where Gil-galad’s fate lay and so he just spared him the bittersweet longing for the warmth of a family that he would not reach in this life.

“That is all I ask for,” the king admitted with a shy half-smile, relief now brightening his fair features. “To keep my strength against darkness and falter not even if all things grow cold and dim and the world seems to fade around us…”

“That is why I came back for,” Glorfindel sighed. “I just want to lend my strength to you and to those who are fighting this new shadow… Will you swear me in, now?” he pleaded softly; meeting the king’s now calm grey gaze.

“I do not think so.” Gil-galad stood up and straightened his tunic distractedly. He met Glorfindel’s narrowed, questioning eyes and shrugged nonchalantly. “There may come a time when you feel that you must challenge my orders in pursuing what you believe is Elrond’s safety. I will not have you charged with treason to add to my wrath when that happens, Lord Glorfindel.  All I ask of you is that you swear allegiance to Elrond,” he explained seriously, retaking his place on the bench beside Glorfindel and spying the golden elf-lord’s exasperated expression with a smug smile.

“You are a prudent and generous King, Gil-galad,” Glorfindel finally managed, acknowledging the wisdom of that decision and bowing respectfully to him.

“I have had very good masters.”

“You also have your father’s talent for making bold decisions….and for gathering people around him.”

“You tell Oropher that,” Gil-galad chuckled dismissively, but Glorfindel could feel that he was quite pleased with the praise.

“Well, at times your atar just managed to unite everyone against his opinions as well…”

“I think that describes my abilities more precisely,” Gil-galad nodded with a small smile. “Now since you are not at my service, and since I will have to bear with your impossibly smug blazing, Lord Glorfindel, do you think you could give me a hand with my research, or are you otherwise engaged tonight?”

“I will be glad to be of assistance, my king…What are these?” he asked then, eyeing the leather bound parchments with curiosity. Gil-galad sighed.

“These are all the accounts that we have managed to gather about the War of Wrath. As you may have heard, we did not take part in the storming of Thangorodrim or the capture of Morgoth…” Glorfindel had heard the tale from Finarfin and Ingil, so he just nodded and listened with interest. “We were not present there, either, when Morgoth’s captains were subjected to Lord Eonwë’s judgement, but some of our scholars took the pain of questioning witnesses during the time that the Army of the West lingered by these shores…”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I am convinced that this Annatar is one of those set free by Eonwë,” Ereinion said abruptly. “Someone who might be cunning enough to trick the Herald into believing in his repentance… and perhaps of equal rank, so Eonwë could not force him to return to Valinor to submit himself to Mandos’ judgement…” Glorfindel could not hold back a shiver, fearing where the king’s cautious reasoning was leading.

“There were not many who met those conditions among the survivors, as far as I have been able to find out in these accounts, although there are not full lists of names and ranks,” Gil-galad continued, apprehension clear in his beautiful, deep voice as he pointed at the piles of parchments. “Yet I fear that we might be facing Gorthaur himself, Glorfindel,” he managed in a hoarse voice that trembled also with barely contained hatred.

“Gorthaur,” the elf lord repeated blankly. “Oh, Sauron!” Absurdly, Glorfindel found himself chuckling in relief that Finrod had not been allowed to join in the expedition. And then an immense sadness threatened to choke him as an unpleasant revelation hit him.

The Valar knew.

Or at least suspected.

“So this is where your light fades and your star falls, young one,” he suddenly knew with cold certainty, as vague visions gained clarity. He sighed sadly, studying the serious, youthful face before him and knowing that one day he would be pitched against a foe that had been beyond the power of the best of them to defeat.

“Let us hope that you are mistaken,” he managed in a falsely cheerful voice, picking up one of the volumes and beginning to follow the familiar script while he wept inside, fearing in his bones that the young king was only too right.

TBC.

For the purposes of this tale, Pengolod was born in Nevrast.

Gorthaur is Sauron’s Sindarin name

Chapter 7. They Did Not Take Root in This Land.

In which the seeds of the Last Alliance are sown among bream scales and mushrooms, Oropher receives more history lessons and Gil-galad enjoys another of “his” councils.

Four more shadows joined the one that followed him.  

Oropher could discern their massive silhouettes weaving agilely between the trees, loping effortlessly after him. He looked around for the closest branch to secure his leap and then wondered briefly what he would do once he reached the end of the isolated thicket of pine trees that he had so foolishly insisted on exploring alone, after a long, entertaining night of ambushes and mock battles that had led them well away from Gil-galad’s palace.  

Fortunately he carried his knives, but even if he managed to kill two wolves with them, he would be unarmed before the remaining three…provided that no more friends of theirs joined in the party, he thought grimly.  

His chasers suddenly spread out, as if following a silent command, as the approached the border of the thicket. It meant -Oropher reasoned- that they were shepherding him to where the rest of the pack lay in ambush, probably in the clearing that opened not far away now before them.  

I will have to sit and wait until someone comes to my rescue, he told himself calmly, though immensely aggravated by the fact.  

As he slowed down and scanned his surroundings the wolves turned around as one and came back to circle him in their fluid gait, coming into sight for the first time and allowing him a brief glimpse of their powerful bodies and sharply fanged jaws. They were big Forest wolves, grey coated and amber eyed, nimble and fast on their strong limbs as they silently narrowed the circle around the now slightly worried elf, while keeping under cover of the trees.  

Oropher alighted on a needled branch and studied the situation. The wolves stopped as well, waiting patiently as well-trained hounds following the hunter’s indications.  

But they were the hunters, Oropher told himself grimly, now openly annoyed at his predicament. They were not in a hurry, and would not show themselves openly, but he could distinguish enough shadows around him to know that they had caught him neatly amidst their net.  

“I can spend the whole day here,” he said aloud in as calm a voice as he could manage, taking seat on a huge branch. Just as he was reclining against the trunk he caught sight of another, taller and more slender shape that had suddenly appeared amidst the trees to his left, close to the biggest wolf who seemed to be the lead hunter. He heard grunts and low growls, and could almost perceive the tension flowing among the pack. Finally the leader gave a short howl and the five wolves sprang up and disappeared like mist up the hill and back to the thick of the forest.  

“Perhaps you would rather spend the day in a more comfortable place, Lord Oropher?”  

The Sindarin lord scowled down at the captain of Gil-galad’s guard, who had appeared out of nothing among the trees and looked up with an air of innocence that did not fool Oropher.  

“Why I am not surprised to learn that Gil-galad keeps Forest wolves as pets?” he grunted in annoyance, standing up on his branch and glaring defiantly at the amused Noldo.  

“Not pets,” Taurlong explained, shrugging and climbing the pine tree with deft, sure hands. “You should have not wandered away on your own,” he admonished softly once he stood by the Sindarin king. Oropher opened his mouth to argue and then closed it as he remembered Taurlong’s warning early in the night.  

“Guardians, then? I thought they only joined orcs in their evil purposes…”  

“There are many creatures enslaved by darkness and its servants, Lord Oropher.” The Captain’s face clouded briefly and his voice got colder. “These wolves are refugees from the wide forest to the East. Some evil has taken root there and many creatures –even wolves- are fleeing the forest towards safer, inhabited lands. Men hunt them relentlessly so we offered to share this side of the woods with this pack. We are at a good distance from the city now,” he explained then in a friendlier tone, pointing south and west. “It was a very busy night,” he added with a wicked smile.  

“Indeed.  I am ready for breakfast, now.”  

“That way then, my lord. Let us hope that your guard managed to catch more than one fish,” Taurlong joked, leading the way across the trees as surely as any wood elf, Oropher had to admit as he followed the stern captain.  

“You talked to them?”  

They now trotted downhill, crunching their way on the reddish carpet of the first fallen leaves of that autumn. Although Taurlong had dismissed them with a vague gesture of his hand, Oropher had not failed to notice the numerous wolf tracks at the edge of the thicket. It was a large pack that had hunted him that dawn.  

“I howled and growled to them, if that is what you mean,” the other answered without looking at him. “Apart from eating stones, we Noldor also understand the language of living creatures, even if we are not so deeply attuned to the forests as you Wood elves are,” he explained then, stopping for a brief moment to check their position and then guiding their steps down a narrow trail almost hidden in the undergrowth.  

“Not even close,” Oropher agreed pleasantly. “But you surprised me tonight. Gil-galad’s guards are well prepared for fighting in a forest, I am pleased to admit,” he conceded generously.  

“And why would that matter to you?” was Taurlong’s brusque answer. “I never thought that you cared much for the High King’s safety,” he added, pushing aside spiny bushes carelessly.  

“I am concerned mainly with my people’s safety,” Oropher agreed curtly, giving Taurlong a few more paces’ lead to avoid the backwards slashing of spiny bushes after the captain’s hurried passage. “So I fervently hope that the rest of Gil-galad’s army is as well trained as his guards, so you all can deal with this new shadow on your own, without needing our help.”    

“Which, of course, would make such a difference,” the captain shot back with dry irony as they came to a clearing.  

“Perhaps the battles of Beleriand would have turned out otherwise, had the Sindar taken part.”  

“Who knows?” Taurlong admitted bitterly. “Perhaps more of our kings and our people would have survived the First Age had the Sindar bothered to come to our aid when they were most needed,” he sighed. “I appreciate your praise, Oropher,” he continued after taking a couple of steadying, deep breathes. “I must admit that I expected to be defeated by you,” he added provokingly as they approached the banks of a singing stream where the rest of their company was busy readying breakfast.  

“Well, you must know that we did not use the trees to our advantage,” Oropher admitted with an easy smile. “Otherwise, you would have not stood the slightest chance. What do you have there, Idhren?” he asked merrily, striding past the stunned captain to meet his guard, who looked up briefly from the bream he was gutting to check that his lord was unscathed.    

“My breakfast. You were supposed to be gathering mushrooms...”  Idhren reminded him in his less than respectful manner. Oropher winced, remembering his hurried sprint to the closest tree after he spotted the amber eyes of the first wolf behind a bush of holly berries. He had dropped then half a cloakful of mushrooms, he regretted now. 

“You can share mine, Lord Oropher, I was lucky to find a good number piled in the same clearing,” Taurlong taunted him from beside the fire, where the dwarf was busy overseeing the roasting of a fish, waving his swollen pack which surely contained Oropher’s mushrooms. With a menacing growl that would have set on edge the fur on the lead wolf’s neck, Oropher shook his head and finally settled down beside the Chieftain and the other elven guard who had remained with them the whole night, and helped them in the boring task of scrapping off the scales of their catches, while Taurlong chuckled in triumph and set himself to preparing the mushrooms.   

By the time Arien climbed upon the forest canopy they were finishing their tasty breakfast of bream, mushrooms and berries, washed down with the clear water of the nearby creek, and still busy discussing last night’s ambushes and skirmishes.  

“That trap was a clever trick, Chieftain Baghan,” the elven guard admitted, rubbing his ankle. “And it would also work in open ground. It is clear that you can fight with or without trees.”  

“Yes, and they can also hide in holes in the ground, like the Periannath do,” Idhren spat out curtly, casting an irate glance to the guard. “And where do you suggest that the Druedain will obtain their food and their shelter when there are no more forests left, Master Rochon?”  

“Peace, Idhren, we are not suggesting that the Numenoreans can continue undisturbed with their ravaging,” Taurlong chimed in. “This matter will be addressed in council this morning,” he added, casting a pondering glance at the position of the sun.  

“Not that there is much that you can do to stopping them, anyway,” the dwarf observed. He walked to the dwindling fire and began putting it out. “But I would be interested in knowing more of the layout of those lands. If there is an attack, it would be useful for the Lord of Moria to know more of his south western flank. Could their ships carry an army upriver?” he asked in curiosity. Taurlong and his guard exchanged a brief glance.  

“That was Aldarion’s idea, at least,” Taurlong admitted. “I wished that you could all meet with Commander Hîrvegil, so you could help him update our maps of Eriador,” he added with a hopeful smile. “If there is an attack, we will surely have to join forces in the defence of Middle-earth…”

“And Lord Oropher will rush into the fight ahead of everyone and the party will be over by the time the rest of us reach the battlefield,” the dwarf summed up as they gathered their belongings and tidied the area. Not even the Chieftain could hold back an amused chortle at Oropher’s offended expression, but his guard relieved him from answering.  

“Of course, Master Dwarf. If we are indeed forced to fight in the defence of our forest, then expect no mercy from our part,” Idhren explained with unrestrained ferocity. “We Silvan elves love the peace of our woods…but will not cower back or submit to another’s command if our trees are threatened…”  

“We were treated to a thorough display of your tactics last night,” Rochon assented with barely contained mirth as they set forth towards the palace.  

“Well, it was not me who put his stomping foot right into the Chieftain’s trap…”  

“But you ran head-first into our ambushes twice, Master Idhren…”  

“It did not work the third time,” the Silvan retorted with wounded pride, as the assorted company trotted downhill bantering and picking at each other in a friendly manner that had not seemed possible last night.  

But their good spirits were quenched as soon as they reached the palace grounds.  

“Gil-galad is mad at you, Taurlong,” a hurried warrior called to the captain as they approached one of the back gates. “You -and you, Master Dwarf- were expected at the forges at sunrise!”  

“I forgot completely,” the captain groaned in dismay. “Would you care to go there and apologize on my behalf, Master Bror?” he asked of the dwarf. “I must attend council in a few moments, but I will join the King in the forges as soon as possible…you can get some rest, my friends,” he turned then to the rest of his company, “but I would appreciate that you joined Commander Hîrvegil at midday meal to start discussing his maps… Lord Oropher, may I have a word with you?” he added hurriedly as the others left towards their chambers. After exchanging a quick glance with Idhren, Oropher nodded and followed the captain into the main building through a side door.  

“We expected that you joined us in a project in the Hall of Maps, but now I do not have the time to explain...”  

“I am tired of secrecy and jokes, Taurlong,” Oropher demanded sternly, getting hold of the captain’s arm and forcing him to stop and turn to face him. “Tell me what this is all about…”  

Casting cautious glances around, Taurlong lowered his voice and began explaining.  

“Look, the thing is... you know that Lord Glorfindel has…  

“Taurlong!” A maid interrupted them. “Erestor is mad at you! Someone left a horse free last night and she trampled cook’s private orchard…among other misdeeds!”  

“And what do I have to do with that, pray tell me?” The captain could not hold back his annoyance. “Am I now the stable master?”  

“You might as well end up as a stable hand, by the look of it,” she shrugged, unimpressed by his outburst. “It was the lord’s mare,” she explained, bowing respectfully to Oropher. “She is well, my lord,” she hurried to inform him. “She was to spend the night at the stables down in the Haven, but someone found it amusing to set her free, and she surely came up in search of you,” she added pointedly, glaring at Taurlong.  

“Why do you blame me? It could have been Gil-galad himself, it sounds like his lame sense of humour,” the captain defended himself weakly.  

“I think that Erestor already discarded that possibility,” the maid said succinctly, but in a very telling manner. “By your leave…”  

“You said she was perfectly capable of finding her way to her stall!” Taurlong glared at Oropher’s smug expression through narrowed eyes. “Now Cook is after me, thanks to your kind joke, and that worries me more than Erestor or even Gil-galad’s displeasure! I must go now, Oropher, but let us meet for midday meal and I will explain everything to you!  

Still chuckling at the troubled captain’s dismayed look, Oropher decided to pay a visit to his mare, fuelling the whole tale with a show of great concern and greater relief, and then went in search of Maentêw’s chambers, braving again the back passages of the huge building.  

And he got lost once again.  

Or rather got the chance to explore an -until then- unknown section of the palace.  

He crossed a sunny garden where the washers lay the linen to dry on the fresh, fragrant grass and busied themselves mending and sewing and chattering in the open. He greeted them with a courteous nod of his head and continued his stroll in all dignity. He crossed well-tended orchards and tidy workshops and had finally resigned himself to ask for directions when once again a sad, pleading humming caught his attention.  

He climbed a stretch of stairs, following the soft tune that was now mingled with a weaker, mournful one, until his way was blocked by a living fence of tall, dense bay that he crossed without thinking…to find himself, apparently, in Gil-galad’s private garden.  

“No matter what you sing to them, they do not feel at ease here,” he informed softly.  

The Noldorin king was kneeling on the ground, facing the sea, and he seemed quite busy humming worriedly to a short row of young, silvery-limbed trees that lined the front side of his secluded garden. Despite their nimble, fragile aspect, now that he listened with more attention Oropher could tell that the voices of those strange trees were old and wise, and very tired.  

“Now that is a great help indeed.” Gil-galad did not bother to turn to greet his uninvited guest. “Being a wood elf, I hoped you would be able to tell me something I did not know yet…”  

“Well, perhaps they do not like the view…or the company,” Oropher joked, taking Gil-galad’s comment as an invitation to join him. “What kind of trees are these, anyway?” he asked in curiosity, watching the unfamiliar trunks, the silver and pale-gold leaves and on the branches and, even stranger, the carpet of golden ones upon which Gil-galad knelt. “Look like a very uncommon beech…”  

“These are malinorni…mellyrn, I suppose,” the Noldo explained, sighing in defeat and sitting back on his heels, his eyes fixed on the strange trees that rose a bit taller than an adult elf. “This is a good time for you to see them,” he explained with a dreamy, wistful look in his eyes. “They will not lose their leaves in winter, but that silver beneath them will turn fully to pale gold…until the new blossoms come out. Pity these will not grow much taller or thicker, it seems…”  

“I had never heard of them,” Oropher admitted, squatting beside the king and turning one of the fallen leaves in his fingers. “Where do they come from?” Gil-galad cast him a pondering look and inhaled deeply.  

“From Númenor. They were sent there by the Elves of Eressëa, and Aldarion brought some as a present.”  

“Perhaps they are not used to the sea breeze?”  

“It is said that they grow on the western seaward slopes of Númenor…”  

Oropher nodded and watched the trees again. He had heard enough now to know that Aldarion had been King of Númenor at least four ennin ago. Those trees were definitely not young, even for elven standards.  

“Well,” he ventured, “I admit that they do not sound like happy trees, but perhaps this is their actual size and girth?” The Noldo cast him an amused glance and jumped on his feet nimbly. As he turned to see where he was going, Oropher noticed that the young king still wore the white linen shirt and grey loose trousers of the mariners that he had donned for last night’s event. He walked to the stone slab that served him as desk, picked up something from under scattered parchments and returned to Oropher’s side.  

“Look,” he said, placing an open book under his nose. “This is how a grove of grown up malinorni looks.”  

The parchments were very old and the colours of the drawings a bit worn off, yet Oropher could still discern a couple of elves standing on a carpet of golden leaves and embracing a huge trunk that stood in a dense grove. All above them the silvery, smooth trunks and branches glistened with bunches of golden blossoms. Oropher looked again to the fragile trees and then back to the picture. Even if the figures were children, grown up mellyrn were definitely taller and thicker than the sorrowful specimens that Gil-galad housed in his garden.  He shrugged, for lack of a comforting comment.  

“Beautiful trees,” he finally offered. “I take it that they also grow in Eressëa?”  

“As well as in Valinor, as it says here,” Gil-galad explained, pointing at the unintelligible, flowing script underlying the picture. “Adult malinorni reach more than ten times the height of a grown-up elf…” he read aloud. “My father used to tell me how he had fallen from one of those and had broken unnumbered bones,” he commented then with a quiet laugh. Oropher nodded distractedly, too busy skimming the coloured pages and discovering trees that he had never heard of, less seen.  

“And those?” he asked in wonder at the glorious trees with white, golden and scarlet fruits and flowers, and laden boughs.  

“Oiolairë, Lairelossë, Nessamelda, Laurinquë, Vardarianna,” Gil-galad recited the foreign names with fondness, pointing deftly at the different trees and their flowers and fruits, which were drawn in all detail. “None of them ever grew in Middle-earth.” Amazed, Oropher closed the leather-bound volume to check its origins.  

“Yára Nólëhínin,” it read in the cover, in carved letters almost erased by passing time. He now remembered having held it in his hands the other night in the library.  

“My mother crafted it for me before I was born,” Gil-galad explained softly. “It means `Ancient Knowledge for Children´ and it contains interesting information about life in the Blessed Realm. I used to pester my grandfather to read me the part about trees and beasts every night before going to sleep,” he chuckled. “That is why I know their names...even if I never saw one.”  

For some unexplained reason, those words sent a shiver down Oropher’s spine. Those trees grew beyond the waters, which was as good as saying that they did not exist…as far as he was concerned. Except that there were those fragile, ailing silver and golden trees trembling in the autumn breeze before him, telling him that it was true, that beyond the waters there was a land of peace and plenty.  

“I cannot find the reason for their ailment, but of course I do not fully understand their voices,” he said brusquely, discarding those disturbing thoughts and returning the much used volume to its owner. “They mourn, but at least they seem to hold no grudge or complain against you,” he added with a playful scowl.  

“Yet for some reason they will not take root in this land,” Gil-galad said, clearly discomfited. “Why should I be surprised?” he wondered then with a bitter, wistful smile, standing up and wiping the dirt from his trousers. “Nothing takes root here for long,” he sighed, his gaze lost in the horizon.  “Maybe the soil is too thin, maybe the lands are not suitable, maybe they feel this is a land that will not stand for long... So they will not take root, like many elves who come to live here for a while…before taking ship west. Mine is a dwindling realm, Oropher,” he confessed with a resigned shrug. “Much as these trees, who yield their fruit, fulfill their duty but dig not deep in the ground, raise not tall to the sun, for perhaps they know they are not meant to last long…”  

Moved by the quiet hopelessness in the king’s voice, Oropher searched for some words of comfort. 

“Despair not, for at least they keep you company and bring you a reminder of what awaits beyond the Sea,” he offered lamely. “Perhaps they were meant to grow elsewhere?”  

The king frowned at him, and then chuckled bitterly.  

“Surely,” he agreed, “given that they will not thrive around here, no matter my insistence...Perhaps I will have to send them back in the next ship…” he joked, trying and failing to appear unaffected.  “And speaking of ailing trees, I thought you would be summoned to meet with the rest of my counselors? They are debating now what can be done regarding King Amdír’s complains and our responsibility in that issue…Anyway they will be done soon and they will come here to let me know their advice…You will be glad to learn that some of my counselors deem me responsible in certain degree for the Edain’s greed towards trees…”  

“I care not much for blame,” Oropher shrugged, following the Noldo to the parchment-littered table and accepting a goblet of wine. “But I am curious to know what you intend to do about that matter.”  

Gil-galad shrugged. “There isn’t much that I can do, Oropher. The Numenoreans are strong and numerous and heavily armed, and they are our best allies against the shadow that is arising and hates us…” 

“So you will allow them have their way… as long as they leave your own trees alone?” Oropher felt a burst of cold rage surge again. How could he ever think for a moment that the Noldo really cared for the trees?  

“Not exactly. I have no authority over those lands, but I intend to call their attention upon their misdeeds. It would not be the first time that I manage to protect a forest while teaching the Edain sensible behaviour, after all…”  

“It was my son…and his friends, if my memory serves me well, who taught Elros’ people how to manage the forest for their shipbuilding,” Oropher growled as he recalled those times.  

“Ah, but with your invaluable help and following our suggestion, if mine serves me as well,” Gil-galad chuckled. “Anyway, I cannot let your son and his friends think that I am a tree-eater, after all this time…”  

“Not when one of said friends is now my daughter-in-law,” Oropher agreed with a soft smile.  

“My congratulations to Thranduil. She seemed a good match for him.”  

“My thanks. So what is it that you intend to do? Not sending me there to teach them, I expect…”  

“That would be a good idea…but I have other volunteers in mind. We need to make sure that they stop their ravaging...while ensuring that the river way up into the heart of Eriador is still open.”  

“Since the harm is already done, let us get the best out of it. You are a practical elf, Gil-galad,” Oropher observed quite callously. He did not expect the heated answer.  

“And what would you have me do, then?” The Noldo leaned over the table, glaring at his guest. “It is easy for you to place the blame on the accursed Noldor, isn’t it? Look around you, Oropher,” he waved impatiently. “And tell me if you think that my army can keep the watch across the uncounted leagues of Eriador, when we are being assailed on our own trade routes not three days from our borders… I thought you had talked to Maentêw…”  

“Peace, Gil-galad, I was only joking…”  

“It may be a matter of jokes for you, Oropher,” the Noldo grunted crossly, shuffling irately the parchments before him, “in your sheltered and protected forest. Now, would you lend me your warriors to keep watch upon the lands of Enedwaith?”  

“You know I could not. The Silvan...”  

“Then stop arguing, and trust me to do my best.”  

Much to his surprise, Oropher found out that he did. Despite the secrets and misgivings and the old grudges, he really trusted that stern, sad king who seemed to take his duty so seriously despite his self-doubt. He nodded and smiled softly.  

“I do. You know that it is difficult for me to stop arguing…”  

“Then find another target for your arrows,” the king answered brusquely. “I expected that letting your mare loose upon our orchards and trouncing my guards for a whole night would serve to soften your sharpest edges,” he complained with a frown. Oropher watched him in surprise.  

“Well, you may be glad to know that we called it a draw. Your guards are better in forest warfare than what I expected…”  

“Are you telling me that you did not use the trees to spot them?”  

“It would not have been fair,” Oropher retorted, angered at the king’s skeptically raised brows. “I know I could trounce them in any moment…and so do they,” he affirmed. “But you should enlist Sindarin and Silvan warriors in your personal guard,” he recommended with his usual petulance.  

Fortunately a mighty din coming from the king’s chambers interrupted their fencing without first blood being drawn. Gil-galad cast him a threatening glance and then rose to meet the arriving councilors.  

“Come, my lords, make yourself comfortable, I am glad to see that you have reached an agreement in such a short time,” he offered in a polite but subtly exasperated manner as his councilors flooded his garden and grabbed tree stumps and benches, dragging them around the table and settling down with goblets of wine amidst merry chattering and paying little attention to the king.  

“You had not yet met Master Pengolod, I think, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad added, pointing at the dark-haired lore master, who wore a disapproving glare on his handsome, though partly scarred face.  

“Not exactly an agreement, King Gil-galad,” Pengolod argued after returning Oropher’s nod stiffly.  

“We put an end to a discussion that led nowhere and thought that we would rather enjoy your wine,” Círdan chuckled, raising his goblet and exchanging a comforting wink with his foster son, who relaxed visibly.  

“Let us hear your conclusions, then.”  

Casting a look at the faces around him, Oropher noticed varied degrees of amusement, from Círdan to Merenel to Elrond, exasperation, from Erestor to Taurlong, and plain astonishment shining brightly on Glorfindel’s face. The golden elf-lord had taken seat on the ground at some distance, by the ailing mellyrn, and now their song seemed a bit stronger, Oropher noticed.  

“Were you not the one in charge of teaching the Edain how to manage the forests around us for their shipbuilding at the beginning of this Age?” 

The lore master’s voice was so stern, almost accusing, that Oropher winced and for a brief moment doubted the claim he had boldly made before Gil-galad a moment before.  

“Well, I…” 

“Worry not, Oropher,” Gil-galad chuckled briefly. “I am the defendant. Yes, Master Pengolod,” he added, turning to the lore master, “it was actually Lord Oropher, with the support of his son and several others, as well as Lord Círdan’s shipwrights. We already acknowledged their contribution back then…Can we hear now your conclusions, my friends?”  

“We tried to find a practical approach rather than dwelling on who is to blame for this situation,” Elrond chimed in hurriedly. “Not that we wholly succeeded. The most important thing is how to address the issue of King Amdír and Chieftain’s Baghan’s complains while impressing upon the King of Númenor the danger of this new threat that is arising in the East…”  

“If we continue to ignore the reasons behind their behavior, there will not be an effective way of stopping them,” Pengolod insisted sternly, casting an admonishing glare towards Elrond. “But no conclusions were reached on my part,” he added with a mighty frown. 

“The Ciryatur must be informed of what is going on. But we also need him to reinforce their defences beyond the rivers, in case of invasion,” Erestor explained patiently. “Taurlong agreed that a small party of scouts could be sent there in short notice, to assess the situation…”  

“And we also agreed -most of us did- that we should teach again the Edain how to take care of the forests,” Merenel added with a provoking wink that made Oropher react immediately.  

“Do not count on me for that,” he hurried to remark, raising both hands in dismissal and causing a roar of laughter to spread among the councilors.  

“It was not your fault, Lord Oropher. We would not be in this situation had we not taught them how to cut the trees down with such efficiency on the first place,” Pengolod retorted, casting a pointed look at Círdan.  

“They would have come up with other ways, if not with the same…”  

“Yet you taught them the fastest way…”  

“They needed big, strong ships in which they could carry their belongings, and what they might need for settling down in that new land!” 

“I never before heard you complain about your own ships, Lord Shipwright. And, as far as my research goes, Ossë did not use handsaws when he taught the Teleri the noble art of shipbuilding…”  

“I was sure that it would come to this,” Gil-galad chimed in annoyance, raising a hand to stem the exchange.  

“We have been remiss in our duty towards this land,” Pengolod remarked bitterly, disregarding the king’s gesture. “We let the Edain loose and granted them free access to all the lands…ignoring what they do or how they behave…We taught them, and then carelessly gave them our weapons, our tools and our techniques...knowing how short-lived and easily corrupted they are. Who knows what has happened to their trees in Númenor that they are now so devoted to devastating the forests of Middle-earth?”  

“And what do you suggest that we should do, Master Pengolod? I admit my responsibility regarding all types of saws, if that is your worry, but blame will  not solve the problem or stop the damage, as Lord Oropher kindly reminded me not long ago,” Gil-galad said sternly. A sudden silence followed his words.  

“I did not mean…” the impossibly self-assured lore-master blushed slightly. 

“Yes, you did,” the king retorted firmly. “And you are right. It was by my father’s decision that the Noldor shared the technology for making iron hand saws, stiffened backsaws and frame saws with the Teleri and the Dwarves first, and later with the Edain…And those tools allow more speed in wood processing, as you all know.”  

“Were those tools all that crucial?” The lore-master’s expression quickly changed from reproving into curious. Círdan sighed and shook his head.  

“In a sense,” he began reluctantly. “Before the arrival of the Noldor, we simply worked with axes and augers and adzes. Our ships and boats reflect the nature of the trees that lend their trunks to our needs. The size of the ship, the width of the planks, the curvature of the ribs, the length of the ship itself –all depend on long, slow-grown and knot-free trunks. Among us, all shipwrights are also foresters by necessity…and the other way around. The Noldorin tools made it easier to cut and shape irregular wood into fitting parts and planks…but since we know how to select the right trees, and discuss our needs with them, we do not require shaping parts with such detail…” 

“The Noldorin shipbuilding, or rather their theoretical approach, was based on a different concept, that of planning everything beforehand,” Merenel took over the tale, his playful demeanour for once dimmed by the importance of the matter. “Once their plans were carefully drawn in all detail, they would set out in search of wood, and then would fit and shape it to their purposes with their tools. We adopted their improved saws for our woodwork and handcrafts, but the first time that we built a great number of boats in mixed styles was when we helped build Elros’ fleet, using the Noldorin technique of butting boards for extra length…” 

“So it was in the shipyards that the Edain learnt both manners of shipbuilding…and it would seem that they chose the fastest, apparently easier one,” Círdan ended up. “With saws to shape and fit the boards and planks, building takes a larger crew of specialized workers, but they need not care much for finding the right tree, since any can be shaped easily to fit their purpose. So they can set different teams to make specialized tasks and to prepare the raw materials, and build up several ships at a time…This of course means that they would need a steady supply of wood to keep their teams busy… So they need huge forest areas and increasing numbers of woodcutters capable of tumbling down trees at great speed, instead of foresters who take time to choose, select, encourage, discuss… before finally taking down in all respect what the forest agrees to yield…Without proper care, wide forest areas can soon be turned in barren wastes,” the Shipwright added sadly.  

“But the Edain already knew the hand saw?”  

“Indeed. They were already accomplished artisans…”  

“So it was not the tool but the technique that you taught them…”  

“So it would seem,” Círdan admitted reluctantly, casting irate glances at the hardly contained chuckles all around him.  

“Yet it was not your own technique but a Noldorin one, you said before,” Pengolod had taken up on the enquiry with the dedication of a hound after a clear scent. “I always thought the Noldor knew not the art of shipbuilding...”  

“We were not shipwrights, Pengolod,” Glorfindel chimed in, his pride somewhat piqued. “Of course we would build boats and rafts and barges, and some of us were interested in the art of shipbuilding, but that was mainly the craft of Olwë’s people...”  

“The Noldor were not fully ignorant in the art,” Círdan agreed, casting an apologetic glance at Gil-galad, who rolled his eyes and shrugged in acquiescence. “Finrod had served a long apprenticeship in Olwë’s court, where he acquired the basic notions…and a deep curiosity towards Shipbuilding. He had been pondering long in his mind and testing his theories in small scale models and drawings, before he came to me with his first plans for a ship...all drawn in painful, accurate detail in several pieces of parchment. Since our own ships fitted our needs well enough, we simply helped him develop his ideas, learnt the new technique…and stuck to our manner until we needed other kind of ships. But we adopted the hand saw as a gift from our kin from beyond the sea with deep gratefulness, since it made other crafts and works of art easier,” he added with a fond smile to his foster son.  

“So in the end it is the Noldorin design which caused the ravaging…”  

“Yes, Master Pengolod,” Gil-galad seemed ready to explode. “As I admitted at the beginning of this conversation, I am to blame for it, as my father’s son. Know, though, before you pass your judgment, that it was not a rash decision,” he added roughly, waving a parchment in his hand. “Now can we go to the practical part?”  

“Of course we must set up a thorough, strict supervision over their operations, and establish strict allowances for their wood supplies,” Pengolod stated matter-of-factly. “May I see that?” he added, pointing at the old parchment that Gil-galad still held in his hand.  

“Another suggestion that could be more applicable in our present circumstances?” the king asked in a plainly strained voice, handing over the parchment to Pengolod without meeting his eyes.  

“You should summon the Ciryatur as soon as possible to present him with your allies’ complains…”  

“You should send a message to their king!” Pengolod blurted without raising his eyes from his reading. “This verb is quite unusual!” he muttered then to himself. “If you want the King of Númenor to be your ally you cannot summon his Chief Commander and reprimand him as if he were a wayward warrior of yours…”  

“There are no wayward warriors in my army…”  

“…you should summon the Ciryatur,” Elrond insisted, “and express your concerns about their behaviour while informing him of this new threat… and the risk of having all those displaced and harassed populations roaming the lands and nursing their grudges against them,” he ended with a defiant glare. Gil-galad shook his head and cast a look at the captain of his guard.  

“What do you have to say, Taurlong? I assume that you have been so busy studying this matter that you forgot our early morning appointment at the forges…”  

“I did, my lord,” the captain nodded vaguely, blushing furiously.  “I do not think that we can afford sending a whole garrison there, but a party of well-trained scouts could gather critical information about what is going on, as well as the actual situation of the lands and river ways, while addressing the issue of the forest ravaging…”  

“Their pride is overgrown and they will not heed reasons… unless forced to it. Men are greedy and weak of will…” Pengolod finally lifted his eyes from the parchment and shook his head, unconvinced.  

“Yet they are also capable of great sacrifices and deeds of honour, despite their short lives and lack of long term sight,” Glorfindel’s soft, conciliatory voice wafted towards them, extending a soothing feeling over the tense meeting. “You were in the Fen of Serech with me, Pengolod, when the Men of Hithlum defended our rearguard and bought us the time to leave the field in the Nirnaeth,” he reminded his old friend gently.  

“Much has passed since then, my friend” the lore master answered in a voice that did not quiver. “And the blood of the fathers of the Edain has thinned out, almost vanished…”  

“But it still runs true in the Kings of Númenor,” Gil-galad said sharply. “I will have the Ciryatur summoned before me. I understand your reasons, Master Pengolod, but you must remember that King Amdír, King Oropher and Chieftain Baghan are our allies as well. It is the least that we owe to them, to summon the Ciryatur to be informed of the misdeeds of his foresters and his troops. We will send a scouting party there to assess the damage and the situation of the lands, and to start redressing their forestry policies, and in the meantime we will send a message to the King of Númenor, whomever sits now in the High Seat, informing him of the new threat, the state of his defences and the danger of displaced populations that are being armed and raised against him by Annatar. Does that settle the matter to your satisfaction, King Oropher?” he asked, turning to the Sindarin king who had remained silent through the whole exchange.  

“For now. As I said before, I do not care much about who is to blame, whether the tool or the technique, or rather the hurried nature of the Secondborn,” Oropher answered sternly. “I will wait to see how the Ciryatur reacts to your arguments and then return to Amdír and inform him. I hope that this time you will keep both of us duly updated about how things are progressing, King Gil-galad,” he added pointedly. “May I see that?” he asked Pengolod in a lower voice, pointing at the parchment.  

“We will do what we can,” the Noldo answered tiredly. “The roads between our realms are not as safe as they used to be…”  

“Shall I summon the Ciryatur then?”  

“Please, Erestor. It seems that Lord Oropher is in a hurry to leave us…”  

“Well…he will have to wait, unless he intends to depart on his own…”  

“I do not understand,” Oropher grunted, returning the parchment to Pengolod with a scowl.  

“Your guards volunteered to join another party that set out this morning to reinforce Gildor’s company in the Old Forest, a few days east,” Elrond informed him merrily. “They will not be back before half a moon, I fear…”  

Oropher shook his head, remembering Idhren’s worry that Bronadel would succumb to the sea-longing and he chuckled briefly.  

“Let it not be said that we do not contribute to the safety of your realm, Gil-galad. But I meant the parchment…”  

“Of course you cannot,” Gil-galad groaned, striding towards Pengolod and retrieving it quite forcefully. “It is written in Quenya. It is from a letter that my father sent me long ago,” he added, a brief cloud of longing crossing his face.  

“Is that your father writing? Tidy and elegantly worded, I must admit…” Pengolod commented. “If my advice is no longer needed, I would retire, by your leave,” he added with a brief bow.  

“Perhaps you would like to carry the summons yourself?” Erestor offered in a deceptively soft voice that fooled no-one around him. Oropher wondered amusedly what the lore master had done to earn the king and Erestor’s obvious dislike. Of course he could not know that Erestor took it personally every time the lore master hinted at Gil-galad’s less than perfect mastery of his mother tongue…or his writing style, which he dubbed as “hoarse”. “So you can smooth up any inconvenient –inelegant- wording the message could contain?” the councilor added with an evil smile.  

“I would rather defer to the King’s messengers –or his herald…”  

“It is a good idea, I think,” Gil-galad seconded Erestor’s wicked suggestion with a serious nod. “Actually, I would appreciate that you wrote the summons, Master Pengolod, since it is such a delicate matter…”  

Casting desperate looks around, the lore master finally had to surrender to the king’s will and sketched a brief bow in acceptance.  

“As you command, my lord. And I will gladly supervise your letter to Tar- Súrion –when it is finished,” he returned calmly, smiling in petty revenge at the minute scowl that twisted Gil-galad’s features.  

“Can anyone tell me what says in that parchment?” Oropher chimed in annoyance, seeing that everybody were rising and readying to take their leave from the king. 

“…Círdan and Merenel doubted that it would change their own shipbuilding…” With a deft movement Erestor had seized the parchment from the king’s hand and began translating. “Regarding dwarves, Finrod did not think it likely that they would develop a sudden interest in trees, since they only use wood for their support frames and structures, and they are notably proficient with their axes and adzes… And so a decision is made, Ereinion: You listen to all parts involved and then ponder consequences and implications…knowing that you cannot prevent or order –or be responsible for- what others might do later as a result. My brother deferred to my judgment and none of my companions had useful advice to offer, so I made my decision and allowed the knowledge of saw-making to be passed on to the Shipwright’s people and the Dwarves. If in ages to come you or I are to blame for misdeeds or consequences arising from this decision of mine, know for your heart’s comfort that *this* one, at least, was not taken rashly.”  

“Not that it mattered much in the end…whether rash or not,” Oropher pondered, his curiosity finally satisfied. “But it seems that he did not have such a supportive group of councilor as you have here,” he joked.  

“Oh, I remember those days down there in the Falas,” Glorfindel interrupted merrily. “And we did have useful advice to offer; only he would not take us seriously…”  

“I bet you did.” Gil-galad scowled darkly at the golden elf-lord and the Sindarin king. “And I bet that you envy me my council, Lord Oropher. That was all, my lords, thank you for your efforts. Taurlong, I suspect that you will have time now to go to the forges, since I seriously doubt that you will be admitted into Cook’s realm today…”  

“But I… Look, Gil-galad, I can explain…”  

“And since you are forced to put up with our company for longer than you expected, Lord Oropher, I sincerely hope that you will spend part of your spare time helping my troop commander improve our maps…You are all welcome to the midday meal, my friends,” the king added airily, retrieving the parchment from Erestor’s hand and placing it in a neat stack with the rest of parchments that were spread upon his makeshift desk, all littered with the same flowing, graceful script. “Except for Master Pengolod, I’d say,” he added pretending worry, “who will surely appreciate some privacy to compose that delicate message in peace.”  

And with that parting shot, the king picked up an old-looking stone parchment-weight shaped like a tower and placed it firmly upon the pile. Then, with a graceful wave of his long hand he unceremoniously dismissed his council and led the way through his chambers, followed by a group of chattering councilors that rather resembled a group of seagulls commenting on the day’s catches.  

With a last look at the slender, sad trees, Oropher had to admit that, after all, Gil-galad’s unruly court was not that different from his.  

TBC.

A/N   Warning: Insanely long Author’s Note ahead.

I had been meaning to write this part about shipbuilding for a long time.

Actually, since I read Bodkin’s tale of Eärendil’s shipbuilding and his settling for a mixed technique of clinker and carvel to build Vingilot, I think. It got me thinking about what techniques would have been used in Middle-earth, and how they would evolve and mix and spread across Beleriand and among different cultures.

It made sense to me that the Teleri would build clinker ships, which is a more creative, intuitive form of shipbuilding, which also means a closer relationship with the forests. The Noldor, I figured, would have developed an intellectual side interest in shipbuilding, leading them to the plan-based carvel style, which is a more technical approach. It could be said that clinker shipbuilders are artists or artisans, while carvel shipbuilders are architects or engineers in their approach to materials, the building process in itself and regarding the results.

And then there is the question of the availability of tools.

It was the Romans who perfected the art of sawing –and the tools for it. Saws were used well before them, but technology was not much evolved and sawing was a slow, difficult process…and saws not a widespread commodity. This also added another explanation for the popularity of clinker built ships in Northern Europe, since this technique relied on well chosen trees and the expert “eye” of the builder, so the ship ended up having the size and manner allowed by the available material, and not the other way.

On the other hand, the Mediterranean urban, merchant and sea going cultures also enjoyed extra wealth out of commercial exchanges and a surplus demand for consumption goods for the urban and rural elites alike. This boosted a booming industry of luxury goods and handicrafts, delicate woodwork of cabinets, boxes, and pieces of furniture that needed small parts that fitted perfectly.

So saws were developed and perfected by the Romans, and this way the Mediterranean cultures had the perfect tools at their disposal for crafting carvel ships that fitted better their needs of extra length and depth for more cargo in calmer seas and mainly coastal trips. (Carvel built ships rely on an inner structure to which hull planks are fitted edge to edge, without fastenings.)

So it made sense to me for the Noldor –artificers and crafters- to have every type of saws at their disposal, and also being able –prone- to intellectually come up with the design of a ship, for the mental pleasure of it, even if they never bothered to build one, since that was the Teleri’s business, after all. So I imagined that one day Finrod would have tried to put his speculations into practice, from parchment into reality, and so he would draw the plans and all pieces and then run off to find the wood and build its parts with the appropriate tools –saws.  

On the other hand  the Teleri, closer and more deeply connected to the forest, out of observation –and thanks to Ossë’s teachings- would need not those tools for their shipbuilding, being capable of drawing the lines of the ship by eye as they watched the shapes of the trees.

And so it was easy to associate the deforestation caused later by the Númenoreans in the southern lands of Eriador with a greed for wood caused by their careless approach, allowed by the availability of a range of tools that made it simple to build boats, without needing specific knowledge about how to chose the trees and care for the forests. That would partly explain the careless ravaging that takes place during the Númenorean period in southern Eriador.

In the Second Age, then, technology supplanted know-how and careful management of the resource and brought about an increase in the production, both in quantity and in speed. This meant the abandoning of forms of shipbuilding that were more respectful with the forests in favour of carvel building, which allowed greater ships but also caused more waste and devastation, since all wood was useful in principle for being cut down...while generating more waste after being treated. To avoid despoiling the forests in Númenor, once the hunger for shipbuilding arose, Aldarion set sail to Middle-earth and found there forests that seemed endless, infinite, to his mortal eyes.

The greedy deforestation caused by the Numenoreans in eight centuries brought about an abrupt and permanent change in landscape –loss of forests and habitats- and surely in climate. But also severe displacement of populations and thus a relentless grudge against the Men of Númenor –and all Men allied to them- from the part of the Dunledins, the race that inhabited those savaged lands first. This hatred was later fuelled by Saruman to have them rise against the Rohirrim by the end of the Third Age.

Fascinating, isn’t it?

In the last Chapter: Gil-galad’s counsellors agreed to call the Ciryatur to task regarding the Númenorean wreckage of the southern forests of Eriador, thus heeding the Sindar and the Druedain’s complains, much to Oropher’s glee.  

Chapter 8. In the Lands of Men of Darkness.  

In which Ereinion holds court –and his temper- Oropher stretches his diplomatic muscle and Glorfindel makes himself useful again.

Half a moon later.  

“For thirty-two sun-rounds we instructed your kin, before they set sail to their appointed land, Master Ciryatur, but it seems that it was too short a time for even the basics of forest care to be learned by your people…”  

“Master Pengolod…”  

“Did I say something inaccurate, Lord Elrond?”  

“Only discourteous...”  

“But it is the plain truth. Your lord brother was well aware of the importance of keeping good care of the forest…”  

“Tar-Minyatur passed beyond the circles of the world more than a thousand sun-rounds ago…”  

“That’s no reason for his heirs and his people to forsake his teachings,” Pengolod insisted as if he were arguing with a child. 

Somehow, Oropher saw himself reflected in the inflexible lore master. Instinctively, he turned to study Gil-galad’s expression, sure that he would find exasperation and distress fighting for dominion on the young king’s features. On the contrary, he followed the discussion with an air of polite interest, his head supported by a closed fist, the elbow resting on the carved arm of his high-backed, soberly decorated chair. A faint smiled ghosted at the corners of his mouth and, from time to time, managed to spread across the tight line of his lips.  

All in all, the High King seemed to be having a great time, Oropher groaned inwardly, shifting in his own chair at the king’s right, while Pengolod and Elrond continued with their argument against and in favour of Men as if the Ciryatur were not present. For a brief moment, he even pitied the Númenorean commander. Sitting amidst two rows of elven counsellors, he faced the Noldorin king and his two allies, Oropher to the king’s right, and the Chieftain of the Druedain to his left.  

For a long hour, the Ciryatur had endured their reports and accusations impassively. As it was his wont, Oropher had started shooting his barbed arrows as soon as Gil-galad had finished presenting the problem to his Edain ally, and the Druadan had not lagged behind. The Ciryatur had listened politely at first, and then had made uncertain attempts at defending their procedures. At that point Círdan, Elrond, Merenel and Pengolod had joined in the party, with very different goals in mind, of that Oropher was now sure, catching the amused, scheming glance that Gil-galad had just exchanged with the Shipwright as the argument rolled endlessly around the same issues.  

“But we need wood!” the Ciryatur sounded almost pleading now. All sympathy that Oropher might have felt towards the harried Edain dissolved quickly after he heard Chieftain Baghan’s last accusation.  

“You let the wood to rot by the riverside. Chieftain saw it on his way here! Hills of dead trunks piled on deserted quays!” An outraged gasp rippled across the rows of counsellors and the Ciryatur blushed deeply.  

“We have had certain problems with the transportation, that is true,” he admitted guiltily. “But that was only in the last twenty sun-rounds…”  

“And who knows how many forests were cut down to wastelands in twenty sun-rounds, my lord?” Pengolod argued heatedly. “Their access to the southern woods must be curbed drastically!” he added, and Oropher found himself supporting him eagerly, while the Chieftain hit the arms of his chair in noisy approval.  

“With due respect, King Gil-galad, those lands are beyond your borders and thus you have no authority over them,” the Ciryatur remarked with barely contained irritation, jumping form his chair, plainly annoyed by this turn of events, to the point that he now seemed ready to defend their rights more forcefully than he had let show until then.  

Worried, Oropher wondered if they had gone too far in their claims as to insult the Commander of the Men of Númenor. He risked a brief glance at the Noldo and then felt the sudden impulse to jump upon him and wipe that smug smile from his face with his bare hands.  

“You are right, Lord Ciryatur. Not only are those lands beyond our borders, but also beyond our reach, in terms of available hands to be lent in their defence,” Gil-galad said pleasantly, a touch of honest concern in his deep, beautiful voice. “And since this is a matter of concern to all of us, this is what I propose.”  

“I hear you, my lord,” the Ciryatur nodded, bowing respectfully and retaking his seat.  

Sure that he commanded attention from all present, Gil-galad began.  

“It may as well be -as Master Pengolod no doubt meant- that the tales and knowledge that are passed from father to son are somehow distorted or lost in the way of so many generations. That is something we Elves tend to forget in our dealings with our human kin,” he offered in a serious, empathic voice. The Ciryatur nodded obligingly and Oropher bit back an annoyed groan at the too obvious trick. “We apologize for disregarding the needs of our brother the King of Númenor, and we offer a team of our most qualified foresters to help his ship-builders and tree eat…er, cutters, re-learn the art of forest managing, if the King will consent…” Gil-galad continued his shameless weakening of the Ciryatur’s position.  

Of course, Oropher grunted inwardly, no one would ever dream of refusing such a politely worded command, under disguise of a generous offering. The boy had grown up indeed he had to admit grudgingly as he watched the Ciryatur turn Gil-galad’s words carefully in his mind before he sighed and finally came to a decision.  

“I am sure that King Súrion will be more than grateful for your help, my lord, which honours the goodwill and friendship that you have always extended upon us,” he offered slowly. “It was not our intention to cause such damage,” he added then as if on second thoughts, casting cautious looks at the Elf and Druadan flanking the Elven king.  

“Excellent!” Gil-galad interrupted him in a business-like tone. “We will be glad to offer assistance as well in the cleaning and restoring of the waterways up into Eriador, so your defences are ready in case of invasion...” This caught the Ciryatur completely by surprise.  

“Invasion? But…What invasion? What news are these, my lord?”  

And there you got him, boy. Masterful indeed, Oropher told himself, sharing an approving look with Círdan while the bewildered Ciryatur floundered amidst maps and news of an impending war of which he had not even heard until then. Knowing that this was as much as he would get, Oropher sat back and relaxed, watching with ill-concealed interest as the skilful young king won that battle without surrendering anything in the process.  

                                                    ~*~*~*~

 “Had I been told beforehand, I would have never believed it,” Oropher gasped raggedly between blows.  

“That you would be found in a forge in the company of a group of Noldor and a dwarf, not to mention a former fellow warrior, helping shape a present for a Noldorin king?”  

“That too,” the Sindarin king agreed, casting a murderous look at his friend as he stopped for a while to regain his breathing and wiped off the sweat from his face with a strong, muscular forearm that glistened in the firelight of the forge. As on second thoughts, he picked up one of the water buckets and poured it over his head and his naked chest, shaking his long hair and sending a shower of small droplets to bubble briefly on the overheated anvil.  

“Seriously, Maentêw,” he commented aloud, walking to seat on a wooden box beside his friend, aware of the expectation aroused by his words in the suddenly quiet forge. “I was there and I still cannot believe that he managed to talk that poor Ciryatur into offering more men to defend the North-South road…”  

“While ensuring your cooperation and that of the Chieftain,” Glorfindel observed merrily from another anvil, where he watched as the dwarf worked on a small, delicate piece.  

“He only offered what we had already agreed,” Oropher argued weakly. “I will keep Amdír updated on the movements of the enemy…what Amdír does with that information is not my concern...and the same can be said of the Chieftain!”

“Perhaps, but after the way you attacked the Ciryatur, you must admit that Gil-galad made it sound as if you had agreed to make peace with the Edain…As if we all had a great alliance!” Oropher growled but had to concede the point grudgingly.  

“And by sharing the news of the troubles in the South he managed to fan the interest of the Numenoreans towards the increasingly worrying situation in Eriador, so the Ciryatur is now willing to lend us more warriors to defend the road…and you didn’t even have to growl and wave your axe at him, Master Dwarf,” Taurlong pointed out and they all laughed, while the Dwarf nodded seriously.  

“Well, with all these battles of words, and quick victories won upon battlefields of parchment, it is to hope that the boy does not forget that it was the trees we were discussing here,” Oropher groaned quite callously, picking up the heavy hammer and returning with a nasty sneer the reproachful glance that Maentêw threw his way.  

“Merenel will take care of that, Oropher,” Taurlong shot back. “Gil-galad was very skilful yesterday, and it wouldn’t hurt you to admit, even for once, that a Noldo did something right…”  

“I would, if I ever heard of one,” Oropher retorted, delivering a mighty stroke on the anvil and challenging Taurlong with a provocative glance. “But you must concede in turn, Captain, that his skills in negotiation cannot come from his Noldorin ancestry but rather from his Telerin upbringing, for had his forefathers been as accomplished as he is, they would have surely never argued over their crown or their jewels on the first place,” he finished with a mocking bow, as his audience could not help but agree with amused chortles that soon turned out into open laughter.  

“It is a pity then, that you did not spend more time in the Shipwright’s company as well, Lord Oropher,” Taurlong retorted. “Such a skill is so valuable in a ruler…”  

“But where would be the fun, Captain Taurlong, if we both behaved in a sensible manner?”  

“It is plain that you are both ready for a rematch,” Glorfindel chimed in merrily, while the two warriors exchanged menacing glares under cover of their apparently harmless barbs. “Should we start again in the archery range, or rather go to the forest straight?”  

“Ah, here you are!” A relieved-looking Elrond peeked form the forge’s door, cutting Oropher’s rejoinder. “Ereinion wants to see us,” he added, pointing at Taurlong and Glorfindel. He shook his head, hesitating for a brief while, and then shrugged. “In truth I think that all of you should come. Gildor’s patrol has just returned, and they bring worrying news…”  

“What happened to my guards?” Oropher glared at Elrond imperiously, putting aside the hammer and retrieving his tunic.  

“Nothing, as far as I know,” the half-elf sighed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Would you come now?”  

Gil-galad lifted a perplexed brow as the door to his council room opened and an unexpected, uninvited crowd trooped in.  

“What is it that we are celebrating and I completely forgot about, Elrond?” he asked coolly, fixing the half-elf in an inquisitive, faintly amused glance. The huge table was covered with maps, and around it bent Erestor, Círdan, Hîrvegil and a golden-haired elf that Oropher knew well.  

“Where are my guards, Gildor?” he spat, elbowing his way until he stood before the tired-looking, travel-worn elf. The Noldo returned his glare with indifference and did not bother to stand.  

“I expect that I am relieved of saying how pleased I am to meet you again, Lord Oropher,” he shrugged, waving briefly to the glowering Sinda. “I suppose that your guards are taking a well-deserved bath,” he added quite peevishly, casting a pointed look at Gil-galad, who still looked at Elrond expectantly.  

“I thought that Gildor’s news would be of interest to Master Bror as well,” the half-elf offered with a playful wink. “And Lord Oropher worried about his guards…”  

“Indeed,” Gil-galad sighed. “But I somehow doubt that Gildor will be in the mood to repeat his tale again,” he returned the pointed look and his captain blushed slightly and shook his head.  

“In brief,” he offered quickly, stretching his long arm to point at one of the maps. “What we have learnt is that there is something evil stirring in the forest around the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad. The forest creatures have deserted wide areas and the trees are restless and…strangely awoke there.” He exchanged a brief look with Gil-galad and then continued. “In certain areas they are openly unfriendly, even toward us…even toward your Silvan guards, Oropher,” he added thoughtfully, “they were of great help.”  

Oropher nodded regally in acknowledgement, as if he had indeed sent them to help Gil-galad’s patrols, and waved for Gildor to continue with his tale.  

“Those of our kin who still lived scattered around Nenuial have withdrawn to Celeborn and Galadriel’s old capital by the lakeshore. We found many abandoned human settlements as well, three days to the East beyond our borders…and signs of a recent orc attack on a travelling company, though no survivors,” he added in a lowered, pained voice.  

“Along the dwarf-road?” the Dwarf then asked brusquely, laying his heavily gloved fist on the clean maps.  

“Exactly under that now soot-stained section, yes,” Gildor nodded dryly, as Hîrvegil hurriedly folded up the other maps and placed them out of reach. The Dwarf removed his hand quickly, blushing furiously under his beard.  

“What are you going to do?” he spat then to Gil-galad to hide his embarrassment. The Noldo turned a thoughtful glance to him and shrugged briefly.  

“Have another map drawn, of course,” he answered distractedly, looking at the grey trail that the dwarf’s glove had left on its hurried retreat. “What did the Numenoreans have to say to all this, Gildor?” he asked then, the vertical line between his brows quite visible now.    

“They were quite impressed after the incident in the forest,” Gildor sighed. “To the point that after seeing a dense thicket of oaks pressing us towards the marshes they were readier to believe the rest of the tales told by their lesser kin…the Men of Darkness, as they call them…” He shook his head thoughtfully and looked at Gil-galad. “Regarding the Road, their captain was worried enough. He said he would urge the Ciryatur to send several companies to guard it…and I think that they would be even more encouraged if they received a formal emissary form the lord of Belegost, Master Bror,” he added, addressing the dwarf.  

“We have reached an interesting agreement with the Ciryatur, but perhaps we could update you on that during dinner, I think that you have now earned your bath,” Gil-galad joked, nodding gratefully to his captain. “Unless there are more questions?” he added looking at his counsellors and his guests. 

“Please, my lord,” Maentêw chimed in, and then proceeded after receiving Gil-galad’s nod. “Did you search beyond the road, Gildor?”  

“Yes, in the place that you pointed to us. Apparently the settlement had been abandoned short after you left,” Gildor informed softly. “One of the men who were our guides told me that they had managed to evacuate it before it was razed. There are unnumbered bands of wild men harassing the small villages across Eriador and fighting alongside orcs, forcing the settlers to gather together and retreat west, closer to our borders,” he sighed sadly. “The trip from this point to Eregion is uncertain,” he added worriedly. “It’s been moons since the last dwarven party undertook the road…It would seem that Eriador no longer is a deserted land, but rather a battlefield for lesser men and dark creatures…”  

“It would seem that the land no longer belongs to the Moriquendi but to the Moriedain, anyway,” Gil-galad sighed, sliding his long, calloused hand along the wide stretch of land from his borders to the mountains. Oropher jumped at that.  

“It may be so this side of the mountains,” he began proudly, “because you Noldor only care for the way West, and disregard the rest of the lands. As a matter of fact, I do not understand why you do not sail away all at once, all of you, if you so pin for the Undying Lands…”  

Gil-galad cast him a long, considering stare.  

“Many of us were born in the lands of Hither as well, Oropher,” he finally answered slowly, his voice carefully controlled. “It is not easy for us to forsake the lands in which our people have fought and died, even if they now belong to Men of Darkness…”  

“Beyond the Mountains, the forests are still safe and the Firstborn still roam them free of care as they used to before the Sun rose; and meddling not in the affairs of Men…”  

“It may be so your side of the Mountains, Oropher,” Glorfindel retorted in his genial, confident way, before anyone else could object to the Sindarin king’s bold remarks and a harsher argument broke out. “And may the Lord of the Forests grant you your peace and freedom for as long as it pleases your people. Yet it is written that the Elder race will fade and vanish before the Second born, and it would be folly to refuse to admit it. Men are spreading across the lands everywhere, and there will come a time when they will swarm over the Mountains as well, or reach you from the South and east…”  

“Yet it would not all be lost, if the Men of Númenor were really involved in settling these lands and teaching their lesser kin, as they once tried,” Gil-galad added thoughtfully.  

“So they taught them how to fell trees more effectively, you mean?” Oropher could not hold back with a scowl. “The Ciryatur said that many of the things that they had taught to these Men of Darkness were already being used against them, iron above all…”  

“Are you blaming me for that as well?” Gil-galad inquired with only the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, raising a puzzled brow. “So be it, if it pleases you. Every time we argue I end up being blamed for some wrong I was unaware of committing…Do not let me detain you any longer, Master Bror,” he added then, shrugging briefly and turning his attention to the Dwarf. “It seems to me that you were pretty busy at the forges right now, and I am confident that you will soon have good results, so I would rather discuss the protection of the road after dinner, if it suits you…”   

Recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, the Dwarf bowed courteously and made ready to leave the council chamber. Gildor as well had got up and nodded briefly to the concurrence. Oropher, though, was not in such a perceptive mood that day, and made no sign of leaving the King and his counsellors to their private council, as it was obvious that they expected. On the contrary, he took seat on the chair that Gildor had just vacated and bent over the table to better study the stained map.  

“And you will be eager to check on your guards, Oropher,” Círdan chimed in before the king lost his dangerously stretched patience. “I wouldn’t trust Gildor’s word thoroughly if I were you,” he joked, meeting the indignant glare that the Noldo threw his way with a merry grin.  

Oropher cast the briefest of glances towards Maentêw, and then shrugged and stood up, acknowledging defeat. It had been sufficient, though.  

“If you are going towards your chambers, Oropher, I would gladly make use of your help,” Maentêw chimed in, crossing a knowing glance with Gil-galad, who nodded slightly and turned then his attention again to his maps. 

                                                  ~*~*~*~

 “I am departing in a few days… ”

 Oropher and Maentêw were sitting on a stone bench not far from the archery range, after checking that Idhren and Bronadel had actually returned unscathed from their unexpected mission. Maentêw’s wounds were healing fast, but his broken leg still bothered him and he tired easily, so they had decided not to try the long stairs down to the Hall of Maps. Their part on the huge model had been finished to the last detail a few days ago, after all.

“I did not expect you to tarry here for so long…almost a moon under Gil-galad’s roof!”

“Well, it is not my fault that he decided to take advantage of my forces and send my guards on a scouting mission without my permission…”

“And the fact that you did not start a war over that comes to show that you two have finally become firm allies, I am pleased to notice…”

“How you always manage to turn things to your convenience remains a mystery to me,” Oropher grunted with pretended annoyance. “But Tauron knows that is a skill I could take advantage of…I am offering you a position in my court,” he added, in an unexpectedly bashful manner. “As my chief advisor…”

“Tauron knows that you could do with some lessons in diplomacy as well,” Maentêw chuckled after he recovered form an irrepressible fit of laughter caused by his friend’s legendary bluntness. “I am honoured by your offer, my friend,” he hurried to add, seeing the frown spreading across Oropher’s clouded face. “To have regained your trust and friendship means more than what can be said with words…but I fear that I cannot accept…”

“You want to serve Gil-galad,” Oropher affirmed blankly, not meeting his friend’s face, his eyes fixed on the archery range where Gil-galad and Elrond took turns at shooting, no doubt once their council was over. He wondered briefly at the palpable tension between them and then returned his attention to his friend. “Why is he more important to you than your own people? When we met you in the woods of Ossiriand you were ready to surrender your life to keep his…he is not of your kin, Maentêw, he is not your son!” He bit his tongue and cursed his temper, knowing that he had gone a step too far.

“You think that I know not that? You think that I do not remember that my own son was killed in the northern marches of Doriath?” Oropher winced and remained silent. His friend’s voice was cold, but controlled enough. “He had saved my life a few days ago, when you ran into us in the woods of Ossiriand,” he added then harshly. He took a deep breath to steady himself and continued then in a more controlled voice. “After the fall of Doriath nothing remained to me, Oropher; neither family nor lord nor duty. But I chose to follow those who were fighting darkness back then, hopeless as their fight was, rather than hiding in the woods and licking my wounds until all I had left was resentment and hatred. I will not desert him now. I want to be here when the war begins…”

“I have assumed that the Dark Lord dwells now in the East. That places us in the front line…” Oropher retorted, his pride piqued by what Maentêw had just suggested.

“But he will not charge against you. You are not a threat to him. His hatred burns against the High King and the Men of Númenor. It is here that the fate of Middle-earth will be fought, and I will not be kept away from it, nor desert those who have been fighting for so long...”

“You may be proved wrong there,” Oropher argued heatedly. “And who told you that the fate of Middle-earth is tied to that of the High King of the Noldor? We were fighting darkness long before they came from their Blessed Realm in their stolen ships, and we will continue to do so even if they are wiped off the shores of Hither!”

“Fighting or resisting?”

“When the shadow comes forth I will fight it, Maentêw. I will not have you, or those haughty Noldor, say that we hide behind trees licking our wounds while others die defending our forests…”

“I know your hot heart well, Oropher, but your Silvan people will not engage in Gil-galad’s war…”

"Of course they will not! They will never march under another’s command, but they will follow me in the defence of their forest, that much I can grant… Come, Maentêw, help me order and fortify my realm. Gil-galad has enough counsellors here! The Silvan are as independent and proud as we were once…They will submit to none’s will but they have allowed me to protect them. Come help me serve them remain wild and free, you will be of more use there!”

There was a long pause then, but Oropher could see that his words had hit deep. Finally Maentêw stirred and scowled briefly.

“It would be worth the effort, if only to see whether you are able to make those unruly wood elves follow your commands…” he finally admitted with a slow grin.

“They will follow anyone’s only in the defence of their home woods. But that is as worthy a cause as any other, isn’t it?

“It is, as long as there is a homeland to defend…”

“You will soon feel at home there…”

“I no longer feel at home anywhere, Oropher. All I long for is measure of peace on Middle-earth…before we are all forced to take ship. And I am ready to fight for it.”

“It is settled, then? I can leave Bronadir behind until you are ready for the trip…” Maentêw chuckled dryly.

“So I make sure that he is not tempted to remain behind and sail away with the next ship? Not even I can talk an Elf out of his sea-longing, Oropher…”

“I know that,” Oropher grunted. “But perhaps having a duty to fulfil he may be willing to return. I am asking nothing of you…”

“Yet I will try gladly; for I know that it would break Bronadel’s heart. Is he still with you?”

“Always. And many others who will welcome you back gladly. You will see.”

The deep bell that signalled meals rang then, as the sun hid slowly beyond the horizon. Oropher stood up and offered a helping hand to his friend, and they began their slow walk inside the palace.

                                                   ~*~*~*~

 Dinner was a louder event than what was usual, Glorfindel mused, eating a piece of roasted venison with delight. It had taken Taurlong a whole week of hunting duty to recover Cook’s goodwill, and the rest of the household was benefiting from that. He had performed even beyond the call of duty, to the point of looking for –and gathering- the last wild strawberries. Thanks to that, he had been welcomed back in the main dining hall sooner than what anyone had expected. With a courteous smile that could not hide his amusement Glorfindel raised a forkful of roast in berry sauce and nodded gratefully towards the captain, who scowled back at him.  

“Congratulations, Elrond,” Hîrvegil was saying at the other side of the table, patting the half-elf’s shoulder. “I never thought that you would ever be allowed to get out from under Gil-galad’s wing…”

“I mapped all the lands of Eriador a few ennin ago, Hîrvegil, at the beginning of this age…”

“Ah, but that was in times of peace. He now sends you away to uncertain lands…of course he has appointed the mightiest bodyguard in all of Middle earth to you,” he added, grinning towards Glorfindel, “but still we are all very proud of you,” the commander added with an honest, happy smile.

Glorfindel sighed and met Erestor’s comforting wink. They had all been there: Círdan, Erestor, the troop commander, Taurlong, Merenel, Gil-galad, Elrond and himself, discussing what measures to be undertaken to better ready themselves for the brewing war.

“Master Pengolod has volunteered to go to Eregion, with the excuse of writing down the chronicle of the new city, to investigate the Annatar’s doings and how deep his influence remains among the Mírdain,” Gil-galad had informed them with a puzzled look in his eyes as soon as they were left alone.

After much arguing and pondering they had agreed that Merenel would gather a group of foresters to take care of the problem in the South with the Numenoreans and the trees, and that Hîrvegil would provide him with a patrol to scout the waterways up to Eriador and evaluate the state of those defences. Hîrvegil and Taurlong would be in charge of setting up a force to protect the road, together with the Ciryatur’s offered warriors while Erestor would take charge of evaluating their supplies for an eventual extended campaign abroad.

“Someone has to go to Amdír and inform him of the situation and all the agreements on my behalf,” Ereinion had sighed then. “And also discuss the measures that we will undertake in case of attack. I had thought of sending you as my herald, Elrond, what do you have to say?” he had asked, almost idly, as if he were asking the half-elf to go for a ride with him. Yet it was clear to those present how much it cost him to take that step.

“I am yours to command, my lord,” Elrond had answered in a firm voice. “When do you want me to leave?”

“As soon as you are ready. In four or five days, I’d say. I assume that Oropher will be departing soon, and I hope that Hîrvegil and Taurlong will have chosen an escort of our most skilled warriors by then…”

“Of course, my lord!”

And it had been then that Glorfindel had opened his mouth.

“My lord, I would ask…”

“Ah Lord Glorfindel, good that you remind me of that,” Gil-galad had said then in a falsely cheerful voice. “Please, my friends, be informed that Lord Glorfindel has sworn allegiance to Lord Elrond. As such, he vows to serve him, and to protect him with his life, and so I grant him full authority in my army and in my council, in the compliance of his duty,” he had pronounced in a serious but not too solemn manner, as if it was something already known. “You will depart with Elrond, I expect?” he had asked then.

“Of course, my lord, I will not fail you….”

“It is him whom you will not fail from now on,” Gil-galad had reminded him in his soft yet imposing way, and had then turned his attention to other matters. Once the council was over, Elrond had started after the king; tension quite visible on his face. How everything had been settled resolved remained a secret between them.

Shrugging his gloomy thoughts away, Glorfindel returned Erestor’s comforting wink and cast a curious look at the rest of the tables. Oropher’s guards bantered loudly with Gildor and Taurlong, and Gil-galad had taken seat before Oropher and seemed deep in conversation with the Sindarin king.

“He is to meet with the dwarf after dinner. Hîrvegil and I will keep him distracted but I need you to make sure that the model is ready tonight,” Círdan whispered in his ear, sitting beside him and pouring himself a glass of wine. “And congratulations, Glorfindel, I never thought you would be able of involving Oropher in the game,” he chuckled.

“It will be ready for Erestor’s last inspection tomorrow,” Elrond promised, casting a conspiratorial look at the stern councillor. “Do not brood overly, Glorfindel,” he added with a wicked, mischievous smile. “I pledged my allegiance to Ereinion long ago, you are still in his service…” At that, Círdan rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“It will be a pleasure to serve you, son of Eärendil,” Glorfindel returned the friendly smile gladly. “Even if I did not have the time to inform you properly…”

“You can do it on our way to the Hall of the Maps,” the peredhel joked in his casual, distended manner. “And then we can plot together how to take revenge on him for not warning me beforehand and not giving you the chance to proceed on your own timing…”

“I like that,” Glorfindel chuckled, bowing to the amused Shipwright and following the lively half-elf outside the dining room in the informal manner that was common in meal times.

“He is barely half an ennin older than myself,” Elrond complained as he led the way. “But he behaves as if he were my grandfather…I love it when Círdan puts him on his place and treats him like an elfling,” he added, stopping to admire the beautiful view. The night was clear and the first stars were blinking the way for their sisters on a calm sky that mirrored the smooth surface of the darkened sea. “He worries too much,” Elrond sentenced, standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the Hall of Maps and casting an appreciative look around.

“Well, he has to, it is a kingly thing to do,” Glorfindel joked softly, sitting on the top stair and taking in the impressive sight.

“At least he seems easier around you now, although that will not grant you the right to call him Ereinion…not yet,” the half-elf chuckled. “I take it that you managed to talk with him…”

“I did. He blames himself for the loss of Sirion…and was sure that Eärendil did not trust him with your safety…” Elrond did not stir for a long while, his head lifted to the night sky, his eyes fixed on the evening star as he sailed his appointed course.

“Ereinion weighs himself down with burdens that are not his to carry,” he finally offered in a soft, even voice. “Do you think that my brother, too, did so? I do not like to think that his merry, light spirit was so dimmed under the heavy load of ruling…” Listening to the words that had not been spoken, Glorfindel decide to bide his time.

“I cannot tell, Elrond. I know nothing of the Edain and their ways…”

“I suppose he did not. He had such an optimistic disposition…And Turgon? Was he such a morose king?”

“And more. But he had reasons for it. He lost his wife in the Ice…and that dampened his joy forever. But from time to time we still managed to take him back to his old merry self. He and Finrod –and some of us- had been the ban of Fingon’s existence as mischievous, restless, inventive elflings…He loved a good joke as much as anyone,” he recalled with a fond smile. A comfortable silence lay between them. Then Glorfindel whispered.

“Do you blame Eärendil for the fall of Sirion, Elrond?” The half-elf shrugged and lifted his eyes again to the sky.

“He was the lord of the city…yet he would spend his time at sea, searching for his parents…” he began in a soft, hoarse voice. “But then, he had a greater doom before him…I do not know,” he confessed. “I used to blame him, and then blame myself for not doing like he had done, seizing a boat and sailing away after my parents… Not that I ever had the chance,” he chuckled briefly. “All I know is that I barely remember him…and that Ereinion is not to blame. I chose to remain in Middle-earth because he is my family, but at times it galls me that he still sees me as his duty towards a friend whom he fears he has failed…” he admitted with a wry, sad smile. Glorfindel sighed and shook his head.

“You are his herald, Elrond; that shows something even deeper than duty towards your father…he really trusts you!”

“And yet he sets you to guard me, as if I was the important, fragile thing that has to be protected above all…”

“I rather think that he wants to get rid of the two of us, and that he has found the best way to achieve it for a while,” Glorfindel chuckled dryly. “Come, let us go finish that model,” he added, stepping down the long stair and smiling at the clear laughter that followed him.

The model was as finished as it would be, but they devoted some time trying to figure out the small details that Erestor would surely pick at on his last inspection. As the rest of the artificers trickled down into the Hall, the night turned into one of telling tales and singing songs brought to mind by the detailed landscape that stretched before them. All of them had lived and fought and lost beloved ones there, and all of them mourned the loss of the green lands of Beleriand.

“This is why we are not so willing to sail West after all, Oropher,” Gildor grunted challengingly from the chair where he was sprawled after Taurlong ended a beautiful song about the forests around Nargothrond and the way the Sirion sprang in a jewelled curtain out of the deep caves of the Andram and down towards the Land of Willows in spring.

“I see,” the Sindarin lord nodded mildly, and Glorfindel could see that, in fact, he did. He had been listening intently as the others shared their memories, his stern expression softened as he travelled in memory to the drowned lands of his youth, a grief that he shared with all those Noldor and half-Noldor that he so distrusted.

Satisfied that things were in order, Glorfindel quietly slipped away as Maentêw began a tale about the time when the first moon had shone on the dark glades of Beleriand.

Tilion was high in the sky, tough barely half of his vessel was visible. “Take care, my friend,” Glorfindel murmured as he began the long ascent and then took a side passage that crossed the Shipwright’s garden and allowed him to reach his quarters without taking a long detour.

About to jump into the garden, he caught a glimpse of two figures sitting directly below where he stood, on the fence that looked over to the sea. He stopped on his tracks, dreading to disturb them. A board and a set of stone figures had been set aside, and the two elves sat in now comfortable silence, in the companionable, easy manner that spoke of a long friendship.  

“At times I wonder if Oropher was not right today,” Gil-galad grunted after some time. “Why do we remain here?”

“I was told to, until the last ship sails.”

“And how will you know?”

“That is a good question…”

Ereinion shifted on the stone wall and then cast a brief look at the Shipwright.

“I mean, what if I decided to leave? Could I?”

“Could you?”

It seemed to Glorfindel that they were rehearsing an old, somehow ritual conversation. But Ereinion seemed restless, uncomfortable. He shook his head and shrugged and finally admitted defeat.

“I do not know. Would anything change if I did? The Valar would find another way of fighting the shadow, perhaps Elrond, perhaps Glorfindel... We are free to depart, are we not?”

Círdan listened in encouraging silence, as it was his wont. Gil-galad then moved to rest his back on the buttress and dragged his long legs up, resting his chin on his knees. After a while he continued in a lowered, sad voice.

“Then why I cannot even think of departing this land, drowning in darkness as it is, Círdan? Am I truly free or rather enslaved by my pride –or my doom?”

“You are bound by your own sense of duty, young one. Yet I trust that, were we to finally overcome the Shadow, you would be wise enough to depart, seeing your duty fulfilled…I taught you well, after all…”

“And that would be the last ship?”

“Who knows?

“I would not depart and leave you behind, you already know that…”

“Perhaps not on your own will… but I could still take care of that, elfling…”

“I would love to see that…”

They both laughed and shook their heads, as if sharing a treasured memory. For a brief moment it seemed to Glorfindel that a measure of peace had returned to the Shipwright’s garden. About to make his presence known, Gil-galad’s deep voice made him stop again.

“When the news of my father’s demise reached me in Eglarest I made a vow…”  

It seemed to Glorfindel that the night had stilled and that even the sea held its breath.  

“You did a lot of things then, not all of them wise. But you never told me of that vow.” Círdan’s voice sounded carefully controlled.  

“I vowed that I would never desert the lands where my sires fought and died…until darkness had been overthrown. Strange, isn’t it? For back then there was nowhere else to go…or any hope that the West would ever be open to us…”  

“Your House has always had a measure of foresight,” Círdan answered in as natural a voice as he could contrive. “But you were old enough then to know where thoughtless oaths spoken in the heat of the moment could lead you,” he tried to joke. But Glorfindel could hear the immeasurable sorrow that lay below the Shipwright’s steady voice.

“If the lore masters are to be heeded, there is no way that darkness will be wiped off Middle-earth…not while Arda lasts…”  

“You could sail, Ereinion. No one would hold it against you...”  

“But I made my decision that night in Eglarest.”  

“You were a grieving child then…”  

“According to Erestor’s and your own words, Master Shipwright, I was never a child...” Círdan chuckled and shook his head in acknowledgment.  

“I am to blame for that, since all that your father had asked of me was the chance for you to enjoy a childhood away from the war.”  

“It was not your fault,” Ereinion reassured him seriously. “I stopped being a child the day the fires broke out in the north and I saw my father and grandfather march to war. You offered me shelter and friendship…and a firm support to grow into what was expected of me. That is all that I could ask for…”  

“Well, you gave me a great number of headaches…and huge satisfactions as well, child. It was not a bad deal on my part…” Glorfindel was moved by the deep fondness that showed in the quick smile that the Shipwright flashed towards his foster son.  

“My heart tells me that I will not sail, Círdan…”  

“And still there are other ways to set foot in the Blessed Realm. Perhaps Manwë will send his eagles to fly you there in glory…or Eärendil stops by to give you a lift…Do not trouble yourself with such dark thoughts, my son. Whatever your doom is, it is still well ahead of us…Besides, what the heart tells is not always what it comes to happen.” Despite his almost light tone, Glorfindel could perceive the immense sadness that lurked under the mariner’s apparently unconcerned voice. The Shipwright knew. And the dense silence that followed told Glorfindel that, somehow, the King knew as well. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and he took an unconscious step behind, crunching some dry leaves piled beside the wall.  

“Well, if I am bound to dwell for a time in the Halls of Mandos, at least I hope that I am not returned being such an unbearable arrogant annoyance as our unbeatable balrog-slayer,” Gil-galad joked softly then, lifting his head and meeting Glorfindel’s eyes with a sad, knowing gaze. “Come, Lord Glorfindel, join us; I swear I do not want to know what you are all doing down there in my Hall of Maps...”  

“You are wise beyond your years, King Gil-galad,” Glorfindel smiled, accepting the invitation and jumping nimbly into the garden. “Because I would not be able to answer your queries were you to question me, all in the fulfilment of the duty that you have just honoured me with,” he teased, taking seat beside the young king and patting his shoulder with a devious smile.  

“Tell me Círdan, since you must have known him before, was he so smug when you first met him?”  

“Tell me Círdan,” Glorfindel retorted, bending to meet the Shipwrights amused, grateful glance. “How did you manage to survive the rearing of such a disrespectful and cheeky brat?”  

“It was not a minor deed, my friend,” the Shipwright nodded, speaking to Glorfindel over the king’s head as if Ereinion was not present. “I still remember an occasion when Celeborn had come to Eglarest and I was rash enough to introduce them…”  

When Arien rose the three elves still sat in the small garden, exchanging tales and comfort against the shadow that gathered in the East.  

TBC.  

A/N  

We are almost there! One last chapter and this is done! Apologies for the delay.  

The mounds of Tyrn Gorthad that Gildor mentions here will be known later in the Third Age as the Barrow Downs. They were hallowed by the fathers of the Edain who did not cross into Beleriand in the First Age.  

Tauron is Oromë for the Sindar.

Chapter 9. Lest Our Friendship Is Forgotten.

“Good day, Gil-galad!” the butler greeted cheerfully, stepping aside to allow the king enter the wide and almost empty kitchen.  

“It doesn’t look as a good day to me, not yet,” the king grunted back in his usually less-than-enthusiastic early morning mood.  Círdan’s raised brows indicated that the retort had been unusually harsh, though, and Gil-galad automatically turned around to present his apologies, but the butler had already left, and his chuckles echoed in the corridor.  

“Good day, Círdan,” Ereinion offered mildly, helping himself to an assortment of bread, cheese and fruit and sitting at the wide table.  

“If you say so…”              

The king sighed. Círdan knew how to make him squirm with a simple arch of his bushy brows. “Elrond and Glorfindel have ridden away with the horse masters to retrieve the last herd and bring them home for the winter,” he offered, as if that explained his fit of temper.  

Círdan did not look up from his plate.  

“Hîrvegil decided to accept Oropher’s challenge, and they will be training in the forest with the Chieftain of the Drûedain and Oropher’s guards, and Taurlong is closeted in the forge with the master armour and the dwarf, testing temperatures and resistance, and whatnot,” Gil-galad continued accusingly. “And Erestor and the Quartermaster have begun the estimation of our needs for an eventual mission abroad.”  

“Seems like everybody is having a great time,” Círdan agreed. “What have you planned for today?”  

“I intended to explore the pools in the low tide, and then go fishing, and there is a new foal in the stables that I would like to play with,” Gil-galad growled nastily. That did make Círdan cast him a quizzical look. “I have dozens of reports to go through, maps to memorize, and I must begin the inventory of available troops and supplies, since both my troop commander and the captain of my guard are so busy today,” the young king sighed, then grunted accusingly. “I bet you to too have something entertaining scheduled for today.”  

“Well, I cannot complain,” Círdan admitted, standing up and placing his plate and cup away. “Merenel and I are testing a new boat today, I’ll be in the shipyards if you need me,” he said with a smug smile. “Enjoy your day,” he added, patting Ereinion’s shoulder as he left, chuckling quietly at the king’s dismayed groan.  

Ereinion finished his breakfast in a melancholy disposition. 

It was a cold, grey November day, but his moodiness had nothing to do with the weather, despite the clouds gathering over the darkening sea, and the sad cries of the gulls warning of the upcoming storm.  

It was not like him to give into such fits of gloominess he chided himself, shaking his head to dispel the funny feeling. As a rule, he brooded not much about the past, but at times like these, with darkness gathering again in the world, he could not help it, he could not help remembering that on a day like today, many ennin ago, he had arrived in the Havens; a young, frightened, tired and cold elfling sent away from his home and his father to be raised safely in a strange country, among strange people.  

Begetting days he had stopped celebrating after that. Begetting days belonged to parents, to celebrate the joy of their love that was made real in their children. His Ammë had died short after giving birth, and he missed Fingon too much to celebrate the fact that once, if only for a short time, his atar had been a happily married Elf.  

Then one day in Balar, the year when he came of age, Círdan had called him to his study and had offered him a glass of wine. Erestor was there, as well as Merenel, and Miluinn, and Taurlong, and several others who had cared for him since he had arrived in Eglarest.  

“To this day,” they had toasted, and Ereinion had looked around questioningly. 

“Today is the anniversary of the day of your arrival in Eglarest,” Círdan had finally agreed to explain, after a contest of glares that Erestor had obviously won. "You made a change in our lives, child, and we celebrate the date whenever we have the occasion or the mood strikes…”   

Ereinion sighed in deeply, basking in the warmth of that memory.  

Since then, they had more or less remembered every sun-round, though not always celebrated. He belonged there, he knew, and he owed his life and his strength to those people who had supported him in his time of need. That was all he needed to know –that he was cherished, and respected and trusted, and he would do his best in his duty to honour that trust and love that he had been freely given. There was no need of celebrating every year, he reminded himself. He needed not them celebrating that openly every year to know that they loved him. But he still missed Miluinn’s comforting presence.  

Holding on to the memories of her sweet smile and with the certainty of his friend’s love and support, he managed to get through a boring and demanding day, in which he even had to bear a tedious lunch in the company of Master Pengolod, who wanted to discuss with him the style of his letters to the Númenorean King –or rather lack of, and the schedule for his secret mission in Ost-in-Edhil.  

It was pit dark when he called an end to his duties. He had seen neither hair nor hide of his friends, counsellors or guests, but that was not unheard of. His gloominess had dissolved into a melancholy sadness, so he decided that he was better off alone.  

“I’m not a good host today,” he sighed, closing the door of his study. “Please, have someone send a light meal to my chambers,” he told his secretary.” I’ll take a bath and remain there.”  

“I will see to it,” his secretary nodded. “Have a good night, Gil-galad.”  

“You too, Taranel. Don’t get too late. We will finish with those maps in the morning.”  

He felt better after a bath and a change of cloths. A soft knock interrupted his musings just when he was about to choose something to read.  

Dinner, he thought. Then, aloud: "Come in."  

“My lord…” It was one of the Steward’s errand runners, empty handed and strangely nervous. Gil-galad sighed. 

“Do not tell me that we ran out of supplies and that the king must go out fishing his own dinner…and that of his guests?”  

“My lord?”  

“I was joking. What is it?”  

“Well, I was sent…Master Erestor asks Your Majesty to come to the Kitchens presently,” the young elf blurted nervously. “He would not say what it is about,” he added hurriedly at the impatient gesture in the king’s face.  

“But...”  

“He said he needed your opinion in a matter of the greatest importance….”  

“I am coming,” Gil-galad gave in with an exasperated sigh. Knowing Erestor, it would be something truly unimportant, but he would insist until Ereinion would give his insight, so it would be swiftest to go down, nod to whatever was presented to him and be back quickly in his chambers, to snug comfortably before the fire for the rest of the night.  

Barefoot, he padded all the way down to the kitchens, pushed the heavy door open and blinked in surprise.  

“You are here! Good, hand him a goblet!”  

They were all there: Círdan, Erestor, Elrond, that smug balrog slayer that had come from Valinor -and Mandos' Halls- to look after Eärendil’s son –and after myself, he smiled inwardly with undisguised satisfaction, Merenel, Hîrvegil, Gildor, Taurlong, Maentêw, Cook, the weapons master, the Quartermaster… his friends, his family, those he would always rely on, those who supported him and were by his side day after day. Maybe not tied to him by blood, but by chosen loyalty and affinity. His friends. His family. And there was Oropher as well, with a strange, almost fond smile on his haughty face.  

“To this day,” Círdan said as it was his custom, and all drank to that as one. Ereinion shook his head, moved, trying to disguise his emotion. 

“And what was that very important thing that you wanted to consult with me Erestor?” he joked, sensing that there was still something else going on.  

“Oh, well," the counsellor mumbled as he waved unintelligible commands around. “Would you prefer red or white wine for dinner? Get out of the way while you make your mind up, lad,” he added bossily, pointing to one of the long tables covered with a huge cloth. Used to his friends’ antics and to Cook’s preference for expressing his talent through extravagant meals when the occasion allowed, Ereinion took seat obediently by the covered table and waited in expectation as the rest sat at some distance by another table, exchanging conspiratorial winks and curious glances at the cloth-covered table.  

“Red wine,” Cook ordered, passing a carafe around. “Now, who will begin?” he wondered aloud once everyone had their goblets filled.  

“What is this all about?” Ereinion’s curiosity was now piqued as he saw Cook settling himself comfortably at the table, his customary dinner-time frenzy for once forgotten.  

“We could begin with a tale about Miluinn and her friend, the wine-maker who married the High Prince,” Erestor suggested with a meaningful glance around. “Glorfindel began to recount it the other day, but none of us would mind another hearing of how King Turgon of Gondolin never got to drink Mithrim’s best brew,” he added as Círdan, Gildor and Merenel picked up the corners of the cloth and lifted it up at the count of three.  

“It was long ago, before Nargothrond or Gondolin were completed, and during the brief peace that lasted while the Siege of Angband stood…” Glorfindel began in his best storyteller voice, but soon Ereinion’s attention was lost on the unexpected sight that had been uncovered before him. All of a sudden he felt as is he could not even breathe, as the land and its known by heart, long mourned milestones gained meaning in his shocked brain. Mountains, rivers, bays and shores, fortress, cities and strongholds, forests and lakes, and elves everywhere roaming the lands of drowned Beleriand stretched before Ereinion’s unbelieving eyes to their smallest details, blessed and thriving with life as they had once been in happier times, even before the young king was born.  

“What…what on Arda… but… What is that! Look! Eglarest? Is that Doriath? Gondolin! But...look, Círdan, look!” Gil-galad gasped, turning marvelled, uncomprehending eyes to his foster father.  

“I see, child,” the Shipwright smiled as the young king gaped and pointed excitedly at the places and bent over the huge model to gain better sight of the myriad details that his friends had put into the detailed model of lost Beleriand to serve as a treasured memory for their king and friend, but also for themselves.  

“There is a party on Nargothrond’s terraces,” Gil-galad noticed with amusement. “Is that Finrod?” he asked the Shipwright, pointing at a golden haired little wooden figurine playing a lap harp. “You have been busy,” he winked then with deep gratefulness, still remembering how reluctantly the harsh Shipwright had once agreed to carve out wooden toys for his foster soon.  

“You can bet,” Círdan grunted, amusement and satisfaction sparkling in his grey-blue eyes.  

“And is that Gondolin?”  

“Look, Ereinion, Nevrast! And the Tower of Barad Nimras!”  

“And what do you say of the dragon?”

“Did you see the waterfalls of Sirion? And Barad Eithel! See, your grandfather’s banner!”  

 “I cannot believe that you put such amount of time and dedication to this!” Ereinion sighed after a while, overwhelmed, looking up to his friends in wonder and gratefulness. “It is…”  

“It is a playground!” Gildor cut in excitedly. “Did you see the vineyards of Mithrim, Ereinion? Come on, Glorfindel, it is time for storytelling, tell us about Turgon’s wine!”  

~*~*~*

“…My grandfather managed to fish us both out of the river barely in time, as my adar’s grip on the branch was loosening…He scolded us soundly as he wrapped us in heavy blankets and made us drink bowls of broth, and then insisted that we went to sleep early,” Ereinion chuckled, ending a tale of an hilariously eventful camping trip. “I woke up late that night,” he continued in a soft, wistful voice, his long fingers toying delicately with the blue and silver banner fluttering on top of his grandfather’s stronghold. “My father was fast asleep, and he held me so tightly in his arms and under blankets and cloaks that I feared I would suffocate. Thankfully, Fingolfin took notice and disentangled me from that mess. ‘Here’ he told me, holding me loosely in his arms and rearranging the blankets over my father. ‘Your Adar fears that you will slip again into the river if he doesn’t clutch you until he strangles you…’” Smiling, the king shook his head. “That day I understood that Fingolfin was actually my adar’s adar, because he was looking at him with the same fond, exasperated expression my father used to wear every time I did something foolish,” he explained with an amused smile. “And for the rest of our trip he forbade us to get close to the swollen river, much to my father’s annoyance!”

Everyone laughed heartily and raised their goblets again, as they had done countless times that evening. Glorfindel sighed and stretched his long legs. The night was well in, he noticed as he cast a brief look out of the kitchen window; so in, in fact, that it was almost over, and still they continued sharing tales and memories brought to mind by the sight of the green, rich lands of Beleriand.

“It was good for him, but was it good as well for you?” Círdan asked worriedly, bending to whisper for his ear only as Gildor began another tale. Glorfindel nodded silently and looked briefly around. The company was scattered on benches and chairs, nibbling at the crumbles that remained on the plates that had appeared with no order upon the tables as the night went by, listening intently to any new or well-known tale or song that spoke of cherished memories of life and death and loss and hope.

“A healing experience,” he reassured the mariner, nodding towards where Gil-galad sat with his legs folded and his head resting on his palm, and a pleased smile on his usually serious face as he studied the detailed model. It had been like finally coming back home, Glorfindel thought, fixing his eyes on the deserted walls of Vinyamar and the bustling streets of Gondolin. It had served to finally close the curtain before his past life, Valinor included. “I think I am now ready to settle down here and assume my position,” he confessed, surprised at the feeling of peace and certainty that had inadvertently filled him that night as the stories unfolded and he embraced gladly the memories carried by them.

“And are you ready to meet the Lady Galadriel as well?” Círdan asked with a mischievous, provoking smile, knowing for sure what had been worrying the golden elf-lord for the past days. Glorfindel chuckled briefly and shook his head.

“That too, my friend,” he admitted with a slow smile. “But I have only recently found out that the thought of meeting her again was troubling me. How is it that you did know?”

“Do not wonder,” Círdan told him with a knowing expression on his ancient, wise eyes. “It is difficult to look straight into one’s own thoughts, Glorfindel. And to admit what one most fears,” he added softly, sadly, hinting, Glorfindel thought, at the unspoken admission the three of them had made a couple of nights ago while sitting in the Shipwright’s garden.

“Yet it is comforting to know that others, too, share the knowledge and can lend a helping hand,” he offered. “I cannot thank you enough for your support, Círdan,” he added heartily. The Shipwright shook his head sadly.

“Do not try to. Your coming is a blessing, and whatever it is that you consider that you owe me, you will return it doubled before our time here is over…In the meantime, let us enjoy what time we are given…and the fact that Oropher has not yet found something nasty to say,” Círdan chuckled, watching the surprisingly calm Sindarin king, who had agreed to tell an entertaining tale about children slipping in and out of Melian’s girdle and driving the march wardens crazy with their antics, though revealing no names, surely to preserve his own dignity.

“I am sure that the Lady would love this model,” Glorfindel smiled while Oropher challenged Taurlong with a warning glance in answer to a harsh remark made by the sharp-tongued captain.

“But I somehow doubt that Ereinion would be parted from his toy, you will have to convince her to come here and tell her tales,” Círdan chuckled, watching the gathering fondly.

“Now I know what you were doing in my Hall of Maps for a whole sun-round,” Gil-galad was saying with an amused expression, “although I cannot believe that Master Pengolod had nothing to say to this invasion of his most favoured haunting…”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Taranel informed his king nonchalantly, “we moved his maps to an empty storeroom on the guest wing…Master Pengolod said it was quieter there…”

“Although we were deprived of his useful suggestions,” Elrond added seriously, and they all laughed heartily at the king’s duly aggrieved expression.

“And since he is leaving for Ost-in-Edhil, there is little chance that he can point out your mistakes,” Gil-galad agreed with a very unkingly snort. “I am moved my friends, and so grateful for your thoughtfulness,” he offered more seriously then. “Most of you are departing in short notice,” he added with what to Glorfindel amounted to the slightest trace of bitterness in his deep voice, “but I promise that I will study it thoroughly, so I can appreciate it down to its smallest details,” he winked, standing slowly and casting a grateful look around. “Why, I can even see that there are too many people coming and going through the Woods of Ossiriand, Lord Oropher,” he chuckled briefly. “I never got to hear the full tale of our first encounter there…”

“You can ask Maentêw, then,” Oropher retorted calmly enough, casting a meaningful glance at his friend. “He still bears the scars that he earned on that occasion…”

“I might, one of these days,” Gil-galad shrugged. “But not today. I have an appointment with Chieftain Baghan and your guards,” he explained with a mischievous look. “Since my troop commander here allowed himself to be trounced by them, it is up to the King to maintain the honour of Lindon…”

“I would not miss that for anything!” Oropher announced, almost tripping in his hurry, an expression of immense glee in his face.

“That is not true!” Hîrvegil complained, jumping as well on his feet as if stung by a sharp blade. “We called it a draw!

“Well, I was exaggerating, perhaps,” Gil-galad admitted with an impish grin, “but I expected a most thorough victory from Lindon’s best warriors…Anyone willing to support their king in this?”

“Someone has to take care of the larder, and midday meal will not get cooked itself,” Cook grinned, placing fruit and bread and cheese on the table and winking at Círdan and Glorfindel, who had remained on their places while the wave of warriors, piqued by their king’s provocation, disappeared noisily towards the archery range.

“Rearguard is the most important part of an army,” Glorfindel stated with a placid smile, helping himself to a piece of cheese. “And someone has to make decisions about supplies…”

“We would not leave you alone with that burden, Cook,” Círdan agreed, stretching his long frame and leaning comfortably against the wall.” You know you can count on us…”

“You will do as you consider best, as it is your wont, my lord Shipwright,” a clear, amused voice called to them from the door. “But I thought I heard you whisper that you were now ready to assume your position, Lord Glorfindel,” Ereinion chided with malicious delight, leaning on the open door with studied carelessness, “and I hoped that would include lending your skills in the defence of the House of Finwë…”

“Blackmail!” Glorfindel claimed, raising his hands theatrically to the sky and casting a pleading look at the Shipwright and Cook. “My, Círdan, did you never tell this brat that spying on private conversations is an unkingly feat?”

“Whining will not buy your release from duty, Glorfindel,” Círdan warned, laughing at the golden-elf’s outraged expression.

“I have sat through more councils than I care to remember, Lord Glorfindel,” the young king chuckled, catching the apple that Cook threw at him easily. “Reading lips and hearing whispered conversations are useful, kingly skills…”

“Now you are frightening me, child!” Glorfindel joked, dragging himself to a stand and shrugging resignedly at Círdan and Cook. “To Lindon is it, then?”

“So it seems…”

“Let us get over with it as soon as possible, then,” Glorfindel said in a businesslike tone, patting the young king on his shoulder as he walked past him. “What are you waiting for, boy? I have loads of packing to do today,” he grunted gruffly, glowing his way purposefully towards the door to the archery range and smiling proudly as he heard Ereinion laugh openly and merrily for the first time since his arrival.

~*~*~*

“Not bad! You should have shown that skill back at the practice grounds!”

Oropher shook his head and stopped packing, as the sound of something heavy hitting something fragile muffled the answer but not the curses. He then chuckled quietly at Idhren’s sharp comment on the corridor.

“Well, I am sure that someone must have warned you that playing with weapons within walls is not safe, at least I know that your father did, Bronadel…”

The sound of scurrying feet and a sharp, hurried knock on his door interrupted his musings. Dropping the tunic he was folding on a chair he went to open the door, schooling his features into a reproving mask.

“You should heed Idhren, Brona…Tauron! What was that?” He almost jumped backwards and instinctively raised his hand to his knife at the sight of his host wielding his spear dangerously before him.

“This? Oh, my apologies, Lord Oropher!” All of a sudden Gil-galad was blushing furiously, not knowing what to do with his weapon, which, Oropher now suspected, he had used for knocking at his door. “Ah…May I have a word with you, my lord?” he asked with unusual hesitation.

Amused by his guards’ winking and scowling at the Noldorin king’s back, Oropher, pretended worry.

“I doubt that he intends to attack me, Idhren,” he called over the Noldo’s head to the eldest of his guards. “But you can keep an ear just in case…”

“I shall leave my spear here,” Gil-galad mumbled, looking deeply mortified as he cautiously placed his splendid, mithril inlaid spear against the wall and cast a quizzical glance at the guards, who now watched the scene from the door of their chamber with frowning seriousness. “I shouldn’t have carried it inside, but I came straight from…”

“It is not that I do not trust you,” Oropher explained with feigned joviality as he stepped aside to let the other enter. “But my guards are too jealous in their duty, you know…It will be fine,” he waved then to his guards, and exchanged a quick smile with them before closing the door and studying his guest, who stood in the middle of the room looking unusually uncertain.

“So, what is it that worries you so much?” he poked, returning to his packing. “I will not tell Amdír that we trounced you thrice in your own grounds...”

“You did not!”

“Ah, but I could tell him otherwise,” Oropher chuckled. “I hope that my guards did not break anything of value out there…” he added, pointing at the closed door. Gil-galad smiled briefly and shook his head, waving one long hand in dismissal.

“You are in a strangely good mood today, Lord Oropher,” he sighed, dropping himself on the comfortable chair by the fireplace. “Perhaps the excitement of soon losing sight of us?” he added raising a questioning, serious glance at his guest. Taking Oropher silence for confirmation, Gil-galad shrugged and winced minutely.

“It is understandable,” he admitted, and then launched into a long-winded speech. “…Anyway, I must thank you for your efforts in travelling this far to bring Amdír’s message. You have seen that I took your warnings seriously, and that I am doing all that it is within my power to stop the Numenoreans’ careless management of the land while at the same time strengthening the southern defences against the darkness that is arising beyond the mountains. Elrond will carry my words to Amdír, but I personally swear to you that I will save no effort in protecting the land and the people of Middle-earth and…what?”

Oropher shook his head forbiddingly. He had come to stand before the Noldorin king, who stopped toying with the cloth bundle that he held in his hands and lifted quizzical eyes, cut in mid speech.

“You are sitting on my best tunic, young one,” Oropher whispered ominously, and then laughed out loud as the Noldo jumped on his feet and bumped into him, letting out a string of apologies. “Come on, Gil-galad, do you always take everything so seriously?” he chuckled, shaking the crumpled garment and pushing it carelessly into his pack. “What is it that you came here to tell me?”

“That I am so glad that I found out your weird sense of humour at your departure,” the Noldo grunted sharply, scowling at the laughing Sinda. “You said something the other day that made me think…”

Sensing that what Gil-galad was about to blurt out was important to him, Oropher bit back his witticism and crossed his arms on his chest. “Go on, I am listening…”

“Well, Elves come here looking for passage into the west…and those who dwell here will eventually take ship… or fall in the defence of the land. We need not a reminder of what it is we are fighting for…”  Taking a deep breath, the Noldo straightened up and met Oropher’s eyes. “Elrond is carrying a few as a present to Amdír and the lady Galadriel, but these… these are my present to your people on occasion of your son’s wedding,” he said in his deep voice, placing the cloth bundle in Oropher’s hands. “May they grow tall as depicted in my book and may they fill your forest with the voices that await us all beyond the sea, so you never lose the hope of another, blessed life beyond the eaves of your woods,” he pronounced softly. “And give my best wishes to Thranduil and Cûiell.” 

Carefully, Oropher unfolded the bundle to uncover a handful of round, smooth, silvery nuts. “The mellyrn?” he wondered quietly, too surprised to joke about it.

“They would not take root in this land,” Gil-galad explained, “but, as you said the other day, perhaps they were meant to grow elsewhere… I sincerely hope that they will grow tall among your trees and grace your forests with their songs.”

Oropher was speechless. Could it be that a self-absorbed, green sprout of a Noldorin king could have read so deep in him? The boy had been raised by Círdan, he reminded himself, stunned by the wisdom and clear sightedness contained in that generous gift, but still…

“I will leave you to your packing now…”

“Ereinion, wait.” Oropher fixed the Noldo in a stern glance. No elfling would surprise him and walk away that easily. “I accepted to bring Amdír’s message because I was curious to see what kind of king you had grown into…” It was Gil-galad’s turn to fold his arms on his chest, his eyes slightly narrowed, ready to take what the Sindarin king could throw at him. “And I must admit that you have not disappointed me.”

Oropher almost chuckled as he saw the Noldo relax visibly at this most unexpected praise.

“My people will never follow you into a war…but they will be ready to defend their forest against the shadow, and thus help those who fight it… It is a comfort for me to know that you, and your mixed army of many races, are so willing -and well-prepared- to fight for the safety of Middle-earth. You are sharing your own hopes with my people,” he added, casting a fond look at the handful of seeds on his hand, “and that is a gift hard to match, my lord king…” He cast a quick look around and took a couple of steps towards his weapons.

“But do not think that you are in a position to boast that you finally managed to outshine me, elfling,” he warned with his mischievous smile alight again on his handsome face. “Take this, King Gil-galad,” he offered, proffering one of his long shafted, eagle feathered arrows. “It is made of yew wood from the Greenwood we love and defend. Keep it in token of alliance, lest this new forged friendship is forgotten as the ennin pass us by. I will be honoured to fight by your side, should the need arise,” he added, enjoying the awed look in Gil-galad’s face as he hesitatingly took the arrow.

“You honour me with your trust, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad managed to whisper. “May your forest grow strong and free!”

“And may your mellyrn grow tall there, boy. I will keep you informed on their progress…and now, will you leave me to my packing?”

“Of course, my lord. Dinner will be served in the south terrace, I will send Taranel to guide you there….”

“We are wood elves, we need no guides,” Oropher groaned, and closed the door behind the chuckling Noldorin king. He cast a curious glance at the seeds and then packed them carefully inside his pack with a slow smile and a happy feeling.

Dinner was a merry affair. Food and drink and music overflowed the terrace until the moon began his slow descent, and neither the merrymakers, nor those who were travelling the next day were willing to retire for the night.

“You will miss this in the Greenwood, Maentêw,” Oropher warned his friend, casting an appreciative glance around.

“Why, you mean you never feast in such an informal manner with your friends and guests?”

Oropher had to laugh at that, watching the assorted gathering and conceding the point, although he was not sure that a Dwarf, or a Druadan, or even a Man, would ever make it to the heart of his forest. Gil-galad had managed a colourful, mixed court, he pondered, one in which all races seemed at ease and where it was as well easy to feel comfortable around them, a magic only then Oropher was beginning to perceive as he let his gaze wander idly along the tables.

Even with the help of Maentêw and Taurlong, the dwarf smith had failed to produce a dragon proof piece of armour, but still Gil-galad had received his helm as a prized present and was praising it as a piece worth of the most skilled dwarven masters of old. The Druadan chieftain, short, stumpy and ungainly, sat as an equal between Glorfindel and Merenel, drinking and singing and laughing with a laugh that Oropher knew was sweet and contagious, along with the merry elves.

As the night slipped away, and they sang to the moon and the stars and the times that had been, and the voices of the forest wolves joined the echoes from the forest and the songs from the Sea, Oropher recovered the pride and the joy of being one of the Firstborn among his kin, as he dived in the grace and harmony that they wrought around themselves despite their different kindred. It was a feeling of brotherhood -of belonging- that he had not experienced since the fall of Doriath and he basked in the emotion of knowing that even those lingering by the sores were his kindred as well, ready to fight for that very same land that they loved.

“So you send along your glowering pest and still keep Maentêw by your side,” he joked in the morning, pointing at Glorfindel as the great company that was about to depart east gathered in the great sward before the palace. Gil-galad smiled and shook his head.

“I have been told that Maentêw has accepted a position in your court…I’ll send him along as soon as he is healed enough to undertake the journey, either by ship with Merenel or with a mounted escort through Eregion,” he promised seriously. Oropher shook his head and patted the Noldorin king’s back.

“Try not to be so serious about everything, Gil-galad,” he advised sagely. “It doesn’t suit you, after all. And please make sure that Bronadel goes with him… I do not intend to leave any more of my friends in your company…In return I will take good care of your trees!” With a sincere smile, he exchanged an affectionate arm grip with the Noldorin king and then with Círdan and Erestor.

It was a mighty company departing Lindon that autumn morning. Glorfindel and Elrond would travel with him to Lothlórien, while Pengolod would remain in Ost-in-Edhil with part of their escort. The dwarf lord was travelling to Moria and Hîrvegil commanded a great patrol of Lindon’s warriors who were to join a handful of Númenorean companies posted on the road. The Druadan would remain in Lindon and would travel by sea with Merenel and his group of foresters, to the wasted woods of Mininhiriath. All was set in motion, Oropher noticed, and Gil-galad looked wistfully at those departing, perhaps eager as well to ride away.

“Will he come back?”

Oropher smiled to Idhren, who was following their younger friend with a worried look.

“He will not take the road before his time, Idhren, but there is still much to do; he will be back with Maentêw,” he affirmed, and with a short bow to those remaining, and without awaiting Gil-galad’s signal, he urged his mare on and took the road east and turned his back on the Sea for the second time in his life; but this time he knew for sure that the road led home.

The End