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.