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?