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.