Chapter 9. Lest Our Friendship Is Forgotten.

“Good day, Gil-galad!” the butler greeted cheerfully, stepping aside to allow the king enter the wide and almost empty kitchen.  

“It doesn’t look as a good day to me, not yet,” the king grunted back in his usually less-than-enthusiastic early morning mood.  Círdan’s raised brows indicated that the retort had been unusually harsh, though, and Gil-galad automatically turned around to present his apologies, but the butler had already left, and his chuckles echoed in the corridor.  

“Good day, Círdan,” Ereinion offered mildly, helping himself to an assortment of bread, cheese and fruit and sitting at the wide table.  

“If you say so…”              

The king sighed. Círdan knew how to make him squirm with a simple arch of his bushy brows. “Elrond and Glorfindel have ridden away with the horse masters to retrieve the last herd and bring them home for the winter,” he offered, as if that explained his fit of temper.  

Círdan did not look up from his plate.  

“Hîrvegil decided to accept Oropher’s challenge, and they will be training in the forest with the Chieftain of the Drûedain and Oropher’s guards, and Taurlong is closeted in the forge with the master armour and the dwarf, testing temperatures and resistance, and whatnot,” Gil-galad continued accusingly. “And Erestor and the Quartermaster have begun the estimation of our needs for an eventual mission abroad.”  

“Seems like everybody is having a great time,” Círdan agreed. “What have you planned for today?”  

“I intended to explore the pools in the low tide, and then go fishing, and there is a new foal in the stables that I would like to play with,” Gil-galad growled nastily. That did make Círdan cast him a quizzical look. “I have dozens of reports to go through, maps to memorize, and I must begin the inventory of available troops and supplies, since both my troop commander and the captain of my guard are so busy today,” the young king sighed, then grunted accusingly. “I bet you to too have something entertaining scheduled for today.”  

“Well, I cannot complain,” Círdan admitted, standing up and placing his plate and cup away. “Merenel and I are testing a new boat today, I’ll be in the shipyards if you need me,” he said with a smug smile. “Enjoy your day,” he added, patting Ereinion’s shoulder as he left, chuckling quietly at the king’s dismayed groan.  

Ereinion finished his breakfast in a melancholy disposition. 

It was a cold, grey November day, but his moodiness had nothing to do with the weather, despite the clouds gathering over the darkening sea, and the sad cries of the gulls warning of the upcoming storm.  

It was not like him to give into such fits of gloominess he chided himself, shaking his head to dispel the funny feeling. As a rule, he brooded not much about the past, but at times like these, with darkness gathering again in the world, he could not help it, he could not help remembering that on a day like today, many ennin ago, he had arrived in the Havens; a young, frightened, tired and cold elfling sent away from his home and his father to be raised safely in a strange country, among strange people.  

Begetting days he had stopped celebrating after that. Begetting days belonged to parents, to celebrate the joy of their love that was made real in their children. His Ammë had died short after giving birth, and he missed Fingon too much to celebrate the fact that once, if only for a short time, his atar had been a happily married Elf.  

Then one day in Balar, the year when he came of age, Círdan had called him to his study and had offered him a glass of wine. Erestor was there, as well as Merenel, and Miluinn, and Taurlong, and several others who had cared for him since he had arrived in Eglarest.  

“To this day,” they had toasted, and Ereinion had looked around questioningly. 

“Today is the anniversary of the day of your arrival in Eglarest,” Círdan had finally agreed to explain, after a contest of glares that Erestor had obviously won. "You made a change in our lives, child, and we celebrate the date whenever we have the occasion or the mood strikes…”   

Ereinion sighed in deeply, basking in the warmth of that memory.  

Since then, they had more or less remembered every sun-round, though not always celebrated. He belonged there, he knew, and he owed his life and his strength to those people who had supported him in his time of need. That was all he needed to know –that he was cherished, and respected and trusted, and he would do his best in his duty to honour that trust and love that he had been freely given. There was no need of celebrating every year, he reminded himself. He needed not them celebrating that openly every year to know that they loved him. But he still missed Miluinn’s comforting presence.  

Holding on to the memories of her sweet smile and with the certainty of his friend’s love and support, he managed to get through a boring and demanding day, in which he even had to bear a tedious lunch in the company of Master Pengolod, who wanted to discuss with him the style of his letters to the Númenorean King –or rather lack of, and the schedule for his secret mission in Ost-in-Edhil.  

It was pit dark when he called an end to his duties. He had seen neither hair nor hide of his friends, counsellors or guests, but that was not unheard of. His gloominess had dissolved into a melancholy sadness, so he decided that he was better off alone.  

“I’m not a good host today,” he sighed, closing the door of his study. “Please, have someone send a light meal to my chambers,” he told his secretary.” I’ll take a bath and remain there.”  

“I will see to it,” his secretary nodded. “Have a good night, Gil-galad.”  

“You too, Taranel. Don’t get too late. We will finish with those maps in the morning.”  

He felt better after a bath and a change of cloths. A soft knock interrupted his musings just when he was about to choose something to read.  

Dinner, he thought. Then, aloud: "Come in."  

“My lord…” It was one of the Steward’s errand runners, empty handed and strangely nervous. Gil-galad sighed. 

“Do not tell me that we ran out of supplies and that the king must go out fishing his own dinner…and that of his guests?”  

“My lord?”  

“I was joking. What is it?”  

“Well, I was sent…Master Erestor asks Your Majesty to come to the Kitchens presently,” the young elf blurted nervously. “He would not say what it is about,” he added hurriedly at the impatient gesture in the king’s face.  

“But...”  

“He said he needed your opinion in a matter of the greatest importance….”  

“I am coming,” Gil-galad gave in with an exasperated sigh. Knowing Erestor, it would be something truly unimportant, but he would insist until Ereinion would give his insight, so it would be swiftest to go down, nod to whatever was presented to him and be back quickly in his chambers, to snug comfortably before the fire for the rest of the night.  

Barefoot, he padded all the way down to the kitchens, pushed the heavy door open and blinked in surprise.  

“You are here! Good, hand him a goblet!”  

They were all there: Círdan, Erestor, Elrond, that smug balrog slayer that had come from Valinor -and Mandos' Halls- to look after Eärendil’s son –and after myself, he smiled inwardly with undisguised satisfaction, Merenel, Hîrvegil, Gildor, Taurlong, Maentêw, Cook, the weapons master, the Quartermaster… his friends, his family, those he would always rely on, those who supported him and were by his side day after day. Maybe not tied to him by blood, but by chosen loyalty and affinity. His friends. His family. And there was Oropher as well, with a strange, almost fond smile on his haughty face.  

“To this day,” Círdan said as it was his custom, and all drank to that as one. Ereinion shook his head, moved, trying to disguise his emotion. 

“And what was that very important thing that you wanted to consult with me Erestor?” he joked, sensing that there was still something else going on.  

“Oh, well," the counsellor mumbled as he waved unintelligible commands around. “Would you prefer red or white wine for dinner? Get out of the way while you make your mind up, lad,” he added bossily, pointing to one of the long tables covered with a huge cloth. Used to his friends’ antics and to Cook’s preference for expressing his talent through extravagant meals when the occasion allowed, Ereinion took seat obediently by the covered table and waited in expectation as the rest sat at some distance by another table, exchanging conspiratorial winks and curious glances at the cloth-covered table.  

“Red wine,” Cook ordered, passing a carafe around. “Now, who will begin?” he wondered aloud once everyone had their goblets filled.  

“What is this all about?” Ereinion’s curiosity was now piqued as he saw Cook settling himself comfortably at the table, his customary dinner-time frenzy for once forgotten.  

“We could begin with a tale about Miluinn and her friend, the wine-maker who married the High Prince,” Erestor suggested with a meaningful glance around. “Glorfindel began to recount it the other day, but none of us would mind another hearing of how King Turgon of Gondolin never got to drink Mithrim’s best brew,” he added as Círdan, Gildor and Merenel picked up the corners of the cloth and lifted it up at the count of three.  

“It was long ago, before Nargothrond or Gondolin were completed, and during the brief peace that lasted while the Siege of Angband stood…” Glorfindel began in his best storyteller voice, but soon Ereinion’s attention was lost on the unexpected sight that had been uncovered before him. All of a sudden he felt as is he could not even breathe, as the land and its known by heart, long mourned milestones gained meaning in his shocked brain. Mountains, rivers, bays and shores, fortress, cities and strongholds, forests and lakes, and elves everywhere roaming the lands of drowned Beleriand stretched before Ereinion’s unbelieving eyes to their smallest details, blessed and thriving with life as they had once been in happier times, even before the young king was born.  

“What…what on Arda… but… What is that! Look! Eglarest? Is that Doriath? Gondolin! But...look, Círdan, look!” Gil-galad gasped, turning marvelled, uncomprehending eyes to his foster father.  

“I see, child,” the Shipwright smiled as the young king gaped and pointed excitedly at the places and bent over the huge model to gain better sight of the myriad details that his friends had put into the detailed model of lost Beleriand to serve as a treasured memory for their king and friend, but also for themselves.  

“There is a party on Nargothrond’s terraces,” Gil-galad noticed with amusement. “Is that Finrod?” he asked the Shipwright, pointing at a golden haired little wooden figurine playing a lap harp. “You have been busy,” he winked then with deep gratefulness, still remembering how reluctantly the harsh Shipwright had once agreed to carve out wooden toys for his foster soon.  

“You can bet,” Círdan grunted, amusement and satisfaction sparkling in his grey-blue eyes.  

“And is that Gondolin?”  

“Look, Ereinion, Nevrast! And the Tower of Barad Nimras!”  

“And what do you say of the dragon?”

“Did you see the waterfalls of Sirion? And Barad Eithel! See, your grandfather’s banner!”  

 “I cannot believe that you put such amount of time and dedication to this!” Ereinion sighed after a while, overwhelmed, looking up to his friends in wonder and gratefulness. “It is…”  

“It is a playground!” Gildor cut in excitedly. “Did you see the vineyards of Mithrim, Ereinion? Come on, Glorfindel, it is time for storytelling, tell us about Turgon’s wine!”  

~*~*~*

“…My grandfather managed to fish us both out of the river barely in time, as my adar’s grip on the branch was loosening…He scolded us soundly as he wrapped us in heavy blankets and made us drink bowls of broth, and then insisted that we went to sleep early,” Ereinion chuckled, ending a tale of an hilariously eventful camping trip. “I woke up late that night,” he continued in a soft, wistful voice, his long fingers toying delicately with the blue and silver banner fluttering on top of his grandfather’s stronghold. “My father was fast asleep, and he held me so tightly in his arms and under blankets and cloaks that I feared I would suffocate. Thankfully, Fingolfin took notice and disentangled me from that mess. ‘Here’ he told me, holding me loosely in his arms and rearranging the blankets over my father. ‘Your Adar fears that you will slip again into the river if he doesn’t clutch you until he strangles you…’” Smiling, the king shook his head. “That day I understood that Fingolfin was actually my adar’s adar, because he was looking at him with the same fond, exasperated expression my father used to wear every time I did something foolish,” he explained with an amused smile. “And for the rest of our trip he forbade us to get close to the swollen river, much to my father’s annoyance!”

Everyone laughed heartily and raised their goblets again, as they had done countless times that evening. Glorfindel sighed and stretched his long legs. The night was well in, he noticed as he cast a brief look out of the kitchen window; so in, in fact, that it was almost over, and still they continued sharing tales and memories brought to mind by the sight of the green, rich lands of Beleriand.

“It was good for him, but was it good as well for you?” Círdan asked worriedly, bending to whisper for his ear only as Gildor began another tale. Glorfindel nodded silently and looked briefly around. The company was scattered on benches and chairs, nibbling at the crumbles that remained on the plates that had appeared with no order upon the tables as the night went by, listening intently to any new or well-known tale or song that spoke of cherished memories of life and death and loss and hope.

“A healing experience,” he reassured the mariner, nodding towards where Gil-galad sat with his legs folded and his head resting on his palm, and a pleased smile on his usually serious face as he studied the detailed model. It had been like finally coming back home, Glorfindel thought, fixing his eyes on the deserted walls of Vinyamar and the bustling streets of Gondolin. It had served to finally close the curtain before his past life, Valinor included. “I think I am now ready to settle down here and assume my position,” he confessed, surprised at the feeling of peace and certainty that had inadvertently filled him that night as the stories unfolded and he embraced gladly the memories carried by them.

“And are you ready to meet the Lady Galadriel as well?” Círdan asked with a mischievous, provoking smile, knowing for sure what had been worrying the golden elf-lord for the past days. Glorfindel chuckled briefly and shook his head.

“That too, my friend,” he admitted with a slow smile. “But I have only recently found out that the thought of meeting her again was troubling me. How is it that you did know?”

“Do not wonder,” Círdan told him with a knowing expression on his ancient, wise eyes. “It is difficult to look straight into one’s own thoughts, Glorfindel. And to admit what one most fears,” he added softly, sadly, hinting, Glorfindel thought, at the unspoken admission the three of them had made a couple of nights ago while sitting in the Shipwright’s garden.

“Yet it is comforting to know that others, too, share the knowledge and can lend a helping hand,” he offered. “I cannot thank you enough for your support, Círdan,” he added heartily. The Shipwright shook his head sadly.

“Do not try to. Your coming is a blessing, and whatever it is that you consider that you owe me, you will return it doubled before our time here is over…In the meantime, let us enjoy what time we are given…and the fact that Oropher has not yet found something nasty to say,” Círdan chuckled, watching the surprisingly calm Sindarin king, who had agreed to tell an entertaining tale about children slipping in and out of Melian’s girdle and driving the march wardens crazy with their antics, though revealing no names, surely to preserve his own dignity.

“I am sure that the Lady would love this model,” Glorfindel smiled while Oropher challenged Taurlong with a warning glance in answer to a harsh remark made by the sharp-tongued captain.

“But I somehow doubt that Ereinion would be parted from his toy, you will have to convince her to come here and tell her tales,” Círdan chuckled, watching the gathering fondly.

“Now I know what you were doing in my Hall of Maps for a whole sun-round,” Gil-galad was saying with an amused expression, “although I cannot believe that Master Pengolod had nothing to say to this invasion of his most favoured haunting…”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Taranel informed his king nonchalantly, “we moved his maps to an empty storeroom on the guest wing…Master Pengolod said it was quieter there…”

“Although we were deprived of his useful suggestions,” Elrond added seriously, and they all laughed heartily at the king’s duly aggrieved expression.

“And since he is leaving for Ost-in-Edhil, there is little chance that he can point out your mistakes,” Gil-galad agreed with a very unkingly snort. “I am moved my friends, and so grateful for your thoughtfulness,” he offered more seriously then. “Most of you are departing in short notice,” he added with what to Glorfindel amounted to the slightest trace of bitterness in his deep voice, “but I promise that I will study it thoroughly, so I can appreciate it down to its smallest details,” he winked, standing slowly and casting a grateful look around. “Why, I can even see that there are too many people coming and going through the Woods of Ossiriand, Lord Oropher,” he chuckled briefly. “I never got to hear the full tale of our first encounter there…”

“You can ask Maentêw, then,” Oropher retorted calmly enough, casting a meaningful glance at his friend. “He still bears the scars that he earned on that occasion…”

“I might, one of these days,” Gil-galad shrugged. “But not today. I have an appointment with Chieftain Baghan and your guards,” he explained with a mischievous look. “Since my troop commander here allowed himself to be trounced by them, it is up to the King to maintain the honour of Lindon…”

“I would not miss that for anything!” Oropher announced, almost tripping in his hurry, an expression of immense glee in his face.

“That is not true!” Hîrvegil complained, jumping as well on his feet as if stung by a sharp blade. “We called it a draw!

“Well, I was exaggerating, perhaps,” Gil-galad admitted with an impish grin, “but I expected a most thorough victory from Lindon’s best warriors…Anyone willing to support their king in this?”

“Someone has to take care of the larder, and midday meal will not get cooked itself,” Cook grinned, placing fruit and bread and cheese on the table and winking at Círdan and Glorfindel, who had remained on their places while the wave of warriors, piqued by their king’s provocation, disappeared noisily towards the archery range.

“Rearguard is the most important part of an army,” Glorfindel stated with a placid smile, helping himself to a piece of cheese. “And someone has to make decisions about supplies…”

“We would not leave you alone with that burden, Cook,” Círdan agreed, stretching his long frame and leaning comfortably against the wall.” You know you can count on us…”

“You will do as you consider best, as it is your wont, my lord Shipwright,” a clear, amused voice called to them from the door. “But I thought I heard you whisper that you were now ready to assume your position, Lord Glorfindel,” Ereinion chided with malicious delight, leaning on the open door with studied carelessness, “and I hoped that would include lending your skills in the defence of the House of Finwë…”

“Blackmail!” Glorfindel claimed, raising his hands theatrically to the sky and casting a pleading look at the Shipwright and Cook. “My, Círdan, did you never tell this brat that spying on private conversations is an unkingly feat?”

“Whining will not buy your release from duty, Glorfindel,” Círdan warned, laughing at the golden-elf’s outraged expression.

“I have sat through more councils than I care to remember, Lord Glorfindel,” the young king chuckled, catching the apple that Cook threw at him easily. “Reading lips and hearing whispered conversations are useful, kingly skills…”

“Now you are frightening me, child!” Glorfindel joked, dragging himself to a stand and shrugging resignedly at Círdan and Cook. “To Lindon is it, then?”

“So it seems…”

“Let us get over with it as soon as possible, then,” Glorfindel said in a businesslike tone, patting the young king on his shoulder as he walked past him. “What are you waiting for, boy? I have loads of packing to do today,” he grunted gruffly, glowing his way purposefully towards the door to the archery range and smiling proudly as he heard Ereinion laugh openly and merrily for the first time since his arrival.

~*~*~*

“Not bad! You should have shown that skill back at the practice grounds!”

Oropher shook his head and stopped packing, as the sound of something heavy hitting something fragile muffled the answer but not the curses. He then chuckled quietly at Idhren’s sharp comment on the corridor.

“Well, I am sure that someone must have warned you that playing with weapons within walls is not safe, at least I know that your father did, Bronadel…”

The sound of scurrying feet and a sharp, hurried knock on his door interrupted his musings. Dropping the tunic he was folding on a chair he went to open the door, schooling his features into a reproving mask.

“You should heed Idhren, Brona…Tauron! What was that?” He almost jumped backwards and instinctively raised his hand to his knife at the sight of his host wielding his spear dangerously before him.

“This? Oh, my apologies, Lord Oropher!” All of a sudden Gil-galad was blushing furiously, not knowing what to do with his weapon, which, Oropher now suspected, he had used for knocking at his door. “Ah…May I have a word with you, my lord?” he asked with unusual hesitation.

Amused by his guards’ winking and scowling at the Noldorin king’s back, Oropher, pretended worry.

“I doubt that he intends to attack me, Idhren,” he called over the Noldo’s head to the eldest of his guards. “But you can keep an ear just in case…”

“I shall leave my spear here,” Gil-galad mumbled, looking deeply mortified as he cautiously placed his splendid, mithril inlaid spear against the wall and cast a quizzical glance at the guards, who now watched the scene from the door of their chamber with frowning seriousness. “I shouldn’t have carried it inside, but I came straight from…”

“It is not that I do not trust you,” Oropher explained with feigned joviality as he stepped aside to let the other enter. “But my guards are too jealous in their duty, you know…It will be fine,” he waved then to his guards, and exchanged a quick smile with them before closing the door and studying his guest, who stood in the middle of the room looking unusually uncertain.

“So, what is it that worries you so much?” he poked, returning to his packing. “I will not tell Amdír that we trounced you thrice in your own grounds...”

“You did not!”

“Ah, but I could tell him otherwise,” Oropher chuckled. “I hope that my guards did not break anything of value out there…” he added, pointing at the closed door. Gil-galad smiled briefly and shook his head, waving one long hand in dismissal.

“You are in a strangely good mood today, Lord Oropher,” he sighed, dropping himself on the comfortable chair by the fireplace. “Perhaps the excitement of soon losing sight of us?” he added raising a questioning, serious glance at his guest. Taking Oropher silence for confirmation, Gil-galad shrugged and winced minutely.

“It is understandable,” he admitted, and then launched into a long-winded speech. “…Anyway, I must thank you for your efforts in travelling this far to bring Amdír’s message. You have seen that I took your warnings seriously, and that I am doing all that it is within my power to stop the Numenoreans’ careless management of the land while at the same time strengthening the southern defences against the darkness that is arising beyond the mountains. Elrond will carry my words to Amdír, but I personally swear to you that I will save no effort in protecting the land and the people of Middle-earth and…what?”

Oropher shook his head forbiddingly. He had come to stand before the Noldorin king, who stopped toying with the cloth bundle that he held in his hands and lifted quizzical eyes, cut in mid speech.

“You are sitting on my best tunic, young one,” Oropher whispered ominously, and then laughed out loud as the Noldo jumped on his feet and bumped into him, letting out a string of apologies. “Come on, Gil-galad, do you always take everything so seriously?” he chuckled, shaking the crumpled garment and pushing it carelessly into his pack. “What is it that you came here to tell me?”

“That I am so glad that I found out your weird sense of humour at your departure,” the Noldo grunted sharply, scowling at the laughing Sinda. “You said something the other day that made me think…”

Sensing that what Gil-galad was about to blurt out was important to him, Oropher bit back his witticism and crossed his arms on his chest. “Go on, I am listening…”

“Well, Elves come here looking for passage into the west…and those who dwell here will eventually take ship… or fall in the defence of the land. We need not a reminder of what it is we are fighting for…”  Taking a deep breath, the Noldo straightened up and met Oropher’s eyes. “Elrond is carrying a few as a present to Amdír and the lady Galadriel, but these… these are my present to your people on occasion of your son’s wedding,” he said in his deep voice, placing the cloth bundle in Oropher’s hands. “May they grow tall as depicted in my book and may they fill your forest with the voices that await us all beyond the sea, so you never lose the hope of another, blessed life beyond the eaves of your woods,” he pronounced softly. “And give my best wishes to Thranduil and Cûiell.” 

Carefully, Oropher unfolded the bundle to uncover a handful of round, smooth, silvery nuts. “The mellyrn?” he wondered quietly, too surprised to joke about it.

“They would not take root in this land,” Gil-galad explained, “but, as you said the other day, perhaps they were meant to grow elsewhere… I sincerely hope that they will grow tall among your trees and grace your forests with their songs.”

Oropher was speechless. Could it be that a self-absorbed, green sprout of a Noldorin king could have read so deep in him? The boy had been raised by Círdan, he reminded himself, stunned by the wisdom and clear sightedness contained in that generous gift, but still…

“I will leave you to your packing now…”

“Ereinion, wait.” Oropher fixed the Noldo in a stern glance. No elfling would surprise him and walk away that easily. “I accepted to bring Amdír’s message because I was curious to see what kind of king you had grown into…” It was Gil-galad’s turn to fold his arms on his chest, his eyes slightly narrowed, ready to take what the Sindarin king could throw at him. “And I must admit that you have not disappointed me.”

Oropher almost chuckled as he saw the Noldo relax visibly at this most unexpected praise.

“My people will never follow you into a war…but they will be ready to defend their forest against the shadow, and thus help those who fight it… It is a comfort for me to know that you, and your mixed army of many races, are so willing -and well-prepared- to fight for the safety of Middle-earth. You are sharing your own hopes with my people,” he added, casting a fond look at the handful of seeds on his hand, “and that is a gift hard to match, my lord king…” He cast a quick look around and took a couple of steps towards his weapons.

“But do not think that you are in a position to boast that you finally managed to outshine me, elfling,” he warned with his mischievous smile alight again on his handsome face. “Take this, King Gil-galad,” he offered, proffering one of his long shafted, eagle feathered arrows. “It is made of yew wood from the Greenwood we love and defend. Keep it in token of alliance, lest this new forged friendship is forgotten as the ennin pass us by. I will be honoured to fight by your side, should the need arise,” he added, enjoying the awed look in Gil-galad’s face as he hesitatingly took the arrow.

“You honour me with your trust, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad managed to whisper. “May your forest grow strong and free!”

“And may your mellyrn grow tall there, boy. I will keep you informed on their progress…and now, will you leave me to my packing?”

“Of course, my lord. Dinner will be served in the south terrace, I will send Taranel to guide you there….”

“We are wood elves, we need no guides,” Oropher groaned, and closed the door behind the chuckling Noldorin king. He cast a curious glance at the seeds and then packed them carefully inside his pack with a slow smile and a happy feeling.

Dinner was a merry affair. Food and drink and music overflowed the terrace until the moon began his slow descent, and neither the merrymakers, nor those who were travelling the next day were willing to retire for the night.

“You will miss this in the Greenwood, Maentêw,” Oropher warned his friend, casting an appreciative glance around.

“Why, you mean you never feast in such an informal manner with your friends and guests?”

Oropher had to laugh at that, watching the assorted gathering and conceding the point, although he was not sure that a Dwarf, or a Druadan, or even a Man, would ever make it to the heart of his forest. Gil-galad had managed a colourful, mixed court, he pondered, one in which all races seemed at ease and where it was as well easy to feel comfortable around them, a magic only then Oropher was beginning to perceive as he let his gaze wander idly along the tables.

Even with the help of Maentêw and Taurlong, the dwarf smith had failed to produce a dragon proof piece of armour, but still Gil-galad had received his helm as a prized present and was praising it as a piece worth of the most skilled dwarven masters of old. The Druadan chieftain, short, stumpy and ungainly, sat as an equal between Glorfindel and Merenel, drinking and singing and laughing with a laugh that Oropher knew was sweet and contagious, along with the merry elves.

As the night slipped away, and they sang to the moon and the stars and the times that had been, and the voices of the forest wolves joined the echoes from the forest and the songs from the Sea, Oropher recovered the pride and the joy of being one of the Firstborn among his kin, as he dived in the grace and harmony that they wrought around themselves despite their different kindred. It was a feeling of brotherhood -of belonging- that he had not experienced since the fall of Doriath and he basked in the emotion of knowing that even those lingering by the sores were his kindred as well, ready to fight for that very same land that they loved.

“So you send along your glowering pest and still keep Maentêw by your side,” he joked in the morning, pointing at Glorfindel as the great company that was about to depart east gathered in the great sward before the palace. Gil-galad smiled and shook his head.

“I have been told that Maentêw has accepted a position in your court…I’ll send him along as soon as he is healed enough to undertake the journey, either by ship with Merenel or with a mounted escort through Eregion,” he promised seriously. Oropher shook his head and patted the Noldorin king’s back.

“Try not to be so serious about everything, Gil-galad,” he advised sagely. “It doesn’t suit you, after all. And please make sure that Bronadel goes with him… I do not intend to leave any more of my friends in your company…In return I will take good care of your trees!” With a sincere smile, he exchanged an affectionate arm grip with the Noldorin king and then with Círdan and Erestor.

It was a mighty company departing Lindon that autumn morning. Glorfindel and Elrond would travel with him to Lothlórien, while Pengolod would remain in Ost-in-Edhil with part of their escort. The dwarf lord was travelling to Moria and Hîrvegil commanded a great patrol of Lindon’s warriors who were to join a handful of Númenorean companies posted on the road. The Druadan would remain in Lindon and would travel by sea with Merenel and his group of foresters, to the wasted woods of Mininhiriath. All was set in motion, Oropher noticed, and Gil-galad looked wistfully at those departing, perhaps eager as well to ride away.

“Will he come back?”

Oropher smiled to Idhren, who was following their younger friend with a worried look.

“He will not take the road before his time, Idhren, but there is still much to do; he will be back with Maentêw,” he affirmed, and with a short bow to those remaining, and without awaiting Gil-galad’s signal, he urged his mare on and took the road east and turned his back on the Sea for the second time in his life; but this time he knew for sure that the road led home.

The End