It is time for storytelling in Imladris. A History Lesson from the early Third Age told by Celebrían, to celebrate Nilmandra’s birthday.

Thanks to daw the minstrel for her kind help.

Happy birthday, Nilmandra!

“Do Not Meddle In The Affairs Of Wizards…”

Imladris, 2441, Third Age. A bright day of spring.

‘The Guardian had already lost count of how many sun-rounds he had dwelled by the Towers.

‘Survivor of a dreadful war that had put a bloodied end to an Age of the world and sick of slaughtering, he had fled the battlefield in search of forgetfulness. His wandering feet had led him across mountains and plains to that peaceful land, and he had settled down there naturally, as if the place had been waiting for his arrival.

‘There he lived in close friendship with the beasts of the forest, and the creatures of the skies and the dwellers of the river; and all things that grew trusted him. Even the birds from the Sea came from time to time to visit him and bring him news of the wide world. Soon he got used to their sole company, and he remained there alone, keeper of the secret that was housed in the tallest of the Towers, though he dared not touch it, or look into it, lest he be caught in its spell.

‘Patiently, he not only learnt the voices of all the creatures of the forest but their ways as well. With time, he even managed to change his mind and shape into those of the animals that he loved best at will.

‘As word spread of a stern Guardian who flew with the grey falcons and ran with the forest wolves, and who welcomed not strangers in his land, the Wandering Companies soon avoided that place on their route to the Havens, and thus for many ennin the Towers almost passed away from memory. Meanwhile, the Guardian led his solitary existence mingling with the creatures of the woods and enjoying the simplicity of their lives.

‘One day, the Guardian of the Towers awoke from a deep slumber that had lasted several days.

‘He gasped wildly and flailed around in panic, blinded and almost suffocated, until he remembered where he was and what he was.

‘Several days - or had it been moons? - of swimming with the River dwellers had almost made him forget his true nature.

‘Slowly, he forced his lungs to breathe in the clear forest air. The soothing voices of the trees finally made it through his muddled brain, greeting him with a mix of worry and amusement. Remembering that he now had eyelids, the Guardian risked a brief look around.

“Was he a fish? He is going to choke outside the water!” a worried voice piped in, while the rest of the children agreed with vigorous nods. The storyteller cast a warm smile at her troubled audience and winked at them comfortingly.

“He opened his eyes and that was a big mistake,” she continued in a reassuring voice.

‘Unused to the bright light and the wide sight of his race, the spinning world made him dizzy, and the Guardian closed his eyes tightly, thankful now for the eyelids that had caused him to panic but a few moments ago.

‘Next time he opened first one eye, then the other, and fixed them on a dark, jumping blur beyond his nose –a bird that eyed him in curiosity from a spiny bush that shielded the Guardian’s silvery body from the scorching sun…

‘“I do not have scales anymore!” he remembered, hauling himself to stand  -first on wobbling knees and hands, then up on unsteady feet- and frightening the bird, who flew to a nearby tree and scolded him from there.

“Was he an Elf, then?”

“A Man?”

“A Perian?”

“A Wizard?”

“One of the Onodrim?”

Even the adults gathered in the airy porch joined in the game.

The storyteller sat impassively, listening to all guesses with an impartial smile, until an expectant silence took over the audience.

‘With a last glance to the silvery heads that popped from the River’s surface to say goodbye, the Guardian climbed the river bank and walked back to the Towers.

‘Everything remained there as he had left it when he followed the urgent call of the River people…how long ago he could not guess.

‘All that he remembered was slipping into the cold waters and feeling his body change, shortening and thinning. Then a brief flash of silver, and he had noticed without much surprise that his arms and legs were turned into powerful, supple fins. He had suddenly found himself slicing through the water, a silvery arrow among others. From there his memories were blurred, but he had visions of a dark realm, and shiny creatures, and greyish waters that shone with a cold light and resonated with music enthralling beyond what he had ever heard…and a deep, unnamed fear that crept into the bottom of the river through the mighty roots of the oldest trees...Shadows were seeping again into the water, he feared, and the River dwellers worried that this time they would not be able to fight them….

‘Suddenly, something shook him from his recollections.

‘Not everything was exactly as he had left it.

‘The Guardian stopped on his way and cast a bemused look around.

‘It was many sun-rounds since he had last readied the soil for sowing, preferring the things that grew wild, but now he could see that the ground had been turned over in a wide patch, where, no doubt, something had been planted.

‘He looked around warily, listening intently for any sign of danger. But the trees still greeted him merrily and chattered about acorns and bird nests, and insects and spring blights, as was their wont in this season.

‘The Guardian put his hand to his waist, but he found that he did not carry his knife there.

‘Taking a deep breath, he walked cautiously to the disturbed area and knelt down. With fingers that barely recalled their craft -for ever he spent more time in animal shape- he dug in and pulled up a strange seed he did not recognize. He studied it, smelled it, tasted it and finally planted it back in defeat.’

‘A sudden breeze brought him a strange gossip about a bright spirit and a sweet smell that stirred some distant memory he could not wholly place. With a last look around, the Guardian decided that he was too tired for riddles and walked to the closest of the Towers, which was his home. He pushed the wooden door open and…

“No, Guardian, do not enter!  There is something very evil in there!”

A frightened gasp rippled across the rows of children who sat in enthralled silence at the feet of the storyteller. She shook her head and cast a reproving glance at her eldest son, who had startled the audience knowingly.

‘He pushed the wooden door open and went to his chambers, and fell again in a deep slumber, knowing that the birds and trees would let him know in case of danger.

‘The following day, and after he made sure that the treasure he was keeping was still safe in its high chamber in the tallest of the Towers, the Guardian found other signs of a stranger’s presence: A moss-coloured cloak of a very good thread forgotten on a wooden stool; his tools, which he had not used for long moons, scattered on a work bench; a wicker basket full of apples that he had not gathered; clear tracks of man-size, boot clad feet stomping around his home…It was a mystery for the Guardian, who had lived alone in the Towers for so long that he no longer remembered the sound of other people’s voices, let alone their looks. He guessed that the stranger would come back for his cloak, and he was worried and curious at the same time.

‘He asked the trees and birds for news, but all that he would obtain was a strange tale of bluish mists, a warm laughter and a bright spirit.

‘And the Guardian waited.

‘Then one day, a pale green shoot began to spring out of the planted earth. Standing at the edge of the blossoming field, the Guardian frowned mightily as he recognized the plant.

‘“Men!” he thought in displeasure, for he had stopped speaking aloud long ago. It was sweet galenas, whose leaves the newly arrived Periannath –and the Edain after their manner– used to lit their stinking pipes and shroud themselves in reeking mists around the fire in the great house in Bree. He stomped the budding sprouts closest to him and looked around in wrath.

‘Men.

‘He had had enough of them, seven sun-rounds of despair upon a forsaken battlefield and one last chance for hope lost to pride. He barely checked a foul growl that grew inside.

‘Evil was spreading from the North; that he knew only too well, he had fought it too often in the distant Downs and beyond the Weather Hills, together with the bright armies of the Firstborn, though unnoticed to them. But until now the Towers had been left undisturbed. He would not tolerate Men in the vicinity. Could it be that, forced from their lands by the darkness of Angmar, new hordes of Men were heading toward him, disregarding their own tales about the mysterious Guardian and the golden-coated wolf that slit enemies’ throats as easily as a bear plundered a honeycomb?

‘With great effort the Guardian sent unpleasant memories of his dealings with Men to the back of his mind. He looked around in desolation. The plants had to go. Where they took root the land was quickly exhausted, and nothing else could grow.

‘And he would have to be more watchful.

‘This was surely the danger the River people had tried to show him.

‘With a sad sigh, for he loved all things that grew, he uprooted the budding plants and then burnt them in his hearth.

‘It took him two days, but when he was done he had a plan.

“Did he set a trap to catch the stranger?”

“You will see.”

‘A few moons later a grey falcon with a ring of golden feathers around its neck tumbled down from the sky and fell on the straw roof of the workshop beside the smallest Tower. Too weak to steady itself, it rolled down and hit the ground in the battered shape of the Guardian.

‘Urged by the worried, encouraging whispers of the trees, the Guardian slowly regained consciousness. Tired and numb, he barely had strength left to drag himself under cover of the thatched roof. With clumsy hands that still had a few grey feathers he covered himself with straw from a nearby pile, drank some water from a bowl on the ground and fell dead asleep.

“Where had he been?”

“He could not know. He was in falcon-shape!”

The storyteller smiled at the two curious elflings and winked at them.

“In a moment, children. Do not rush the tale.”

‘It took the Guardian several days to recover his strength and sense of orientation, and then he searched his home in growing trepidation. The pile of straw that had sheltered him and the bowl of fresh water that he had found so conveniently ready were only the first signs. The windows and door of his Tower had been repaired, there was a new fence around the empty stables and a pile of wood neatly arranged in the winter’s storeroom, as well as a good amount of fruit and dried fish carefully stacked for the upcoming winter. And -worst- the patch had been planted again and the pipe-weed was ready for harvesting.

‘The Guardian looked around warily, fearing that he was being watched.

‘But again the trees spoke not of danger but of a friendly presence, and exchanged sleepy praises about the stranger who had kept them company, before falling under their winter spell.

‘The Guardian was a bit scared, but mostly annoyed at himself.

‘He had taken the shape of a grey falcon to better watch his home, hoping to catch the stranger when he returned for his cloak, but soon the predator instincts had taken over and he had soared in the wind and flown away, lost to the pleasure of cruising the skies and stalking his prey.

‘He had traveled far and seen much: the fumes of war and devastation in Arnor, the failing of the kingdom and the darkness that spread from the North, the defeat of the king’s men and the desolation of the cities, slowly abandoned to moss and decay as men withdrew before the power of Angmar.

‘The warm currents had lifted him over the distant mountains then, and he had seen strife and more darkness spreading east and south across the land of Gondor as well…About to lose himself to the call of the winds that lured him beyond the sea with a promise of a country where prey was numerous and life peaceful, he had suddenly recalled his duty and had hastened back home, dreading what he would find.

“Men were living in his home?” a small girl dressed in traveling clothes lifted a hand to her mouth, eyes wide open, compassion and worry showing on her face.

‘The stranger had made himself at home in his absence, it seemed, but for now he was nowhere to be seen. A sudden surge of anger took over the Guardian, and he set himself to destroy what the stranger had built. He scattered the straw, and the wood and the winter supplies, and shredded the cloak to threads. He tumbled down the fence and the new door and then went to the plantation; but he wept as he pulled out the grown leaves of pipe weed and burnt them in a great fire.

‘From high in the skies, the land had looked like his small patch of garden, he thought in despair; a twisted and ruined country where soon nothing would walk -except for wraiths creeping into once hallowed mounds- and where nothing would grow except for black-hearted, rotten trees. He kicked the ground in wild impotence and then fell to his knees and howled in despair until he almost lost his voice.

‘For half a moon he sat on the ravaged patch, unmoving like a sleeping tree, drinking the raindrops that dripped from his golden head, patiently waiting for the stranger to return to the comfortable burrow that he had obviously readied for himself. The first snows were heralding the arrival of winter from the East, and there were yet no signs of the uninvited guest.

‘One day, the Guardian suddenly tilted his head, fully awake. The call was unmistakable, and it stirred a deep longing in his heart. Almost without noticing, he jumped from his patch and dashed away on all fours, a golden-coated and grey- eyed big wolf howling in wild glee to his pack.

“And now he will chase the stranger and tear his throat open!” a boy said with sparkling eyes, “and thus no more visitors will dare pass by the Towers ever!”

“But we are staying at the Towers, my naneth told me we are!” another boy informed, trying not to look too alarmed.

“Will you not hear the rest of the tale, children?” the storyteller asked, glaring menacingly at the barely concealed chuckles of her own grown-up children and several counselors of the House who were gathered to listen to her already traditional parting tale.

“Hear, hear!” her sons claimed playfully, and the elflings followed their example eagerly. Soon a mighty din of merry elven voices rang across the porch and then went to die by the river -“hear, hear!”- carried away by the obliging spring breeze.

“Several winters passed and the new spring had heard no word of the Guardian,” the storyteller continued after they had all calmed down.

‘The beasts of the forest, and the creatures of the skies, and the dwellers of the river, and all things that grew missed him dearly, though they still hoped that he would one day return to them, when the darkness that spread from the east had been vanquished.

‘Meanwhile the Towers flourished under the caring hand of the kind stranger who had frequented the place in the Guardian’s absence. The stranger had definitely settled down there barely a sun-round ago. Though old and bent, the man tended a growing orchard carefully, and the newly planted patch of pipe-weed as well. He lived peacefully in the Guardian’s Tower, listening to the birds and trees though saying nothing about himself. Yet all the creatures felt that his heart was good, and were pleased with his presence.

‘It was one warm, sweet scented night at the end of spring. The stranger sat on the bench before the tower, shrouded in his bluish mists, listening to the chattering of the owls as they exchanged news before the night’s hunt. Suddenly, a blood-curling howl froze the forest.

‘It was a howl like none they had ever heard before, full of hatred and pain, the sound something escaped from the darkest pits of evil and let loose to ravage the land would make. It howled again, twice, and then was heard no more.

‘The stranger stood up suddenly alert, clutching his man-high wooden staff. He tilted his head and listened intently to the distant voices of the trees. Then, swift and silent as a night bird, he disappeared into the forest.

“He went to chase the Guardian?”

“Was the Guardian evil?”

“No, he was not, but he had been trapped by the evil Witch King…”

“But Glorfindel defeated the Witch King…”

“That was ennin later; did you not listen to Master Erestor’s history lessons?”

With an amused sigh the storyteller gracefully deferred to the stern counselor.

“Master Erestor?”

“By your leave, my lady. I’ll grant an extra piece of Cook’s special way bread to the one who is capable of telling me in which year Glorfindel defeated the Witch King from Angmar…”

“In one-thousand five-hundred?”

“Nay, it was in one-thousand nine-hundred!”

“One-thousand nine-hundred and seventy-five, at the Battle of Fornost!” two elflings shouted excitedly at the same time.

“Very well! That is two pieces of way bread for you and you. Now, a more difficult question: when does this tale take place? The king’s men were defeated and the Guardian had fought alongside the Elves beyond the Downs and the Weather Hills…”

“What is the reward?”

Erestor smiled at the lanky youth who stood a bit apart, leaning on a column with a mixed expression of longing and disdain. With studied movements the counselor pulled a thick, leather-bound book from a pocket in his tunic and waved it around.

“Pennas Endore. So that you will never forget the history of the lands of your birth,” he baited the audience with a wide grin. Erestor’s volumes were highly valued by all those who had had the fortune of receiving one of them as a present…and coveted by those who had not. Delicately illustrated, his books of lore for children were treasured and passed from parents to children as a prized possession. “Now, child, it is your turn…”

“Easy. After one-thousand four-hundred nine, when Cardolan finally succumbed to Angmar.”

“Very well! Your grandfather fought valiantly there…”

“Yet I never heard tell of a wolf in those battles…”

“Nor I,” Erestor reassured him with a conniving wink, passing the volume to the sullen youngster. “And I fought there as well. But perhaps we were not looking in the right direction. Now shall we allow the Lady Celebrían continue with her tale?”

“My thanks, Master Erestor.” She bowed gracefully and picked up the thread.

‘For two days the creatures of the forest and the dwellers of the river and the birds from the skies, and all things that grew fretted and worried about their new master, who had disappeared without trace. On the third day the stranger returned, and a deep sigh of relief rippled across the forest, and the river, and the skies.

‘The stranger worked intently in his orchard and pipe weed patch for a day and a night and then went to sleep. No more howls had been heard since the stranger departed that fateful night, so life regained its peaceful pace at the Towers.’

“Where was the Guardian, then?”

‘Half a moon later a wounded, bedraggled wolf collapsed by the river bank not far from the Towers and forced himself to drink. His pelt was muddled and matted, covered in dirt and dried blood from a nasty gash that ran up his shoulder and along his back, so his golden mantle was barely noticeable.

“It was the Guardian! What had happened to him?”

‘For several sun-rounds the Guardian had fought with the remaining Dúnedain of Cardolan to keep the evil creatures at bay, away from the hallowed Downs where their last prince had been buried. The armies of the Elves had routed the Witch King, but his evil creatures still crowded the land, and the weakened realms of what once had been the proud kingdom of Arnor could barely resist that evil influence. After a mighty battle, in which they had finally destroyed the last of the malevolent spirits fighting for possession of the mounds in the Downs, the Guardian had tried, fruitlessly, to return to his own shape.

‘The Dúnedain were now scattered in the wild, the last of his pack brothers had been killed by a monstrous wraith-wolf, and the Guardian himself had been badly injured by that venomous creature. Alone and trapped in wolf shape, he finally surrendered to an ancient instinct. Slowly, painfully, he took the long way west, hoping to die at home.

‘But now, as he tiredly dragged himself to climb the steep bank that led to the Towers, he caught the faint scent of bluish mist and a red fog of killing instinct took over his exhaustion and his wounds, lending strength to his weakened limbs. With a feral growl he carefully chose his path and approached the Towers under cover of the trees, barely noticing their worried, soothing and welcoming whispers.

‘Panting, he lay in wait under an overgrown bush at the brink of the planted field, studying his surroundings in search of the intruder, who was nowhere in sight. Satisfied that he was alone, and heeding an unbearable rage fuelled by the poison that coursed his veins, the wolf surged up in a mighty leap and set himself to destroy the carefully planted orchard and the grown patch of pipe weed. He bit and slashed and tore apart and uprooted cruelly, caught in a wild frenzy of murderous wrath that blinded him. Only a small part of himself was still alert, and its warning reached him a moment too late, right before he heard the soft snap and felt the mighty jolt. Next thing he knew he was hanging upside down from a young tree, his hind legs painfully caught in a firm knot of raw rope he had not noticed in time.

‘In his fury, he twisted and turned and contorted his body, managing only to tighten the knot on his paws and hurt himself deeper. Breathless and dazed, he hung there for a while, recovering his waning strength, fighting back a darkness that slowly crept upon him, threatening to overcome his exhausted senses.

‘“Well, well, well, look what we have got here!”

‘The deep, menacing voice startled the wolf; he jolted and groaned in his uncomfortable position. Through pain-fogged eyes he saw a tall stranger, robed in grey and covered with a pointy hat, getting threateningly close to him. His white hair fell wildly along his back and it also grew all over his face, reminding the Guardian of someone he had once known.

‘The stranger seemed not impressed by the wolf’s low, menacing rumble, for he kept advancing with a mighty frown, supporting himself on a long wooden staff. When he deemed the man to be close enough, the wolf tensed his powerful body and snapped with his sharply fanged jaws, managing to tear the overconfident stranger’s sleeve and, judging by his irate yelp, to graze his arm as well. Baring his teeth, the wolf snarled warningly, but the intruder let escape a soft, mocking laugh.

‘“You are angry, are you not? Well, so I am,” the man observed, shaking his arm with a thoughtful air and studying the wolf through narrowed, calculating eyes. “It serves you well, for destroying my orchard and my pipe weed patch, and scattering my winter supplies and shedding to threads my best cloak,” he grunted then, an irate blaze in his bright eyes.

‘But he now kept himself out of reach, the wolf noticed as he twisted again, trying to bite the infuriating stranger despite the excruciating pain on his back and his hind legs. His sight was blurred, though, and his strength was fading, and he barely resisted when the man extended his staff and poked at his belly and his lacerated back. The Guardian struggled fruitlessly, trying to swat the staff away with his front paws. A look of concern suddenly replaced the annoyed expression in the stranger’s face as he carefully prodded the long wound on the wolf’s shoulder and back. Warmth spread suddenly over the angry, burning gash, while the stranger murmured soft words the wolf could not understand. He was now breathing in short gasps, quickly losing his fight against unconsciousness. 

‘“This is entirely unexpected…” the man muttered in a voice that suddenly sounded more surprised than enraged, studying the wretched creature intently.

‘With his staff on the wolf’s throat, the stranger lifted the big head and forced the grey, dazed eyes to meet his. It suddenly seemed to the Guardian that a friendly presence was reaching out to him, urging him back and away from that haze of pain and misery.

‘“How could this be? But then, it would explain many things…” Amazement was now plain in the stranger’s voice. A light of recognition that soon turned to worry kindled under his bushy brows as he leaned closer and searched the wolf’s powerful spirit, wrestling to set the Guardian’s free.

‘Caught in that powerful gaze, the wolf and the Guardian fought the stranger bravely. With a last bout of strength and a wild growl, the wolf twisted his head and bit the staff furiously, breaking contact with the calm, demanding eyes that lured him back to a life he had long ago rejected.’

‘Shaken and stunned by the sudden surge of power that coursed through him, the wolf let go of the staff. Quick as lightning, the stranger passed a makeshift halter that he had kept coiled around his wrist over the wolf’s muzzle and tightened the loop. The wolf shook his head wildly, trying to free himself, but to no avail. With a swift movement, the man wrapped the wolf’s head in his cloak and proceeded to tie his front paws, gently but firmly.

“‘I am sorry, my friend, I never thought that this would come to pass…”

‘Before he could wonder, the rope he was hanging from was cut, and he hit the ground heavily. The blow drove the air from his lungs and forced a weak, pained yelp from him.

‘And then, he welcomed darkness gladly.

“Poor Guardian! Who is going to save him now?” A wave of sympathy and concern flowed across the audience. The storyteller lifted her head and looked beyond the rows of wide-open eyes in expectant faces. She smiled softly at a tall, golden-haired elf lord dressed in traveling clothes who had just arrived at the porch and slouched carelessly against one of the wooden pillars of the stairs. He shook his head in mock despair and waved for her to continue with her tale with a resigned shrug.

‘“For three days and three nights the stranger looked after the bedraggled wolf inside the Tower,” the storyteller picked up her thread again.

‘He cleansed and stitched his wounds, and waited by his side while the wolf raged in fever. From time to time he would pet his matted pelt, murmuring soothing, unintelligible words in a language that was now seldom heard in Middle-earth, but which had a calming effect on the restless creature. When he finally got rid of the powerful poison that coursed his veins, the wolf fell in a deep, death-like slumber. And still the stranger remained by his side, forcing water into him and watching over his sleep.

‘On the dawn of the fourth day a bold ray of sun speared the dark chamber and gilded the bed. Startled out of a brief spell, the stranger’s gaze turned in alert to the shape that rested before him.

‘“Wake up, Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, and be welcome back to the life of the Firstborn,” he greeted with a relieved grin, placing a hand on the uninjured shoulder of a tall, fair-haired elf who slept peacefully in the place where the big, golden-coated wolf had lain for three days and three nights.

‘It took the bewildered elf a long while to regain his senses and his awareness, and for a time he shied from the stranger, studying him warily.

‘But the stranger was patient and caring, and he talked tirelessly to the elf, telling him about the Towers and the forest creatures that had missed him, but also about the wide world and his elven kindred. He kept him company and took care of his many wounds and bruises, until the elf was again able to stand and walk unaided. But yet he would not speak.

‘“I apologize again,” the stranger said one day as they sat on a bench outside the tower, casting a regretful glance at the red scars that still flared on the elf’s ankles, where the rope had bitten deep in his flesh. “But I feared that evil men or a fugitive from Angmar were invading the Towers. I only wanted to protect what is kept there,” he explained, pointing vaguely at the tallest of the towers. “I did not expect to find you here…” he continued speaking pleasantly, already used to elf’s stubborn silence.

He paused to draw shamelessly on his pipe and shrouded them both in blue, sweet scented mists that soon dissolved into the silvery fog that came up from the river. “And I did not expect to catch a shape-shifting Elf when I set up my traps… although it serves you well, for meddling in the affairs of Wizards…” he added with a soft laughter that rang of silvery bells and warmed hearts and souls.

‘“Wizards? I know not about your kin… but I can truly say that they are subtle and quick to anger,” were the recovering elf’s first words in several ennin. “Have you another name, that I can thank you properly?”’ he added in a hoarse, growl-like voice.

‘“Many are my names, but I am known as Mithrandir among your kin. And very glad that they will be, when they learn that you still walk the lands of Hither. You have been deemed in the care of Mandos for more than a thousand sun-rounds now,” the wizard informed him in a lowered voice. “The Lady Galadriel still mourns deeply the last of the lords of her House…” Seeing the pained wince on the Elf’s face the Wizard turned his attention to a small bird that was stalking a piece of bread on the bench, giving him time to master his feelings.

‘“How did you know who I was?” the troubled elf asked after a long pause, in a voice that sounded clearer now. The Wizard shook his head and laughed, and left his question unanswered with a knowing wink.

‘“I know not who or what you are, Mithrandir,” the elf sighed then. “But I owe you my life. What can I do to settle that debt?”

‘“Recover yourself and hide no more among beasts. It is not for the Firstborn to live the life of Yavanna’s creatures for too long, my friend. Had I known of your plight I would have come to your aid earlier…”

‘“Your help was timely enough. You have my word, although it will not be easy to keep, I fear. As a boon, I will allow you to maintain your pipe weed patch as well.”

‘“I’ll hold you to that,” the Wizard chuckled, and they spoke of it no more.

‘The Wizard remained for a time in the Towers, while the elf regained his strength. The beasts of the forest and the creatures of the skies and the dwellers of the river, and all things that grew greeted him; and the birds from the Sea came to visit him and brought back the tidings, and there was great joy in the Havens. Every time he would be stricken by grief, or burdened by hefty memories of what had been lost, the Wizard’s presence would comfort him and rekindle his hope and brighten his spirits. With time, his bouts of despair were definitely overcome and became a thing of the past.

‘A new spring had come, and it was almost a sun-round since the Guardian had returned to the Towers in wolf shape.

‘“Look, there is someone looking for you,” Mithrandir said with a wide smile, pointing to the bench where they used to sit in clear nights. They had been away on a long hike, and they both had agreed that the elf was wholly healed. He could talk with birds and beasts and trees and with the river dwellers freely, feeling not the urge to take their shapes and live among them. He now followed the wizard’s indications and could not hold an amazed gasp as a swift, mighty shape loped silently towards him.

‘“How, why?” he wondered, falling to his knees and burying his face in the soft, silky  pelt of a big, golden-coated wolf that greeted him with short, low howls.

‘“His is a powerful ancient spirit who slipped into the wolf when you took its shape. He supported and strengthened your fëa when you were weakened by the wraith’s poison. He then remained there when you recovered your own shape. I convinced him to keep you company, as Guardian of the Towers. That is my parting gift,” the wizard added with a kind smile, watching fondly as elf and wolf wrestled playfully on the ground and exchanged affectionate bites.

‘“Why are you in such a hurry?”

‘“You are healed, and my errands are countless. But I will send word of your return, so the Wandering Companies pay you a visit on their way to the Havens…and those who love you know that you are safe.”

The tall, golden-haired elf chose that moment to interrupt the tale in a deep, slightly hoarse voice.

“Everything is ready and the company is waiting, Lady Celebrían.”

“In a moment, Gildor, I am almost done.”

There was a collective gasp and a swoosh, as all the children turned as one from the storyteller to the elf who had just spoken, and then again to the storyteller. It had just dawned on them that the troubled, dangerous Guardian of the tale and the playful, friendly elf lord who was going to be their guide on their way to the Havens were the same. Pretending that she had not noticed, she continued with the narration.

‘“Take good care of the Towers…and of yourself, Gildor Inglorion, and fear not, for our paths shall cross again many times,” the wizard said, and with a parting bow he disappeared in the forest.

‘And so it came to pass that the elf continued to dwell in the Towers, but from time to time he would also travel the land and serve as a guide to the Wandering Companies as they tarried leisurely on their way to the Grey Havens –as you, my children, are about to do. May Elbereth shine on your path and may the Lord of Waters take you home swiftly!’

The Lady Celebrían had barely reached the end of her tale when the children jumped on their feet and swarmed towards the golden elf, showering him in questions, boldly taking his hands and looking for hidden claws or fish scales.

“Could you turn into an otter?”

“How did it feel to fly like an eagle?”

“It was a falcon!”

“But it is the same…”

“Can you turn into a fish?”

Gildor laughed and shot an amusedly reproving glare at his playful kinswoman.

“I could, but as you have just heard I made a promise long ago not to do such things anymore.”

“Ah, but I would watch him carefully at night…and would be very cautious before fishing, or shooting any forest creature, if I were you!” Elrohir warned them seriously, as the adults joined the chattering crowd on their way to the main yard, where the rest of the departing company waited.

“Shall we see the Guardian on our way, Gildor? Is he your friend still?”

“He is. We shall see him at the Towers, for he keeps the watch while I am away…”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Only to the enemy. And now, children, if I were you I would not make Mithrandir wait longer than necessary…it does no good to cross a wizard, as you surely have learned by now!”

With a delighted shrill, the throng spilled over the well-tended garden and towards the yard, shouting in glee and daring each other to approach the imposing-looking Wizard, who waited patiently with the Lord of the House, several of his counselors and the rest of the company.

“I cannot understand why you continue to tell such a nonsensical tale,” Gildor complained good-naturedly, embracing Celebrían and dragging her to match his long stride. The tale of the Guardian had become a tradition in the leave-taking ceremony in Imladris –a tradition that all adults followed with barely contained mirth.

“It is the least that you deserve, Gildor, after you frightened us so badly and for so long,” Arwen reminded him, waving a reproving finger before his face and softening her reproach with a beautiful smile.

“And you should be grateful that she chose to tell such an embellished tale, instead of the plain truth,” Elrohir chimed in from behind him.

“Sure, what would those children think if they learned that Mithrandir turned you into a toad the third time you hid his smoking-pipe?” Elladan joked. “At least they will look up to you in respect for the first three hours of your trip or so,” he added with a snort.

“One of these days you should send your sons to escort one of the Wandering Companies, Celebrían,” the golden haired guide retorted with a laugh. “It would do them well, to assume certain responsibilities…”

“Do not be so harsh on us; it was only a joke…”

“Why don’t you tell us the true story? It cannot be more shameful than being turned into a toad,” Elrohir quipped. Gildor stopped and turned to face him, an imposing look in his blazing grey eyes.

“Pray to Elbereth that you never find yourself at the receiving end of a wizard’s helping hand, Elrohir,” he warned him in all seriousness.

“For they are subtle and quick to anger, brother-mine!” Elladan ended with a chuckle, and they all broke in loud laughter, causing all those waiting in the yard to look up at them and smile in turn as the merry group reached them.

“She is remaining, Gildor,” Elrond said curtly, retrieving his wife from the close embrace in which she was held. Gildor let escape a rueful laugh and bowed briefly.

“I know, Elrond. She is the reason why I keep coming here!”

“We are ready,” Mithrandir cut in, surrounded by children eager to learn more tales from the wizard. “We should be leaving now…”

“Fare you well, my friends, and come back at your leisure,” Elrond pronounced with a half-smile, embracing first his annoying relative, and then the wizard. He then bowed silently to the rest of his people, his hands over his heart, for all goodbyes had been said before in the Hall of Fire, and the company departed amidst songs that followed them long after they had disappeared behind the trees.                                                                                                        ~*~*~*

 ***

“You can let Celebrían breathe, Elrond; the Guardian is on his way to the Ford,” Glorfindel joked from his perch on the railing. Elrond and his household had retired to Celebrían’s garden after the company left, and they now sat there in companionable silence, sipping wine and enjoying the peace in the secluded valley. 

“Is it true that you were once jealous of Gildor, Adar?” Arwen asked with a mischievous grin on her beautiful face. The Lord of the House shook his head in dignity, still clutching his wife possessively.  

“How could I be jealous of someone who once was a toad?” he wondered haughtily, picking one of his sons’ favourite jokes and relishing the chorus of laughter that followed.  

“Who won your parting gift this time, Erestor?”  

“Maentalf’s son...”  

“How convenient…”

“He earned it in all fairness, but I concur that it was most appropriate. When his pain is eased, he will look on it with fondness, I expect…” 

Elrond listened to the conversation absentmindedly. Maentalf had died not ten sun-rounds ago, in an ill-fated scouting mission. His eldest son had drawn into himself since then, forcing his naneth to finally take ship, lest the child fade in grief and resentment. Erestor’s book would surely help him one day, when he learned to look back to Middle-earth without anger, he hoped. Briefly, Elrond felt again the fresh sting of pain at the marring of Arda, which not even the powerful pulse of Vilya on his finger could completely keep at bay. With a relieved sigh he looked around and not for the first time thanked the Powers for his family and his friends, and the peaceful life that they had managed to build for themselves in that secluded corner of Middle-earth.  

“We did not have all this, back then,” Erestor observed with a knowing smile, as if reading his thoughts. 

*He* did not have all this, Elrond told himself with a deep surge of remorse, pressing Celebrían’s hand in gratefulness while remembering the cloak of melancholy that used to weigh upon Gil-galad for days every time a ship sailed west.  

“I marvel that Círdan insists on remaining there,” he whispered.  

“The Sea is not to blame for his worst losses,” Glorfindel reminded them softly. “And the Lord of Waters still sings of hope to his ear. The Shipwright lives facing the way west, waiting for the day when the last ship departs and he will finally set sail towards all those that he has lost.  He would not live elsewhere…”  

“Well, Glorfindel, and while that last ship departs, do you have any tale of shameful misadventures with Mithrandir that Naneth could turn into a children’s tale for a change?” Elladan interrupted in his blunt manner.  

Thankfully, his children’s moods were not dampened by deep sorrows or everlasting partings, Elrond considered, smiling despite himself at his firstborn’s bold change of subject.  

“I have yet to run into shameful misadventures, I regret to inform you…”  

“Yet I bet that Erestor can tell us some of your most disgraceful deeds from your first days in Lindon…”  

With a deep sigh, Elrond relaxed against the padded bench and pulled his wife closer, watching as his family engaged in one of their bantering sessions. But he could not join in. The story of the Guardian always unsettled him. Beneath that gentle account lay a sad tale of unbearable grief and dark despair that only Celebrían, Mithrandir and Gildor himself knew to its full extent. The burden of years and loss weighed heavily on all the elvenkin, he thought sadly, and then wondered idly whether he, as well, would succumb to despair were he to set foot outside his secluded valley and taste for himself, day after day, the bitterness and loss that Gildor, as well as the few other Exiles who still remained in Middle-earth, had been carrying upon his shoulders for years uncounted.   

Celebrían’s laughter rang silvery in his ears and distracted him from his morose thoughts.  

No, he decided, watching as the others shared laughter and comfort; he would not succumb to grief even if he were to carry the weight of years and sorrow of an Exile, and deprived of the protective shield of Vilya. He would still have his family and his friends, and that would suffice.  

The End.

A/N

Pennas Endore means “Tales from Middle-earth”

 The Towers of Emyn Beraid were raised by Gil-galad for his friend Elendil, and they stood west of the Shire, on the road to Mithlond. It is said that the palantír kept in the tallest of the towers allowed its wielder to gaze into the true West.  

Some canon background to support the tale:  

A great host came out of Angmar in 1409, and crossing the river entered Cardolan and surrounded Weathertop. The Dúnedain were defeated and Arveleg was slain. The Tower of Amon Sûl was burned and razed; but the palantír was saved and carried back in retreat to Fornost. Rhudaur was occupied by evil men subject to Angmar and the Dúnedain that remained there were slain or fled west. Cardolan was ravaged. Araphor son of Arveleg was not yet full grown, but he was valiant, and with the aid of Círdan he repelled the enemy from Fornost and the North Downs. A remnant of the faithful among the Dúnedain of Cardolan also held out in Tyrn Gorthad (the Barrow-Downs) or took refuge in the Forest behind.  

It is said that Angmar was for a time subdued by the Elvenfolk coming from Lindon; and from Rivendell, for Elrond brought help over the Mountains out of Lórien. 

(…) It is said that the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad, as the Barrowdowns were called of old, are very ancient, and that many were built in the days of the old world of the First Age by the forefathers of the Edain, before they crossed the Mountains of the Ered Luin into Beleriand, of which Lindon is all that now remains. Those hills were therefore revered by the Dúnedain after their return; and there many of their lords and kings were buried. [Some say that the mound in which the Ring-bearer was imprisoned had been the grave of the last prince of Cardolan, who fell in the war in 1409]  

From LOTR Appendix A; The North-kingdom and the Dúnedain.