Chapter 2. …And Quick To Anger.

Warning: a long chapter ahead. 

The Big Inn in Bree. Autumn, 1425, Third Age.

“…And a good thing it is, I say. I was never happy to know that he was on the loose out there…”

“Of course you were not, Master Ferny, since you are so adept at relieving travellers of unnecessary burdens…”

“We heard that your father had a not so pleasant encounter once with the Wolf-lord…”

“And that you once ran without pause from Bree to Archet, after you bumped into a pack of wolves, not noticing that you had left behind a whole sack of honestly obtained goods…”

“Are you calling me a thief, Master Underhill?”

The common room in the Big Inn in Bree was full of customers on that cold, late autumn night. The short, dark man called Ferny challenged the round, red faced patron who had spoken last. A group of villagers had dared contest Ferny’s celebrating of the news that a band of brigands had been seen dragging a wounded wolf they claimed was the famed, mysterious wolf-lord who had become legend during the war against Angmar. Of course, that had stirred a string of old tales and accusations.

“Not even in my dreams, Master Ferny,” the red faced man retorted evenly, with the faintest trace of mockery in his voice. “Although one must wonder why an honest man would scamper away before the Wolf-lord, leaving behind his possessions…”

“It is clear that you have never run into that devilish creature…”

“On the contrary, I was once saved from a group of orcs by a strange, glittering wild creature that was followed by a pack of wolves…But of course that was during the war, you made sure you were not seen around then…”

“Well, well,” the innkeeper chimed in before the tempers got too hot. “Here is another round of my best ale. Where did you say that these men caught the Wolf-lord, Master Ferny?”

“I ran into them east of the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad,” the swarthy man admitted half-heartedly and then raised his pitcher. “To the wolf hunters,” he drank. One or two of the patrons reluctantly echoed his toast, looking more worried than they wanted to show. A dense silence followed, until a stranger wrapped in a tattered cloak and covered with a funnily pointed hat raised his voice.

“I suppose that they intended to bring it to the King?”

“They were heading north, that is all I could gather…”

“You were very brave, Master Ferny, to wander into the enemy’s territory and gather such news from men bold enough to capture one of Angmar’s most feared enemies,” the old man who had spoken observed evenly. “How did you manage to escape unseen?” At that the short, irate man blushed furiously.

“I do not have to answer to your accusations!” he claimed heatedly. “You are a stranger here!”

“I apologize,” the stranger answered calmly. “I am heading east, that is why I wanted to know about your travels into lands controlled by the enemy. I never meant to suggest that you were in league with them, although it seems that you took it otherwise, I am surprised to see,” he explained meekly, though there was a strange, keen flash of anger in his deep eyes. Trapped, the dark man pretended further offence.

“I do not have to stand this conversation,” he spat. “We do not know who you are or what you want, asking such questions!” And with a gesture of contempt towards the old man he dropped a few coins on the table and left the common room at a hurried pace.

“A dark man to all purposes,” one of the patrons sentenced with open disapproval. “Who knows what dark dealings he had with those strangers?” 

“The Wolf-lord once scared the life out of him,” another explained, “and forced him to leave behind a drove of mares that he had borrowed from old Stonehill’s stables… the old man will not be happy to learn that the Wolf-lord has been caught in the end...”

“Ferny only said that he saw a band of men dragging a wolf…he is too coward to even approach them…”

“Well, you know what they say, that the Wolf-lord takes the shape of a big wolf at times…”

For the rest of the night the big hall would echo with tales of encounters with the mysterious creature that had haunted the roads of Arnor and Cardolan for years uncounted, protecting solitary travellers and farmers, righting wrongs and keeping at bay thieves and enemies of all kinds, and slitting orcs and wargs’ throats during the bitter war against Angmar. With a worried sigh, the old stranger with the funny hat stood up and slipped outside unnoticed. Mounting his young, skittish mare, he rode fast into the starry night.

Two days later.

“Go back, my friend, and wait for my call...” With an affectionate slap, Mithrandir urged his mare away. They had been riding deeper into the woods that stretched southeast of Bree for two days, and it was getting more and more difficult for the horse to get through the thickening forest and its dense foliage. With his pack on his back and his staff in his hand, the wizard silently followed a trail that looked not a day old.

Not far from there he found himself in a grove in which signs of a fierce struggle were clear. Three human corpses lay around the remains of a fire, with deep sword thrusts through their chests and bellies, their wounds ripped open as if by sharp fangs and their bowels scattered on the forest floor. Walking cautiously around the dead bodies, the wizard found signs of at least another man, who had apparently managed to run away. He also found numerous prints of paws and another, bloodied trail which led to the trees. Lifting his head, Mithrandir listened intently to the tree song and frowned briefly at what it said.

“I better hurry up,” he agreed, sensing the urgency in the worried trees and other, more frightening voice echoing dimly in the gory clearing. Without more thought he plunged deep into the woods, following the bloodied track that tinged the lowest branches of the trees.

The forest grew darker and more tangled as he pressed on; the air charged with dislike and enmity. Panting, the wizard stopped for a while and leaned for support on an old trunk covered with slimy growths and bearded with trailing moss fingers. His breathing recovered, he studied again the trail he was following with increasing perplexity. At least one man had escaped the slaughtering and had fled away with a band of wolves in hot pursuit after him, while someone followed at a slower pace across the tree branches leaving behind a steady trail of blood. And now, without explanation, the paw prints had just vanished out in thin air.

“What does this mean?” the wizard pondered with growing uneasiness as he found a pool of blood in the hollow of a thick, forked beech. The carpet of brownish leaves around the trunk was tinged red as well. The elf –for Mithrandir suspected that the hunter acrosss the trees was indeed one of the Firstborn, and most assuredly the one he had glimpsed years ago in the White Towers living among those strange and evil-looking wolves- was badly wounded, it seemed. “He stopped for a while and tried to dress his injuries,” he decided, finding the spot where a long strip of beech bark had been carefully peeled off and surely used to fix a padding to a bleeding wound. “But where on Arda did those wolves go?” he wondered in puzzlement. The Elf had rested long against the forked beech, nestled in her comforting embrace, and then had taken again to the canopy, pursuing the fleeing man. But the wolves had just simply disappeared, as if they had never reached that clearing, or rather had never left it, Mithrandir thought, casting nervous looks over his shoulder as if sensing a malevolent presence that lingered there. Summoning all his courage, he resumed his chase at a quick pace, aware that the invisible evil followed him.

He caught up with them as dawn drew in; a dishevelled group of five, dangerous looking men armed with clubs and short swords brooding over a dying fire, and two more keeping nervous watch over the makeshift camp. Not far from these two and trussed up like a bundle of hay, a big wolf lay on the ground unmoving, his eyes closed and his breathing disturbingly slow and laborious. Closing his eyes, Mithrandir perceived that the wild, uncanny presence of which the trees had spoken was close too, waiting. With a soft rustle of evil glee, the shadow that darkened that forest settled down as well, expectant. Making his mind up, the wizard entered the clearing from the opposite side to the guards.

“Well-met, my friends,” he greeted in his most mild, pleasant voice. “Can you spare a bit of bread and a place by your fire for an old traveller?”

Frightened, the men jumped on their feet and wielded their clubs and swords threateningly, adopting defensive positions. Their tempers were not improved when they discovered that they had been startled by an old, inoffensive-looking man. A loud argument broke among them while the stranger waited patiently by the fire.

“Come and warm yourself, old one,” one of them groaned brusquely at last. “But first tell us who you are and what errand brings you to these forsaken lands…”

“I am a traveller, as yourselves… although I seem to have lost my way. I was heading towards the dwarf road, but somehow I must have missed my course…”

“It is way south,” another grumbled, casting nervous looks around.

“My thanks,” Mithrandir nodded courteously, taking seat by the fire and dragging the men’s attention towards him. “I have been truly fortunate to have found you...where are you heading with your burden, my good friends?” he asked then, rubbing his hands and extending them before the dying flames.

“That is none of your business, old one,” a tall, dark man with small cruel eyes snapped, walking to check the ropes around the wolf. “Let us break camp, I distrust chance encounters in these woods...and I will not run the risk of splitting up again,” he grunted to the others. “Our master will not take it kindly that four of you were unable to catch his prey...and that one of you survived,” he smirked nastily towards one of the men, who wore a bloodied bandage around his right shoulder and whinned mournfully to himself. Another one let escape mirthless chuckles at that, eyeing the wizard through narrowed, suspicious eyes. The wounded man cast worried looks around, though, as if unnerved by the presences that lurked at the edge of their clearing.

“I heard that King Araphor is fond of wild beasts,” the wizard ventured in an innocent voice, nodding casually towards the wounded creature.

“He will not complain then, when a pack of wargs rends him and tears his heart from his chest,” one chuckled and then spat on the fire contemptuously. The rest let escape a chorus of nasty laughter that sent a shiver down the wizard’s spine.

“I take it that you are not carrying that poor beast to the king, then,” he continued in an even voice. “But let me tell you that it would be a good idea. He pays good gold…”

“He has not enough gold to pay for this,” the man with the cruel eyes retorted, turning a murderous look on the wolf and kicking it savagely. “This is our bait for a bigger prize,” he explained with a wicked grin. “We are dragging that cursed Wolf-lord out of hiding.... and we will be richly paid once our master puts his hands on him,” he added with cruel delight.  “But perhaps you carry enough gold for us to start celebrating…” he added in a soft, menacing manner, walking back to the fire and casting a searching, malicious look at the wizard. Mithrandir sighed and stood up tiredly, taking two steps back and leaning heavily on his staff.

“I am an old traveller and I carry no gold…but my word could deliver you from your dark master, and from the dark shadows that haunt you. It is too late for your fellows, I saw what the wolf lord did to them, but not for you, not yet,” he offered warningly. As if conjured by his voice, an unnatural breeze spoke ominous, forgotten words among the trees and killed the flames on their fire, circling the menacing men briefly and then returning to hide in the forest.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Panicked by the evilness that had rushed towards them from the dark, threatening forest, three of the men wielded their weapons wildly, closing in towards the wizard.

“I am not your enemy,” the wizard insisted, extending his staff protectively before him. “I can help you against that which lurks in the forest. Just deliver the wolf to me and you will be safe…Don’t!” With a quick thrust and a twist he blocked an attack from his right and disarmed one of the men with a couple of blows with his staff. The others tensed and raised their guard, and the two sitting by the fire grabbed their clubs and swords.

“Get him!” the wounded one demanded in an almost hysterical voice, “He is in league with that wild warrior and his ghost wolves, and I told you what they did to the others!”

“Do not force me,” the wizard grunted menacingly, moving his staff in protective circles before him. All of a sudden his voice sounded deep and frightening like a wild wind riding a winter storm, and he looked twice taller and stronger than he had at first seemed to them. As they exchanged doubtful looks wondering the wisdom of attacking that stranger, a smothered growl reached them and then a shout, followed by a gurgling noise.

“To me! The wolf! to...”

The men forgot the wizard and ran towards the other end of the camp where one of their guards, covered in blood, tried uselessly to stop the brutal blows of a shimmering, wild figure that soon pierced him through with a deft thrust. The other guard lay dead a few paces away. Three of the men fell at once on the swordsman but he managed to kill one and wound grievously a second. He was about to confront the third when the tall man who seemed to be in charge shouted harshly.

“Stop it!” he warned, his curved, short sword pressing on the helpless wolf´s throat. The wild stranger hesitated for a brief moment, and that was all that the remaining bandit needed to fell him with a well-aimed blow of his club.

“We need him alive,” the tall man remarked indifferently, as his fellow beat the fallen creature repeatedly. “I can sell you the wolf now, I have no more use for it,” the chieftain of the band offered then, turning to the wizard who had approached them quietly. The sardonic smile on the chieftain’s face froze as he saw the meancing expression on his guest’s face.

“I’d suggest that you deliver both of them under my custody,” Mithrandir warned them. Underneath the grime, blood and rags that covered the wretched creature he could still perceive the pure glimmer of a Firstborn’s soul. He wielded forth his staff, the tip now shinning steadily, and took two slow steps to the remaining brigands, who seemed uncertain.

“Bind him, Rovgar,” the chieftain ordered in a harsh voice, throwing a length of rope to his fellow while keeping his eyes on the menacing stranger who now looked less old and weak as he advanced on them.

“Leave him alone and run away, Rovgar,” Mithrandir advised, cocking his head as a soft, darkly gleeful voice reached them from the forest, too close for comfort. “That what you fear is getting closer,” he warned. The man cast nervous looks around.

“I do not like this, Brandag,” the man whined, dropping his club and taking two steps away from the fallen, still form, as a blood-curling howl reached them. “Let us get away…” The one with the bandaged arm, who had kept himself away from the fight, looked around frantically.

“Not without our prisoner, Angmar will reward us richly!” the chieftain grunted, walking to the lying elf. He made him turn with a brutal kick and then began to tie his arms back.

“Leave him alone, Brandag, or you will know my wrath!” In a few long strides Mithrandir was before the chieftain, wielding his staff before his face. With a wild growl the outlaw jumped forward, unsheathing a long knife that he carried hidden in his belt, and thrust upwards under the wizard’s guard. Mithrandir managed to block the vicious cut and hit back with his staff. A sudden burst of light and energy coursed through the man, who shouted in terror and let fall his knife. He stood still for a brief moment, his eyes wide open in a horror stricken face and then crumbled down slowly, a gold-hilted dagger stuck between his shoulder blades. The wizard barely noticed the wounded glimmering creature dragging himself towards the trussed-up wolf and finally collapsing beside it, as he turned his attention to the remaining crooks and the eerie, angered onslaught that rushed towards them from the stilled, tense forest.

~*~*~

A year and a half later. Imladris, late spring.

“May Manwë grant me the eyes of his eagles…could this be true?”

“It is, captain; unbelievable as it might seem…”

The two elves glanced thoughtfully at the travellers about to cross the Ford.

“There is nothing unbelievable in Middle-earth, Echnaur,” the captain retorted with dry humour. He shook his head and released a long breath.  “Ride home as fast as you can and inform Lord Elrond that Mithrandir is bringing a guest…”

~*~*~

The two visitors rode undisturbed for the whole day. As they approached the Last Homely House, though, the elf began to squirm on his steed, sensing the furtive glances and the rumours caused by their passage. At the sound of hoofs coming from beyond a bend on the road, he cast a brief, pleading glance at his travel companion and made his horse stop. With a calm nod, Mithrandir nudged his mount to stand beside the elf’s and placed a comforting hand on the shoulder of his troubled companion.

“I am…a bit nervous,” he admitted in a low growl that resembled a wolf’s harsh grumble rather than a Firstborn’s clear voice.

“Understandable,” the wizard nodded evenly, patting his own steed. For once the wizard’s sympathetic attitude towards his more than frequent losses of temper did not irk the elf, who was too busy trying to unravel the tight knot in his stomach.

“Well-met, Mithrandir, and more than ever because of the long-missed guest that you bring with you!” The joyous ring of a silvery voice reached them as a group of three riders appeared on the road and hurried towards them. Gildor scowled as Glorfindel’s deep, knowing glance was fixed on him even as he addressed Mithrandir. He nodded curtly to his former comrade, not meeting his searching glance.

“Well-met, Gildor, many sun rounds have passed since you last graced Imladris with your presence,” Glorfindel added in a soft voice, advancing until he could grab his friend’s bony arm in a friendly grip. Unnerved, Gildor shook off the hand and kneed his horse to move a few paces away.

“And still everything looks the same,” he snapped harshly. “Are we allowed to continue?” he asked then, still not meeting Glorfindel’s eyes.

“Of course. Follow me.” Exchanging a quick glance with Mithrandir, Glorfindel waved for his companions to lead the way down to the deep valley.

Gildor barely listened to Glorfindel’s distended chatter, apparently aimed at updating Mithrandir on several minor issues, as their horses picked up the shortest way towards the house. Unbidden, his last argument with Elrond echoed again in his mind after having been buried in his memory for a long time. And still the effects of what had caused it were as present as ever. Despite all that had come to pass, Gildor still considered that keeping Celebrimbor’s rings after the fall of Sauron had been a big mistake. And Círdan’s decision only supported his belief.

Carried away by his glum thoughts and unaware of his surroundings, Gildor allowed his horse to follow the others, until a well-known voice shook him from his thoughts. Surprised, he looked around to see that they had reached the stables and that his old friend -and rightful liege-lord- stood before his horse with an expectant, quite friendly look on his face.

“Welcome back to Imladris, Gildor,” Elrond offered softly, studying him intently as he dismounted. “It has been so long that we thought you had finally sailed away…”

With a great effort Gildor returned Elrond’s strong, sincere embrace as best as he could, murmuring his thanks while trying to withstand the probing healer’s gaze that raked him as Elrond took note of his paleness and his weakened state.

“Let us go inside, you both look worn out,” the lord of the house suggested kindly after embracing the wizard. “Elladan and Elrohir are abroad with the patrols, but they will be back home soon, won’t they, Glorfindel?” Elrond explained as he led the way up the steep stairs, while Gildor, Glorfindel and Mithrandir followed. “As soon as word came of your arrival, Cook began preparing a great feast…” 

Absurdly, Gildor found himself tensing in sympathy at the obvious nervousness that oozed from his host. It wasn’t like Elrond to give into such fits of anxious, nonsensical chatter. He had barely dismissed his apprehension as the result of long ennin among wolves in the forest when a well-known shiver that heralded danger ran down his spine.

“No wanderer has ever been denied shelter in the Last Homely House,” a beautiful voice reached them then from top of the stairs.

“Celebrían...”

“Fear not, my lord; I do not intend to break our custom.” There she stood, dressed in white and green, looking down on them with the imposing grace that she had inherited from both her parents. Her starlit eyes looked past Gildor without acknowledging his presence, her features stern, her face set. Overwhelmed by guilt, he bowed his head, awaiting judgement. “But you will excuse my presence while this wanderer remains in the House. You are welcome as always, Mithrandir, though I cannot say the same of the company you bring with you,” she added glacially. With a curt bow she turned around and disappeared in a billow of silks, revealing a grimacing, worried-looking Erestor standing behind.

“I could not… she was…”

“I know, Erestor. I will talk to her…”

“Welcome back, Gildor. I had your old chamber readied…”

“Get some rest, I’ll send someone to pick you up for dinner…”

“I need not a guide in your house, Elrond,” Gildor managed in a calm voice. “By your leave…” Not meeting concerned, sympathetic eyes, he climbed the last steps and strode away purposefully, instinctively choosing the right corridor and almost leaving Erestor behind in his hurry. “I need not your help, Erestor,” he groaned, closing the door before the solicitous counsellor. Exhausted, he let his pack fall, dropped himself on the comfortable bed and drifted off almost immediately.

He awoke with a start to a firm rap on the door, and it took him a few moments to recognize his surroundings. The evening was well in, he noticed, judging by the dim light that filtered through the dense canopy that shaded his window. “Come in!” he sighed, swinging his legs off the bed and rubbing his forehead tiredly.

The door opened and a dark haired elleth came in carrying a tray with food and drink.

“You missed the evening meal,” she chided gently, stealing curious glances at him. Gildor just shrugged and then recalled his manners.

“I am…I do not like crowded places,” he mumbled as an excuse, stretching his long limbs and getting on his feet slowly. “But I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” he added as the elleth placed the tray on the table and turned deep, piercing eyes to him.

“Naneth is not angry with you, Gildor. She has been blaming herself all these ennin,” she informed him evenly. His head shot up at this and he cast an intense, searching glance to the tall, adult elleth before him.

“Arwen?” he managed in a low, awed voice and then opened his arms as she hurried into his embrace, laughing like the child she had been when he had last seen her. “Arwen, is it you?”

“Of course it is me!” she laughed, extending a long, elegant hand before his face. “Do you remember this?” she asked softly. Gildor took the pale hand in his and studied the bracelet of red coral that adorned the slender wrist. It had been his present from his last trip to Edhellond and he remembered fitting it with two turns on a child’s wrist that was too thin. He smiled slowly and nodded silently, meeting her deep, compassionate eyes. “I knew that you would not sail without telling me...but we missed you sorely.”

“Your naneth made it plain that I was not welcome here…” He let go of her hand and walked to the window, fighting memories that he did not want to confront.

“She regretted bitterly her harsh words…For long she questioned travellers and scouts, and asked Círdan for news…until she convinced herself that you had been killed…or something worse,” she added in a lowered voice.

“Worse?”

“She feared that you might have faded,” she pronounced with almost reverential respect. “Succumbed to grief,” she explained then, mistaking his blank expression.

“Your naneth knows nothing of grief –or its effects,” he spat accusingly, and then winced at her pained, surprised grimace. “I am sorry that I caused you to worry,” he added quickly, feeling a stab of bitter remorse. “But…”

“You need not apologize,” she interrupted him, shaking her head slowly. “Not now, at least. I always knew that you would be back… Eat, sleep and recover your strength. There will be time enough for tales when you are rested, for you have much to tell us about!” she warned laughingly, standing on her toes to place a soft kiss on his tired face. “Be welcome home, Uncle.”  Her voice was so sweet and her tone so sincere that for a brief while he allowed himself to believe that he was, indeed, home.

“You are a blessing to your adar’s house, Arwen,” Gildor nodded gratefully as she walked away, a true smile now on his face. She turned on the threshold to cast him a knowing wink.

“The baths will be empty by now,” she added, tapping her nose with her finger and closing the door before he could throw something at her.

Still chuckling, Gildor picked at the meal she had brought him and soon found himself devouring it with appetite. Once he was finished, he chose a towel from a neat stack on a side table and followed Arwen’s suggestion.

Back from the baths and feeling somewhat renewed despite a forced attempt at conversation by a surprised guard he had ran into, Gildor stood for a brief moment on the path, looking up to the naked stars for comfort. Suddenly, a harsh voice coming from indoors reached him.

“You speak of your own pain, Lady Celebrían, disregarding the many trials that life throws at those treading the ways of Middle-earth, out of this secluded refuge…”

Quietly, he rounded a blossoming flowerbed and a dense hedge and dragged himself along the wall to a corner of the main building. The voices reached him more clearly there, across the airy corridors that led to the Hall of Fire.

“Do not meddle in family affairs, Mithrandir,” Celebrían answered in her coldest voice. “For they are subtler and deeper than what they might seem to your eye…”

“Family affairs in the House of Finwë are known to have brought great anguish and pain to the Firstborn…”

“And glorious deeds as well…”

“And still to my eye this seems more a question of wounded pride preventing you to reflect about the truth in Gildor’s well-intentioned advice…while you thoroughly ignore the price that he has paid for such blunt honesty…”

“You may be one of the Wise, Mithrandir, but that does not grant you permission to stick your nose in matters which are not of your concern,” she insisted firmly. “And you know not everything…” her cold voice trembled briefly. “I appreciate your concern, my friend,” she said then in a softer voice. “Have a good night.”

A brief, proud smile crossed Gildor’s features at her firm stand, while at the same time a sharp pain stabbed his insides as the memory of the love and friendship that he had squandered a thousand years ago returned fully to him. Lost between two worlds, and even to himself, he had for long forgotten who he was and what he had left behind. Not for the first time since Mithrandir had rescued him from the darkness -and other, worst things- that had been about to swallow him, he wondered if it had been worth the effort. Overwhelmed by renewed grief and sure that sleep wold elude him again that night, he looked for a secluded place in that garden where he could star-gaze undisturbed, and mourn all that he had lost.

~*~*~

“I am not angry with you.”

Celebrían shook her head while she finished adjusting the laces of her tunic. She sat again on their bed and leaned back to kiss her husband, who still fought the early morning fogs of bliss.

“That is so kind of you… And I am not angry with you, by the way,” she chuckled, making as if to rise again.  An arm shot out from under the blanket and circled her waist in a firm, warrior grip, pulling her back to the warm nest she had just left. Willingly, she allowed him to drag her back to his protective embrace.

“He has gone through more than we can imagine,” he whispered in her silvery head. His grip slackened as she tensed in his arms. “I have seen it in his eyes…his fëa is weakened, almost broken…”

“I do not want to discuss this right now, Elrond,” she whispered, softly but firmly. She sat on the bed and began to accommodate her clothes, sensing the waves of sympathy coming from her husband. Rearranging her grip on her emotions she sighed and turned to meet his worried face. “I am relieved that he is alive…but do not think that I am going to forgive him the pain and misery of a thousand sun-rounds so easily!” she added, waving a finger warningly before Elrond’s face. Again, he used his quicker reflexes to capture it and kiss it softly.

“I trust your generous and kind heart, my lady.”

“You know you can,” she agreed, freeing her finger and running it smoothly along his beloved face, doubting the wisdom of abandoning their bed that early. A mischievous smile suddenly brightened up her features as she walked to the door. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll have breakfast in the terrace, what do you say?”

With her course firmly decided, she paced the deserted corridors of the family wing and took a preferred shortcut across one of her lavishly blossomed gardens to reach the kitchens by the back door.

“…But he is covered in scars! I met him in the baths last night!”

“And don’t you think that someone would have recognized him, if he had indeed fought with the armies of Cardolan, as you maintain?”

Celebrían shook her head as she walked unseen past a couple of guards on their way to the training grounds. Rumour was already spreading about the new arrival, she thought. Determined not to allow anything spoil her morning, she pushed open the kitchen back door and crossed the larder in time to hear Cook’s aides saying their goodbyes.

“Take care, my lord!”

“Return soon!”

The kitchen front door had just closed when she emerged form the larder.

“He is so wan and thinned!”

“And he looks so sad! He seems a ghost of himself!”

“Do not say such things… Good morning, Lady Celebrían!” Cook’s wife, who was the Housekeeper, greeted her. “A cup of tea?”

“Who were you talking about?” Celebrían inquired, joining the maids on the large table. The answer did not surprise her.

“Lord Gildor, of course…”

“But fear not, my lady, for I have packed a healthy meal for him...”

“A healthy meal?”

“He was riding away, he told us, and asked if we could give him something to eat…”

“Riding away? How…how he dares!” Anger and fear overcame even memories of a warm bed and a waiting husband. Trembling in rage, Celebrían rushed out of the kitchen in time to hear the heavy pounding of a galloping horse heading to the east road. Narrowing her eyes in fury, she made her mind up and ran to the stables.

“Was that Gildor, Thâronil?” she asked the stable master almost breathlessly. And then at his nod, “bring me Asfaloth!”

“My lady...” Well-acquainted with her determined frown, the stable master shrugged as he went into the stables and came back leading Glorfindel’s horse. “He said he was headed for the northern grasslands,” he supplied then, moving aside quickly as she jumped on the feisty horse and nudged him at once into a wild hunt.

It took steed and rider almost an hour to find traces of their prey, since he had chosen a twisting route and changed course too often. It seemed to Celebrían that Gildor rode as if pursued by darkness inescapable, and he was right in a sense, she thought grimly as she dismounted to study the marks at the crossing.

“Well, at least he is not taking the road to Eregion,” she whispered to her steed, “but still he could be aiming to the Trollshaws, the foolish Elf…go on, Asfaloth, we must reach him and then…”

She caught up with him not much later, after Asfaloth -well used to reckless chases- showed off his talent in a wild descent towards the river. Gildor’s horse was grazing peacefully in a meadow and his rider had taken seat under a group of chestnut trees that were already blazing gold. He looked up at her with mild interest as she stopped a few paces from him.

“Are you riding away again, without even say goodbye?” she spat, looking down on him with undisguised contempt.

“Would you care?” he retorted in a challenging voice, meeting her eyes and then looking away quickly. “You made it quite clear again that I was not welcome.”

Something glimpsed in that fleeting glance -compunction, fear, unbearable sorrow- made her bit her sharp tongue. With a heavy sigh she dismounted and then patted her horse.

“Give me a few moments with this ungrateful guest, Asfaloth, will you?” she asked loudly and then turned again to him, hands on hips. “So let us get this clear. Last time you felt…” she bit her tongue again. “Last time I made you feel unwelcome in our house, you ran away without warning and kept us in darkness about your whereabouts for a mere thousand sun-rounds. I will not allow that to happen again, Gildor,” she affirmed sternly, casting a scorching look down on him, waiting for the calm-looking elf to make his apologies.

“It is not for you to grant me permission, Celebrían,” he remarked quite flippantly. “But I did not mean to ride away, although Bainloth seemed to think otherwise,” he murmured in astonishment as he opened his pack. “That, or else she readied breakfast for an entire patrol…Did you have breakfast?” he asked conversationally, proffering the bulging parcel towards her. Taken aback by his calmness, she picked an apple and sat on a flat stone before him.

“You were not riding away, then?”

Gildor shook his head, extending a napkin and placing chunks of bread, a whole round cheese and some dried meat on it.

“Not yet. We will remain here for a few days, I suspect. Mithrandir wants to consult with Elrond before crossing the mountains and paying a visit to your parents,” he informed in an even voice, biting a piece of cheese distractedly. “I just wanted to get out of your way for the day, and Mithrandir agreed to meet me here,” he confessed, not meeting her searching glance. A cheerful voice cut her next question.

“So there you are at last!” They both looked up to see the wizard descending towards them from the opposite side of the path. He frowned briefly as he discovered Celebrían. “Ah, you came too…Well, so where is the point of this little excursion?” he wondered, leaving his horse to join the others and casting a quizzical look at Celebrían as he sat down next to Gildor.

“She thought that I was riding away…again,” Gildor informed with an ironic sneer.

“And you followed him in rightful wrath to chastise him, I suppose?” 

“You cannot know how we felt all those years!” she finally exploded, hurt by the wizard’s reproachful tone. “That day I just meant for you to stop dampening our happiness! I did not mean that you were not welcome here...and then you go and disappear for a thousand years and I…!” She almost choked on a harsh sob and shrugged in impotence.

“I am sorry, Celebrían!” In a quick movement Gildor was kneeling beside her, a comforting hand on her shoulder and a regretful expression on his face. “I am really sorry…”

“You are sorry?” she laughed among tears. “I am sorry that I chased you away so thoughtlessly!  But you needed not punish us in such a harsh way to make your point!” The hand on her shoulder tensed then, painfully, before it pulled away. The voice came out low and harsh.

“I…Never meant… You must not…”

She looked up to the face that she knew so well, now twisted with mixed emotions. “Why then, Gildor?” she asked beseechingly. “Why did you let us believe that you had been killed, that you had faded…? Why didn’t you send word in all those years?”

He sat back on his heels and shook his head sadly. 

“I…I could not, Celebrían, just trust me. I could not…” he repeated, wincing as if it hurt.

“I…” she glanced cautiously at Mithrandir, who had been so protective of her kinsman, and thought to glimpse an almost imperceptible but encouraging nod. “I need to know, Gildor,” she insisted gently, taking one of his hands in hers and pressing it affectionately. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in deeply and passed his free hand over his brow.

“Well...” he began after a long silence in a harsh, tired voice, steadying his back against the chestnut and not meeting his companions’ eyes. “After our argument that day I rode away in rage, angry by your refusal to see reason. It was not your entirely your fault,” he admitted with a sad smile. “For ever since Dagorlad I had been too weighed down by loss to see hope in Middle-earth...So I wandered the lands of the west for some time until I decided to settle down in the Tower Hills, not far from the borders of Lindon. I could not sail, not even if certain pert niece generously granted me permission, for long ago I promised my great-uncle Finarfin that I would not leave Middle-earth while his daughter still dwelled here… and I was too burdened by grief to welcome company, so the solitude there suited me best for a while.”

“I… I did not know,” Celebrían put in in a low, embarrassed voice.

“How could you? I never told you,” he retorted comfortingly. He breathed in deeply and then launched into a sincere, dry account of what he remembered of that long, dark descent into darkness.

Sitting there under the golden canopy of the chestnuts, the merry creek singing at their feet and the birds chirping while they busied around in their morning chores, Celebrían could swear that she was back in the days of her youth in peaceful Lothlórien, listening to the endless tales of the dashing, mysterious, playful kinsman who had the habit to appear when least expected and remain for a season or two with them, singing songs, telling tales of a time long past and drawing smiles, and even laughter, on her naneth’s usually serious face.

Only now his voice was hoarse, and his eyes clouded by suffering and his face wan and sallow, and his glow dimmed and his demeanour uncertain as he slowly, painfully now, recounted the last part of his ordeal, the wild chase after his wolf-friend in the Old Forest, and how Mithrandir had saved him in the end. “… I managed to crawl towards Wolf…and collapsed over him. The last thing I remember is hearing the onrush of the Houseless ones towards us…Mithrandir can tell you the rest,” he finished in a harsh, weary voice; his eyes lowered, his face contorted in a pained grimace.

A heavy silence hung over them for a while. Celebrían was shaken by the sheer misery in Gildor’s tale, yet she could not wholly comprehend the extent of his suffering, so she settled for one thing that was nagging at her.

“Was it you that Wolf lord, then? You… you saved Elladan during the war!”

He shrugged laboriously. “I am glad if I did…but I do not remember, Celebrían. By then I had lived in twilight for so long that I no longer knew who or what I was…”

“But the…Houseless,” she whispered, and she shivered even as she spoke. “How… I mean, how could you?” Gildor covered his face with his hands and shook his head, speechless.

“The fëa of an Exile is extremely appealing for the Houseless ones,” Mithrandir chimed in conversationally. “So they would save no effort in trying to grab a hold of him, of his light…”

“But…” Celebrían was torn between horror and a sick fascination. “How? I mean... well, he resisted them, didn’t he?” she asked then, turning a questioning glance to Mithrandir.

“For longer than anyone would have expected,” the wizard sighed. “But then…Finwë’s great grandchildren are no less stubborn and self-willed than their forefathers, I have come to learn,” he chuckled quietly. “You all have it in you to resist evil and darkness and despair even beyond measure, Celebrían, do not forget that,” he added seriously, with a sad look in bottomless eyes that pierced her deeply. He shook his head, as if trying to dispel a bad dream and then smiled gently. “I began wondering that there was someone missing after you so insistently questioned me about Exiles arriving in Eressëa…and then got the whole story from your daughter, who was really worried about both of you.” 

“What?” Celebrían sputtered in surprise. Mithrandir laughed almost smugly.

“So once I knew whom I was looking for, I began looking out for weird tales of solitary strangers in the course of my travels…and I did meet a handful; east, south, north, west…” the wizard continued pensively. “Indeed there are more stranded souls than what we ever suspected in the shores of Hither…”  He brought his pipe from his pocket and began cleaning it thoroughly. “But it was Círdan who first gave me the clue of something going amiss around the White Towers, although he never suspected that it was you, Gildor,” he said then with sincere regret. “Or else he would have rushed to your aid…or I would have come earlier!”

“Do not apologize,” Gildor said in the tone of one who is tired of repeating the same argument over and over again. “It was timely enough as it was…”  

“I began to suspect after I first searched the Towers and had that…unusual encounter, although I was not sure that those were Houseless ones,” Mithrandir continued, turning to Celebrían. “I suppose that once they found Gildor they clung to him, feeding on his anguish and his rage, and on the fear they caused in the enemies that he killed…He foolishly allowed them around in their hound, wolfish shapes, thinking that he could keep them at bay forever, just feeding on his misery…So the Houseless waited, patiently, for him to surrender completely to despair… For many years they hunted together, or just lay low in the form of evil shapes in the dense forest that surrounds the Towers, which is inhabited by many other dark creatures as well…”

“And the wolf?”

“There are also other stray creatures of light who never went to Aman, and who are friendly to the firstborn....and enemies of the creatures of darkness,” the wizard said with a wide smile. “One of them sensed Gildor’s plight… and joined him in the form of a mighty wolf, strengthening his fëa and helping him resist the lure of the Houseless Ones…”

“He came shinning in the dark one day, when I was about to give up,” Gildor suddenly chimed in, his eyes closed, his voice weak. “He chased them away…and it was as if the tiniest spark of hope had been rekindled for a brief moment... the brief moment I needed to get hold of myself and refuse the Houseless’ call. He remained with me after that,” he added with a gentle smile, “when their pull became more insidious…and other, normal wolves would join us as well.”

“What happened back there, in the forest?” Celebrían asked then, eager to know the ending of the tale.

“Gildor was badly injured and Wolf was trapped and in no better shape, so the Houseless ones felt that their time was come…and abandoned the hunt in the hopes that the remaining brigands would kill him. They hid in the forest in their bodiless forms, lurking while Gildor tried to free Wolf…” Mithrandir explained, shaking his head sadly. “Gildor dispatched most of the men…and the survivors panicked and ran away…and were hunted down by the onrush.” He paused briefly and shook his head sadly. “It was a powerful gathering of Houseless, and they fought hard for they craved Gildor and Wolf’s light…They besieged us for day and night,” he continued, sketching a wry smile, “and such a fight was not seen in that forest since the days when the Valar where young, I am sure…” He drew on his pipe for a while, as if lost in thought. “All would have been in vain, though, for I was alone and despite my efforts my charges were slowly but steadily slipping into darkness… But when all seemed lost, he appeared out of the woods and sent them hurling into the deepest recesses of that mighty forest with a single wave of his hand…”

“Who? Who appeared?” Celebrían listened now with undivided interest, wholly ensnared in Mithrandir’s tale.

“Iarwain, naturally,” Mithrandir answered in a matter-of-factly manner. “Also known as Orald to Men and Forn to Dwarves…He is a mighty spirit, a stray from the hosts of Yavanna, I have no doubt…One of those who linger in the woods since the days before the Sun and can keep trees and dark things in line…He lives in the Old Forest and likes not to have Houseless Ones prowling around…He sheltered us in his house in the woods, and his wife the River daughter took care of Gildor until he saw it fit to return from wherever he had retired to, and grace us with his unmatched wit and sweet temper…”

“It took me long to recover,” Gildor admitted with a rueful smile, “and even longer to accept that I had to return among my kind, but he would not let me give up…” Celebrían felt that she would cry at the hopeless, regretful look in her kinsman’s face. “Never meddle in the affairs of wizards, Celebrían, for they are subtle and quick to anger,” he warned then with a soft chuckle, while Mithrandir snorted in annoyance.

“And what about Wolf?” she managed to ask in a voice that did not tremble.

“Oh, he was soon back on his feet…and sensing that I was in good hands he returned to guard the Towers. He is still there, keeping the Houseless –and unwelcome strangers at bay.”

“And are they...have they tried…?”

“The Houseless ones are all around, wherever they sense the light of a Firstborn, Celebrían… But I am confident that your kinsman has learnt the folly of his actions and will never again allow them to get close to him.”

“You saved me from something worse than death, Mithrandir…I will not squander that gift,” Gildor admitted apologetically, casting a troubled yet deeply grateful glance at the wizard, who puffed his thanks away gracefully with the smoke of his pipe.

“We have already talked about that, young one,” he said dismissively. “I was but a tool. Had I not been available, some other help would have chanced. What is important is for you,” and saying this he cast a piercing glance to Celebrían, “to remember that you were not meant to succumb to grief…none of us is.”

“I am so sorry, Gildor,” Celebrían sighed, almost choking in the anguish that bubbled inside her. “How could I be so blind?”

“And what right did I have to grudge you your safe haven?” the golden-haired elf wondered thoughtfully, dragging her into a comforting embrace. “I just chose to look back and drown in my own losses…refusing the joy that I always found in your house…I was a thoughtless fool, to blame you two for my own misery, instead of accepting your comfort.”

“But you still disapprove of Elrond’s…decision?” He cast a worried look at Mithrandir and shrugged.

“I still do,” he confessed. “But it is his choice. All I can do is… trying to be around in case you need me.”

“So will you not hassle him about it anymore?”

Gildor chuckled and shook his head sadly. “I promise. As long as you promise me that you will keep this disgraceful tale between us…”

“But Elrond…”

“He searched me inside out with just one look upon arrival… and learnt all that he needed to know. Please, Celebrían,” he begged softly. “This was painful enough, although I felt that I owed it to you…but I do not want to go through it again…nor bear Elrond or Glorfindel’s compassionate glances…it was my failure, and I entrust you with it…”

She frowned briefly and then let escape a resigned sigh.

“We will have to come up with some good explanation,” she admitted, conceding defeat. “It is not as if you just…wandered away for a few sun-rounds…”

“You will no doubt weave a convincing tale,” Gildor chuckled. “It is the least that you owe me, after the long days that I spent feeding you stories in your childhood!”

“The least that I owe you?” she repeated, a mischievous look in her face as they all got up an whistled to their horses. “You might have a point there…And what are you going to tell my naneth?” she needled, packing the untouched meal back in his pack as they readied to go back.

“Nothing,” Gildor sighed, welcoming his mare and leaning on her for support. “We all have our own darkness to hide from…And plenty of reasons to come back to light,” he added with a brave smile at her pained expression. “It will be enough for her to know that I am back…”

“And that she has Mithrandir to thank for it,” Celebrían nodded seriously. “First you will submit to Cook’s care for a while, Gildor, but once you are recovered we will ride to Lothlórien. I want to be there when you tell my naneth that it was nothing…” She chuckled to hide the mixed emotions that warred inside her. “She did not talk to me for a long while after I confessed what I had told you that day, you know…”

“It was not your…”

“She was right, Gildor,” she nodded evenly. “And you were right as well. I may know not the deepest recesses of despair…but I have learnt how it tastes…and how hard it is to overcome.”

“And how important it is not to lose hope,” Mithrandir added. “And now, if everything is in order, don’t you think that we could be heading home for lunch, my lady?”

TBC

A/N Iarwain is the elven name for Bombadil.

Regarding the “Gildor Inglorion” thing, I have devised the following explanation: Gildor would be a grandson of Findis, Fingolfin and Finarfin’s elder sister –and thus a great-grandson of Finwë’s. He would have followed the Noldor into exile and chose the  “Inglorion” to mark him as joining the third house, of which Finrod became the head after Finarfin’s return to Tirion. So of course he would be related to Galadriel, Celebrían and Elrond.