Gildor and Lindan: point of reference

SA 1300 – Gil-Galad’s palace, Osluin, Lindon

Gildor exited the palace out onto the highest terrace overlooking the Lune. Passing under the archway of mingling holly and silver ivy which led out to a wide lawn, he saw Gil-Galad’s gardens trailing down to the shore below in all their magnificence. At any other time, he knew that he would find his quarry down among the trees near the bottom, but given his friend’s current situation, he knew that would not be the case today. At least he hoped the tiucár was that sensible. Gildor shook his head at the absurdity of that thought, and began putting together the most scathing lecture he could imagine, to be prepared should he find the stubborn ellon in question anywhere he shouldn’t be.

Luckily, for his friend’s sake, he found Lindan lounging propped against the side of the palace on the broad railing surrounding that terrace level, reading. Gildor tucked the (he thought) very creative censure back into a corner of his mind, ready to pull it out again when he next needed it (which, knowing Lindan as he did, would not be too far in the future). The leg his friend had stretched out in front of himself was still bandaged to the knee, but showed no signs of blood seeping through, and his complexion was a lot healthier looking than the last time Gildor had seen him. All in all, judging by his position on the railing and the fact that he was out here at all, Gildor guessed (with not a little relief) that Lindan was healing well, if slowly.

"It’s been so long since I’ve seen you read, Nando," he said, "I had forgotten that you knew how."

“Ha, ha, very funny, Golda," Lindan returned in Lindarin, catching the wineskin Gildor tossed to him without looking up from his book. Giving it an experimental shake, he spared the Noldo a dubious look.

“Falathrin,” Gildor said. “From that tavern you and Galdor like so much. What’s it called, again? ‘The Drunken Gull’?”

The other’s look became withering. “The Dancing Gull, as you know perfectly well,” Lindan said, tucking the wine under his arm and returning his attention back to his book. “The ‘Drunken Otter’ was that Orc-nest in Balar that you got us thrown out of.”

Gildor merely shrugged. “There’s no reason to get tetchy. It all seems one to me: every rowdy hole of a Falathrin tavern seems much like any other. Next time, don’t get your leg nearly torn off by a mangy draug, and you can get your own wine.” When he didn’t receive anything other than a half-hearted “harumph” from his friend, he continued with a devious smirk. “It must be your barbaric Úmanyarin taste.”

"We Lindi are more civilized than you pompous Goldas like to think us. We are, all of us, taught to read at an even earlier age than you Edeli. If we do not have as may books as you Goldas, it is merely because we prefer quality over quantity in our literature. You should try it sometime." He looked up from the book, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "This book now, really is very interesting, mela. I find myself in agreement with the author more than I would have thought; it having been written by a Noldo, and all."

Gildor lifted an eyebrow and walked closer to his friend. He craned his neck to try to get a look at the words on the page, but Lindan closed the book with a knowing smirk.

"So, what's the book, then?" Gildor asked crossing his arms and leaning back against the rail. The sun was warm, the sea breeze was cool coming off the Gulf, and he was willing to humor his friend’s game. "I must, indeed, read such a great work for myself, if it is the cause of you agreeing with a Noldo on anything, tiucár."

Lindan's grin widened. "Pengolodh is going to have to be careful. His title as preeminent Loremaster is going to be challenged quite soon, I think." His expression turned purely impish. "Young Erestor has written a book.”

When his friend's glee only continued to grow as the silence between them lengthened, Gildor decided to take the bait.

"Has he, indeed?" He asked, feigning shock. "And what has that loyal young son of Nargothrond written a book about, onóronya?"

The Linda made a great show of turning back to the title page for reference, all for effect, of course: Lindan remembered perfectly anything he had read even once. "Our not-quite-so-young-as-you-think scholar has written… 'A Critical History of the Kingdoms of the First Age'."

That was, honestly, not what Gildor had expected. He stared at his friend, in unfeigned bemusement. "He's written a what?"

Lindan (mostly) nimbly dropped down from the terrace railing and leaned back against it, arms crossed in insouciant imitation of Gildor. "'A Critical History of the Kingdoms of the First Age'," he repeated with obvious relish. "He calls it The Rise and Fall of Beleriand."

"The what?!"

“Yes, exactly,” Lindan nodded, biting back a smile, though his eyes fairly glittered with mirth. "I especially like this part, here," he opened the book, allowing a brief glimpse of the pages to Gildor. While he could not actually make out anything coherently, he recognized Erestor’s own penmanship; so this was the young scholar’s own copy, or one he had made especially for the Dana. (A small, petty part of Gildor wondered if his youngest cousin had made him a copy, too; but he quickly dismissed the thought.)

"He attributes the decline of the kingdoms of Beleriand to the obstinate pride of their leaders,” Lindan continued, pointing to a particular paragraph. “Among other things."

"He what!?" Gildor tried to grab the book, but Lindan pulled it back quickly. The Linda began walking (somewhat stiffly) around the lawn, leafing through the book as he continued. Gildor stared after him in increasingly confused consternation.

"Some might say that it is too soon to write such criticisms of our departed heroes. There are, after all, more of us still in Endor who have lived through the Destruction, than have not,” Lindan’s impersonation of their old tutor, Enyalmo, was perfect; until he ruined it by continuing with his normal, impish delight, waving the book vaguely to the north: “Ereglas, I know, will be quite incensed when he finds out. More so, I imagine, when he finds out that his own sister, Silmë, helped make copies."

Lindan stopped and faced Gildor with his hands clasping the book behind his back, a serene smile of pride on his lips. Gildor’s eyes tracked the book’s movements, looking for an opening to snatch it away from the infuriating Nando.

"I knew that young cousin of yours had a good head on his shoulders, despite being a Noldo. This," Lindan again gestured with the book, "is merely what I have been saying for all these yéni since I first met you Amanyar at Ivrin. I'm glad to see that someone has actually listened."

Gildor, resolving to have a talk with Ereinion's newest councilor sooner rather than later, decided to steer the conversation in another direction.

"I find all this very fascinating, mela," he said as lightly as he could. "I also think that our most esteemed guest from Mithlond will find it even more so."

"The Havens?” Lindan's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What guest? Arminas hasn’t decided to grace us children with his presence again, has he? If that’s the case, then please gwador, detain him for as long as you can while I hobble my way back to the Emyn Luin."

It was Gildor's turn to smirk in impish glee. "Ah, no, onóronya, no need for you to hobble anywhere," he said. "Our guest is not Arminas, but he certainly is one of the most impossible Eldar it's been my misfortune to know, present company notwithstanding."

Lindan's eyes narrowed more as Gildor added, as innocently as he could, "The Valar have sent him to us, onóronya."

"The who have what?"

"The Valar, melanya," Gildor repeated, nodding. He was finally able to snatch Erestor's book from Lindan’s slackened grasp, and began paging through it. "Erestor is sure to have a whole section devoted to him in here, as much as he has always loved the tale."

Gildor finally found what he was looking for towards the back of the book. The image was very well drawn, but he expected no less. Although it was unsigned, he recognized Elrond's hand in the sure, flowing lines. No one who had seen Elrond's maps, would mistake this image for having been drawn by anyone else. The lack of signature was also expected. Gildor knew that the peredhel would not have wanted to be credited for his contribution to his friend's book, lest any of that credit be misdirected away from where he felt it belonged. The image lacked the bright colors and ostentatious decoration often used in depictions of this subject, but it was all the more moving in its simplicity. Most of the detail was devoted to the two central figures: the one shining bright, dwarfed, but defiant; the other menacing in its dark, smoldering shadows. Gildor felt cold dread shudder down his spine looking at it. For one who had most likely never seen the real thing, Ëarendilion had caught the terrifying essence of creatures that had once been Maiar. Everything else around those two figures faded out of focus, as befitted a memory, or battle-sight.

Gildor turned the book and presented the image to Lindan.

"A very old friend has been returned to us, mela," he said with a genuine smile.

tiucár: hard-headed one, stubborn (Quenya)

Nando, Nandor: wood elf; one of the many terms for the Third Kindred of Elves in Middle Earth. Because the word means “those who turned back”, it is not appreciated among the woodelves, who call themselves Lindi or Danas. (Sindarin)

Golda, Goldas: Noldo (Nandorin)

draug: wolf (Sindarin)

Edeli: High Elves (Nandorin)

Lindi, Dana, Danas: what the woodelves call themselves (Nandorin)

onóronya: my brother (Quenya)

yéni: temporal unit of measure roughly equal to 144 years (Quenya)

mela: friend (Nandorin)

melanya: my friend (Quenya)