Gildor and Elrond: amalindë

ca. Second Age 3 – Gil-Galad’s palace, Osluin, Lindon

Retuning to Osluin after a patrol along the Ered Luin wearied Gildor more than the actual patrol did. Even in Nargothrond, he had never enjoyed the sophistry and political maneauvering to be found in every king’s court. Thankfully, the drama in Finrod’s City had been kept to a minimum until the end. With so many disparate peoples rubbing shoulders within the narrow confines of Forlindon, Osluin was a different story. He knew the young High King meant well. Gildor didn’t even doubt that Gil-Galad’s courtiers meant well, from their own perspectives. Nevertheless, the High King’s Court wearied Gildor as nothing else ever had, and he actually welcomed wandering up and down the mountains.

This particular patrol, however, had been especially arduous. Spring had come late and wet; Arda seeming to still be unsettled from what was coming to be called “The War of Wrath”. Gil-Galad, perhaps sensing the restlessness amongst some of his Lords, had called for Gildor and his Company even before the late snows had melted away. He desired, he said, to build an outpost in the forests further to the north: both to serve as a base for further exploration, and to encourage resettlement among the Noldor and Sindar who still clung so close to his Court.

The land which had once been fair, lush Ossiriand was now mostly marsh and fen. Had the land still been frozen solid, the going would have been much easier, but frozen marsh gave way to slush and sucking mud. Even Ereglas, who ever since a cold Dorthonion winter nearly four yéni before never complained of the ardors of the trail, was forced to regret coming along. The homeward journey took nearly twice as long as the northward one.

When he finally rode in through Gil-Galad’s gate, however, it was a very fine mid spring day: bright, dry and warm. Reaching the steps of the palace, Gildor was met by Elrond Ëarendilion. The young perelda stood quietly by the head of Gildor’s horse as he dismounted, patient and attentive as a page. His air of (poorly-concealed) anticipation reminded him of something Edhrail had once told him: that only princes could act so freely without loss of princely dignity; lesser nobles did not have such freedom, nor such a compulsion. Even now, looking down on him from his horse, Gildor could not mistake the young perelda for anything but a prince of the Eldar.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Elrond said as Gildor dismounted. “I would ask whether you’ve had a pleasant journey, but I can tell by the state of your horse that it was not.”

“Hmm, I’ve had better,” Gildor replied with a small smile. “But I’ve also had worse.” He placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder and, nodding to a groom who came to take charge of his mount, began leading him up the steps. “Where’s Ereinion?”

“The king is in conference with Cirdan, my lord, otherwise I am sure he would have been here to greet you himself. We weren’t expecting you back quite yet; you’ve only been gone two months.”

Gildor shrugged, then quickly shifted to the side as a harried looking palace worker hurried by, arms full and gaze distracted. “We made tolerable time going north, despite the weather, and found what we were looking for. I didn’t see much reason to go further while the weather was as bad as it was.”

“Is Ossiriand much changed? I wish I had seen more of it before the Change. Lindan says it was quite beautiful.”

Gildor hummed noncommitally. “It is changed, but the form of the land is still recognisable,” he said. “Lindan claimed he didn’t recognize anything, but I think he just suffers from the Mortal malady of a failing memory and can’t remember his own birthplace.” He sent a conspiratorial grin towards Elrond, who returned it with a laugh.

“I wish I could have gone with you,” the young ellon said wistfully. “I want to explore this new land; to pass beyond the Emyn Uial and travel the lands to the east.”

Gildor cast a speculative glance at his companion. “Perhaps when I return north later this season I will ask Ereinion to let you come along.” At Elrond’s startled, hopeful look he continued: “After all, the High King will need someone to make some halfway decent maps of his new outpost.”

Elrond’s smile was bright and clear, and Gildor treasured it all the more for knowing how rare it had been since the young ellon had been parted from his twin. Elrond’s delight now made up in advance for the pains he knew he’d have trying to convince Ereinion and Erestor that the young prince would be better served travelling the wilds with him, rather than confined to the dusty libraries of Osluin. Although it was difficult to say whether their reticence came more from their concern for the younger ellon’s court education, or their desires not to lose their “playmate”; for the three younger ellyn had become nearly inseparable in the last few years.

They continued down the Halls of Gil-Galad in companionable silence for a while. The bustle of the more public parts of the palace giving way to the more deserted calm of the wing Gil-Galad reserved for family and special guests. When they reached the door to Gildor’s chambers, Elrond hesitated in the open doorway, until the older ellon invited him in.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a table in the center of the room, “and you can tell me everything about Osluin I will be glad I missed.”

Elrond shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, unless you’ve been following the Court gossip.” Then he smiled a smile which Gildor suspected heralded no good. “Oh, there is something you might be interested in: shortly after you left this spring there was a… disagreement between Lady Galadriel and Lord Erestor. Things have been very… interesting since then.”

Gildor chuckled to himself as Elrond continued to relate the misadventures of his young cousin. Shrugging off his cloak and tossing it over a neary chair, he unslung his travelling pack and his covered harp. He took the harp out of its travelling bag and set it on the table, before moving across the room to begin unpacking.

After a lull in his story, Elrond said, “This is a very old instrument, my lord. Did you make it?"

Gildor turned to see the young perelda slowly ghosting his fingers along the knots and vines carved into the harp. "Nay, nessë," he said, voice heavy with memory. "I did not make it. And it is not really mine, but my king's."

Elrond’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t recall the king having anything as lovely as this,” he said thoughtfully. “And I don’t think this is Lady Eirien’s work, either.”

“And you would be right on both counts. I may follow Ereinion’s requests when it suits me, but he is not my King.”

Seeing confusion on the young lord's face, Gildor reached out to run a finger along the delicate carving.

"This is the Amalindë," he said in a voice hushed with memory. "It is the harp of Finrod Finarfinion."

"But I thought that he took his harp with him when he went with Beren? All of the tales talk about him battling Morgoth with songs of power."

Gildor smiled. For all that the young perelda was past his majority, he heard in his voice the petulance of an elfling who had just been told his favorite hero didn’t actually exist. "Finrod, like Ereinion, had several harps. But this one was his favorite, and his constant companion until the day he left Nargothrond for the last time."

"Well I remember the day he made it," Gildor continued. "It was not long before the building of Nargothrond, when we were visiting Doriath for a time. My father sat for a whole day in the Garden of Melian, carving and stringing it. I was about your age at the time, and I sat beside him, enthralled. I was supposed to be composing a song for Daeron, but I could not turn away as those vines and knots took shape under my father's hand. As he was finishing, I looked up to see Queen Melian watching us. How long she stood there, I do not know, but my father did not seem suprised to see her. The blessed Queen smiled and laid her hands on the harp. Fëaran, she called it, the 'soul of the king'. How well she knew my lord, she who is kin to the immortal Valar," Gildor became lost in thought for a while, remembering that day an Age ago.

Gildor focused back on the young perelda before him. "As I said, this was before the founding of Nargothrond. Finrod was not yet a king, and thought it presumptuous to call his harp 'the king's soul'. So he named it Amalindë, 'the blessed song', and called it thus ever after. When he left his City for the last time, he took his Valinorian harp, and left the Amalindë with me. And it has traveled with me ever since."

Elrond looked from the harp to the older elf before him in awe. "And do you play it, my lord?"

Gildor chuckled. "Aye, nessë, indeed I do. It reminds me that even in bent lands, life can still be blest."

"I would be afraid to touch it."

Gildor laughed in full. "As my father once said, an instrument is made to be used. Once you cease using it, it ceases being what it was made to be and becomes a mere curiosity." gildor became grave once again. "The greatest service I can do to the memory of my king is to continue to make his soul sing."

Elrond looked away for a moment, deep in thought; then looked up to Gildor uncertainly. "May I play it?" He asked.

Gildor narrowed his eyes at the peredhel for a moment. "Can you?"

Elrond nodded. "Oh, yes. Maglor taught me."

Gildor nodded his head, and Elrond reverently cradled the harp and began to gently pluck the strings. As the young ellon played, Gildor thought he recognized the influence of the second son of Fëanor in the tune, but did not think it was one of his composing. He wondered if it might not be one of Elrond’s composing.

"I think," said Gildor quietly after a time, "that under different circumstances, I could have well admired Maglor Fëanorion. Of all his family, he had the most sense. If only he had always followed it, and not his elder brother."

Elrond stopped the harp strings with his palm, and looked gravely at the elder Noldo, for a moment looking far older than his years. "Both Maedhros and Maglor," he said, "are constantly pained by their past deeds. It is just that Maedhros has no outlet for his pain; and love binds Maglor to his family too much to ever let him forsake them."

Gildor shook his head. "Love?" He asked incredulously. "I often wonder if that family knows anything about love."

Elrond gazed at Gildor in silence for a while, his face impassive and eyes not betraying a thought. "Maglor told us what they did to you," he said at length, the harp of Finrod still clutched in his hands. "And how you chased them like a being possessed, and held your sword to Maedhros' throat."

"He told you that?"

Elrond gave a small smile and shrugged. "Maedhros used to always curse your name whenever we heard tidings of you. One day, my brother asked why. I guess Maglor deemed us old enough to know what had happened to our mother's brothers. I think that you were Elros' secret hero for years after that." Gildor raised an eyebrow. "Well," said Elrond with an impish grin, "Maedhros can be rather intimidating."

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perelda: half-elf (Quenya)

nessë: young one (Quenya)