The palace was a bustling confusion of people with little time for an outsider, but Lindir was good at finding his way around unfamiliar places and knew a smile coupled with a brisk attitude were good tools for smoothing the way. The fiddle slung over his shoulder and the harp neck protruding from his pack didn’t hurt – everyone liked musicians. Erestor proved less difficult to track down than he expected; people recognised the name and if not the name, the description. Either he was well-known, or else not many short, black haired elves with brown eyes worked there.
The third – or perhaps fourth – person he asked sent him out into the public gardens where he soon spotted Erestor, a still figure sitting on a wall in the sun, rather like a cat. He was staring pensively out to sea, one leg drawn up, hands clasping the knee, the other foot barely touching the ground. His dark hair hung to his waist, shimmering in the sunlight like ink. Lindir crossed the flower-strewn grass to him, crunched over the gravel path. He leaned against the wall, setting the fiddle down carefully at his feet beside his pack.
Erestor turned his head and nodded almost casually. “Songbird?” as though he had been gone a few days, not several weeks. Lindir assumed the nickname meant he was welcome. “I didn’t expect you back this soon,” he added after a minute, perhaps realising something more was needed.
Lindir, who was watching an incoming ferry and enjoying the sun on his back, contrived to look hurt. “I can go away again if you like.”
“Idiot.”
“It’s nice here in the sun. Are you free or do you have work to get back to any time soon?” Whether a member of the king’s inner circle and a – presumably former – royal confidant had anything that could be defined as a ‘job’ or was simply an especially privileged courtier wasn’t clear. Lindir thought the lines might get a touch blurred at that level.
Erestor shrugged, coils of hair sliding back over his shoulder. Lindir thought he looked pale, but then he was wearing dark blue, a shade that was currently fashionable but draining. “I’ve been helping with some copy work, but that’s almost finished now. I’m just passing the time really, no actual position as such. I supposed I should have volunteered for service on the border.”
“But you were part of what went before and you might be more use here?” Lindir guessed, refusing to be put off by body language. “How does it work? Have you asked where else you can help or are you waiting for something to present itself, or…?”
Erestor shrugged. “Not sure, to be honest. It’s the usual thing. You go away for a while, more than a while, and when you get back life has moved on and your space has been filled.”
“Professional space, personal space…?” Lindir realised what he was saying as the words left his lips and mentally kicked himself. Erestor gave him a long look, then made a sound that was almost but not quite a laugh.
“That was blunt. Both? Neither? My former job is adequately managed by the person I hand-picked for it, a friend who is building a career and reputation from it. Personal – I have no personal life, Songbird. I stopped having a personal life some time ago.”
Lindir stood his ground. For him this was a continuation of a conversation they’d had coming down the Emyn Beraid, though Erestor might not see it like that and regret confiding as far as he had. “You have a past, yes, but that’s no reason to shut yourself off from the future. You need to stop punishing yourself.”
“I’m better on my own, Lindir.” Erestor’s tone allowed no argument. “There are questions I’d rather not answer, lies I’d rather not tell. I’m happier keeping to myself.”
“Your state of mind isn’t healthy,” Lindir said glumly. Gulls flew overhead calling and the sea breeze played with his hair, unruly tawny curls struggling loose at its touch. The setting and the company both felt a little unreal. “I know you can’t tell anyone about the trouble on the road, but what happened in Eregion is long gone now, a mistake in your past. You can’t let that – let him – control your life.”
Erestor gave him an expressionless stare. “No one’s controlling my life. And during my debriefing I explained that Annatar had been asking questions – you were right, that wasn’t something to keep to myself. But it’s just… life’s different now. Good enough reason not to carry on as though nothing had happened.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It may be. But you don’t understand how it works here. Anyhow, that’s enough about me. What about you? Why are you back so soon?”
Lindir saw it was time to step back. “Oh, my father and I disagreed about the way I live my life. I thought I’d see if I could rather find work here. I applied to the Chief of Minstrels before I came looking for you and he’ll hear me later today.”
Erestor’s face lit with mischief, and for the first time Lindir got a proper laugh out of him. “I’ve heard Cirithon play – you should be auditioning him, not the other way around. What instrument? Not the harp, right?”
Lindir grimaced briefly, unable to repress a shudder. “I still have to steady myself before I pick it up. That experience on the road, playing Maglor’s harp with those – things – inside it isn’t something I’ll forget in a hurry. Care to come along? It’s always easier when there’s a friendly face to focus on. Steadies the nerves.”
~*~*~*~
“Well, that went all right, yes?”
They were in a tavern not far from the palace, seated opposite one another at a corner table, a jug of wine, bowls of olive oil and salt, and a loaf of flat bread heavily scented with garlic laid out between them. Lindir leaned back, loosely clasping the stem of his wine cup. For some reason auditions always left him flat and a bit empty. “Yes, not bad. I can see the Chief and me butting heads at a merry rate – his ideas were old when Daeron was young – but at least I have paying employment. Now I just need somewhere to stay.”
“If you work for the palace, you’re entitled to board,” Erestor told him, breaking off a chunk of bread to salt and dip in the oil. He tasted it and pulled a face. “Think they dropped a few extra cloves in this here; don’t try kissing anyone later.”
Memories of nights together on the road made Lindir shoot him a covert glance, but there was no hint of a double meaning so he left it alone. “Nothing was said about board. Who do I see? It’s that or promise my soul against the price of a room till I get paid.”
“I’ll show you on the way back.” Erestor looked down at the floor beside Lindir’s chair. “Is that all you brought with you? One bag and your instruments?”
Lindir put on a polite expression. Some hurts weren’t for sharing. “I might have left in a bit of a rush,” he said, tearing off some bread to taste. “Yes, they believe in garlic here. It’s very good for clearing out the sinuses I heard?”
“We should have wonderfully clear sinuses then.” Elbows on the table, Erestor set his chin on his linked hands and studied him. “Bit of a rush? So – quite a strong disagreement then?”
“Could be.” Lindir pulled a face, remembering. “Let’s just say I responded badly to being told it was time to settle down, get a real job and find a wife. Be respectable.”
“Good musicians are seldom respectable – too boring. Respected, yes. Does he understand how well you were doing in Ost-in-Edhil?”
Lindir supposed it was time one of them stopped the dance and offered a straight answer, and Erestor, whose casual tone belied the interest in his eyes, was unlikely to go first. He pulled in a breath, the final encounter with his father still fresh and raw. “I tried. He wasn’t interested. Playing for royalty in Eregion hardly counts. Celeborn and the Lady are notorious rather than famous.”
Erestor nodded sympathy. “I think they deliberately cultivate that reputation. But you played for Gil-galad before you went home. I would have thought that counted for something?”
There was no diplomatic answer to this, so Lindir kept his peace. Erestor’s lips quirked and he raised an eyebrow, amused.
“It’s all right, I know he’s not universally worshipped. So your father was underwhelmed to find you’d played for the High King? I don’t blame you, I’d have left too. What would it take, do you think? To impress him.”
Lindir snorted. “Not sure. Maybe if Oromë crossed the sea to hear me?”
Erestor’s light brown eyes laughed at him over the rim of his cup. “Oh yes, but then if you have luck like mine he’d run into Maglor on a beach somewhere first, so – with respect – you might be a bit of an anticlimax.”
“Do you believe it?” Lindir asked, curious. “That he’s out there somewhere, playing sad songs for the gulls on some forsaken beach?”
“Be hard pressed to find too many forsaken beaches around here,” Erestor said practically. “Maybe further south… No, on second thoughts, up north might work best. For the misery factor. Do I believe it? Not a chance. Maglor was a musician by gift but a soldier by profession; he always struck me as too pragmatic for that kind of melodrama. Elrond seems convinced he’s gone off exploring the world now he’s finally free of the Oath. I wasn’t sure throwing the Jewel into the sea made him free, but Elrond likes to believe it and who am I to argue?”
“I made a song about him once. Maglor. I suppose Gil-galad’s court isn’t quite the place to sing it though.” The song wasn’t Lindir’s best work, but he was fond of it.
Erestor made a dismissive gesture. “You sing what you like. Cirithon might throw a fit, but Gil takes things on merit. He’d like you offering something others would think twice about.”
Lindir made a mental note of this while he took another, more thorough look at Erestor. “Are you all right? Really, I mean. It can’t have been a good few weeks.”
“I’m not sleeping as well as I could,” Erestor replied in a tone that was a bit too casual. Lindir, no stranger to understatement himself, pointedly said nothing. “It’ll pass. I have a lot to think about. It’s been better recently, we’ve been collecting records to send over the sea and the work seems to agree with me.”
“And being back with old friends probably helps too,” Lindir tried, knowing the direct approach would get him nowhere.
Erestor gave him a dark look. “Oh right, old friends. Some are with the army and some ask too many awkward questions about my time in Eregion. I’ve mainly kept to myself, it’s easier.”
Lindir nodded, watching the fine-boned face with the shadowed eyes while he searched for the simplest way to say what he was feeling. “I’m a good listener,” he came up with finally. “And I don’t presume. On the road was on the road, I’m not trying to…”
“You can’t win this one,” Erestor told him. “If you want to sleep with me, you’re being presumptuous. If you don’t want to sleep with me, I’m prepared to be insulted.”
Lindir grinned at him. “Right now I don’t want to commit either way,” he said. “I’ll have enough work fitting in and learning the repertoire. I’d like a chance to get to know you without the pressures of crossing Eriador, that’s all. And listen if you want to talk. Anything more, I leave up to you.”
Erestor placed a hand briefly over his before breaking off more of the garlic bread. “Fair enough. Though the more you know me the more resistible I’ll seem. How about we finish up here before dark and go find where they’re putting you? I’ll even walk you to dinner if there’s time. You’re new and easy on the eye, we can give them something to gossip about.”
Soft grass stretched under shadow from the doors of Khazad-dûm, the expanse broken by little hillocks supporting tidy stands of fir, birch and beech. Stone carvings, singly and in groups, studded the undulating green. A neat brick path led down to the lake and continued around it, but the elves kept to the grass, gentle underfoot after the stone halls of the dwarves.
“Did they make those mounds for the trees on purpose, do you think?” Celebrían kept her voice down, but it would take more than trees and statues to render her speechless. “They look as though they were… arranged, don’t they? Open grass here, a group of statues there, some trees off to the side.”
Galadriel’s eyebrows went up and her breath caught on a laugh. “Why yes, they do rather, though I can’t quite see the logic.”
“They don’t have real trees under the mountain, so this could be their way of using them. As another kind of ornament?”
Galadriel shook her head. “Perhaps? There are carved trees all over the city, aren’t there? This does look rather like a park, just on a bigger scale.”
Celebrían looked pleased with herself. “The statues are the same as the ones in their parks, too. And those plinths, or whatever you call them. See? Though the writing looks different…”
“It’s older, I think,” Galadriel ventured, looking at faint dwarf runes a short distance away. “Weather worn too, so they’re harder to make out.”
“But you can read them, can’t you?”
It was almost, though not quite, a challenge. Galadriel suspected it would be a while before she was forgiven for being the world’s most insensitive mother over Bri’s fear of crossing the bridge in Khazad-dum. She dutifully stopped to frown at a short line of runes. “I tried when I was here once before. Not clearly. These are very old. I think that’s a name, but the rest – no. Over there though, near the water, that plain monolith? I can tell you about that one. That is where they say Durin the Deathless first looked into Nen Cenedril, which his people call Kheled-zâram. No, let it be,” she added hastily as Celebrían took a step towards the water. “It belongs to their history, not ours. Just mark the spot in your mind and remember it. Presently I’ll show you what he saw.”
She diverted Celebrían’s attention to a lifelike sculpture of a deer to ward off questions and kept walking till they were further down the glen, away from the mountain door, before crossing the path to the lake. Without speaking, she put a hand on Celebrían’s shoulder and pointed. Reflected in the ink-dark surface, as though etched in light, the mountains’ snowy crests blazed like white fire. In the centre, in the open space where the sky should be mirrored, a half circle of seven brilliant stars gleamed unwinking, a sign set for eternity in Nen Cenedril’s depths.
The valley was very quiet except for the rush of the waterfall and the fitful whisper of the wind. The lake lay mirror-still. Celebrían stood silent, her eyes wide and grave. There was no need to tell her this was Mystery or that it was Lord Aulë’s work. She moved closer and slipped a hand through her mother’s arm and looked in wonder, careful not to go too near the edge. When they eventually moved on she said nothing, but kept hold of Galadriel’s arm for some time.
The brick path beside the lake came to an end where an icy spring leapt and bubbled up into the light, falling over the lip of a stone bowl to flow down towards the trees. They followed, watching it grow and gather momentum along the way, eventually widening into a true river where another stream fed into it. When they reached a sheltered spot under the trees, half-hidden by the undergrowth, Galadriel stopped.
“Here,” she said, unfastening her pack. “This is where we’ll spend the night. There’s water and shelter and we’re still close enough to the dwarves to be safe.”
At star rise they took a few minutes to be quiet and think of Celeborn. Galadriel drew on what she had learned across the sea and later in Doriath, sitting physically relaxed, her mind open. Celebrían, still too young for formal training, struggled to reach her father. It was clear in her face, in the determined frown, the clenched hands and tight carriage. At the end when Galadriel finally moved, signalling the time was over, she gave her mother a hopeful smile and relaxed.
“He would hear that like words, wouldn’t he? All the things I was thinking at him? I tried to show him the lake and how strange it was, and what the leave-taking had been like, and the market in the Hall before the door.”
Towards the end Galadriel had lost patience and pushed, trying to reach him through force of will. She ended defeated, with a feeling of so near and yet so far, but kept the disappointment to herself. She would know if he was hurt, and that was what really mattered. Right now she thought they were still too near the lake and the powerful sense of sleeping magic. “He may not hear them as words exactly, but trying to show him will set them in your mind so you can tell him all about it later when he joins us.”
She could see the answer didn’t satisfy Celebrían, but it had been a long day. For once there were no questions, just a small, disappointed shrug.
With the early evening hush broken only by the river’s bubbling song, Galadriel shared out a portion of the food Thorhof had packed for them. They talked about Khazad-dûm while they ate, with a sense of shared experience that had not been there before. Galadriel spoke more about the interview with Durin, describing the room, the aged dwarf woman, contrasting her to the mighty Father of Dwarves she had met long ago. Later, wrapped in their cloaks and lying close together in the shelter of the bushes, Bri told her mother some of what she had learned about life under the mountain from the dwarf children.
“…and they meet in groups in the mornings and learn how to write and figure and how to cut stone and trim metal. And then when they get bigger, they’re placed with people who teach them their special skill.”
“Do the girls learn with the boys?” Galadriel asked, curious. She still knew too little about the lives of dwarf women. An owl swooped high overhead and for a moment she followed its energy with her mind. It was intent upon prey, wind-sharp mind closed to all else, but had there been danger close by it would have noticed. She relaxed a little then, curling more comfortably on her side.
“The girls too, yes, but some don’t like hot metal or doing stone work. They say you need hard muscles for those things. Is that true, Nana?”
“Working with metal can mean lifting heavy vats of ore,” Galadriel suggested, not giving in to her first instinct to say there was nothing men could do that women couldn’t if they set their minds to it. “And working in stone needs strong hands and arms, though Nerdanel could sculpt amazing things from blocks of solid marble.”
“She was… Fëanor’s mother? No, wait, wait – his wife,” Bri said, triumphant at recalling a part of their convoluted family tree.
Galadriel laughed and reached over to shake her shoulder gently. “Well done. Fëanor’s wife, yes, and the mother of his sons. A metalworker in her own right and a great sculptress. I’ll tell you more about her some time.”
“What sorts of things did she make?” Celebrían asked sleepily. “And how did she find time when her children were small?”
“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t born then,” Galadriel said, though she had wondered the same herself once or twice. “Try and sleep now, Bri. We have a long way to go tomorrow.”
“Before you were born…”
She sounded impressed: Galadriel was less so. “I didn’t wake full grown at Cuivienen, dear,” she said tartly. “Of course there was a time before I was born. Now stop talking and go to sleep.”
It was already late. The moon had risen and the trees were murmuring softly together in a tongue as old as time itself. The sound of rippling water was seductively soothing and despite knowing she should stay awake and alert for danger, Galadriel felt secure enough this close to Khazad-dûm to rest her eyes for a while. In no time she was asleep.
Morning dawned with clear skies and the sense of hopefulness that comes as the season turns to spring. They washed in the river, exclaiming and laughing at the cold, and broke their fast on dried fruit and still-fresh bread. Then they shouldered their packs and started walking towards the forest Galadriel had pointed out from their vantage outside the doors to the First Hall. There was little talking: Galadriel was not a morning person.
The ground was rough with stretches of bare rock breaking through the coarse grass and gravel. Winter still held sway here, there were no flowers to break the monotony of grey and brown and lichen green. Galadriel called a halt at midday and they rested a while, eating sparsely and drinking from the river which they continued to follow. Celebrían was so quiet Galadriel finally asked if she was all right.
Clear eyes studied her and found her wanting. “I’m fine, Nana. My feet are just tired and it’s getting hot.”
“We can stay here a while if you like,” Galadriel suggested, though she would have preferred somewhere less open than a flat slab of rock above the river.
Celebrían shook her head. “No thanks, Nana. If we spend more time here, it will just take longer to get where we’re going, won’t it? That’s what you always say.”
Her voice was polite and resigned. Galadriel dipped her head and accepted another example of her maternal failings.
They reached the outskirts of the forest late in the afternoon, leaving open ground for the shelter of the trees which offered easy cover from prying eyes. Under the green canopy the air had a breathless, watchful feeling, and Celebrían’s voice was barely above a whisper when she asked, “Nana, where is everyone? Is there a proper city or do they live all over the forest?”
“I suppose you could call it a city, yes.” Galadriel spoke softly in turn, for much the same reasons. “It’s further in, near the heart of the wood. Someone will find us before we’ve gone too far and lead us there.”
Celebrían was instantly suspicious. Blue eyes fastened on her. “Why? Are we lost?”
“Not lost, no. Of course not,” Galadriel said firmly. They rounded a beech cluster and she turned left, trying to make the choice seem deliberate. “But it would be better if there was someone to guide us – I mean quicker.”
Almost as the words left her, she sensed they were not alone. There was no sound, just a change in the air and the faintest hint of movement in the thick brush that grew between the trees. She stopped, touching Celebrían’s arm as she did so, and waited. She made no attempt to unsheathe a weapon nor to reach out with her mind. Best to see what she faced before she admitted to being anything other than a helpless elf woman.
When they appeared, they seemed to melt out from amongst the trees, nothingness resolving into a group of elves, grey clad and armed with knives and bows, arrows nocked and aimed at them. Galadriel sighed. “Very dramatic,” she murmured, her voice pitched for Celebrían’s ears alone, wanting to reassure her. She felt rather than heard Bri suppress a giggle.
One of the forest guards stepped forward to stand very straight and formal in front of her. He was of average height and solidly built, his pale hair cropped to chin level as was customary for the Wood’s warriors. He looked young and earnest and she felt quite sorry for him.
“Our king asks what your business is in this Wood. These are dark days and we have no welcome for outsiders. Best you turn around and go back to your own land.” Green eyes held steady to a point just past her shoulder while he spoke.
“That might be difficult,” Galadriel countered pleasantly. “I suspect by this time our city has fallen, and I had not heard that Amdír turned elves away from his borders, only dwarves and men. Of which, as you can see, we are neither.”
The young warrior took a deep breath and said determinedly, “Be that as it may, our king says he will have no Noldor contaminate our Wood with their works.”
Celebrían was so outraged she spoke up before Galadriel could put together a measured reply. “And what would your king like us to do? Walk all the way back beyond the mountains to Lindon? Go live wild with the Avari? It is, it is – unelven – to turn away people in need. And very bad manners!”
He was taken aback. “My lady, I have my orders…”
Galadriel somehow kept a straight face. “Quite so,” she agreed. “But as my daughter says, it is not our way to deny those in need of a haven. What is your name, young one?”
He tore his gaze away from Celebrían with her blazing, offended eyes and unmistakeable royal Sindar hair. “I am Haldir, Cyllon’s son, Lady. A Captain of the Western Watch.”
She nodded. “Well, Haldir, son of Cyllon, Captain of the Western Watch of Lórien, you have delivered your message. In turn, please carry my words to your king. I am called Galadriel, aunt to the High King in Lindon, and with me is Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn of Doriath and a child of Elu Thingol’s line. We request King Amdír’s hospitality and the shelter of your Wood.”
Dealing with royal princesses, one of them still a girl, had not formed part of Haldir’s training. Most likely cursing the fate that had seen him in the right place at the wrong time, he belatedly signed his men to lower their weapons. “I’ll find you ladies somewhere safe to pass the night,” he said brusquely. “It might take a day or two for me to return, but this is a matter for our king’s discretion and that’s as the thing is. You may not be comfortable, but at the least I can promise that you will be safe.”
Cyllon – bearer
~*~*~*~*~
~*~*~*~*~