3441, Second Age. Lindon.
The road to Lindon remained treacherous as bandits and rag-tag orc bands, leaderless, frightened, and hungry roamed in search of victims. When the armies of the Last Alliance had been on the march, the bandits had stayed clear. When the Armies of Mordor were defeated, the orcs had no place else to go. So, the bandits and the orcs fought amongst themselves for supremacy of the highway while weary and wary travelers were forced to run a deadly gauntlet.
By dusk even the hearty elven steeds were exhausted and Gildor and his companion, Dolrath were forced to make camp near a stream. They lit no fire, but rather spread out their bedrolls against the chill of the dew dampened grass and munched on lembas and drank clear stream water. They pulled up their hoods and kept careful watch in the twilight. Even elves were not safe on the roads, if caught unawares. The measure of his mother's desperation was gauged by her willingness to set a messenger on the road alone.
"Can you at least ease some of my curiosity and say what is wrong with my father?" Gildor drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs.
"A raiding party of orcs trapped them in a gully not far from Lindon. Your father was gravely wounded and rather than healing, the wound festers." Dolrath replied. "Your mother has had healers to look at him, but the news is grim for the blood is poisoned and he fades."
Gildor remembered his father with his pale blond hair and his laughing blue eyes. He had been the most strongly opposed to Gildor's joining the Last Alliance. As an exile, he had seen his share of bloodshed and violence; enough to know that he wanted his son as distant from it as possible. He and Gildor had not seen eye-to-eye on the issue, as Gildor felt it was the duty of the elves to end the Dark Lord's treachery while Ingol felt that the men, those who succumbed to the power of the nine rings were accountable and, as such, the province of men. That his mother had also sided with his father had hurt Gildor a little was of no consequence. They were his parents and he loved them with all his heart, even as he knew that their paths were not the same. They were deposed leaders, the last remnants of an elven society that no longer existed, and yet they insisted on maintaining the illusion that it did. Gildor felt it was a waste of precious time and energy. He did not mind being an exile, but he resented being bound to traditions that seemed outdated. His father's illness corresponded to his friend's and Gildor found that thought depressing. To his mind, it seemed as though all those he loved were destined to fade. In Elrond's case, it wasn't just a matter of death, for he still walked among the living, but rather a death of his soul with the passing of Gil-Galad. Even as he was angry with Elrond for his belief that Lindir would not recover, Gildor found that his heart still yearned for the Half-Elven. Practicality and emotion warred constantly in Gildor and he wondered if he would ever find peace.
His thoughts drifted to Imladris and he wondered sadly if Elrond had made that fateful decision and even now, did the pyre burn brightly with Lindir's body. Time and time again, his mind sought back, even as he tried to pull it forward. He remembered Lindir's earnest expression as he declared his undying love. Pain squeezed his heart tightly as he recalled the pale, withered face and the gaunt body lying so still on the cot. Gildor sighed softly. His duty lay to his father, while his heart yearned to be in Imladris by his friend's side.
"Your sadness is like a shroud," observed Dolrath.
"I am torn," he admitted. "My father comes first. But my heart lies in still in Imladris, where my truest friend lies in a sleep from which he does not awaken."
Dolrath nodded his understanding. "It is a hard thing to be torn between duty and desire. You can only hope that all will end well."
"How can it?" Gildor asked. "There is no easy outcome and I do not know if the gods still hear us."
"Speak not of such things, Master Gildor, for you know not the minds of the gods nor their will. Trust the Valar and their wisdom."
"You are right, Dolrath. Why don't you rest now? You have been on the road longer than I and must need some rest. I will watch for awhile and then I will wake you."
"My thanks to you, for truly I am weary to the bone. The ride was hard and long."
Gildor watched Dolrath curl into a small knot and fall instantly in to reverie. He envied the elf's ability. He did not know when he last slept securely. Before he joined Gil-Galad's forces, surely. For on the plains, no one slept. And in Imladris, his time was spent in the company of Lindir and Erestor so that when he finally sought his bed, his body was tense and true rest eluded him.
His sharp ears listened to the sounds of night birds and insects. His nose smelled honey suckle and overly ripe blackberries. Nearby his horse whickered softly and Dolrath's horse answered. The moon was only at a crescent, her thin sliver light casting only shadows on the ground. Gildor tilted back his head and watched the clouds weave among the bright stars. Several hours after moonset, he woke Dolrath with a gentle touch and then rolled into his own cloak.
Dawn was gray and the sun was stingy with her warming rays when Gildor was roused. He felt refreshed, despite the limited rest. Perhaps it was the open air that allowed him to relax. Perhaps, too, it was having the weight of so many decisions at last lifted from his shoulders. Elrond had warned him that he was not responsible and should not carry the extra burden of guilt with him. Whatever it was, Gildor felt a moment's peace and was grateful for it as he mounted his horse.
Dolrath rode quietly for a while, but he cast his dark eyes frequently at the younger elf. He had chosen not to join up with the Last Alliance and remain behind to guard Lindon. "You were with the High King?" He asked at last.
Gildor would have preferred to ignore the subject. "I am-was-one of his messengers on the plain."
"You saw him fall?"
"Nay, I was wounded and saw nothing of the last minutes of battle." Gildor spoke reluctantly.
Sensing his discomfort, Dolrath moved the subject from the battle. "What was he like? I never met him in person. They say he was a great elf."
"Gil-Galad was noble and wise, and though some may not realize it yet, his loss is a great bane to the elves."
"I met Lord Elrond once, a long time ago. He was already in the king's service and I admired him." Dolrath again switched topics.
Gildor felt his lips turn up at the corners. Though his heart was heavy with the knowledge of what Elrond planned for Lindir, he could not really say that the Noldor was evil or lacking in courage and compassion. Gildor knew that Lord Elrond only had Lindir's best interest at heart and that, as painful as it was, the decision was a wise one. "He is much like Gil-Galad, wise and strong and compassionate. He cares about all things in Middle Earth."
"He must not care too much, for word has come to us in Lindon that he will not assume the throne."
"Now you speak of what you do not know, Dolrath." Gildor chided his companion. "At the last, the elves squabbled like elflings, some refusing to place their troops where they were most needed. The dissention cost lives. What does Lindon mean to Lord Elrond? How many of you in Lindon elected to remain behind?" He waved his hand. "Nay, Dolrath, be at peace for my criticism is at fault. What I meant only to demonstrate was that the elves chose to either lead themselves or follow another. King Gil-Galad is gone and the successor refuses to place the crown upon his head. Yet Lindon is not helpless, for there are other noble elves who could stand for Lindon. Nor has Lord Elrond abandoned elven kind, for he builds Imladris, The Last Homely House. He intends that it should be a haven for all peoples of Middle Earth, a place of enlightenment and joy and safety, remembering those who fell for the love of this world and healing the wounds that have long divided the men and the elves."
"You admiration goes far deeper than mine, I fear. I would, for my part, want him in Lindon. He can create this 'haven' just as easily here as from scratch in his remote valley."
"Would the elves of Lindon welcome dwarves and men? Nay, I think not, for Lindon is a city rich in tradition, a tradition that chokes and binds. One day, Dolrath, Middle Earth will belong to the younger races, I think. Already many who fought in the battle have chosen to sail and find healing and peace beyond these shores."
"Perhaps some day I go to Imladris as other than a messenger and see for myself."
"Perhaps one day you shall."
The rains came as they traveled. The roads turned to muddy rivulets that sucked at the horses hooves and slick with hidden stones. Gildor and Dolrath were forced to slow down and the younger elf chafed at the delay. His concern for his father grew daily. The grim news worried him greatly, far more than he was willing to discuss, and he only wanted to get to Lindir as quickly as possible. In his secret heart, where he dared not peer, was the desire to be done with his familial duty and return to Imladris. He would not admit that, even to himself.
Nearly three weeks later, they rode into Lindon and Gildor was surprised by what he found. Already, the city had an abandoned feel to it, as if its occupants were long gone. Rather than the celebratory mood he'd expected after such a decisive victory, there remained a pensiveness that was a bit unnerving. Lindon felt as though it were holding its collective breath.
As Gildor considered the city, he realized that in some respects, the citizens were holding their breath. They had no king and the logical heir had chosen to hide himself away in a valley with many of the troops that had fought in the alliance. The council, which had served Gil-Galad, had splintered, with some returning to Lindon and others going to Imladris. The youth, the flower of the elves, lay still on the Dagorlad Plain, never again to roam the streets of Lindon. Mirkwood was in chaos due to Oropher's death. The men had lost Elendil and his first heir. The Third Age, by elven standards, was not off to an auspicious beginning.
Outside his family home, Gildor dismounted and walked up the curving stairway to the front door. The carved pillars were just as he remembered them. The difference lay in the extreme quiet. His home had never been silent. Like many elves, his family had always been lovers of music and entertainments. During his early years, his home had been filled with singers and guests of every sort, some exiles like his parents and others who came from not so grand lineages. All had been welcome. Now, however, no sound came from behind the doors and no movement could be seen through the curtained windows.
Cautiously, Gildor pushed open the door and entered. The furnishings were draped with white cloth and a feeling of disuse hung on the air like a layer of thick dust. His booted feet echoed eerily on the polished marble. "Hello?"
A flurry of sound greeted his ears and then he saw a servant emerge from the rear of the house. The servant stood for a moment, mouth agape, linens draped carelessly over their forearms. "Master Gildor?"
"Aye, Alorhir, 'tis I. Where is everyone?" Looking around, he knew at least part of his answer before he asked it.
"Master Gildor," the servant dropped her bundle on a nearby table and came forward on shaking legs. "Nothing the healers did could save your father and when you did not return, your mother left for the Havens."
Gildor barely recovered from the news that he was too late to bid his father farewell when he was treated to the second blow. "What do you mean, when I did not return? I came as soon as I could. Rains delayed us."
"Your mother thought perhaps you had refused her summons. Please, Master Gildor, do not judge her harshly for her grief was great and, I think, she did not always know what she was saying."
"How long?" Gildor could not bring himself to say the words aloud.
"She left three days anon. I am the last servant and given the task of closing the house."
Dolrath stood behind Gildor and bowed his head. Though they had traveled hard and fast, they were still too late and he felt sorry for the younger elf. "You rode as fast as you could." Even his ears he consoling words sounded hollow and forced.
Gildor stared around the spacious room. In every corner he could see the ghosts of his past. "Three days, you said?" His mind quickly calculated the length of time it took to get from Lindon to the Gray Havens and added a variable for the heavy rains and bandits.
"That is so. She left just after your father's ceremony."
Gildor made up his mind. "Then, I too, will go to the Havens."
Dolrath's eyes widened. "Do you also mean to sail with your mother?"
"Nay, I do not think so, but I will see her off. I cannot let her go over the sea believing that I refused to come home."
Dolrath laid his hand on Gildor's shoulder. "The road to the Gray Havens is treacherous. Will you allow me to travel with you?"
"Have you no duties to keep you here?" He was grateful for Dolrath's request.
"Nay. Lindon is a dying city. Besides, you will need me, I think, before your travels are complete."
Gildor wondered at the cryptic words, but kept his questions to himself for the time being. "And you, Alorhir? What is to become of you?"
"I will do as your mother bid me and then
I will return to my own family. Fear not for me, Master Gildor. Go safely
now to the Gray Havens and bid your mother farewell."
~*~
Erestor stood like a black, voiceless crow at Lord Elrond's elbow. His dark hair hung long and straight down his black, blending in to the dark robes so that one could not distinguish silken hair from silk cloth. His nearly black eyes were hooded and revealed nothing of his inner mind.
At times likes these, Elrond found Erestor unnerving. Clearing his throat, he gave his seneschal his undivided attention. "Do you need something, Erestor?"
"I would like permission to send word to Gildor in Lindon."
"Are you sure you wish to do that?" Elrond was surprised, but not really so.
"Aye, my lord, I believe so. He should know. I would not want it said of me that I was ever unfair."
Or ever improper, thought Elrond, but he said nothing. "Very well, Erestor, you have my permission."
By mid afternoon two riders departed Rivendell for Lindon. Shortly thereafter, they were set upon by orcs and, though wounded, one would escape. Ravaged by fever and a festering wound, the messenger spent many months hiding from the orcs in grottos and caves. He had only his bow and a few arrows and made more arrows as his health and time permitted. Every day was spent in a dangerous game of pursuit, with the messenger being the ultimate prize. When at last he lost his pursuers he was able to once again resume his journey. He walked to rest of the way to Lindon and when at length he saw the towers and spires of the ancient city, he nearly wept.
In Lindon, he searched unsuccessfully for some trace of Gildor Inglorion. The house that was his parents was empty and none remained who could say where or when Gildor had last been seen, or if he even had come home. The best he discovered was that Inglor, Gildor's father had succumbed the poison in his veins and his wife left for the Havens immediately after.
Melpomaen recovered from his ordeal and after
a year, returned to Imladris to finally make his report.
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