A MIDWINTER'S TALE OF EDHELLOND
by Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: The characters and context belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and no disrespect to him or his heirs or executors is intended by their use. This is a work of fiction; no profit beyond the pleasure of giving a gift is being made.
Gildor Inglorion, as envisioned here, is the Lord of Edhellond as brought to life by Soledad and is used with her kind permission. Köszönöm, my friend!
Rating: G
Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send corrections.
Dedication: This story was written for the Edhellond group as a Winter Solstice gift. A toast to you all, my companions!
Summary: Perhaps this is a songfic, as it is essentially a retelling of a famous English Christmas carol, but I prefer to think that both the carol and my humble tale are retellings of a much older story, one whose lesson has been essential to human survival for millennia.
* * *
Lord Gildor looked out through the etched glass doors leading to his balcony. 'Twas Midwinter Festival, and all of Edhellond, it seemed, was caught up in the celebration. Garlands of green boughs and strings of red berries draped the buildings without, and from within spilled bright light and cheerful song and music. In humble house and great hall, young ones played raucous games of hide-and-hunt or gathered at the feet of their elders to hear tales of olden times. Dancing couples whirled about the floors of Gildor's home and many another, and merry singing would be heard all about the city for hours to come.
Aye, the Festival was always a joyous occasion. But on this night, there was an extra crackle of energy, a spark so sharp that one could well nigh feel in the very air itself. For a rare thing indeed had happened.
Snow had fallen on Edhellond.
Only the eldest among the Elves could remember the last time this crystalline magic had tumbled from the sky so far south, transforming the familiar landscape and its buildings into sparkling, muffled strangers.
Most of the Elves welcomed the snow as a rare treasure, something to delight in and honor as a special gift from the Valar. And despite the frigid air, some of the little ones had already discovered snow's potential as a weapon and were pummeling each other, laughing and shrieking -- when they were not picking themselves up from yet another tumble in the slippery stuff -- their breath sending great puffs of crystal up to the moonlit sky.
Gildor, however, was not fond of snow. Indeed, he was not fond of cold weather in general. And so, with his ceremonial duties discharged, he had retired to his chambers to watch out his balcony windows. Wrapped snugly in his favorite cloak of midnight blue wool, he sipped a ripe, red wine from a crystal goblet and watched the moonlight playing over the drifts as the wind began to re-sculpt his city to suit its own secret designs.
And despite the warmth of the cloak and the roaring fire in the room behind him, he shivered as his thoughts drifted back over other times and places when the snow and ice and cold had been a source of agony, not of joy.
A movement at the edge of the city caught Gildor's far-seeing eyes and pulled him back to the present. As he peered more closely, he saw the figure was an Elf, and by the garb, Gildor discerned he was not of Edhellond. The stranger hugged about him a thin cloak that was torn in several places, and he seemed to struggle in the snow, as though drained of even the strength to walk atop the white drifts as was the way of their kind. He clutched a small bundle like a great treasure as he made his way out into the night.
Gildor called over his shoulder to the young Elf who stood guard at his door. "Come look! Tell me -- that Elf out there in the snow, do you know him? Where does he live, and in what manner that he should be out on such a night so poorly clad?"
The guard stepped quickly into the room to attend his lord. He squinted for some moments to filter the glare from the shining windows of the houses and taverns, then turned to Gildor. He did not speak for a moment, and when he did, his face and voice were sober.
"My Lord, I believe he is one of the Elves just arrived from the village attacked by Orcs three nights past. The survivors have been housed in the old forester's cottage by the edge of the foothills, near the fountain. But that settlement lies some distance from here. I know not what would bring him here this night, for he does not seem to be making merry."
Gildor shook his head.
"Nay, from the reports I read, 'twould be no surprise to me if he knew not even what night it is. They fought bravely for hours before the orcs finally broke through their defenses, but once the wall was breached, the slaughter was quick. Those few who survived fled with nothing but what they wore."
The guard growled softly. He was no stranger to combat himself, of course, but the thought of peaceful Elven families being driven from their homes -- that was not combat, it was cruelty beyond comprehension.
Gildor straightened suddenly and set down his goblet.
"Guard, order meat and bread and wine brought! And cider and sweets from the banquet hall. And kindling and logs, as well!"
Confused by Gildor's sudden change of mood, the guard tilted his head slightly.
"Mi'lord? You are hungry now?"
Gildor smiled sharply, an expression not of warmth, but of purposefulness.
"Nay, but I am certain there are those among us this night who are, and that is not as it should be. No Elf in Edhellond shall go cold or hungry, tonight or any other night, while I rule! You and I shall see them eat well and warm themselves by a roaring fire when we bear food and firewood to them."
All was made ready quite quickly once Gildor's orders went out. A makeshift sled was hastily assembled and hitched to a pair of tall, sturdy horses. Meanwhile, as word of their Lord's purpose spread, Elves from within the city came forth from their merrymaking with garments, blankets and other useful gifts for their kinfolk.
Gildor himself led the way out of the city, the young guard following closely behind, guiding the horses. The wind soon began to lift the icy snow off the tops of the drifts to slash at their faces, and as they trudged onward, the moon slipped behind dark clouds, taking with it what little softness had remained in the air.
The guard cursed as the horses broke through the snow for what seemed the hundredth time. He was thoroughly wet from an earlier tumble he'd taken when a sudden gust of wind and a tug from one of the horses combined to pull him off balance into a snowbank. And despite the Elves' famed resistance to cold, he found himself shivering. He called to Gildor, who was already several paces ahead of him.
"Mi'lord! I know not how, but this cold -- it penetrates my bones and chills me through! I fear I can go no farther. Take the halter here and lead the horses on, Sire, for surely, the survivors are colder even than I!"
Gildor turned to look at his companion, the wind whipping his cloak about him. Retracing his steps over the snow, he reached out to clasp the shivering Elf's shoulder and said, "Nay, my brave companion, I mean for us to do this thing together. Therefore, only do as I say, and we shall soon reach those whom we would deliver from cold and hunger. Walk in the tracings of my footsteps, and you shall find this winter's raging will no longer freeze your blood as coldly."
And so saying, he lifted his hands out over the snow and in a low voice spoke words, the sounds of which were stolen away from the guard's ears by the wind. Then the Elf-Lord turned and, gathering his cloak about him, set forth once more.
The guard was a loyal soldier, his trust in Gildor complete. And so it was without questioning that he reached up for the halter once more and made to follow Gildor's footsteps. Carefully, he set one foot and then the other on the faint markings -- right, left, right, left.
And as he walked, he felt warmth rising through the soles of his boots, a delicious heat that wrapped itself around his heart. His strength returned to him, and he pushed onward, even drawing Gildor into a song of greeting as they approached the hut that was their destination.
* * *
The story of the deeds of Gildor and his guard that night soon became song, as is the way of the Elves. It is a song that is still sung in different versions on the eve of the Midwinter Festival, both here in the Land of Men and in the Undying Lands of the Elves. For in it lies a truth well known to Elves and remembered by Men in their finer moments: "Ye who now shall bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing."
Glad tidings of comfort and joy to each and all this Winter Solstice Eve.
by Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: The characters and context belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and no disrespect to him or his heirs or executors is intended by their use. This is a work of fiction; no profit beyond the pleasure of giving a gift is being made.
Gildor Inglorion, as envisioned here, is the Lord of Edhellond as brought to life by Soledad and is used with her kind permission. Köszönöm, my friend!
Rating: G
Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send corrections.
Dedication: This story was written for the Edhellond group as a Winter Solstice gift. A toast to you all, my companions!
Summary: Perhaps this is a songfic, as it is essentially a retelling of a famous English Christmas carol, but I prefer to think that both the carol and my humble tale are retellings of a much older story, one whose lesson has been essential to human survival for millennia.
* * *
Lord Gildor looked out through the etched glass doors leading to his balcony. 'Twas Midwinter Festival, and all of Edhellond, it seemed, was caught up in the celebration. Garlands of green boughs and strings of red berries draped the buildings without, and from within spilled bright light and cheerful song and music. In humble house and great hall, young ones played raucous games of hide-and-hunt or gathered at the feet of their elders to hear tales of olden times. Dancing couples whirled about the floors of Gildor's home and many another, and merry singing would be heard all about the city for hours to come.
Aye, the Festival was always a joyous occasion. But on this night, there was an extra crackle of energy, a spark so sharp that one could well nigh feel in the very air itself. For a rare thing indeed had happened.
Snow had fallen on Edhellond.
Only the eldest among the Elves could remember the last time this crystalline magic had tumbled from the sky so far south, transforming the familiar landscape and its buildings into sparkling, muffled strangers.
Most of the Elves welcomed the snow as a rare treasure, something to delight in and honor as a special gift from the Valar. And despite the frigid air, some of the little ones had already discovered snow's potential as a weapon and were pummeling each other, laughing and shrieking -- when they were not picking themselves up from yet another tumble in the slippery stuff -- their breath sending great puffs of crystal up to the moonlit sky.
Gildor, however, was not fond of snow. Indeed, he was not fond of cold weather in general. And so, with his ceremonial duties discharged, he had retired to his chambers to watch out his balcony windows. Wrapped snugly in his favorite cloak of midnight blue wool, he sipped a ripe, red wine from a crystal goblet and watched the moonlight playing over the drifts as the wind began to re-sculpt his city to suit its own secret designs.
And despite the warmth of the cloak and the roaring fire in the room behind him, he shivered as his thoughts drifted back over other times and places when the snow and ice and cold had been a source of agony, not of joy.
A movement at the edge of the city caught Gildor's far-seeing eyes and pulled him back to the present. As he peered more closely, he saw the figure was an Elf, and by the garb, Gildor discerned he was not of Edhellond. The stranger hugged about him a thin cloak that was torn in several places, and he seemed to struggle in the snow, as though drained of even the strength to walk atop the white drifts as was the way of their kind. He clutched a small bundle like a great treasure as he made his way out into the night.
Gildor called over his shoulder to the young Elf who stood guard at his door. "Come look! Tell me -- that Elf out there in the snow, do you know him? Where does he live, and in what manner that he should be out on such a night so poorly clad?"
The guard stepped quickly into the room to attend his lord. He squinted for some moments to filter the glare from the shining windows of the houses and taverns, then turned to Gildor. He did not speak for a moment, and when he did, his face and voice were sober.
"My Lord, I believe he is one of the Elves just arrived from the village attacked by Orcs three nights past. The survivors have been housed in the old forester's cottage by the edge of the foothills, near the fountain. But that settlement lies some distance from here. I know not what would bring him here this night, for he does not seem to be making merry."
Gildor shook his head.
"Nay, from the reports I read, 'twould be no surprise to me if he knew not even what night it is. They fought bravely for hours before the orcs finally broke through their defenses, but once the wall was breached, the slaughter was quick. Those few who survived fled with nothing but what they wore."
The guard growled softly. He was no stranger to combat himself, of course, but the thought of peaceful Elven families being driven from their homes -- that was not combat, it was cruelty beyond comprehension.
Gildor straightened suddenly and set down his goblet.
"Guard, order meat and bread and wine brought! And cider and sweets from the banquet hall. And kindling and logs, as well!"
Confused by Gildor's sudden change of mood, the guard tilted his head slightly.
"Mi'lord? You are hungry now?"
Gildor smiled sharply, an expression not of warmth, but of purposefulness.
"Nay, but I am certain there are those among us this night who are, and that is not as it should be. No Elf in Edhellond shall go cold or hungry, tonight or any other night, while I rule! You and I shall see them eat well and warm themselves by a roaring fire when we bear food and firewood to them."
All was made ready quite quickly once Gildor's orders went out. A makeshift sled was hastily assembled and hitched to a pair of tall, sturdy horses. Meanwhile, as word of their Lord's purpose spread, Elves from within the city came forth from their merrymaking with garments, blankets and other useful gifts for their kinfolk.
Gildor himself led the way out of the city, the young guard following closely behind, guiding the horses. The wind soon began to lift the icy snow off the tops of the drifts to slash at their faces, and as they trudged onward, the moon slipped behind dark clouds, taking with it what little softness had remained in the air.
The guard cursed as the horses broke through the snow for what seemed the hundredth time. He was thoroughly wet from an earlier tumble he'd taken when a sudden gust of wind and a tug from one of the horses combined to pull him off balance into a snowbank. And despite the Elves' famed resistance to cold, he found himself shivering. He called to Gildor, who was already several paces ahead of him.
"Mi'lord! I know not how, but this cold -- it penetrates my bones and chills me through! I fear I can go no farther. Take the halter here and lead the horses on, Sire, for surely, the survivors are colder even than I!"
Gildor turned to look at his companion, the wind whipping his cloak about him. Retracing his steps over the snow, he reached out to clasp the shivering Elf's shoulder and said, "Nay, my brave companion, I mean for us to do this thing together. Therefore, only do as I say, and we shall soon reach those whom we would deliver from cold and hunger. Walk in the tracings of my footsteps, and you shall find this winter's raging will no longer freeze your blood as coldly."
And so saying, he lifted his hands out over the snow and in a low voice spoke words, the sounds of which were stolen away from the guard's ears by the wind. Then the Elf-Lord turned and, gathering his cloak about him, set forth once more.
The guard was a loyal soldier, his trust in Gildor complete. And so it was without questioning that he reached up for the halter once more and made to follow Gildor's footsteps. Carefully, he set one foot and then the other on the faint markings -- right, left, right, left.
And as he walked, he felt warmth rising through the soles of his boots, a delicious heat that wrapped itself around his heart. His strength returned to him, and he pushed onward, even drawing Gildor into a song of greeting as they approached the hut that was their destination.
* * *
The story of the deeds of Gildor and his guard that night soon became song, as is the way of the Elves. It is a song that is still sung in different versions on the eve of the Midwinter Festival, both here in the Land of Men and in the Undying Lands of the Elves. For in it lies a truth well known to Elves and remembered by Men in their finer moments: "Ye who now shall bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing."
Glad tidings of comfort and joy to each and all this Winter Solstice Eve.