Wandering Paths
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except Elenor and Melia
The morning after the feast, Elenor approached breakfast with no small trepidation. She had largely succeeded in avoiding everyone after her performance, but now there was no getting out of it. And she was no coward, at the heart of her. She would not hide forever.
What she did not anticipate however, was the presence of Lindir at the breakfast table. The Elf stood beside his master's shoulder, resplendent in his usual amethyst-hued robes, a grave expression on his face. Lord Elrond too possessed a sombre expression.
Alarm awoke in Elenor's heart, though her voice was calm and cool as she descended the steps of the terrace and called out in greeting. Elrond and Lindir turned at her approach.
"My lady Elenor, I trust you slept well after the festivities?" Lord Elrond replied to her greeting, his expression lightening a little at the sight of her. "You retired so early however."
"Forgive me, my lord," Elenor replied lightly, giving her rehearsed reply. "The performance tired me somewhat, and I thought it best to retire so I would not distract Melia from her own enjoyment of the evening." Indeed, Elenor noted wryly to herself, Melia had not yet arisen it seemed. As she took her seat, she noted that Elrond's frown had not eased and she focussed on that, rather than the way Lindir's eyes had not yet left her form. "My lord, is something amiss? You both seem so grave…"
Lord Elrond sighed deeply. "It seems that our scouts have tracked a pack of Orcs and Wargs moving northward across the plains, up from the fens of the Swanfleet. They draw close to Imladris."
Elenor did not panic at this news, for she doubted any but the Dark Lord himself could breach the defences of Imladris with force, but the implications of Lord Elrond's words troubled her. "Swanfleet? But that could mean…?"
That could mean they were the Orc pack that had attacked her town, who had slaughtered and preyed on her people.
"Possibly, but we do not know for certain," Lindir interjected coolly, as Elenor glanced at him swiftly. He met her eyes with a troubled look in his own, and Elenor realised with a shock that he was concerned for her.
"Nevertheless, it will not be long before my people learn of this. The more hot-headed among them will demand vengeance for their losses. Doron, for one, and his friends," Elenor mused, a sick feeling in her gut. "And unless you restrain them with force, you cannot stop them, my lord."
Lord Elrond sighed. "I am loath to do so, for such would foster distrust and resentment. But the Orc pack has ventured too close to the borders of Imladris and I cannot allow the incursion to go unchecked, my lady."
"There may be a way," Elenor replied. "Even if they once mistrusted me, I am loath to see any one of them hurt by the Orcs, even Doron. In our town, if an insult was offered or a crime committed, the lord of the town could seek restitution in the victim's stead, if the victim could not do so themselves or if the lord demanded the right to do so for himself."
"You would offer your blade for their vengeance?" Lord Elrond asked, before lapsing into silence as he thought hard. Lindir remained quiet and uneasy beside him, his gaze staring raptly at Elenor's resolute features.
"I am not untrained and I am stronger now than I have ever been," Elenor continued. "And since they accepted my leadership in the fens, they have no right by the ancient laws of fealty to my house to refuse my commands. I am their Lady, they are my people and I will avenge them."
Lord Elrond inclined his head, albeit reluctantly. "If you are resolved?" he asked one last time, as Elenor nodded firmly, her face beautiful but stern. "Then Lindir will show you to the armoury and see you are fitted with what armour we have in your size, and for Daeroch too. And then I will escort you down to speak with the townspeople."
"Thank you, my lord," Elenor replied gratefully. She took a mouthful of herbed water and a buttered roll for sustenance, since it was clear there was little time for a meal. As she turned away from the table, Lindir appeared at her elbow, guiding her with his hand at her back.
He showed her the way to the armoury in silence, but Elenor could sense his concern and disquiet. As the chief armourer disappeared into the shining racks of corselets and scimitars to seek appropriate attire for her, Lindir finally broke his silence.
"I fear for you, Elenor," he breathed, as if the admission pained him. "I wish you would not go and risk your life for those who deserve it not."
"It was my duty," she replied simply, before smirking scornfully. "Do you doubt my skill because I am a woman?"
He caught her arm and turned her to him, fixing her gaze earnestly. "Nay, I do not doubt your skill, my lady, since I have seen you spar on the practice fields. It is not your skill I doubt, Elenor. Even the greatest warriors may fall in battle."
With a jolt, Elenor realised the sincerity of his admission. He truly did not doubt her skills as a warrior, either because of her race or her gender, but he was still afraid for her. He cared for her, truly.
Quelling the instinctive panic at the thought, uncertain what to do with her revelation, Elenor instead reached out a hand and laid it against Lindir's cheek, as she might do Melia if the girl was afraid or uneasy and needed comfort. But Lindir was not her child and the spark of flame that washed through her at the contact made her breath catch.
"Have faith, my friend," she forced herself to say. "I shall return."
Lindir did not reply but left silently, the warmth of his cheek echoing like a phantom against Elenor's hand as she turned away to prepare herself for the fight ahead.
The armourer had procured a set of greaves for her arms and legs, as well as a fair corselet of shining mail, arm guards and gloves of hardened leather. He had also offered a selection of Elven scimitars, knives and bows for her to choose from.
She selected a small bow that fitted her stature and a full quiver, before testing the blades. The scimitars were too large for her, and she did not yet feel comfortable enough with their use to take one. She selected two knives with curved blades; fair designs inscribed on their shining surfaces and attached them to the sword belt.
She changed from her day dress to the plain tunic, jerkin and breeches an attendant had brought for her, and was just lacing her boots when she felt a familiar presence at her back. "Melia."
When she turned to face her daughter, it was to see her still clothed in her usual day clothes, although her expression was grim. "Lord Elrond explained your plan to me," she said. "I like it not, Mother."
"I know, Melia, but only one can perform this duty. Too many would be a liability for the Elves, and your presence in the party would garner too many objections," Elenor sighed patiently. "It is not a reflection on your skill, my daughter, for I have seen for myself how it has grown. Your time to fight will come, while I heartily hope this may be the last time I must pick up a sword, except to spar."
"I know," Melia gave in, with a heavy sigh. "Here, let me do your braid."
Gratefully, Elenor sat and let her daughter rearrange her curls into a tight braid, which she then looped tightly around her crown. The final result was to make her look both stern and queenly, or so Melia observed. After that, she silently helped Elenor fasten her armour and belts tightly.
As they walked out to the courtyard, where Lord Elrond, Daeroch, and a host of mounted Elvish warriors awaited them, Melia caught her mother's arm. "Stay safe, Mother," she breathed, squeezing her mother's arm in tender entreaty.
"I will," Elenor replied sincerely. Despite her nerves, she felt no true dread. She had no doubt in the skill of the Elves at the hunt. The Orc pack would not leave the environs of Imladris alive.
And her people would have their vengeance.
As Elenor turned away from Melia to mount her horse, she caught the gaze of the dour Elf who stood by Lord Elrond's horse. His eyes burned with concern and resignation, sending a pang through Elenor. With a deep breath, she inclined her head to him and turned back to Daeroch without looking back to him, mounting easily.
At Lord Elrond's command, the troop wheeled and trotted quickly out the courtyard and over the narrow bridge. Elenor chanced a look back, to see two solitary figures watching their departure, one whose hair flashed like gold in the sun and one who seemed hooded in shadow.
The townspeople had not remained entirely oblivious to the Elves' preparations. Eadwine and several of the men, including Doron, had congregated beside the path leading out of Imladris, and their women waited behind curiously. None were attired for battle, though many of the men still carried their weapons out of habit.
"My lord!" Eadwine called out to Lord Elrond. "My Lady!"
Taking a deep breath, Elenor pulled Daeroch to a halt and prepared to fight her first battle. "Greetings, Eadwine. We cannot tarry so I pray silence while I explain what is happening."
Elenor paused, looking out across the crowd and measuring their response to her command. Most were listening, though Doron looked contemptuous as usual, and Eadwine appeared resigned. The man was far from stupid, after all.
"Lord Elrond's scouts have been tracking an Orc pack moving northward across the plains. They came from Swanfleet. It is possible they are the same Orc pack which attacked our town."
Noises of outrage greeted that pronouncement, as well as cries for arms. It was as Elenor had expected. With a glance at Lord Elrond, who nodded once but remained silent, ceding authority to her, Elenor turned back to the now fractious crowd. "By our ancient laws, I claim the right to avenge the insult done to our town and our people. I alone will accompany the Elvish host to destroy these filth."
"You have no right to invoke that law!" Doron shouted angrily.
"I have every right," Elenor replied calmly. "I am the granddaughter of Arahael, the rule of our people is rightfully mine and so is this. We have lost enough to the Orcs; let no more blood be spilled than necessary. You accepted my leadership in the fens, you cannot refute it now."
The crowd subsided slightly, thrown by her proud words and her lineage. Despite their long scorn of her, she was indeed their Lady by birth and by right. Without her, they may never have made it out of the town, let alone the fens. They could not gainsay her.
Eadwine spoke up, resignedly. "We will do as you command, my Lady. Though we like it not, it is your right as our Lady."
Elenor looked out over the crowd of townspeople once more, but where the men looked angry and resentful, the women looked relieved. They were not as troubled by honour as the men, and would not fault her reasoning that only one need endanger themselves to seek restitution for their losses.
"No, it is not her right!" Doron interjected loudly, his friends joining in. "Her grandsire long disavowed the 'Lady Elenor' as an ill-begotten witchling and he was right! This…woman claims to lead us, and yet where has she been these past months? Where was her leadership then? She just wants to steal the glory for herself, and these Elves are in league with her!"
"Hold your tongue, Doron, if you cannot concoct an argument more subtle than that which has been thrown at me my entire life," Elenor snapped, letting her anger show. "Only you would speak of glory when it naught but danger we court!"
"Enough!" Doron snarled, stepping forward and drawing his knife. Around her, the Elves laid their hands on their sword hilts in silent warning, and Elrond drew alongside Elenor's horse. Eadwine glanced at her in concern, but she waved him aside. "I challenge thee, 'Lady' Elenor! I challenge thee for the right of lead our people."
"You have truly fallen low from the glory of the Dunedain," Elenor replied. "Your fathers will be red with shame in their halls at your actions this day."
"Then you refuse my challenge?" Doron replied scornfully.
"Nay, I do not," Elenor stated coldly. "I will do as I must to protect others from your prideful folly."
She dismounted with a warning glance to Lord Elrond, who appeared chagrined but allowed it. She nodded to Eadwine, who moved forward to take Daeroch's reins. She handed her bow and quiver to another in the crowd, and moved forward into the circle that they had made instinctively at Doron's shouted challenge.
Doron was smirking, seemingly pleased at having drawn her out. But unlike Eadwine, he hadn't been watching her on the sparring fields. He thought he was fighting a woman and that was all. He didn't believe she would be much of a challenge. And he himself had grown lazy and indolent with ease. He was not the burly fighter he had once been and still believed himself to be.
This wouldn't take long.
Wordlessly, Elenor unsheathed her Elvish knife and spun it in her hand into a reverse hold. Some in the crowd gasped at her show of skill, but Doron was unmoved, to his slight credit. He unsheathed his own knife, crudely made but serviceable. "First blood then?" he called, swaggering like a cockerel as he took up his fighting stance.
Elenor did not reply, but simply awaited his first move. Once, she would have attacked first, using her agility to her gain against a stronger opponent, but weeks of sparring with the sons of Lord Elrond had taught her patience and unpredictability. A duel was akin to a game- - with moves and countermoves, and she knew now to study her opponent's strengths and weaknesses quickly before committing herself to the attack.
Doron's overconfidence was his weakness. His contempt for her was his weakness. It would be his downfall.
Elenor saw it even as he moved, muscles bunching as he lunged at her with a bestial cry. His swing was wild and wide, attempting to take her down through sheer force. It also wasn't a strike meant to incapacitate, or to wound alone. Doron meant to kill her.
But his wild swing also left him vulnerable. With a graceful movement, she ducked under his swing and spun on her heels to his right. Her hand, holding the knife, snapped out like the sting of a wasp, short and sharp, creating a small incision in Doron's side. He gasped and stumbled, and Elenor pressed her advantage. With a small swipe, as she pivoted out of his reach, she sliced a deeper cut across his unguarded forearm.
"First blood!" Eadwine called firmly. "The challenge has been met and defeated."
Doron snarled with rage. "She cheated!" he claimed wildly. "Those Elvish wights have ensorcelled her, granted her unholy strength-"
"Hold your tongue!" Miriel suddenly snapped from beside her husband. "To show such cowardly disgrace in defeat is reprehensible, but to abuse our hosts and impugn the honour of our Lady is unforgivable!"
"Do not think we did not see how you sought to inflict more than first blood, Doron," another in the crowd shouted angrily.
Unconcerned, Elenor wiped her blade clean on the grass before sheathing it once more. Glancing back up, she stared down at the snivelling creature before her, as he realised none were coming to his aid and he had lost any support he might have once had among the townspeople. Even his friends had vanished at their leader's defeat. "I find it inconceivable that one of the Dunedain has fallen so low, Doron son of Berehil. Yet, here the truth lies before me," she pronounced, calmly and coldly. He spat at her in contempt, but the townspeople murmured angrily and she heard the ring of cold steel as it left its sheath behind her. "Is there anyone else to challenge me!" she called, taking her eyes away from the wounded man before her. No one moved to answer her. "Then heed my commands! I am your Lady, the granddaughter of Arahael. I will go alone with Lord Elrond and I will take vengeance for our town and those we have lost. Someone see to this man's wounds."
Two burly townspeople came forward to lift Doron by his arms and bear him away, while some of the women immediately left to gather bandages and water to clean and dress his wounds before they festered. But Elenor knew they could do nothing to wash away the festering wounds in Doron's soul.
Without another word, Elenor turned away. She retrieved her weapons and mounted Daeroch again, as the Elves who had unsheathed their blades at Doron's insult sheathed them once more. The whole exchange had not taken long, and Lord Elrond only looked saddened by what he had witnessed, not angered or impatient. "Much has been lost if one of the Dunedain is reduced to this," he said, quietly.
"Some, but not all," Elenor replied. "Not all, my lord."
As if recalling something, or someone, Lord Elrond seemingly shook his sorrow away. "No, not all," he conceded. "Are you well, Lady Elenor? You were not wounded?"
"Nay," Elenor said, as Eadwine came to her stirrup, Miriel at his side. "Keep an eye on Doron while I am gone, Eadwine. I fear he may try some more mischief."
"Not after that display," Miriel snorted contemptuously. "You made your point well, my lady. None will gainsay you now."
"Indeed," Eadwine agreed with his wife, before looking back at Elenor. He looked resigned and somewhat aggrieved. "I wish you would let me come along, my lady."
"It is not necessary to risk more than one life to these monsters," Elenor assured him. "Protecting your wife and child can be no higher honour, Eadwine. I will return, never fear."
Eadwine nodded, while Miriel looked to Elenor with a grateful look in her eyes.
The women among the survivors certainly did not begrudge Elenor her right to exact vengeance on their behalf. "Farewell, my lady. May your blade's edge be sharp and your arrows true!"
"I thank you, Miriel," Elenor replied sombrely, before glancing one last time over the few onlookers that remained. All looked to her with new respect and wariness, and only a few with resentment. It would have to do.
Without another word, Elenor pushed Daeroch on and round, following at Lord Elrond's side as they led the host out of the vale of Imladris, through the woods, and out onto the open plains. As they cleared the woods, they pushed on to a gallop, as they headed South, following the trail of destruction that would lead them to their enemy.
At the house, two figures stood at the balcony in silent, companionable waiting, looking South and West, towards the path away from Imladris.
The sun had begun to lower when the host cantered back down the path into Imladris. The sun was just beginning to lower to its rest, and its rays glinted off the armour and blades of the Elven host.
Elenor rode at the back of the host, with Lord Elrond. Her armour and blade were blackened with Orcish blood, and her quiver was empty. She had kept her distance from the main fight, at Lord Elrond's advice, letting the Elves' deadly lances do their work. She had picked off any Orcs or Wargs who had tried to flee the killing field instead, and had only engaged one enemy directly when an Orc and its mount had decided to try and take out the archer shooting his fellows. She had taken both Orc and Warg down, and their heads now hung from Daeroch's saddle, grisly trophies to sate the townspeople's need for revenge.
Elenor spotted the small crowd awaiting her arrival on the banks before the narrow bridge over the Bruinen.
With a nod from Elrond, she peeled away from the main force and galloped towards her people, pulling Daeroch to a halt. She reached back and unhooked her trophies from the saddle, throwing them at Eadwine's feet. "Behold!" she called, her stern face fierce. "Our enemy is defeated. Our homes and loved ones have been avenged."
Eadwine stooped to lift them, inclining his head once to Elenor, who returned it wearily. He turned back to the crowd, lifting his burdens high by their rotting hair, letting all who had gathered see them. Without another word, feeling weary and sullied by the sight, Elenor turned Daeroch away and rejoined Lord Elrond on the path. Wordlessly, they cantered back down the path towards Imladris.
Above their heads, the Elven sentries sounded a horn to warn the House of their approach, and Elenor felt her spirits rise at the sound of it. She desperately wanted a bath and dinner.
When they cleared the bridge, Elenor frowned. She wondered if that bath was going to have to wait.
The Elven host had moved seamlessly into a deadly circle of revolving steel, pointing inwards towards a phalanx of Dwarves, clothed in garments that had seen better days, their weapons raised in fierce defence. To the side stood Lindir, and beside him, a tall, grey old Man, wearing a pointed grey hat and a silvery scarf.
Lindir's eyes shot to her, and relief shone from them. Elenor felt heat rise in her cheeks as she pulled Daeroch to a halt, as Lord Elrond addressed the newcomer. "Gandalf!"
"Lord Elrond!" the stranger, Gandalf, replied warmly, moving forward to greet him. "Mellon nin, mo evinedh?"
He knew Sindarin, and fluently it seemed. Elenor's curiosity was piqued as she dismounted, and a groom came to take Daeroch's bridle.
"Farannem 'lamhoth i udul o charad. Dagannem rim na lant Vedui," Lord Elrond replied, as he dismounted, handing an Orcish blade to Lindir. The Elf took it with a faint grimace of disgust and contempt. Elenor was shocked when Lord Elrond embraced the man warmly. "Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders. Something, or someone, has drawn them near. I had believed it may have been due to the plight of my guests here. Now I wonder otherwise."
"Ah, yes," Gandalf replied gruffly. "I saw the encampment. And who is this?"
Lord Elrond turned and gestured to Elenor. "The Lady Elenor, leader of our guests. Their town in the fens of Swanfleet was destroyed by an Orc raiding party some months ago, and she travelled here seeking aid. My Lady Elenor, this is Gandalf the Grey."
"A pleasure, sir," Elenor inclined her head gracefully. The old man's eyes were piercing and bright, but they twinkled gently as they took her in.
"The pleasure is mine, my lady," he replied gravely. "And an honour, if you led your people so far in search of shelter."
"I thank you," she replied graciously, as beside them, one of the party stepped forward. She had never seen one, but Elenor surmised he could none other than a Dwarf.
Lord Elrond recognised him, it seemed. "Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain," he stated sombrely.
"I do not believe we have met," the Dwarf, Thorin, replied. He seemed surly and not a little hostile as his eyes raked first over Elrond, then over Elenor who returned his gaze coolly.
"You have your grandfather's bearing," Lord Elrond replied. "I knew Thror when he ruled under the Mountain."
With a start, Elenor realised who this Dwarf was. Even as far South as Swanfleet, they had heard of the King under the Mountain and the wealth of Erebor, and its fall to the Dragon. Many had family in Esgaroth.
She felt Lindir draw closer to her, and suppressed a shudder. She could sense his warmth against her side, his hand just grazing hers where the bracer ended at her knuckles. She felt his silent wish for her to turn to him, but could not, no matter how much she might long to.
"Indeed? He made no mention of you," Thorin said, making Elenor stiffen at the implied insult. Who was this Dwarf, royalty or no, to offer such surliness to a host?
Lord Elrond seemed unmoved by the Dwarf's unfriendliness. "Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i Annam a nethail vin," was all his reply, and Elenor struggled to translate it. The Dwarves clearly had no knowledge of Sindarin, as they all muttered angrily.
Elenor frowned, before her brow cleared. Lord Elrond had ordered fires to be lit and wine to be poured. He was offering them dinner.
"What is he saying!? Does he offer us insult!?" one Dwarf shouted angrily, as the others rattled their weapons.
"No, Master Gloin. He's offering you food!" Gandalf sighed, clearly exasperated. Despite the tension of the moment, Elenor felt the urge to laugh. The Dwarves suddenly clustered around each other, talking in quick, low voices, before the same Dwarf spoke again.
"Ah, well. In that case, lead on," Gloin said, a little shamefacedly for his bellicose impetuosity.
Elenor felt Lindir's sigh, making her smile at his frustration at being refused a moment with her, but her amusement was dissipated by the shock of his fingers just lightly brushing over her hand as he left her, walking gracefully up the long stairs to the House, to begin preparations for dinner.
A shout called Elenor back to herself. "Mother!"
Elenor turned to find Melia rushing down the steps towards her, and she gratefully opened her arms to her daughter. She held her close, feeling her weariness dispel at the weight of her daughter in her arms. "It is all right, Melia," she whispered, soothingly, feeling her daughter tremble as she had not done since she was a child. "I am unhurt."
"I am glad of that," Melia replied as she straightened, her eyes going to their guests. "Dwarves?"
"It appears we are no longer Lord Elrond's only guests," Elenor smirked wryly, as the Dwarves began following Lindir up the long steps into the House.
"Lady Melia!" Lord Elrond hailed her, calling them both over to him and Gandalf. "I wish to introduce you to an old friend: Gandalf the Grey."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," Melia dipped a bow, as Gandalf smiled warmly.
"As am I, young Melia," he replied, his eyes darting between mother and daughter. "Strange, for you seem too young to be your mother's daughter."
"Oh she is," Elenor laughed, used by now to strangers' reactions to her youthful appearance. "I have the memories of a hard labour to prove it."
With a nod and a bow, she led Melia away, the younger woman already chattering away, asking her mother all sorts of questions regarding the battle and the Orcs, as Lord Elrond's face turned grave when he turned to Gandalf.
"Mellon nin, who is she?" Gandalf asked, his own face turning grim.
"I do not yet know for certain, although I have my suspicions. Come walk with me, and we will talk further," he replied, leading the Istari towards the House.
Quickly, Elenor washed and changed, glad to be free of her armour. Gowning herself in her favourite amethyst silks, Elenor let her hair fall free from its braid and loose down her back. Outside her rooms, Melia awaited her, already dressed for dinner.
Elenor grasped the chance for a brief moment of peace for herself, to reflect on the day's events. And it had certainly been eventful.
A part of her had wondered if she would feel…joyous to wreak vengeance on the creatures who had attacked her and her people. Surely that was the correct thing to feel upon such a circumstance? The townspeople certainly seemed happy enough about it.
Elenor had not felt happy about the Orcs' deaths. At the end of the day, killing did not rebuild their lives, or resurrect their lost loved ones. They were beyond reach of blade or call. The dead did not care. Did they?
Her mind flinched from her wonderings on that subject to another: Lindir.
Ever since their duet, he had changed in his attitude towards her. He had always been friendly, of course, and intense in his regard of her but never had he made her feel quite so…
Elenor had no word for the feelings Lindir evoked in her. They both frightened and thrilled her in their turn. Her cautious mind whispered that she would do well to avoid him, cut him off before he turned as all men must, in her experience, violent and presumptuous. Her heart replied, softly as a breeze, that Lindir would never harm her and shown nothing but kindness to her since his offer to tutor her in music. And what if she was just thinking too hard upon those acts of kindness? Lord Elrond too showed her great kindness, and she felt nothing but safe with him…
Ah, or so whispered a sly little voice in Elenor's mind, but Lord Elrond's eyes do not follow your every move. You know desire, you have seen it often enough in the eyes of men. You know what Lindir truly wants from you…
But Elenor was not so sure. Lindir might very well desire her, but it was not the brutal, animal lust of her husband or the other men in the town that she had glimpsed. Lindir's eyes did not make her feel numbed or disgusted; she reciprocated that desire, even as she did not understand that something else that lingered between them, that differed so sharply from her past experiences.
I cannot understand this pattern, Elenor sighed wearily. Under Lindir's tutelage, my own skill grows. But he has not taught how to understand this…
Would he? If she offered?
On the surface of it, the question was laughable. An Elf, one of the Eldar, and a Noldorin at that. That he would look to a little human woman with desire was delusion at best and contemptible at worst. But Elenor was no longer so sure that it was delusion…
Ultimately, the question was not if Lindir felt more than friendship towards her, but if he acted upon it, how would she react? With fear and suspicion? Or trust? Had he earned her trust?
Elenor yearned to say yes, and that surprised. But she just did not know.
This debate racing through her mind was not helping matters. With another weary sigh, Elenor put it out of her mind as best she could, and rose to answer Melia's knock on her door. Right now, all she wanted was some dinner.
Melia led the way to the library, where Lord Elrond and the stranger, Gandalf, awaited them. Melia and Elenor bowed instinctively, murmuring courteous greetings.
"Greetings, my ladies," Gandalf called in return, his gaze fixing on Elenor shrewdly. "Lord Elrond was just telling me more of your story. There are songs sung for lesser deeds than yours."
"You flatter, my lord," Elenor smiled wryly. "It was no more than was required of us, not a deed of strength or courage."
"There you are wrong, my dear lady," Gandalf countered warmly. "The darkest and most desperate deeds of requirement are often the bravest and noblest."
"Then I thank you," Elenor inclined her head, but felt uncomfortable with their praise. She did not want to reminded further of her growing detachment from her people and her past. She wondered if Lord Elrond had spoken to him of her tokens? She had, to her surprise, all but forgotten about them in the weeks they had dwelt in Imladris. But her thoughts of late had brought them back to the surface of her mind. What had become of them? Did Lord Elrond have any news? Would he share it with her?
Was she ready to hear it?
"Come, dinner is ready," Lord Elrond interrupted her uneasy reverie, gesturing for the ladies to precede them. He had changed from his battle-stained armour into golden robes, Vilya shining on his hand. Lindir all but melted from the shadows to follow at his master's shoulder, as the group made their way out to the terrace where the table was laid out.
The Dwarves were already seated, raucous and jovial, despite the hissed complaints Elenor overheard about the lack of meat in their meal. Their table was emptier than usual; the sons of Elrond were abroad on patrol, so it would only be Elenor, Melia, Lord Elrond and their guests tonight. Elenor's gaze was drawn by a curious member of the company: his hair was wavier and shorter than the Dwarves, and he had no beard. He was shorter and slighter too, with no armour, and no boots or shoes. His feet were enormous for his size, and covered in thick, curling hair.
"Who is that?" she asked of Gandalf quietly. "He does not have the look of a common Dwarf."
"That is because he is not," the old man said gruffly. "He is a Hobbit, or Halfing, of the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, to be precise."
Elenor's brow furrowed. She had heard of such creatures: among the townspeople descended from the Rohirrim, they told stories of the Holbytla, hole-dwelling creatures who could vanish in the blink of an eye and make no sound as they walked upon the earth. Others better travelled spoke of Hobbits living and working in the confines of Bree, to the north of Swanfleet. In either case, she had never heard of any venturing so far from the borders of their homeland.
Resolving to ask more later, Elenor glanced at Melia, who just smiled. They walked among legends, seemingly sprung to life on the very earth. She did not know she could be surprised anymore.
"Kind of you to invite us. Not really dressed for dinner or such fair company," Gandalf commented, as they took their seats. Thorin joined them, sitting opposite Melia and Elenor at Elrond's left hand. Gandalf sat on his other side.
"Well, you never are," Lord Elrond replied jokingly. Gandalf chuckled at his teasing, and Elenor marvelled to see such warmth between such disparate persons: the tall, noble Elf Lord who's power was palpable, and the bent, grey old wizard who's power was veiled yet, like the sun covered by a storm cloud.
Lindir took his post at his master's left shoulder, his features smooth and carefully blank, but Elenor had grown adept enough at reading him in their acquaintance to know when he was discomfited. She recalled ancient tales of enmity between the Dwarves and the Elves. She wondered at their continuing dislike.
Around them, minstrels plied their instruments skilfully, lulling Elenor's frayed mind into comfort, as Lord Elrond bade them eat and drink their fill. Suddenly ravenous, Elenor decided not to join in the conversation, but eat and listen only. Lindir's presence at her back was a comforting warmth, like a balm. She had not the will to fight it anymore.
A sudden burst of laughter from the Dwarves claimed Melia's attention, as she frowned. "What's the jest?" she asked of the Dwarf King, Thorin, boldly. He looked askance to be addressed by her so, but Melia refused to be cowed.
"My nephew, Kili," he deigned to explain. "I think perhaps he mistook an Elven male for an Elven maid."
Elenor's brows rose at the insinuation, that there was little difference between the two. Melia snorted. "Well, for an archer, his eye sight needs work," she replied. Elenor feared her daughter's ready tongue might enrage the Dwarf, but he just smirked.
"I'll be sure to tell him you say that, my lady Melia," he replied, turning back to the conversation with Gandalf and Lord Elrond. The latter was examining their swords with interests, and Elenor's ears pricked up as Gandalf explained their tussle with Trolls on the Great East Road.
"This is Orcist, the Goblin-Cleaver," Lord Elrond breathed reverently. "A famous blade. Forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin. May it serve you well," he explained, handing it back to Thorin, who took it with new respect and a polite nod. He unsheathed Gandalf's next, and Elenor leant forward to peruse it with interest. "And this is Glamdring, the Foehammer. Sword of the King of Gondolin. These swords were made for the Goblin Wars of the First Age. It is strange that you should bear them. How did you come by these?" he asked, in grave astonishment at their finds.
"We found them in a troll hoard on the Great East Road, shortly before we were ambushed by Orcs," Gandalf exclaimed quietly. Elenor heard Lord Elrond's quiet sigh of exasperation as he stared at his old friend.
"And what were you doing on the Great East Road?" he asked with amused suspicion. Without warning, Thorin excused himself abruptly and left their table and the terrace, quickly. Elenor frowned at his rudeness. Had Lord Elrond said something…amiss? Why was the Dwarf so…secretive?
She took a deep draught of miruvuor, and Lindir leant over her to refill her goblet. She felt his hand against his shoulder, and repressed a shudder. She did not want to draw the interest of the persons at the table, least of all Melia. She glanced back at him repressively, but there was an amused twinkle in the reprobate Elf's eye. No doubt, he was enjoying her discomfort.
"Thirteen Dwarves and a Halfing," Lord Elrond commented pointedly. "Strange travelling companions, Gandalf."
"These are the descendants of the House of Durin," Gandalf protested half-heartedly. "They're noble, decent folk. And they're surprisingly cultured. They've got a deep love of the arts."
Elenor almost choked on her wine. From what she observed, the Dwarves possessed little of any of the commodities Gandalf claimed they did. Melia was not so circumspect, as she chuckled into her own goblet, unchastened by the reproving glare Gandalf sent her way. Lord Elrond too was smirking his amusement.
Suddenly, one of the Dwarves stood up and clambered up onto the table. The musicians stopped abruptly, as he hoisted himself onto a stone table in the centre of the terrace, drawing all eyes to him.
"There's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn beneath an old grey hill…" he began to sing, apparently displeased with the Elvish musicians' efforts, stamping his feet to an invisible beat. Soon the other Dwarves began joining in, their voices booming across the terrace.
Food began flying, smashing on the walls and statues around them, as the Dwarves only grew more raucous. Lord Elrond shot Gandalf a displeased look, which the Istari tried his best to evade. Elenor took one look at Melia, who met her gaze, and they both descended into laughter. The archer called Kili threw a cream bun in their direction, and it hit the statue behind Lindir's shoulder with a wet squelch. One look at Lindir's disgusted, affronted visage was enough for Elenor to give up her fight to remain quietly amused, and her laughter pealed out across the terrace like a bell. Lindir's eyes shot to hers, and though his expression did not change, his eyes softened with his own reluctant amusement.
After that, dinner quickly devolved into a food fight between the Dwarves, with Elenor and Melia ducking the occasional missile aimed their way, but otherwise excellently entertained by the other guests. Despite their rough manners, Elenor could see now they were as noble was Gandalf had claimed, and she could not help but like them.
As they rose from the table, Lord Elrond and Gandalf took their leave with courteous words and bows, and the archer named Kili approached the table. "Excuse me, my ladies," he spoke courteously. He was handsome, for a Dwarf, with little facial hair. Beside him stood an older Elf, with fairer hair, who could only have been his brother. "I am Kili, nephew of Thorin, and this ugly fellow is my older brother, Fili. Did you enjoy Bofur's little ditty?"
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Melia replied with a little bow. "It was a very pleasing melody, if somewhat discomfiting to our hosts."
"Aye, well," Kili looked a little ashamed at that, as Fili smirked beside him. "Us Dwarves aren't used to Elvish ideas of music. Bofur thought it'd liven things up a little."
"Well, you certainly managed that," Elenor commented dryly, as she felt Lindir hovering at her elbow. She sensed his desire to speak with her, and had no intention of running. Beside her, Melia was talking as animatedly to the Dwarven brothers as she did to the sons of Elrond, and was offering to show them the Valley before moonrise. With a nod of farewell to Elenor, Melia set off with her newfound friends, and the other Dwarves went to the rooms set aside for them, while the Elves set about cleaning up the mess of dinner.
Elenor turned to Lindir with a smile. He still looked annoyed. "Oh, come Lindir," she said. "Surely you cannot begrudge the Dwarves a little entertainment to their own liking?"
Lindir simply grunted inelegantly, making Elenor laugh. "I am glad I amuse you so, Lady Elenor," he replied stiltedly.
"Oh dear, you must be annoyed if you have reverted to using my title, mellon nin," Elenor teased him further, making him frown. He shook his head in exasperation.
"You vex me," he admitted. "As do the Dwarves. I admit I have little patience for such…roughness of manners."
"Well, take heart," Elenor replied. "I am sure they will not stay long and your patience will not be taxed further."
"Perhaps," Lindir mused, before seemingly setting his thoughts aside. "Come, it is still early before moonrise. Walk with me so we may see it together."
Elenor could think of no reason not to, and pushed aside the sudden feeling of trepidation as he held out his arm to her. She took it lightly, feeling his warmth and the steely strength of his arm once again pressed against her palm. Silently, they left the terrace and the House, walking through the gardens of Imladris. Elenor recognised what path they were on, and silently acquiesced to it. Tonight, she was too weary in soul to fight her own inclinations any longer.
On the other side of the river bank, the encampment was alight with cooking fires, and there was singing and talk, as the townspeople discussed the day's events. She wondered if Doron was stewing over his defeat and humiliation.
By the time they reached their little dell beside the falls, the sun had set and the moon would soon rise above the horizon. The stars shone brightly above them in the sky's tapestry, and Elenor smiled as she stared up at them. How many nights had she spent, staring up at them in misery and confusion? Tonight, she felt at peace, her fears silenced.
Lindir paused, and Elenor waited. She knew he would not stay silent forever.
"Lord Elrond told me of your…challenge," he began, uncertainly. "You are unhurt?"
"As you see, so I am," she replied enigmatically. "Truly, Lindir, I suffered no injury. It was necessary to safeguard lives. There was no need to risk more than one."
"There was no need to risk your own, either," Lindir replied hotly, before he stopped himself. "Forgive me, I have no right."
"I understand," Elenor breathed. "It was meant kindly. But, mellon nin, they are my people for good or for ill. I could not, in good conscience, let another take the risk. And all's well as ends well, or so my mother always said. Let us think no more about it and simply enjoy this evening."
"Very well then," Lindir sighed, with a teasing smile. "I obey, as always, my lady."
She swatted him on the arm playfully in retort. At that moment, the moon began to rise, bright and shining in the sky. Elenor gasped at her beauty and smiled. A soft breeze caressed her face, although there was a slight chill to it now the sun had set. Wordlessly, Lindir stripped over his cloak and draped it around Elenor's shoulders, his hands lingering on their graceful rise. Before, Elenor would have moved away, uneasy at such close physical contact and suspicious of his motives, but tonight she had no more energy left for such. She allowed the contact, and even let herself lean into it, raising one hand to clutch his where it lay on her shoulder.
"I…am very glad you are safe, Elenor," Lindir spoke, breaking their precious web of silent intimacy, but Elenor could find it in herself to rue it. She simply smiled, as his hand tightened around her own, and they stood watching the moon rise above the Hidden Valley until she hung high in the sky.
Elenor did not often see Lindir over the next few days. He was often abroad, seeing to his duties around the House, and there was no time for music lessons. She missed them, and him, but threw herself into her other studies with Master Erestor and the sons of Elrond on the sparring fields.
The Dwarves she saw even less of, as they kept to their own. She encountered the Hobbit, Bilbo once or twice around the library, and found him a cheerful, pleasant companion. They spoke happily for an hour or two before he was inevitably called away by his companions.
Now that the townspeople's thirst of revenge had been assuaged, Elenor felt a new sense of peace wash over her. She put aside her ruminations and simply enjoyed the present moment, such as the discovery of a new poem in the library, or the thrill of mastering a new phrase in Sindarin. Master Erestor had spoken of teaching her Quenya, the language of the High Elves of the West, if she continued to make such good progress with Sindarin.
And then one morning, seemingly without warning, the Dwarves disappeared and so did Gandalf. Elenor suspected Lindir was more than pleased by it, and her music lesson soon started up again, and she threw herself into them with relish.
Lord Elrond was pleased to see Elenor's new love of life as he watched her from the shadows of the terrace, that morning as she sparred with her daughter and his sons on the sparring fields.
Despite the revelations of their council with Gandalf, and the Dwarves' subsequent disappearance, he was glad to be rid of them. For all his courtesy, he was uncomfortable around Dwarves, as many Elves were, and had not relished their company.
Their presence had also brought an unintended, but needed, visitor to his door: the Lady Galadriel.
He had shown both Elenor's ring and her letter to his mother by marriage and Gandalf both, seeking their counsel. Gandalf had answered only with a piercing glance and noncommittal murmurs, his thoughts clearly on other matters but Lady Galadriel had not disappointed him.
She had been both shocked and grieved by the contents of the letter, and astounded by the ring. It was truly an heirloom of Doriath, and a symbol of the royal House of Elu Thingol. Though she had not met Elenor in person before taking her leave, she had counselled him that his suspicion were likely correct as far as could be proved, and that she sensed an aura of fate surrounding the Lady Elenor and her daughter. It was now up to him to tell her, when he thought it best.
But when would be best? Lord Elrond was not yet sure she was ready to hear the truth of her past, of her birth. Of the identity of her father.
To be continued…
