Book 3: Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love

by Soledad

3rd Boromir story. Final chapter is up. Between returning nightmares, Boromir has some very interesting encounters. Implied mm interaction. Completed.

3. Chapter 3: Reunions

OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE

by Soledad Cartwright

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Legolas' extended family belongs to me.

Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.

Author's Notes:

Chapter Three was mainly written because of the necessity to work in the arrival of the other messengers – mostly the Dwarves. As you can see, I took some of the Council dialogue and moved it to an earlier scene for two reasons:

First because I have postponed the Council itself some twenty days later to give enough time for important plot twists to happen;

And secondly because the story concerning the Council (A Heart For Falsehood Framed) is long enough as it is, containing seven whole chapters, which will be put together in a not too far future. I only posted the story in three parts because at that time I haven't figured out the chaptering system yet.

Also, originally I had not intentions to write an Erestor/Lindir subplot; the whole thing just popped up in my mind one day and won't go away, so I thought, what the heck, I can write it, it does no harm, does it?

As I have alredy mentioned in the Appendix to ''Forgotten Song'', there is absolutely no proof for Galdor of the Havens to be the same person as Galdor of Gondolin, though – according to Michael Martinez – Tolkien *was* toying with the idea for awhile before rejecting it. It's something I have made up all by myself.

In spite of these slight canon twists, I still don't consider this an AU-fic. Basic facts from the books are unchanged, and so are – I hope – the characters themselves. At least I tried to keep them so.

Dedication:

To Athea, whose Legolas in the long and very sweet story ''Beneath it All'' (read it, people, it's excellent!) greatly inspired my Lindir in this chapter.

CHAPTER THREE: REUNIONS

As the evening drew on, Erestor, the steward of Elrond's House finished the preparations for the messengers of far-away kingdoms that were due to arrive ere sunset, and allowed himself a slow stroll through the gardens.

Like most of Elrond's household (save Glorfindel, of course), he was not particularly old for an Elf, born around the middle of the Second Age, and of moderate Noldorin descent – not from a House of Princes, yet honourable enough to be invited to live in Imladris.

He came to the valley as a young elfling, shortly after Sauron destroyed Eregion(1) and his parents were slain alongside Celebrimbor, their Lord. Elrond took him as a fosterling in his home and taught him to become both a lore-master and a warrior – having considerably more success with the latter one, for the young Elf was wildly determined to avenge the death of his parents and the destruction of his home.

He got his revenge during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men; he fought through that long and bitter war on his Lord's side, til the last Battle upon Dagorlad, where he was gravely injured and only Elrond's healing skills were able to save him.

Yet his recovery had been a very slow one, so Elrond entrusted to him the much needed work of running his house, for it required little effort of the body and put the remarkable mind of the young Elf to good use. And Erestor proved worthy of this trust and took the burden of everyday's business effectively from his foster father's shoulders.

So the office of the steward was given to him for good, aside of beeing chosen as the chief chancellor of the House, and Erestor did not mind. He had seen enough blood already, and though he followed Glorfindel to the battle against the Witch-King of Angmar(2), he was content with his peaceful life in Imladris. It might not be very eventful, but it was home. A home where he had a purpose, a family and, above all, time.

After that last battle he married fair Lindir, one of the finest singers the dale had ever heard, and though their bond naturally could not produce children, they found great joy in each other and their love did not fade with the passing of years3.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Erestor walked along several arched passages and down many spiral stairways cut in stone, til he finally reached a high garden above the steep bank of the river. There he found that his favourite resting spot was already occupied. In the porch on the side of the house, looking east, Glorfindel was sitting, and with him Legolas, and a third Elf, whom he had never seen before.

''Erestor!'', Glorfindel greeted him. ''Come, join us, my friend!''

Erestor nodded his thanks and watched curiously the strange Elf who was sitting between Legolas and Glorfindel. He knew it could only be the messenger of Círdan the Shipwright, who had arrived earlier on, but Erestor had not had the time yet to greet him, being busy with his domestic work.

Clearly one of the Falathrim, the stranger was clad in grey and silvery green like the foam upon the Sea, and his long, silver hair was bound to a tight pony tail on the nape of his neck with a clasp made of a rainbow-hued, spiked seashell, and his eyes had a strange, changeable colour: greyish green, with a dark grey ring around his irises. Like most of the Falathrim, he was less tall than Erestor or Glorfindel (or even Legolas), and he wore a short, neatly-trimmed silver beard(4), that gave his appearance even more dignity.

He must have felt the curiosity of the younger Elf, for he smiled slightly and bowed his head as a greeting.

''Él síla lúmena vomentienguo(5) (a star shines upon the hour of our meeting)'', he said in his own tongue. ''I am called Galdor.''

Though this was harly a surprise, for the messenger of Círdan, Lord of the Falathrim had been announced weeks ago and expected for days; seeing him in person still stole Elestor's breath. Having another one aside Glorfindel who had fought against Morgoth's hosts and even survived the fall of Gondolin was slightly overwhelming.

''I am honoured'', he said politely and he meant it; then he added. ''It surprises me to see you in person, though. I have thought that all Elf-Lords of Gondolin, save Glorfindel, were of Noldorin descent.''

''All, save of the Nos Galdon, the Folk of the Tree'', Galdor corrected. ''We were a mixed folk, Teleri at most, who seeked refuge in Gondolin after the Nirnaeth Arneodiad(6a), but even a member of Nandor Elves were among our ranks, like the one young Legolas here was named after(6).''

Erestor shot the Prince of Mirkwood a curious look.

''Are the two of you of the same kindred?''

''From fairly afar'', Legolas responded. ''His sister, Nellas(7), wed my grandfather in Doriath. But he left Middle-earth after the War of the Valar, as far as I know.''

''… and liveth still in Tor Eressëa, with the rest of the Nos Galdon, the Folk of the Tree, named by the Eldar there Laiqalassë'', Glorfindel added in the overly ceremonious manner of a minstrel.

''You met him before your return?'', Galdor asked Glorfindel when the laughter died down.

Glorfindel shook his head thoughtfully.

''Nay, my friend… My return was rather… unusual.''

But he said of this no more, no matter how much the others urged him, so Erestor gave up and turned to Legolas again.

''So; has your sister sent any messages?''

The son of Thranduil nodded with an odd expression on his fair face: half joyous, half sorrowful.

''Aye, she did; and my father shall be both most pleased and utterly devastated to hear it. For Celebwen gave birth in the summer and has a little daughter now, called Fallinel(8), and this is a cause of great joy, indeed, for there had been no children in our family since the beginning of this Age(9), when my sister, Aiwë came to the light of Arda.''

''Aiwë, the Little Bird?(9)'', Erestor swallowed hard, knowing quite a lot of Legolas' family history. ''Was she not the one who…''

''Who got bitten by the Giant Spiders and died from her poisonous wound, ere she had even come of age'', Legolas nodded sadly.

''But why would the birth of a long-awaited grandchild bring your father sorrow?'', Erestor asked, somewhat confused.

''Not her birth'', said Legolas, ''that certainly shall be celebrated, even with our limited resources. But Celebwen is leawing these shores, and my father might never even see her daughter. For he would likely not leave Middle-earth. Ever.''

''Why is your sister leaving?'', Glorfindel asked. ''Has the Sea-longing become thus painful for her that she cannot bear it any longer?''

Legolas only shrugged and it was Galdor who answered for him.

''I believe she is concerned about the safety of her child. She remembers all too well the fate of sweet little Aiwë and all the other perils of Middle-earth, and wants to protect her daughter from any harm.''

''She did not even know Aiwë'', said Legolas bitterly. ''She left us ere our Little Bird was born. From all of us I am the only one who knew her.''

''Which is one of her deepest regrets'', offered Galdor quietly, and in his keen eyes, accustomed to pry over the sea-foam to great length, there was compassion now.

''And yet she would make Father suffer the same loss again?'', countered Legolas accusingly.

''You can try and make her wait a little longer'', said Glorfindel. ''The Havens are still safe, after all.''

''They are, but who knows how much longer?'', Galdor shook his head soberly. ''We are vulnerable from both sides, you know that. Aside of the two harbours of Mithlond, our people live in small towns and villages along the coast that could easily be attacked from the inland; and should the corsairs of Umbar choose to sail northwards, not even our white ships would be safe.''

''There is no safe place in Middle-earth as long as Mordor is not overthrown'', Glorfindel agreed grimly, ''and for that to happen, the chance is very slim.''

''True'', said Galdor with a sigh, and the pain of old memories mirrored in his eyes for a moment'', and yet hope we must as long as we still walk under the Sun.''

To this, the others had no answer, so they sat in silent agreement, enjoying the peaceful evening. Shadow had fallen in the valley below already, but there was still light on the faces of the mountains far above, and the air still was warm. The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered in Elrond's gardens.

Erestor tilted his head backwards, eyes shut, letting the last warm rays of the setting sun caress his face. He knew that shadows were growing and war shall come again, soon… yet in this moment naught could disturb the peace that dwelt in his heart. Well aware he was of the privilege of dwelling in this well-protected valley.

Someone cleared his troath and as he opened his eyes, he saw his spouse standing at arm's length and smiling at him ruefully.

''I regret to disturb your peace, love'', said Lindir with the lilting, musical voice of a born minstrel, ''but you are needed, I fear. The messengers from the Dwarf-kingdom have come.''

Legolas made a dour face to that, but Erestor rose with a resigned sigh, and so did Glorfindel.

''I better escort you back to the Lord Elrond'', the gold-haired Elf-Lord said to Galdor, ''for he expects you at sunset. Legolas, will you join us?''

The Prince of Mirkwood shook his head.

''Nay, I promised my people to show them some hidden places in the valley – places with great trees they have never seen before. We have to make preparations for Eruhantalë(10). Though it shall come fairly late this year, we might be forced to celebrate it in Imladris, if, indeed, the planned Council should not take place before the next moon. Have you heard of other messengers that should come still?''

''No-one else has been announced'', Erestor said, ''save Gildor, should he come back in time from his pilgrimage to Elostirion(11). But the Lord Elrond wishes not to begin ere his sons return from the Wild with tidings. Haldir of Lórien was to be sent out, but a message has come in from the Lady of the Wood that he is needed at home and shall not come after all.''

''What a shame'', Lindir said lightly. ''The Galadhrim are a strange folk, but Haldir has visited Imladris several times during this Age, and I always found him pleasantly open-minded… for a Silvan Elf.''

Legolas' eyes flashed dangerously, and Erestor hurriedly interfered to take the edge of the insult that his spouse had spoken so innocently – once again.

''Aye, as far as I know Haldir is the only one of the Galadhrim who travels abroad.''

''They are a secretive folk'', Glorfindel agreed, ''and a bred of their own. Not even the other Wood-Elves can fully understand them, or so I have heard.''

''They are one with their land'', said Legolas quietly, ''more than any of us can ever hope to become. I wish I could visit the Golden Wood one day… no where in Middle-earth are trees like they have them in Lórien. Not any more.''

''Mayhap you shold have your wish granted sooner than you believe'', said Glorfindel with that strange light of foresight in his deep, ancient eyes; then he turned to Galdor. ''Let us not make the Lord Elrond wait, my friend.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From the balcony of the guest house Boromir watched the small company of Dwarves following the only path that led across the bridge of Bruninen and Elrond's house beyond. Six they were in the number, sitting on strong hill ponies, wearing clothes in the deep brown colour of the Earth from which they were said to have been formed at the beginning of time, and armours of magnificent craftmanship.

Their leader was rather big and broad, even for a Dwarf, very long and thick snow-white beard covering his broad chest like a winter-cloud, adorned with two thin ornamental braids held together by a golden clasp under his chin, his long, tick hair draped open upon his back. He wore a shining mail shirt, that covered his knees, under his earth-brown coat, a gold-adorned iron helmet that made his round head look like a bullet, and on his silver belt there was a large clasp of iron and gold, crafted beautifully and adorned with the crest of the Kingdom under the Mountain(12).

The other wore similar, though less rich clothes and armour, and looked just as old as their leader. There was only one young Dwarf among them (young as Dwarves go, at least), in face and attire not unlike the leader, yet his beard was shorter and a fiery reddish brown, he had a slightly upturned nose, and was rather wiry for a Dwarf(13), something that Boromir found surprising. For though he had not seen a Dwarf before (for they dwelt not in the South), after the old legends he had been told in his youth he assumed that all Dwarves were short and stocky like stones.

He watched with interest as the Elves of the valley came out from the trees to greet the Dwarves with a merry song (which they answered with various scowls), and at last one of them, a tall, dark-haired one whom Boromir remembered to have seen fleetingly in Elrond's house, came forth and welcomed them with a slight bow. As hard as he tried, he could not make out a word of their short conversation through the musical noise of the many waterfalls around, but after a little while the Dwarves were led over the bridge to the main house.

Te stone bridge was hardly wide enoug for a pony to walk safely on it, so the Dwarves dismounted and crossed it on foot, slowly and carefully, one by one, each leading his pony by the bridle. The Elves had brought bright lanterns to the shore and continued singing merrily as their scowling guests went across. The Elves followed them, laughing and singing, and soon they all vanished from sight into the house.

It took Boromir several heartbeats til he understood why this mere fact made him simmer with rage.

The Dwarves, sworn enemies of the Fair Folk of old, were offered accomodations in the very house of the Lord of the Valley, why he himself, the messenger and Heir of the last Númenórean realm, was put up in a guest house with some nameless Elves from Mirkwood.

This was more than a simple oversight. This was a downright insult, not only towards his person, but towards the people of Gondor as well, their desperate fight against the Enemy, all their sacrifices.

Just wo did these Elves think they were?

As he stood there, shaking with righteous anger, he noticed Legolas racing over the bridge like a steady-footed deer, his fair face dark with cold wrath. The other Mirkwood-Elves came out from the guest house to greet him, and they talked shortly, but though Boromir could hear their musical voices clearly, the way they spoke was very different from the Elven tongue he was taught, so he understood naught of what they said... save one word that the Prince of Mirkwood spat in fury. He did not know the true meaning of that word either, but he knew it as an insult, aimed specifically at Dwarves.

This amazed him, for though the animosity between Elves and Dwarves had been a known thing since the Elder Days, he thought not that their hatred would still run this deep, and he was wondering if the Council that Elrond planned to hold in twenty days would end up in bloodshed… for Legolas certainly was a force to take into consideration, and Dwarves were not known of their peaceful nature.

The faces of the other Mirkwood Elves darkened as well, and they left with their Prince at once. Yet they went not to the main house but followed a path across the bridge, up to the cut-in stairways towards the further parts of the valley.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, in the House of Elrond, the Dwarves were seated in one of the smalled dining-rooms and a generous supper was offered to them. The Master of the House joined them himself, and so did a few of his household, among them Erestor and Lindir.

''Welcome to Imladris again, Master Glóin'', Elrond greeted the leader of the Dwarves smiling. ''Many long years have passed by since you have sat at my table, but tidings from your work have come to my ears during those years, and I was glad to hear that the Kingdom under the Mountain keeps flourishing.''

''Thank you for your kind words, Master Elrond'', the Dwarf answered in his deep, rumbling voice. ''The memories of Rivendell and the hospitality of its Lord have always been pleasant ones among my people. Give me leave to present my son, Gimli'', with that, he nudged a little the young Dwarf on his right, the one with the fiery beard, who stood and bowed deeply.

''Welcome and well met, Gimli son od Glóin'', Elrond nodded kindly, then turned back to Glóin; ''So tell me, Master Glóin: how are your people faring?''

''There is much to tell, good and bad'', grumbled Glóin, ''yet it is mostly good: we have so far been fortunate, though we do not escape the shadow of these times. If 'tis truly your wish to hear of us, I shall gladly tell you tidings. But do stop me when you are weary! Dwarves' tongues run on when speaking of their handiwork, they say.''

''And with right'', laughed Lindir, ignoring the sharp jab his spouse gave him, ''but fear not, Master Dwarf! We all are eager to hear of your achievements, regardless of the length of your tale.''

This seemed to please Glóin, to the great relief of Erestor, who was worried about the too merry tongue of his spouse who had already managed to insult Legolas, without even knowing of it; and though the merry art of his being was what he loved Lindir most for, he reminded himself to have an honest word with his spouse, soon.

Ere he thoughtlessly insults the wrong person and causes a blood feud, he thought wearily.

Glóin, in the meantime, already embarked on his undoubtedly very long account of the doings of the Dwarf-Kingdom in Erebor.

''Dáin Ironfoot the King under the Mountain still is'', he was proudly telling between generous bits of roast when Erestor got focussed again, ''though he is now old, having passed his two hundred and fiftieth year. But he is as strong as ever, and venerable, even with the measure of his fathers; and fabulously rich, due the hoard of the Dragon and his own labours; for we have not sat idly in all those years.''

''What about your ten companions of old, the ones who survived the Battle of Five Armies?'', Elrond asked. ''Are they well and healthy?''

''Seven of us still are with the King'', Glóin answered; ''aside me Dwalin, Dori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur.''

''Bombur is now so fat that he cannot move himself from his couch to his chair at table'', Gimli, his son added grinning. ''It takes six young Dwarves to lift him.''

The Elves laughed, too, but Elrond missed not the shadow of pain that crossed Glóin's ruddy face.

''But what has become of Balin and Ori and Óin?'', he asked, knowing well that Óin was Glóin's younger brother(14) and that there was great love between them.''

''We know not'', the Dwarf answered sadly. ''It is largely on account of Balin that I have come to ask the advice of those that dwell in Rivendell.''

Elrond could guess how much it had cost the proud Dwarf to take such a long and tiresome journey upon himself (for though strong and resilient, Glóin was also of high age, just as his King), only to ask the advice of Elves, whom no Dwarf with any self-righteousness truly trusted.

And who has seen a Dwarf that would not be self-righteous?, the Lord of Imladris added in an impulse of customary Elvish prejudice.

''Do tell me then'', he said loud, ''but finish your meal first. For you have endured great hardness on your way from Erebor to this dale, and even your strong boddy needs refreshment. We shall retire to my study when you are done here where we can speak undisturbed.''

The Dwarves eagerly agreed, and Elrond withdrew to his spacious study, escorted by Erestor, who was still somewhat reluctant to leave his much-too-merry-tongued spouse alone with the easily-enraged Sons of Stone but could hardly disobey a direct order from his Lord.

''Any tidings of Mithrandir yet?'', Elrond asked, forsting through the parchments with the latest reports on his writing desk. Erestor shook his head.

''Nay, my Lord. According to the messages sent by Gildor Inglorion, he was seen near Bree twenty and four days ago, but since then he seems to have vanished from the face ot Earth.''

'''Tis disturbing'', said Elrond. ''Mithrandir is never late.''

''He might have been delayed'', Erestor offered awkwardly.

''That he might be'', Elrond agreed, ''which disturbs me even more. For it has to be a great force, indeed, that can keep a wizard from his chosen path. You are one of the few, aside Glorfindel, that know who Mithrandir truly is; and that 'tis not easy to restrain him once he decides to go.''

Erestor nodded. As chief counsellor of Elrond's House(15), he was let in into secrets that not even other members of the household were aware of; also, he was not treated as a mere steward but as a foster son, with all the duties and privileges of a kinsman.

''Do you wish me to send out scouts to look after him?'', he asked.

''Nay'', Elrond shook his head. ''If he has come between the borders of our realm already, he will find his way without help. And outside our borders we cannot help him.''

''Shall we just sit and wait then?'', Erestor asked, clearly not liking the idea. Elrond nodded.

''There is naught we can do for him that he cannot do himself'', he said; then he paused and added in a very different tone. ''Now that we do have this short moment of privacy, I wish to speak with you about your spouse.''

Erestor paled visibly. This was not good, not good at all!

''What has he done, my Lord?''

''Nothing… as yet'', seeing the relief washing over Erestor's face, Elrond smiled, then added with mocking austerity; ''When I gave my blessing to your marriage I hoped you would find a way to restrain that much too nimble tongue of his.''

''So did I, my Lord'', Erestor sighed. ''But do be lenient with him, I beg you! He is still so very young… hardly older than your own daughter. And he has not the serenity the Lady Arwen seems to have been born with.''

''He is young and beautiful and gifted beyond measure, and more innocent than any Elf that ever lived in this valley'', Elrond nodded, but his face was now stern. ''And you are too much in love with him to handle him properly, it seems. But making unduly allowances for him in his youthful rashness would help him little, should he insult the wrong person.''

''That I know, my Lord'', Erestor let hung his head in despair.

''Then do something'', Elrond closed the discussion, ''or I will. And none of you would like that, I fear.''

''As you wish, my Lord'', Erestor bowed, heart still beating rapidly. ''Is my presence at your private council with the Dwarves required?''

''It is'', said Elrond, ''and ask Galdor and Glorfindel to join us as well. Círdan will want to know about the deeds of the Dwarves.''

''What about Prince Legolas?'', inquired Erestor, and his Lord gave him an exasperated sigh.

''Do I seem to you as one who wants bloodshed in his own study? You know as well as I do how bad things between the Dwarves of Erebor and Thranduil's folk still are. Nay, I shall speak of will be said in this council to Legolas in private. 'Tis enough when I have to endure the flares of his temper.''

''Strange'', Erestor frowned. ''In all those years he came visiting Imladris, I always thought him to be calm and even-tempered.''

''He is… for a Wood-Elf'', Elrond shrugged, ''most of the time, anyway. But he also has the ravaging fury of his grandfather in his heart, and that is a force not easily restrained, less so in times of great distress. Now go and do as I asked!''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Less than an hour later Glóin and his people were led to Elrond's study, where several conveniently low benches, generously polstered with flat pillows, had been prepared for them, as well as small tables with plates of seed cake and huge tankards of dark ale which Dwarves were known to prefer to wine.

Glóin grunted appreciatively and eagerly helped himself to a good, long drink, and the others followed suit, save Gimli who simply watched the Elves warily, who were sitting across them in their high-backed chairs, sipping their wine.

''So tell us, Master Glóin'', Elrond said, ''what has become of Old Balin and of your honoured brother? For it seems to me that amid the splendour of their works of hand the hearts of the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain are troubled.''

''Indeed, they are'', said Glóin, '' It is now many years ago, almost thrice ten as Men count it, that a shadow of disquiet fell upon our people. Whence it came, we did not at first perceive. Words began to be whispered in secret: it was said that we were hemmed in a narrow place, and that greater wealth and splendour would be found in a wider world…''

''Were those not the very words that lured the Dwarf-Kings into Sauron's trap in the first place?'', Glorfindel asked quietly. ''Did those words not make them accept the Seven Rings from the hand of the Dark Lord; the very Rings that nearly caused the downfall of all your royal Houses?''

''They were'', Glóin nodded sadly, ''and yet these same whispers inflammed the hearts of our people once again. Some spoke of Moria: the mighty works of our fathers that are called in our own tongue Khazad-dúm; and they declared that now at last we had the power and numbers to return.''

A cry of great distress escaped Glorfindel's lips, and all glared at him in shock, for never had they seen the ancient Elf losing his calm in this manner.

''Those unfortunate fools!'', Glorfindel cried. ''How could they even think of returning to a place that was infested by Udún's Flame? 'Tis folly that could only have led to their most painful deaths!''

Galdor laid a comforting hand upon Glorfindel's forearm.

''Easy my friend. You alone have faced the Flame of Udún and come back to tell the tale. Have patience with the younger ones!''

Glorfindel restrained himself with visible effort – thinking back to his own death made him understandably upset at times – and gave his old friend a grateful nod. Glóin sighed.

''We knew it was folly, Master Elf; yet ever had the desire to take it back burnt deep in our hearts. Moria! Wonder of the Northern World! Many songs and tales, known only in our own tongue, had been sung about its deep mines and vast mansions that had lain empty since the Children of Durin fled.''

''Oh no, not empty, or so I fear'', Glorfindel muttered. ''The Flame of Udún might have been quenched, but creatures of old evil and great strength still might dwell in the deepest chasms there.''

''That might be so'', Glóin said slowly, ''but now we spoke of Moria again with longing… and yet with dread; for no dwarf has dared to pass the doors of Khazad-dúm for many lives of Kings, save Thrór only, and he perished.''

''Which should have been a warning for you, earnest enough not to follow his path that led to his death'', prompted Glorfindel.

''Should have?'', asked Glóin, but in his deep voice there was sorrow rather than anger. ''They say there is a longing in Elven hearts that cannot be withstand. A longing for the Sea that makes you fade away if you follow its call not. Is this true?''

''It is'', nodded Elrond; the Sea-longing was not something he would discuss with strangers, the least with Dwarves, but Glóin deserwed an honest answer.

''Then you might understand our longing for the home and great city of our fathers'', said the old Dwarf, ''for it runs very deep. So came that Balin finally resolved to the whispers and decided to go; and though Dáin did not give leave willingly, he took with him Ori and Óin and many of our folk, and they went away south.''

''Why Ori and Óin and not the others?'', Erestor asked, remembering dimly all the Dwarves who had visited Imladris almost seventy years ago.

''He chose those with no families'', answered Glóin, ''for our Kin increases slowly as you might know, and is in peril if our women and children have no secure dwellings. But he chose Ori aside of all others, to be the chronicler of their great quest. For Ori could write well and speedily, not only with Dwarf-runes but also with Elvish letters.''

''Do you know if they reached Moria at all?'', Galdor asked.

''They did'', said Glóin. ''For awhile we even had news and it seemed good: messages reported Moria had been entered and a great work begun there. Then there was silence, and no word has ever come from Moria since.''

''How long has it been that you last heard of them?'', asked Elrond.

''That was nigh thirty years ago'', Glóin replied. ''Then, about a year ago, a messenger came to Dán, but not from Moria – from Mordor: a horseman in the night, who called Dáin to his own gate'', he added with an indignant snort. ''The Lord Sauron the Great, so he said, wished for our friendship. Rings he would give for it, such as he gave of old. And he asked urgently concerning hobbits; of what kind these where and where they dwelt. 'For Sauron knows', – said he, – 'that one of them was known to you on a time.'''

He fell silent, looking at the Elves in askance, who seemed appropriately concerned about these news but said naught. So he sighed again, took another good, long drink and finished his tale.

''And so I have been sent at last by Dáin to warn our old friend Bilbo that he is sought by the Enemy, though the reason for it is not known to us. And other matters there are, as well, in which we crave the advice of the Master of Rivendell; but speaking of all would make this already late evening much too long. I am an old Dwarf, and though your table helped me to regain some of my strength, I feel the need of a good night's rest.''

''And rest may you be granted, Master Glóin, mayhap more of it than you have looked for'', said Elrond. ''For in about twenty days, there will a Council be held, where all the urgent matters of Middle-earth shall be discussed and very important decisions have to be made. You are respectfully invited to partake if you can take the time.''

The old Dwarf mulled over the invitation for a moment; then he nodded.

''I shall stay. 'Tis important for us to know what is going on in the wide world; and the comfort of your house will make the waiting a delight.''

''So be it'', Elrond rose. ''Erestor will show you to your chambers; as he is the steward of my house, you can ask him for any thing you might need. A good night to you, Master Glóin, and to your people.''

''And to you and your family'', Glóin grumbled politely, getting on his feet with some difficulty, for the good meal and the strong ale made his limbs heavy.

As the Dwarwes followed Erestor out of the study, Elrond could hear Glóin telling his son in Khuzdul (which he happened to understand, thank to his foster father Maglor's teachings(16):

''I told you, son: though never should you trust any Elf, this Rivendell bunch is better than the others. Mayhap the mortal blood in their veins makes them more endurable…''

The Lord of Rivendell smiled wrily, deciding that this was some sort of a compliment after all, and took his leave from Galdor and Glorfindel. He had one more task before him ere he could go to rest: to find Legolas and speak an earnest word with him.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When Erestor finally arrived home, he found his spouse in their shared study, practicing on his silver flute, the moonlight shining on his long, golden hair (for he belonged to a far branch of Gildor's kindred), his eyes shut as he played to the stars and the quietly listening trees in the night.

For a long time he had not even noticed the return of his spouse, so absorbed he was in his music, and Erestor simply watched him, wondering for not the first time, what could have made a creature of such rare gift, such high birt and such exquisite beauty fall in love with him and bond with him.

He seriously doubted his own worthiness of such a privilege. Any Prince or Princess of the elder Days would have thanked the Valar on their knees for such an undeserved gift – and yet Lindir had chosen him. The paths of love did have unexpected twists, indeed.

Finally Lindir finished his music and opened his dreamy, sea-hued eyes to give his spouse one of his shy smiles. He always was shy when they were alone, even after twelve centuries of happy marriage, and Erestor felt himself melting into a puddle from that smile. He reached out for his beloved, and Lindir went eagerly into his arms, resting his young face upon Erestor's shoulder.

''You are upset'', he murmured ruefully, demonstrating once more his unerring sensitivity towards Erestor's moods. ''Have I said something wrong again? Did I insult someone badly?''

''You were lucky with the Dwarves, love'', replied Erestor with a sigh, ''but you should be more careful with the Prince of Mirkwood.''

''He seems to be in a foul mood lately'', Lindir murmured with a smile.

''He is not the only one'', said Erestor gravely.

That seemed to frighten his spouse; Lindir withdrew from his embrace and looked up to him with the wide-eyed astonishment of a child.

Valar, how could someone of his age still be thus innocent?!

''Are you angry with me?''

Erestor sighed again. He had accepted a long time ago that in certain things his spouse would remain a child, even if he should live many thousands of year yet, and he loved him for that even more. But the same child-like light-heartedness made it very hard at times to handle him.

''Nay, dear heart, you know that I cannot be angry with you. Never. But'', he added, hating that he had to chase away that happy light from those dreamy eyes, ''the Lord Elrond can. And he is.''

Lindir frowned, knitting his smooth brows together. The earnesty of the situation began to sink in his mind, filled with love, music and merriment.

''What did he say?"

''He told me to do something about your loose tongue, or else he would… and we certainly would not like that'', answered Erestor grimly.

''O Elbereth!'', Lindir became deathly pale, very sober now. ''Do you believe he would send me away from the valley? Would he separate us, mayhap for the rest of our stay in Middle-earth?''

He was serously driving himself into a frenzy. Erestor grabbed his shoulders, trying to shake him out of it.

''Easy, love! Nay, he would do no such thing, for I would never leave you, and he knows that. But he could send both of us away… to Lórien mayhap, or to the Havens, both of which are places where you would be very unhappy. You need the beauty and the safety of Imladris to flourish and unfold your rare gift in music.''

''And you need your home for your heart to be in peace'', Lindir murmured, deep regret written in his beautiful features. ''Dear heart, I am so very sorry to cause you so much trouble.''

''My heart is at home where you are'', Erestor stroked the pale golden hair of his spouse lovingly''; I would be happy with you any where, even in a Dwarf-den. But it would destroy you to leave the valley, save for the Blessed Realm. And you are a light too bright to shine in Mandos' Halls. So try to be more careful, will you?''

Lindir nodded, tears swimming in his eyes, which frightened Erestor greatly, for in all those long years of their marriage he rarely had seen his spouse weep. As sensitive as Lindir was for any changes, be it in the weather or in the mood of these around him, he usually endured distress with astonishing calm.

''Are you all right, love?'', he asked, deeply worried, taking his shivering spouse in the safety of his arms again.

''Ever… as long as you are with me'', came the muffled answer. ''I cannot lose you…''

''You shall not'', Erestor patted his narrow back; Lindir truly was like a maiden sometimes.

The thought led him involuntarily to an other, and he could not surpress a chuckle over the vision before his eyes.

Lindir raised his head and gave him an insulted glare.

''What….?''

''It just occured to me…'', Erestor chuckled, ''what a shame it is that males cannot get pregnant. You would look beautiful, swollen with our child(17).''

Lindir, too, laughed through his tears and tried to throw out his very flat stomach.

The experiment failed miserably.

''Well… I can try to get fat, if you like'', he offered doubtfully. Erestor laughed.

''Nay, no need for that. You are beautiful as you are. Come now, dear one. Let us retreat; the night is getting old already.''

''So you want me to sing to you in your sleep?'', Lindir asked, following him to their bedchamber that was attached directly to the study. Erestor laughed again.

''Have I ever rejected such an offer?''

''Not that I can remember'', answered Lindir with a laugh of his own. ''What would be your please?''

''I shall let it to you'', Erestor said.

Lindir thought for a moment, then hopped up lightly to their bed and began to sing in his low, sweet voice, while Erestor prepared himself for a good night's rest.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

So, this one got fairly long, but this is where it ends. Below are a few notes for the lore-masters among us. If you're not interested in background trivia, simply skip them. Next we shall witness the arrival of a certain wizard, finally.

1 in the year 1697 of the Second Age
2 in the year 1975 of the Third Age
3 Apparently, there weren't any children born in Imladris after Arwen (at least I've nowhere seen it mentioned), so I gave Erestor a male spouse - one that was at least known by name and by a few lines of dialogue.
4 We don't know, of course, if everyone else of Círdan's people did wear a beard, save the Shipwright himself. I only thought another Elf with a beard would look neat; and Galdor is old enough for that. Also, he is a mariner, so I decided to give him a somewhat rougher look than Elves usually have.
5 This is basically the same polite greeting that Frodo offered Gildor Inglorion (there: Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo), but in Telerin instead of Quenya; quote taken from Ardalambion - thank you kindly, Mr Fauskanger!
6a The Battle of Unnumbered Tears - the fifth and most disastrous battle of the Elves against Morgoth in Beleriand.
6 This 'fact' was completely made up by me, sorry. All Gondolin references are taken from The Book of Lost Tales, except the self-created data about Legolas' family.
7 Yes, it *is* the same Nellas from Túrin's tale. And yes, I made up her role as Legolas' grandmother.
8 Means 'foam-singer' in Telerin.
9 My apologies to all the lore-masters; I simply ignored the fact that according Tolkien Elves usually get their first children around the age of 50 and stopped about 100 years later - it seemed too narrow for me by people who live on for thousands of years. Celebwen is actually older than Legolas.
9 This is the literal meaning of her name. According to the Etymologies in 'The Lost Road', probably a root word from primitive Elvish. (I'll take here no responsibilities, though.)
10 'Thanksgiving to Eru' - autumn feast, celebrated also in Númenor.
11 The White Tower of the Elves, beyond the Shire, where most likely the last palantír was guarded, the one that was in contact with the Master Stone in Avallóne and made them able to look into the Blessed Realm (according to Michael Martinez).
12 Basically, this is a mix of John Rhys-Davies' appearance in the movie and Glóin's description in the book.
13 My take on Gimli's appearance is based on the rumour that for some time Jeffrey Combs was considered for the role.
14 It is nowhere mentioned who the older of Óin and Glóin was. I just took my pick here.
15 Just to avoid any confusions: when I write 'house', the building itself is meant; 'House' with capitol 'H' means Elrond household and family.
16 My deepest regards to Deborah for this tidbit of background trivia.
17 Line quoted almost letter by letter from Athea's story. Lindir will not get pregnant, though. It's just a joke between the two of them.