Folks, I thought all your responses had been eaten by a voracious CyberOrc, but it turns out that they were all merely holed up in the depths of Fangorn Forest, from whence they have now emerged. Phew! I must tell you that I was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms when it appeared that I would not be getting my verbal 'fix'. No doubt about it: Fanfiction.net is addictive.
Farflung: Thanks for reviewing again when it looked as if your first review had been shredded into tiny bytes. Galadriel does want the Greenwood Elves to move on to Rivendell so that a reunion may (possibly) take place, but she is particularly anxious that they hurry because she thinks that crossing the Misty Mountains is becoming increasingly dangerous. As for Celebrian, I figure Orc depredations can be cyclical. The Orc threat is growing, but that has happened before. They rise up, are beaten down, and rise up again.
Joee: I'm sure I'll soon be sending some more business your way! Maybe there is an error (or two or three or four) in today's post. Anyway, I won't let your eyes remain idle. After all, you know what they say about 'idle eyes'. ^_^
Daw the Minstrel, Jebb, and Karri: Yes, Erestor has taken up a role that seems like a pretty major departure from his previous behavior. Still, he had it in him the whole time.
Konzen: The Glorfindel/Anomen father/son thread will play a role both in this chapter and a subsequent one, so I'm glad you like it.
Elemental Flair: I must confess that Erestor's obsession with words probably reflects my own fixation. After all, we are both 'professors'.
Dragonfly: Yes, your memory serves you well. Anomen was captured by Dunlendings when he initially fled from Greenwood to Rivendell.
Vocabulary
Berencû—'Bold Bow'
Durrandîr—'Dark Wanderer' or 'Dark Pilgrim' (modeled on Mithrandir, 'Gray Wanderer' or 'Gray Pilgrim')
Laegmagol—'Sharp Sword'
Laegmegil—'Sharp Sword'
Maegcrist—'Sharp Sword'
Thranduil roamed restlessly through the corridors of the Great Hall, reminding himself that only a few months would pass before the return of Gilglîr and Tawarmaenas.
"And what are a few months to an Elf," he scolded himself. "For shame! You, who once thought you needed no one, wander about as woefully as an elfling who has been chidden."
It was no good, however; the King could not shake his feeling of despondency. At last, to escape the emptiness of the Great Hall, his feet carried him past its entrance and out into the forest beyond. He wandered about, scarcely noticing where he went. After a little while, he heard shouts and the thrum of arrows flying through the air. Drawn by the sounds, he found himself standing on the edge of a training field, where the Master Archer was putting a class of elflings through its paces. Thranduil smiled at the earnestness of the young archers. One elfling in particular caught his eye. This was the smallest of the archers, a little elfling so dogged in his determination that he did not smile whenever his arrow hit the target, which was quite often. The King walked toward him. The elfling lowered his bow and stared up at King, his eyes big. Thranduil smiled down at him, anxious to reassure him.
"You demonstrate great skill with the bow, my son."
The elfling stood speechless, still staring up at the King. The Master Archer approached and gently prompted him to speak, whispering into his ear and laying a kind hand upon his shoulder.
"Thank you, my Lord," the elfling at last said, although so quietly that Thranduil had to strain to hear him. He nodded encouragingly at the elfling, however, and tried once more to draw him out.
"What is your name, my son?"
"Berencû, my Lord."
"'Tis a good name, a strong name. And your father, young one?"
The elfling looked down and said nothing. The Master Archer cleared his throat. Softly he said, "His father was one of those who fell during the battle for Dol Guldur."
Thranduil stood irresolute for a moment, unsure whether to stay or go. Then he knelt down so that he could look into the elfling's face. He rested one hand upon the elfling's shoulder, and his other he placed under the young one's chin, lifting it gently until he could gaze into the elfling's eyes.
"That is a very great loss. You must miss him greatly."
"Yes," said the elfling, his voice breaking momentarily.
"My own father fell during the Battle of the Last Alliance."
"That was a very long time ago, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Do you still miss him?"
"Yes, I do still miss him."
"Dreadfully?"
Thranduil pondered before answering.
"Dreadfully is not the right word, I think. My sorrow is deep, and it will always be part of my being, but lately my memories of my father bring smiles to my face. And I think that I have learned from his loss, and the loss of others, to cherish those who still survive to me—something that I did not think possible in the centuries following his death."
He could see from the elfling's face that this weighty speech had overshot the mark. He tried again.
"No, I do not miss him 'dreadfully' because I smile when I think of him. And since he is gone, I have learned that I had better pay attention to those who still live."
The elfling nodded. This he could understand.
"I have a Nana and two sisters and one brother and three uncles and two aunts and five cousins and two grandnanas and own grandada and also I have greatgrandnanas and greatgrandadas and, and, well, I have a lot of relatives."
"And friends, too, I'll warrant."
"Oh, yes, many friends."
"Good. Enjoy your family and your friends, and honor your Ada by smiling at his memory. Can you do that? It is your King's command, mind you!"
The elfling straightened his shoulders and nodded vigorously.
"Of course, my liege!"
Thranduil arose.
"Excellent! I shall be watching your progress with interest, for you show much spirit."
The King began to walk away but suddenly turned back and knelt once more before the elfling. Gently he spoke.
"When I said you should smile at your father's memory, that does not mean that you cannot cry at his loss. It is necessary and fitting to do both, and one will often lead to the other. Do you understand?"
The elfling looked very relieved.
"Oh, thank you, my Lord! I want to smile, but sometimes I want to cry, too. So I may do both?"
"You may, and you must," said Thranduil firmly. He smiled at the elfling, and the elfling smiled back, although Thranduil could see that tears trembled in his eyes.
"The Valar would not have given us lips if they did not mean us to smile, and they would not have given us tear ducts if they did not mean us to cry. Disregard anyone who would tell you 'Do not weep', for not all tears are an evil."
Thranduil gave the elfling's shoulders a parting squeeze, arose, nodded at the Archery Master, and strode back to the Great Hall.
As Thranduil was returning to the Great Hall, Gilglîr and Tawarmaenas, whose absence grieved him so, were on the verge of ascending to the crest of the Misty Mountains. They were accompanied by the escort of Greenwood Elves, Rúmil, and Orophin, and, of course, Mithrandir.
They had left their horses behind, in the care of the Lórien Elves, and for several days they had been climbing steadily on foot. Thus far, they had seen no sign of Orcs, and Gilglîr began to allow himself to hope that they would be able to descend to the valley of Rivendell without encountering any of those fell creatures. Mayhap, thought Gilglîr, Galadriel had been unnecessarily concerned, although he had to admit that such ill-founded apprehension was uncharacteristic of the Lady of Lórien.
Just short of the crest, as night drew near, Gilglîr ordered the company to stop and make camp. After all had supped, Gilglîr decided that, as they would soon be crossing over to the Imladris side, it was time for him to say a few cautious words to some of the older Elves about their mission. It would be helpful if more eyes than his own were on the lookout for the errant heir. He approached a campfire and sat down to partake of the light-hearted banter that always followed the evening meal.
"I have been meaning to ask you something, Laegmagol," Gilglîr said at length to the Elf nearest him, who reclined upon his elbow.
"I'm Laegmegil," grinned the Elf. "Laegmagol is my brother."
"Oh, of course," replied Gilglîr. What were their parents thinking when they had named those two? "Laegmegil, when we are Imladris, if you come across any Elf with golden hair—I mean, other than the Lord Glorfindel—please let me know."
"Ah, so you know about the golden-haired one who dwells in Rivendell," said Laegmegil. "I had not thought that such gossip would have reached that high in the King's court."
"Gossip?"
"Hearsay, if you will, but Maegcrist over there knows for a fact that the rumors are true, for he saw the elfling himself."
"What!"
"Aye, several centuries ago, when he carried a letter from King Thranduil to the Lord Elrond."
"Several centuries ago! Why was I not told!?"
Laegmegil looked puzzled. "It hardly seemed significant enough to trouble you, Lord Gilglîr."
"Not significant enough to trouble me!"
Laegmegil looked distinctly uneasy now. Why ever was the Seneschal so upset?
Gilglîr leaped to his feet.
"Maegcrist," he bellowed.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the Seneschal. It was highly unusual for any Elf to shout in such an agitated fashion, and it was unheard of for Gilglîr to do so."
Maegcrist approached nervously.
"My Lord?"
"Tell me what you know of this golden-haired elfling whom you saw in Rivendell!"
"There isn't much to tell, my Lord. I noticed him because of his hair, which, as you know, is an unusual color for an Imladris Elf. When I asked who he was, Glorfindel acknowledged him to be his son."
"Glorfindel? Glorfindel has a spouse? I had not heard this."
"No, my Lord, he does not have a spouse, but he does have a son. If you are familiar with the mechanics of the process—"
"I am quite familiar with the mechanics of the process," said Gilglîr irritably, disappointed and embarrassed. He had gotten worked up over nothing. He was surprised to hear that Glorfindel had a son, as he thought that the balrog-slayer was much too clever to have begotten offspring in such an irregular fashion. However, Elves were known to make such a mistake from time to time, although not as frequently as Men, who seemed to have little or no grasp of 'cause and effect'—either that or no command whatsoever over their appetites! Odd, though, that Glorfindel hadn't gone to greater efforts to acknowledge his son, but perhaps he was yielding to the wishes of the mother in that regard. Odd, also, that this son of Glorfindel had not taken part in the siege of Dol Guldur. He would have been old enough if Maegcrist had seen him in Rivendell when he carried that message from Thranduil to Elrond.
Ah, but this son could indeed have been at the siege of Dol Guldur, Gilglîr suddenly realized. Perhaps this gossip about Glorfindel accounted for the mystery surrounding Durrandîr, the young Elf whose father was never mentioned. Yes, if Glorfindel did have a son, no doubt Elrond would have agreed to foster him. That would permit the son to remain near the father but without causing embarrassment to either Glorfindel or the mother, who, Gilglîr suspected was the one who would have wished to keep the matter private. The infant having been born, Gilglîr thought, Glorfindel would not have been cowed at the thought of it being publicly known that he had fathered an irregular child! Indeed, knowing Glorfindel, Gilglîr suspected that the balrog-slayer likely would have been tempted to flaunt the circumstances of the child's birth as a badge of honor. Yes, no doubt matters were kept quiet out of deference to the mother, and, as Elrond had taken in other fosterlings, no particular notice was given when Durrandîr appeared on the scene.
It was true, of course, that Durrandîr's hair was dark, but Gilglîr had already been giving thought to the possibility that Durrandîr's hair was in fact golden but dyed brown to allow him to participate in the campaign for Dol Guldur. If Durrandîr were Laiqua, dark hair would disguise that Elf, of course, but such hair also would allow a son of Glorfindel to fight with the Rivendell warriors without attracting the attention of either friend or foe. Indeed, perhaps it was avoiding the notice of the latter which was of greater import if this were Glorfindel's son. It would be more important, even, than sparing the mother any embarrassment. The son of the balrog-slayer would be a tempting target to some. Elrond's birth sons would be tempting targets, too, but with their dark hair they would be indistinguishable from the other Rivendell warriors. But a golden-haired warrior amongst the Imladris forces, well, even an exceptionally stupid Orc might make the connection if his head remained attached to his shoulders long enough.
Yes, Glorfindel might very well have an irregular son, and it was even possible that Durrandîr was this young Elf. Yet Gilglîr was not altogether comfortable with his own reasoning. Several matters were left unexplained by the tale. Why had Galadriel been so enigmatic if the golden-haired elfling was nothing more than the irregular child of the balrog-slayer? Of course, mused Gilglîr, Galadriel was related to Elrond by marriage. Likely Elrond, on behalf of his friend Glorfindel, had begged her to be discreet. Then, too, there was the matter of the mother. As the child was golden-haired, probably not only the father but the mother had hair of the same color, for everyone knew that any children born to one golden-haired and one dark-haired parent were not likely to have golden-hair themselves. A golden-haired mother likely would have come from Lothlórien, and that alone might explain Galadriel's reticence. She may have been protecting one of her folk, mayhap even one of her own kin!
Still Gilglîr was not quite satisfied with this explanation. Was there not another possibility, he wondered. Could it be that Glorfindel was not the father but merely claiming that he had sired the elfling? It would seem odd for him to do so, to lay claim to a child of indiscretion. What reason would he have to do so? Gilglîr ran over the possibilities in his mind. He could be doing so as a favor for someone. But for whom? He could be trying to protect the elfling for some reason. But from what? If not the child of Glorfindel in the first place, he would not be the target of the balrog-slayer's foes. Gilglîr's eyes narrowed. Was it possible that Glorfindel had been keeping an elfling hidden from his rightful father? Gilglîr shook his head. Impossible! Maegcrist had seen the elfling, and he would have been perfectly able to recognize the Prince of Greenwood, for he had been serving in the King's court for centuries! Unless, of course, he hadn't gotten a good look at him.
"Maegcrist," called Gilglîr, excited anew.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"How near were you standing to Glorfindel's son?"
"Not very near, my Lord. I was on the far side of a meadow from him. He was receiving instruction in horseback riding. Really, if it hadn't been for his hair, I would never have noticed him, for the distance between us was great and he was too far for me to make out his features. Then, too, he was in motion, as his horse was galloping at the time."
A smile spread over Gilglîr's face.
"Thank you, Maegcrist," he said. To himself he thought smugly, "I am going to take great pleasure in ferreting out the truth of this situation. Yes, indeed, I think I shall contrive to make things warm for both Elrond and Glorfindel! The fiery slopes of Mount Doom shall seem appealing to them before I am done!"
He strode toward the place where he had laid his bed roll. As he did so, he noticed a thin spiral of smoke drifting from the far side of a boulder. As no campfire had been built there, he went to investigate. On the other side, leaning back across the rock, sat Mithrandir. He was engaged in his most curious custom of breathing in fumes from a long hollow tube attached to a bulbous but open end in which smoldered some sort of weed. From time to time he would remove the tube from his mouth and blow out curiously shaped clouds, animals usually, although occasionally ships. He was quite good at it, really.
"Ah, Mithrandir, I did not mean to disturb you."
"And you have not done so, Gilglîr. Pray join me."
Gilglîr slipped down to sit beside him, leaning back comfortably against the smooth face of the boulder. He had a sudden inspiration.
"You are constantly traveling, are you not, Mithrandir?"
"Oh, yes. As Men say, I am a 'rolling stone that gathers no moss'."
"A quaint saying, Mithrandir, as sayings of Men so often are."
"Quaint, yes, but quite true as well—as sayings of Men so often are."
Gilglîr looked aslant at his companion. Had he offended the wizard? After all, the Istar had chosen to roam Arda in the guise of a Man. Or had that choice been made for him? Gilglîr found himself wondering for the first time about Mithrandir—whence he had come and whither he would go. With an effort, he drew his mind back to the matter at hand.
"You have often been to Rivendell."
"True, true."
"Tell me a bit about that land. It is a beautiful place, is it not?"
"Oh, yes, as are all lands inhabited by Elves, each in its own way, of course."
"Rivendell Elves look a little different from other Elves, do they not?"
"Either that, or one could say that other Elves look a little different from the Rivendell ones. It is all a matter of one's point of view, wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course," conceded Gilglîr.
"I suppose that by 'different', you mean that Rivendell Elves tend to have darker hair than the Elves of Lothlórien and Greenwood."
"Yes, Mithrandir. That is indeed what I was thinking."
"Well, it is quite true. There is a range of color, of course, but tending toward the dark end of the spectrum."
"I do hope that Tawarmaenas will not on that account feel out of place during his visit. Is it possible that he will meet any Elves with light hair like his, golden hair perchance?"
"I very much doubt it," replied Mithrandir dryly.
"Ah," said Gilglîr. He was unable to keep the note of disappointment from his voice, but Mithrandir made as if he did not notice.
Gilglîr tried another tack.
"Mithrandir, there was an Elf named Durrandîr at the siege of Dol Guldur. He lives in Rivendell, does he not?"
"Durrandîr does not live in Rivendell. Nor has he ever lived in Rivendell."
Here Mithrandir was being as honest as everyone one else to whom Gilglîr had put this question.
Stymied yet again, Gilglîr nevertheless stubbornly persisted.
"But you do know him? A young, golden-haired Elf?"
"Yes, I have said so. He does not, however, have golden hair."
Another honest answer, of course. Durrandîr, the 'Dark Wanderer', was only Durrandîr as long as his hair was dark.
Gilglîr could not help but sigh. Mithrandir removed his pipe from his mouth and smiled at him.
"Is something wrong, Gilglîr?" he asked innocently.
It was all Gilglîr could do to keep from glaring at the wizard.
"Oh, no," he replied sarcastically. "I receive answers from all that are stated with such exquisite attention to the niceties of the language that I am left quite speechless."
"As you have just demonstrated," rejoined Mithrandir ironically.
With that, Gilglîr abandoned his attempt to pry information from the wizard.
"It is said by Men, 'Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes'. That proverb would be better applied to the Istari!"
Mithrandir laughed.
"I am flattered that you see fit to compare my answers with the enigmatic words of the Eldar. I have been practicing my delivery long enough!"
Now Gilglîr laughed.
"When next I see the Lady Galadriel, I shall warn her that she has a rival."
"She will not be surprised. 'Twas she who tutored me!"
Both smiled. Gilglîr arose and bade the wizard a good night. He saved one jest for last, however.
"Mithrandir," he called back over his shoulder. "I think you yourself can claim sole credit for the name of these mountains."
The Elf gestured at the vapors that now wreathed the nearby trees. Mithrandir chuckled and blew forth a troll-like figure that, brandishing a log, pursued Gilglîr to his bedroll before dissolving into the mist.