Chasing Mirages by Russandol

---

Lindon

Eönwë returns to Middle-earth.

 

---

21. Lindon

Endórë, Year 439 of the Second Age of Arda - Autumn

I was aware of the need to be smuggled into Lindon, to preserve the secret of our improbable point of departure.

At the narrow gap that marked the entrance to the Gulf of Lhûn, on both the northern and southern tips, stood two tall watchtowers. They had been built to alert the Children of a possible seaward attack by exchanging and relaying signals made with mirrors and lights to outposts further along the coast.  We were close to sailing past them when our skipper warned me about the likelihood of being detained by one of the coast patrols.

‘It is mere routine when they do not immediately recognise a vessel,’ he explained. With a wink, he added: ‘Or when her master has been found or suspected of not paying import duties.’

‘Why do you not drop anchor nearer the coast, outside the gulf? I can swim ashore,’ I proposed, not wanting to cause more trouble to the friendly crew.

The captain gazed at me with something like pity in his eyes, and shook his head.

‘Our instructions come from no other than the envoys of Súlimo. We are to leave you in the outskirts of Forlond, where Ereinion holds court. Then we can return home, for a while.’

‘Which shores do you call home?’

‘My crew and I are of the Falathrim, but most of our kin sailed to Aman while we tarried to wait for our lord Thingol. Later, we followed Círdan, and with him went to Balar when the Black Foe attacked us. Now we live in Harlindon under his rule, but have been granted free passage to and from Valinor in exchange for our services and... our discretion. Our lord will vouch for us, his people, in case of trouble with Ereinion.’

Not wholly reassured, while fascinated by Círdan’s convoluted complicity in the affairs of other Valar beyond Ulmo, I soon found out what the captain meant by trouble.

As soon as we left the watchtowers behind us, a fast coastguard ship intercepted ours. Her crew hailed us, ordering us to lower our sails, and to allow two of their men to come on board. Our captain had planned for this event, and well before their arrival I was hidden in the deepest bowels of the ship, inside a minute secret compartment under the floorplanks of the cargo hold, which were nailed back in place above me. Heavy crates and sacks were stacked on top, until no light or sound pierced the walls of my tiny prison. For a while, panic threatened to overcome me when I pushed against the wooden boards over my head and they did not budge. I had suffered worse at Mairon’s hands, so that I bent all my willpower on mastering my fear and remaining calm and silent.

I was shaking and stiff with cramp when the smiling sailors, cheering in triumph, pulled me out from the dark hole. After I finally managed to stand up straight without assistance, we all shared a celebratory bottle of wine provided by our skipper.

After the inspection visit, we were left alone. The patrol had signalled the all clear, and given us a striped banner that we hung next to our colours, the blue and yellow of Harlindon. We sailed on northwards, hugging the shore along the Gulf. After the moon set that night, still out of sight from the harbour of Forlond, the sailors lowered a small rowing boat to the water and two of them took me ashore.

‘Farewell, Eglanir,’ they said, as I waded towards a small shingle beach, sheltered by a thick mass of pine trees. ‘May the jewels of Elbereth shine upon your path.’

I waved at them and they rowed away, almost invisible on the dark waters.

For a long while, I watched the surf rolling ceaselessly, crested with plumes that shimmered silver in the starlight, and lost myself in thought, vainly seeking solace in the deep rumble of the churning pebbles. I ached for Mairon, while resentment flared again in my heart against those who had shattered our precious life together, flooding me with such angry heat that I thought it would make my whole hröa burst into flames.

Restless, I paced along the beach; then I ran. My hröa screamed for movement after the weeks of being cooped up aboard the cramped ship. Only when my legs trembled from exertion did I drop to my knees, deafened by the frantic beat of my heart. I hurled fistfuls of pebbles against the innocent trees, while roaring curses and futile threats against Námo and Manwë at the top of my voice, until I could shout no more. Then I wept and called Mairon’s name, praying to Eru to keep him safe, from the Valar and from his own dark self.

Much later, I dejectedly shouldered my small leather bag and began to walk. Forlond lay beyond the dark line of hills ahead.

 

~ o ~

 

At dawn, I stood on a rocky promontory from where the northern shoreline of the gulf, marked by white stripes of foamy waves, stretched in an immense curve all the way to the horizon. Just below me lay a secluded crescent-shaped bay, bound by two capes jutting deep into the dark water. Between them nestled the main city of Lindon, golden in the first rays of daylight. A shallow estuary lay beyond, flowing into the gulf along what once might have been the course of one of the Seven Rivers, before the lands of Beleriand were rent and drowned under the Great Sea.

After the War, I had visited the newly settled Forlond, when it was still little more than a dream in the mind of its architects, and its mighty ramparts were the first structure being erected. Now, I was awed at the view. 

Mirroring the layout of the Gulf defences, the narrow seaward entrance to the ample east-facing harbour was also guarded by two elegant towers topped by great lamps, so bright that they defied the brilliance of the rising sun.

These sentry towers were built at the opposing tips of a vast stone wall that girdled the entire city, embracing both earth and sea. Like giant gold snakes sprung from the West Gate on the opposite end of Forlond, each half of the circle slithered over land and down the capes at both ends of the bay, then rose high above the water, curving towards each other to enclose the harbour, with the towers guarding its narrow entrance.

Within the fortified city, the most prominent building was the square turreted keep, perched atop a small rise centered over the bay, where Ereinion, High King of the remaining Noldor in Endórë, lived and held court. Around the keep was spread an orderly grid of tree-lined streets bordered by handsome stone buildings, many of them domed with green copper or reaching up to the sky with tall carved spires. Myriads of wide arched windows supported by slender columns glittered in the amber sunlight.

The pleasant, beautifully symmetrical design of the ivory city betrayed the Noldorin mind of its creators while reminding me of a giant eroded seashell carefully balanced over the edge of the indigo sea water. 

Outside the walls, tidy fields and orchards were draped on the undulating terrain up to the edge of the pine woods that hugged the city. Despite the early hour, I espied people tilling the land, or moving along the road that skirted the ramparts and led to the West Gate.

I sat in the shadow under the trees to consider my next step. Now was not yet the time to escape. I was certain of being watched by several of Námo’s servants, and I would be until he was satisfied that I had complied with his orders, however long it took. The gulls cried mockingly from above, as if daring me to defy the will of the Lord of the Breath of Arda. I gritted my teeth.

My clothes were ordinary, my appearance no different from that of the Calaquendi who still dwelled this side of the Great Sea. I doubted I would attract attention if I were to approach the gate, but I ignored how closely they would question me before allowing my entrance. I had searched my bag and found a purse with some silver coins. Unlike those first days of my banishment, this time I knew their true value and would not let the merchants cheat me.  They should buy food for many days. I could forgo paid shelter to make my modest wealth last longer if need be; I was content to camp under the trees.

Around midday, hunger forced me into action. I walked along hedges between scented orchards until I met the road, lined with bustling stalls selling many wares and crafts. I stared at a picket line with four horses tethered to it, next to a small open shed where a blacksmith’s hammer sang with a sweet ringing rhythm. If I were to travel far, I would need a horse. In the end, I overcame my growing temptation to commit thievery by following the enticing smells and the sizzling sounds of food being cooked.

All vendors and their patrons spoke the tongue of the Sindalië, which I had learnt long ago[1]. Confidently, I bought grilled fish, bread, onions and fruit, and pocketed my change without deserving a second look from the woman in charge, who turned at once to serve her next customer. In Kiinlúum I would have been welcome by kind greetings, smiles, and bows. Here, wrapped in comfortable anonymity, I sat on a low wall by the road and began to eat, while watching people come and go from the Gate.

As predicted, the guards stopped everyone wishing to enter, except for a few folk who seemed to be well known to them. The gentle breeze allowed me to catch wisps of conversations, all about purpose, relatives, places to stay, and I watched how the soldiers duly recorded every entry and exit. Sometimes a visitor was detained until someone arrived to vouch for him. Evil and sorrow had taught the Quendi caution the hard way, and the lessons had not been forgotten, even after yéni of peace.

I had no valid claim to kinship or friendship with anyone in Lindon, and therefore, little chance of gaining entry. My heart leapt with hope. Maybe, if I was turned away, I could haggle for a horse, and travel East.

At that time, I heard the pounding clatter of many hooves approaching from the woods. A group of riders was returning from a morning hunt, their catch of partridges and hares strung to the pommels of his saddles. One of them carried a small deer over the withers of his horse. At their head rode a man whose face I recognised with a start. I had recently dreamt of him: Elerondo, son of Eärendil. Or in this time, Elrond.

Behind him, surrounded by noblemen and warriors, came the King. Only a simple silver circlet marked him as such, otherwise he was clad in plain hunting gear like all his companions. Most of them carried bows and quivers or spears, as well as swords. Not the King, though. On his left hand, Gil-galad wore a falconry glove. I followed his upward gaze and spotted his bird, admiring his easy glide with the ache that always awoke at the thought of my lost freedom.

The royal party would have ridden past without a glance at my lowly figure, had something unexpected not happened.

The hawk circled low, as though to land on the King’s forearm, but instead threw himself at my head with a loud shriek. My hands leapt up to my face, to protect my eyes from the sharp claws, while trying to bat him away. A searing pain preceded an abundant trickle of blood from my scalp down to my face.

Half blinded, I sensed more than saw Elrond’s horse rear, startled by the commotion. He had always been an excellent horseman, but now his mount sidestepped towards me, knocking me to the ground. He would have almost certainly trampled me but instinct made me jump up to my feet at once, in time to reach out, take hold of the harness and hold on tightly, while whispering soothing words into the terrified beast’s ears. Soon, the stallion calmed down, pranced a little and then stopped. By then, I could hardly see from the dripping blood.

Elrond slid to the ground and anxiously grabbed my arm. A crowd was gathering around us, murmuring loudly.

‘Are you badly hurt?’ Elrond asked, peering at my face. His voice was calm and gently commanding. He reached out to part my bloody hair and look at the wound.

‘Nay, lord, I am well,’ I answered, too weak to be convincing.

My head was throbbing with pain, but I heeded it little. I was shaken by incredulous fury at the scheming of another King, Lord of Arda, to whom all birds are dear. Had I perceived the will of Manwë in the hawk’s piercing eyes?

The abundance of blood belied my words. One of Gil-galad’s retainers offered Elrond a water bottle and, despite my protests, he made me sit down with my head back and cleaned the stinging area just above my hairline, to find the location of the wound. Then he pressed a large piece of clean cloth against my scalp to staunch the bleeding. I feared I was about to faint, more from consuming rage than from pain or loss of blood. I closed my eyes.

‘The King regrets this incident, and requests that you attend him when you are fit,’ spoke a different voice.

Still, I kept my eyes shut. I did not wish to see Ereinion. In fact, all I wanted was to mount a horse and gallop away, eastwards, to fall into Mairon’s arms and never part from him again. 

‘Leave him alone, Brégil,’ growled Elrond. ‘I will escort him to see the King, but only when he is fit to do so. Possibly tomorrow.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ I heard the crunch of steps retreating over the gravel path.

I opened my eyes when Elrond eased the pressure of the cloth, now soaked in blood. He leant forward and inspected the wound intently. Then he dabbed my face with another damp cloth to wipe some of the blood stuck to my eyes.

So close, I had a chance to study him, though my memory was as fresh as when we met last, before my return to Aman. Elrond seemed veritably untouched by time, at least in body.

Taken separately, each of his features showed only subtle hints of his mortal ancestry, but all together they gave him a distinct appearance amongst the kindred he had chosen.

His ears were still pointed, but of rounder shape; his chin was more square, his nose wider and his grey eyes, framed by bold, bristly eyebrows, less slanted but not less bright than those of the Quendi who had never beheld the Light of Aman before the rising of the Sun; his brow and the skin by his eyes were marked with faint lines that gave him an air of maturity, even wisdom, without detracting from his youthful appearance. I had to resist the impulse to reach out to his thick, wavy hair, raven black and woven into braids only at the temples. As to his body, his height matched my own, but he was broader of shoulders, less slender than the willowy Eldar, though he lacked none of their grace of movement.

To me, he seemed most handsome, a harmonious blend of the beauty of both kindreds, but I was aware of how sensitive he had once been, maybe still was, about the unusual features that singled him out. On the day he spoke his choice, he had admitted to me, the lofty Herald of Manwë, that he felt confident about facing what made him different from the Eldar and, if necessary, about standing up to their prejudice, whose ugliness he had already met. He feared, however, the chasm that separated him from the Atani and their sundered fate, and both admired and lamented his brother’s courage to take that step, reliant on blind faith instead of safe familiarity.

Now I stared at him, attempting to decide to whom amongst his ancestors he most took after. He noticed my rude scrutiny and glared at me.

‘My lord Elrond,’ I murmured, lowering my head, mostly to hide an incipient smile. I hoped it would come across as sheepish chagrin at my own insolence, and not as disdain.

‘Lift your head,’ he snapped. ‘Do I know you?’

‘I doubt it, my lord, but I know who you are. I have seen you before,’ I answered, eyes still locked on the ground before me. Suddenly, I was grasped by an irrational fear that he would recognise me.

‘What is your name?’

I held my breath, before giving my answer.

‘Eglanir, my lord.’ My first lie. I knew there would have to be others. They did not come too easily to my lips.

His inquisitive gaze pierced me.

‘You are a Noldo from Aman. What is your father-name?’

‘I have none, my lord.’

Strangely, this was true and the answer came out without effort. Not having an ataressë [2] amongst the Eldalië was usually the sign of a child born out of wedlock whose father had not acknowledge his paternity. This double sin was deemed shameful, according to the laws and customs given to the Eldar by the Valar, and it was not uncommon for someone to make up a father-name for himself in these circumstances. I had to suppress a smile of longing at the sudden memory of the tally of my offences that Mairon had once compiled.

Frowning, Elrond studied me thoughtfully, no doubt attempting to guess more from my appearance.

‘You are of the house of Fëanáro?’ He had switched to the tongue of the Noldor, which he spoke fluently.

‘I do not wish to speak of the past, or of my kin,’ I replied curtly, adopting a slightly offended mien, in the hope that he would forgo his questioning.

'If you feel well enough, you must walk with me to the infirmary,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, I will have you carried. You need stitches.’ I grimaced at the thought, though it was not the first time I had suffered them. ‘We can talk later,’ he added. His reassurring smile was guarded, his eyes hard. My reprieve would be short.

‘As you wish, my lord. I am ready.’

He had given his horse into the care of one of his companions and we walked side by side through the gates. The guards stared at me but did not dare question my presence. I appraised the strong defences, raising my gaze to the double portcullis and gauging the strength of the three iron-bound doors that in case of attack would be barred with massive bolts and beams, ready in place.

The infirmary was only a short stroll away, down a most pleasant avenue along the wall, paved with pebbles of many hues arranged in the shape of curling waves, and lined with cypress trees, trimmed box hedges and a border of fragant lavender.

Most buildings were two or three stories high, beautifully crafted out of sandstone, with wide arched galleries on all floors, their columns carved into wonders of knotwork and lattice designs. Windows were covered with stained glass of equally rich patterns. Captivated, I kept peering into the doorways along the way, most of them allowing glimpses of inviting courtyards crammed with large potted trees and shrubs.

When we arrived at our destination, we walked into one of these peaceful, flowering entrance halls, open to the sky. The sights and scents brought to my mind, with a painful pang, the memory of our inner garden in Kiinlúum, where orange trees blossomed and fountains sang. I sighed, and followed Elrond into one of the rooms that opened from the courtyard.

He bid me sit on a nearby chair. I hesitated, as he made no move to sit himself, but he waved me down.

We waited in silence, until a chatty healer arrived and dealt with my injuries. He made me lie down on a cot and washed the area of scalp with a liquid that almost made me jump from the sting. Mercifully, it must have had some soothing properties, because I was able to bite my lip and bear the stitches with nary a flinch. I was aware of Elrond’s eyes watching my every move.

Once it was all over, the healer left with my thanks, not before he ordered me to rest for a while. Elrond sat on the chair and waited, silent. But I could sense his curiosity in the intensity of his gaze.

I closed my eyes, wondering what would happen next. I was annoyed at my own helplessness, furious at the way I was being prodded and herded from Kiinlúum to Mandos and now into the city of Forlond, soon to appear before its King.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Elrond at last. I toyed with the idea of claiming a headache, but it would only prolong the inevitable. 

‘Well, my lord. I am most grateful for your kindness,’ I answered. My resigned acceptance could easily be confused with tiredness.

‘This is strange, Eglanir. I sense something familiar about you, as if... I feel I have met you before.’

I would have bowed at his perception, but I was still lying down. I wished to suppress his suspicions and avoid undue trouble.

‘My lips have never spoken to you before today, my lord, though you maybe recall my face from the past.’ I delivered the obscure vagueness as convincingly as I could.

He waited, as though expecting more, but I did not volunteer any more information.

‘Then you may already know that I am the Herald and Banner-bearer of the King,’ he offered.  Again I felt like smiling. ‘So am I’ almost came to my tongue, but I swallowed words that were not only unwise, but no longer true.

‘I know, my lord,’ I said instead.

‘Where are you lodged?’ he asked. Clearly, the interrogation continued. ‘You can attend to Ereinion in the morrow, after you have rested. Where are your kinsmen, or your friends in Forlond? I will take you to them.’

‘I have none, my lord,’ I wavered for a couple of heartbeats, then plunged on. ‘I had not entered the city when the hawk... I have not arranged for accommodation or employment here.’ There, it was better to admit all at once.

His appraising gaze met mine. I did not avert my eyes, but waited for his reaction.

‘Very well, Eglanir,’ he spoke at last, frowning a little. ‘You are certainly a mystery, and in other circumstances my duty would dictate that I deal with you differently. But the King has charged me to ensure you are looked after, at least until he has a chance to see you. I shall help you settle for a few days first.’

In other words, from then on, I would be under watch during every hour of my stay.

‘What can you do for a living?’ he queried.

‘I am... I used to be a warrior, my lord.’ A complete stranger with no references being accepted into the guard seemed highly implausible, so I racked my mind for other abilities that were unlikely to lead to further questioning. ‘I am good with horses,’ I added.

‘That I believe, after what you did earlier,’ nodded Elrond, and he bid me follow him. ‘I will vouch for you with Tauras, the Horse Master; he will be glad for one more pair of hands with a good touch.’

Elrond’s reference opened all doors, including the one to the royal stables. Once I had been the herald to the Lord of Arda and captain of the Host of the Valar, later a counsellor to a dynasty of god-kings in a remote Eastern realm. Now I became a lowly groom in Gil-galad’s household. As soon as Elrond left, I was tasked with mucking stalls and carrying bales of hay, until well after dusk. I would not be granted the privilege of handling any horses until I had proven my worth. As I had no accommodation, Tauras shared some bread and cheese with me and allowed me to sleep in a small corner at the back of an empty stall where spare tack was stored.

It was neither exhaustion nor lack of station, however, that kept me awake that night, turning endlessly on the pile of clean straw I had gathered for a mattress. As often before, I railed at those who had snatched my happiness, while my chest ached for Mairon with every breath and every beat of my heart, as though something vital and good had been distilled out of the air. Our separation was unbearable, but my anxiety for him was worse still.

That night I was free to weep without shame, and I did.

 

 

---

 

Notes:

[1] Sindalië (Quenya) Collective name for the Grey-elves or Sindar

[2] ataressë (Quenya) name given to a child at birth by the father