Gildor and Lindan: homecoming by Encaitariel

Chapter 1

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Gildor and Lindan: homecoming

 

FA 588 – Lindon

 

Beleriand was no more.

 

The Elves of Beleriand, tied to Arda as they were, mourned its loss as intensely as the loss of their own kin. It seemed incomprehensible that a whole land – the forests and rivers and hills where they had lived, and so many of their loved ones had died – should disappear. Some fled east, never to be heard from again. Most, however, gathered together in what was left of Ossiriand, now called Lindon in honor of the People who had lived there for yéni.

 

It was there in Lindon, on the southern shore of what had once been a pass through the Blue Mountains, but was now a great gulf called the Lune, that Ereinion Gil-Galad built his new city. Osluin he called it, and its building began with the aid of the Amanyar before they returned to the Blessed Realm.

 

Not all of the remaining Eldar in Endorë desired to stay within either the narrow confines of Lindon, or the narrow (as they perceived it) confines of the High King’s rule. Hosts of the Nandor and Sindar of Beleriand departed east, over the Mountains, to wander the new lands of Eriador. Some of the Lords of the Noldor chaffed in Lindon, as well; the old urge to explore and carve out for themselves reasserting itself in this new time of peace.

 

One day, in late autumn, Gildor stood on the shore of Lune, gazing out across the restless Sea to where he knew the great river Narog and the hills of his home used to be. His fëa was feeling as restless as the sea before him; as untethered and futile as the waves that seemed to cross and tumble over each other in their rush to the shoreline, only to fall back into the sea and begin again.

 

Though his kinsman, Ereinion, had asked him to stay in Lindon and help him rebuild the life of the Eldar in Endorë, he did not feel the cause as a burning desire, as the king did. In truth, Gildor felt listless and without purpose. Finrod had made him what he was: a Lord of Nargothrond. And without Nargothrond or its King, he was nothing. This feeling had been a long time in rising to the surface, for it had been nearly a century since the destruction of his City, but in the intervening years the Nargothrondrim had still needed him. He supposed that he had simply been too busy to pay heed to such introspection.

 

Now, though, there was peace and the Nargothrondrim, as a people, were no longer separate from the rest of the Eldar who gathered around Ereinion’s court. They, it seemed, no longer needed him. Osluin did not need a Lord of Nargothrond. And yet, he did not feel a pull either West or East. For the time being, he simply existed and, he knew, that was not enough.

 

As he stood contemplating the restless waves and his equally restless fëa, he heard the light approach of another. Glancing back disinterestedly, he saw Lindan approach. His friend seemed inordinately pleased with himself, and Gildor was momentarily distracted from his self-pity. He narrowed his eyes at the Linda, but did not speak. For a while, neither moved, listening to the breathing of the sea and the whispering of Ulmo's song. Finally, Lindan turned to his friend.

 

"How is it, nildonya," he said, "that, wood-elf that I am, your Goldë ears can still hear me? It is a thing which has always puzzled me."

 

Gildor snorted. "The way you’ve been swaggering around since we arrived here in Lindon, I doubt not that a troll could hear your approach."

 

"I have not been swaggering," Lindan spluttered. "Lindi do not swagger."

 

“Oh, yes, I see now. Pardon me,” said Gildor with a grin. “You Nandor do not swagger, you strut.”

 

Lindan spluttered again, beginning to turn red in the face. Gildor’s grin turned decidedly wicked.

 

“Parade? Walk ostentatiously?”

 

Gildor heard Lindan mutter what sounded like some very colorful imprecations against “pompous Goldas”, and struggled not to laugh. He decided to take pity on his friend. “You have seemed rather unaccountably pleased with yourself lately, nildo.”

 

Lindan merely sniffed at him, and turned to gaze out at the Gulf, a frown deepening on his face. Silence reigned between them again for several minutes. Finally, Lindan gave the Noldo a considering glance.

 

"I have travelled full circle, nildonya," he said slowly. "We are standing in my country here." He turned to take in the slowly rising white city behind them, the Blue Mountains further east, and the green lands to the south. "It has been nearly a whole age since I last stood here in Ossiriand. You would not think to see it now, but I was born not very far from here. A fëa always feels lighter when it walks in the land which gave it birth."

 

Gildor looked at his friend in wonder. The Linda's face was bright and his gold-shot eyes were shining, but unfocused, gazing inward at memories of his childhood before his family had followed his grandfather to attend King Ñolofinwë’s Mereth Aderthad.

 

"Then I wish you joy of your homecoming, otorno," Gildor said quietly.

 

Lindan returned his gaze to the Noldo, and eyeing him speculatively. "And what of you, Gilchen?" he asked. "I have heard some of the Eldar here in Lindon speak of taking ship to Aman once the Host of the West leaves. Do you, too, desire to walk the land which gave you birth?"

 

Gildor sighed and shook his head. "Nay, nildonya," he said, turning his gaze away from the sea. "What is there for me in the West? All who might make Aman my home again dwell now in the Halls of Mandos."

 

Lindan suddenly stamped his foot, muttering an oath. He took his friend by the shoulders. "Stop it!" he said. Gildor was surprised at the force in his voice. "Enough self-pity, Golda. We have all been very concerned about you lately, and it is time that you stop wallowing in yourself. You act as though your life had come to an end. You mourn for your lost loved ones?” The Linda looked him in the eye, a depth of emotion burning in them which Gildor had rarely seen. “So do I. And so does every other being in Ennor. Do you think you have lost more than any of the rest of us? Your parents? Your king? Your friends? Have we not all lost the same? They are safer now than they have ever been, are they not?”

 

He gestured out at the sea. “You mourn for Beleriand which is now lost to us?" When Gildor only remained looking at him blankly, he turned him to face the mountains. "You think all the world has been unmade? Look!" He point over his friend's shoulder, past the Ered Luin. "Nay, the world has been remade! Well did Melian call you Ranon, long ago in Doriath. You are becoming restless, I know, between these mountains and this sea. What do you think lies beyond the Ered Luin, háno? From my grandfather's stories of the Crossing of Denethor I can assure you that many adventures await us there."

 

Gildor pondered the mountains and his friend’s words, feeling the weight of both settle onto his fëa. Then, his attention was captured by a couple of Elves who seemed to be heading in their direction.

 

"And here, it seems, comes the first of those adventures."

 

Gildor had meant the comment as a flippant rejoinder to his friend's flowery exhortation, and so was more than mildly surprised when his friend responded by cursing copiously in Lindarin and glaring fire at the approaching elves.

 

"I take it you know what this is about, otorno?" Gildor asked good-naturedly.

 

Lindan gave Gildor a sour look. "Anórel," he answered as if that explained everything, and turned to quickly retreat down the bluffs and out of sight.

 

"Ah ah," Gildor said with a smile, grabbing his friend by the hood of his cloak. "It’s too late for hiding, veryawë. I think they've seen us."

 

Lindan cursed again and stood petulantly facing away from the approaching elves, arms crossed over his chest.

 

Gildor's bemused curiosity did not have long to await satisfaction. As the couple approached closer, Gildor was able to see that it was an ellon and an elleth. By her determined expression, and her companion’s more or less resigned one, Gildor surmised that the elleth was the leader. Their darker complexion and eyes, and manner of dress pointed them out as Lindarin.

 

Gildor spared a glance at his friend, who at least had grace enough to turn and face his troubles. His eyes, though, were still hard and his expression was closed.

 

The Lindar stopped a respectful distance from the two ellyn. The elleth, Anórel he guessed, glanced at Gildor and, seemingly dismissing him with a vague look of disgust, addressed herself exclusively to Lindan.

 

"Mae govannen, hír nîn," she said, with an obeisance, hand over her heart in Lindarin fashion. Her Sindarin was very heavily accented, and Gildor was reminded that the Nandor of Ossiriand had secluded themselves from the rest of their kin until very recently.

 

Lindan responded to the elleth's greeting with a barely civil nod. "Hiril," he said tightly.

 

"Have you thought on our request, Denethorion," the elleth asked. Although she asked politely enough, Gildor could see that her patience was as strained as his friend's. This was obviously not a new matter between these two; and it was equally as obvious that neither of them were of a nature to accept a simple refusal.

 

"My answer remains unchanged, hiril nîn."

 

Gildor saw exasperation pass behind the elleth’s calm demeanor. His curiosity was further piqued by this enigmatic exchange. He thought he knew everything about his old friend, but this, whatever it was, was unknown to him. He began to wonder if he had been too wrapped up in himself to notice what was going on with his friends. He wondered if Ereglas or Silmë or Eirien knew of this Anórel, and her so offensive request.

 

"What request is this, háno?" he asked Lindan.

 

But it was Anórel who answered him, though she never ceased to address Lindan. "We are of the people of Lygnô. Erynon Lygnion led us after the Lord perished many years ago. He has since perished in the changing of Arda. We Lindi feel that this is no time for us to be leaderless and unprotected. My Lord Laicognion is the last son of the sons of Denethor, our king of old. We have asked him to lead us in his forebear's stead."

 

Gildor looked at his old friend in surprise, this was the first he had heard of any of this. "You are kin to Denethor?" he asked incredulously.

 

Lindan scowled at him, as if that was the stupidest question he had ever heard. "Grandfather wasn't chosen as leader of our people solely based on his congeniality, you know." Then he turned to the Lindarin elleth, his face set in an expression which Gildor found reminiscent of Finrod in judgment. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

 

"My friends," Lindan said, addressing the elleth and ellon in Lindarin, "I am acutely conscious of the honor which you seek to bestow upon me, but I assure you, it is an honor which I do not desire. Indeed, it is even one which I cannot accept, for my allegiance was long ago given elsewhere. I cannot remain sitting under the trees of Ossiriand, or Lindon as we now must call it, fair though they may be." And with a correct court bow, he turned to leave.

 

"Then it seems, Lord, that what some say is true,” Anórel responded heatedly in the same language. “You have, indeed, spent too much time among the Goldas, if you value the whims of strange unkin more dear than the cries of your own people."

 

Lindan turned back at that, gold eyes flashing, and Gildor was forced to restrain him. "How dare you," he hissed.

 

"Peace," said Gildor forcefully in Lindarin, turning the weight of his authority on both Lindar. When Lindan made to break away, he took him more firmly by the arms. "I said stop this."

 

Lindan tore from his grasp and turned away, but did not otherwise move. Anórel, however, simply stood gaping at the Noldo.

 

"Yes, Lady Anórel," Gildor said to the elleth in Lindarin, "as you see, I do speak your language.”

 

She recovered from her surprise, but before she could respond, the ellon stepped forward. He placed a hand on the elleth’s shoulder, but addressed Gildor.

 

“You are he, are you not?” He asked in stilting Sindarin. “You are the son of the Western King, Find’rato.”

 

Gildor was momentarily taken aback by being addressed as Finrod’s son by the Ossiriandrin ellon. Anórel rounded on the ellon, and hissed at him in agitated Lindarin.

 

“What does it matter whose son he is, Dórion?”

 

“It matters to me, sister,” the ellon said. “King Find’rato was ever a friend to our kin. I remember, when I was a child, that he came to live amongst us for a while. Lord Lygno always valued his friendship.”

 

“And look what it left him. Many of our people perished in the fall of the Cavern City, and his own son was killed for the Golda’s sake. But, whatever honor the father may have had, the son is merely a Golda. That is enough for me to despise him. The Goldas have caused the ruin of our people. They brought the combined wrath of the Balas and Utum down on us. Now, they take away what is left of our land. Our fair Ossiriand.” There were tears of mingled anger and sorrow shining in her eyes. “Do not talk to me of Western Kings, or sons of heroes.”

 

She turned to Gildor and said in surprisingly good Quenya, “And do not dare to speak to me in my own tongue. Allow me at least that one thing which has not been taken from me by you Noldor.”

 

Then she turned to Lindan, who had been content to remain apparently forgotten in the conversation. She looked at him for a long moment, and he straightened under her regard. She did not speak, but turned her back and walked away.

 

Dórion looked after her, then sighed. “Forgive us, my lords,” he said in Lindarin, the language he was obviously most comfortable in. “My sister does not mean any disrespect.”

 

Gildor smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, I think she does, my friend.” He raised a hand when Dórion moved to object. “But that does not matter.” He glanced over at Lindan. “As a wise Dana recently reminded me, we are all hurting these days. It is only natural to lash out when one is hurt.”

 

“It may be natural inclination, my lord,” Dórion said, “but it is still uncalled for.”

 

“Well, neither have any of use done much worthy of respect recently,” Lindan added, thoughtfully looking after the retreating elleth.

 

Dórion smiled, then. “Oh, but you have, my lords. More than you know.” He offered both ellyn a deep bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I ought to go after my sister.” He turned and walked away.

 

After a few steps, however, he stopped and glanced back at Lindan. “There are those of us, my Lord Laicognion, who share your restlessness here in Lindon and do not mind that you claim another lord. So long as he is good and wise, we do not care of what Kindred he comes, we would claim his allegiance as ours.” With one last glance and nod towards Gildor, he left the other two ellyn standing by the shore is silence, with much to think on.

 

After some time, Gildor turned to his friend. “Welcome home, otorno,” he said with an ironic smile and ducked the swat his friend had aimed at his head.

 

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Chapter End Notes

nildonya – my friend (Quenya)

Goldë – This is not a real word in any of Tolkien’s Elvish tongues, nor is it meant to be. It represents some “creative linguistics” on Lindan’s part. It is composed of the Nandorin word Golda (meaning Noldo) and the Quenyan adjectival ending -ë.

Lindi – one of the collective names the Lindar call themselves by

Goldas – Noldor (Nandorin)

otorno – sworn brother (Quenya)

Gilchen – star-eyes

háno – brother (Quenya)

hiril – Lady (Sindarin)

Balas – Valar (Nandorin)

Utum – Utumno, the name of Morgoth’s stronghold, used here to mean Morgoth himself (Nandorin)