New Vintage. by hennethgalad

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Chapter 1

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New Vintage.

 

 

 

The sunlight cast long shadows before them as they rode through the tall trees of Doriath, the birds greeted them with song and Dior was filled with joy at the beauty of the morning. His grandfather sang beside him, a stirring tale of the wonder of the Elves at the sight of the vastness of Beleriand, spread like a feast before them when first they passed over the snow-mantled peaks of the Ered Luin. Dior, at nineteen, could not imagine that Thingol had seen the sight with his own eyes; it had been so long ago that scholars yet disputed the actual dates. Thingol, tall and majestic, silver haired and beautiful as a great cat, with those steady eyes that seemed to see into the spirit, and understand. Dior had put all his effort into winning the praise of his formidable grandparents, and had been delighted when Thingol had looked at him with approval after a bout of ferocious fencing, and called him worthy. Dior felt like singing himself, and was considering joining his grandfather in the chorus when one of the guards behind them spoke

 "My lord, a rider draws near, at speed."

 

But Thingol had merely waved them on, and continued his song. The morning was warm and peaceful, the bees were rising, and a bright butterfly kept pace with them awhile. The flowers of early summer lined the green path, their sweet scents rising in the growing heat. In the sheltered heart of Doriath the shadows were as distant as the sea. Dior was finally at ease, his last letter from his mother had included a short note from his father, who struggled to speak of personal matters, and who loathed quill and parchment beyond measure. But their words had been full of love and kindness, and he was asked to return home, for they missed him too much. 

 It had not been until the letter came that he had understood how badly he had missed them, how he had yearned, not just for forgiveness, but for the return to their love, which had been as the light of the sun to him; taken for granted until the fall of night. He had shut the door to his room and wept, for the first time since he had left his mother's side, and all through the long struggle to win the acceptance of the Elves of Doriath, who admired his beauty but treated him with the amused indulgence granted an over-large child. But he knew himself to be adult, a Man, and strove to excel at each endeavour, whether of the mind or the body, until gradually they had begun to treat him seriously. 

   But at peace in ancient Doriath, the languid patience of the Eldar had begun to chafe his Mortal blood, and all the time the brief lives of his Mortal mother and father were hastening away while he dawdled among Elves who would blithely spend a whole day merely choosing a robe in which to dine. 

 

Thingol reached the end of his song, and Melian turned, then smiled and spoke.

 "It is Nimloth, returning from Estolad."

 "She rides apace, I fear grim tidings." said Thingol, almost sighing. But it was not the urgent concern of one in imminent danger, rather a resigned weariness. Dior gritted his teeth, the Enemy was massing his armies, the peace was an illusion, he became impatient to be away, back at the side of his father, protecting his mother...

 He smiled, she had always made them feel that they were her shield against the world, and sometimes, for a moment, he could believe that she really did need them.

 But his heart knew that, in her heart at least, he was truly needed, as he needed her. 

 

Helin spoke then, her thoughtful voice harmonious in the softness of the morning.

 "Nimloth of the kin of Celeborn, who married the lady Galadriel ?"

 "The same." said Thingol "She is kin to me also, though I do not recall whether she is a second or third cousin, something of the sort... Very learned, Nimloth, speaks to Ents, you know, spends years passing the time of day with them, or even with trees. But you see them on Tol Galen, do you not ? Fladrif likes the South, and the mountains are near."

 "Yes my lord, they come to Tol Galen, but only rarely, and in the dozen years I spent there, there was only one visit, from two Ents, whose names were not even translated for us. We listened to them sing awhile, but alas, the youth of my student led him to sleep, and I missed the song. 

 Are there many within your realm, my lord ? For it seems to me that my student may be ready now to listen to the song of the Onodrim."

 Thingol looked gravely at Dior and laughed at the serious face gazing determinedly back at him. 

 "Poor Dior, everyone wants so much from him. But what does he want himself, eh ?"

 

 Dior looked curiously over his shoulder as the fair-haired Elf galloped to a halt beside them. Thingol looked at her in concern.

 "My lord, orcs are shooting arrows of fire across the Aros; at the House of the Alder the trees are aflame, you must send people at once !"

 Thingol looked at Dior, a new vigour in his eye and bearing. His horse tossed its head impatiently, catching the mood of the spent horse of Nimloth, sensing action. 

 "Dior, take care of my wife, and my kin, while I see to this." he leaned sidewards and kissed Melian, then smiled into her eyes and galloped away with two of the guards. Nimloth dismounted and stroked the nose of her horse, while Melian watched her thoughtfully. Dior, alert as a startled cat, stared at her as if he had never seen another Elf before.

 He had certainly never seen one so dirty. Her face was blacker than a smith, her nails grimed, her skin, hair and cloak thick with mud, dust and ash. The horse was worse, they were altogether shabby, though the cloth of her robe was smooth and fine, and gold braid bordered cloak and hood with a flowing pattern of slender leaves. But in the dirt her pale blue eyes and small white teeth seemed to shine like jewels, and he grinned at her as at a fellow student caught truanting. 

 Melian smiled fondly at him.

 "Dior, my boy, will you not offer your horse to poor Nimloth, who has come far at haste with these evil tidings, and lead her poor spent mount."

 Dior slid to the ground and smiled again at Nimloth, who was very tall, almost as tall as he was. He held out a hand to her, to help her onto his large chestnut horse, but with an amused smile at him she vaulted lightly astride and turned to Melian with a serious look, and to the surprise of Dior, began to sing. Melian moved her knees slightly and the horses walked on, then Dior understood. Nimloth was passing the news as she had heard it, in the language of the Onodrim, in song as slow as the wind and as endless as the rain. He looked at the spent horse, stroked its gleaming brow and whispered wordless reassurance, then led the creature back to the comforts of the stable. 

 

 One of the smiling ladies who attended Melian was led into the chambers of Dior as he fastened his shoes. She smiled prettily and invited him to follow her to partake of some fresh wine, first of the season from the South-West, with Melian and Thingol. He had intented to meet friends for a rather more lively drink, but he merely bowed and followed the tall Elf, who ignored him. 

 There were several, even in the inner circles of Menegroth, who acted as if they simply loathed him; though whether for the Mortal blood of his father, or through disappointed hopes of the power an alliance with Lúthien would have brought to their kin, Dior could not say. He merely observed the coldness, and put all his effort into charming the disdainful. 

 His many admirers were more of an irritation. It was hard to remain polite when refusing the tenth offer of 'a quiet walk' in as many minutes. But he thought of his mother, who was truly beautiful, and what she must have had to endure, and smiled at the thought of his father, whisking her away from it all, and then had to convince whichever admirer had caught the blast of his smile, that it had not been a smile of invitation. 

 He sighed, at least for one evening, with his grandparents there, people would leave him more to himself, and let him breathe...

 

 There was only one guest apart from himself, a tall, serene Elf in an ice-blue gown, shimmering like pearls in moonlight. Her long pale hair hung freely, straight down her back, but for a long strand, draped in a flowing curve over her shoulder, as though molten silver, pouring gently down... He became aware that he was staring into the eyes, large and widely set, their colour matching the pale gown and the single large gem on a silver chain at her long throat. 

 

 Melian gestured, and the nightingales fluttered upwards, 

 "This is Nimloth whom you met this morning, though I see that you do not recognise her."

 Nimloth smiled, and he recognised the small white teeth, there was something altogether of the pearl about her, he thought, smooth and gleaming; it was astonishing that this could be the same person as the filthy, grubby creature they had met while riding. He gaped at her in disbelief, then recovered his manners and bowed.

 "Forgive me, my lady, and accept my compliments, for your beauty silenced me before all thought of protocol, or politeness..."

 Nimloth smiled and bowed "You are forgiven, and please accept my compliments in return, for now that I see you, I understand why they call you Dior Aranel. You have been blessed with something of the beauty of both your parents, and indeed, I see resemblance to your grandparents also. But I regret that I have not seen your father's parents." she put her head a little to one side and looked thoughtfully at him, then turned to Melian "Surely you can see that he is Eldar ?"

 Melian raised her brows "Are you certain ? Alas, he is too close for me to see, my... my eyes are... it is not possible for me to see his... his path. He carries my... my blood. "

 Dior was horrified, he had never seen his grandmother so distressed, he had never seen her stumble over a word... But Nimloth took her arm, and Thingol was at her other side, and they ushered her into her chair and gave her wine. The nightingales glided around her, and one or two landed, looked up, or down, at her, and rose into the air, singing softly. Thingol gestured his guests to seats; Dior tasted his wine, it was fresh and crisp, reminding him of apples, and the scent of blossom in the orchard. Nimloth, after sipping her own wine, spoke to Thingol.

 "And is he full-grown yet ? Do you even know ? How old is he ?"

 

Dior gaped, then quickly clenched his teeth. Being admired was irritating, being ignored was dull, but being talked about as if you did not exist... He looked coldly at Nimloth, who did not notice. But Thingol was smiling at her.

 "It has been nineteen years of the Sun since his birth, though twenty since his begetting day. Yes, to us he is a child, but look, see for yourself, his Mortal blood has shaped him with all the vigorous haste of the Quick. Yet you are convinced he is of the Eldar ? Thought is divided, here, and my dear Melian, who would weigh heavily on such an argument, can offer no insight. 

 Only time will tell. Or you ?"

 Nimloth sat back with a thoughtful frown, her elbows resting on the carven arms of the chair, her fingers loosely linked around the bowl of her goblet. She looked long at Dior, her eyes seeming to unfocus, then she blinked and turned back to Thingol with a smile.

 "I may have drunk too deeply of the waters of the Onodrim. I see clearly the Elf behind the Mortal flame. My lord, this is something I have urged upon you for centuries, and Yavanna knows it took me long enough before that to convince the Ents. But with the Enemy burning the woods, even the oldest of the Onodrim are looking for allies against the darkness. We must send people to them, to sing with them, and to ensure our that efforts against the Enemy do not work at cross-purposes."

 

They talked for some time, and Dior, forgotten, shrank back in his seat, feeling with a sudden shock the immensity of the world. After the little green island, Doriath had seemed vast, but Doriath too was but as a small island, and Melian herself could not defeat the Enemy, nor, she had insisted many times, until he had stopped asking her, was her power of the sort to avail in waging war, but rather in healing and growth and in the vigourous flourishing of the green woods. 

 But Nimloth, and the Onodrim, contemplated the use of such power as a shield, or even a weapon. Dior pursed his lips, he supposed they would be strong, but there were so few of them... 

  But Thingol was listening carefully, and answering thoughtfully. Dior wondered what else he himself did not know, and realised with a humble sigh that it was almost everything. He had never seen the sea, or even the Narog, the other great river. He knew nothing... here was this serious counsellor, discussing weighty matters with the King, and there he was, a child among the adults, whose words counted for nothing. He could not even begrudge them, they were right, he knew nothing of such matters, though he had been trained for war, and had had the same formal education as an Elf his own age. But the Elves were children... He looked at Nimloth, wondering her age. She looked no older than him, but he knew that she must be ancient, older than the Sun, and the Moon, older than Mortals... It was almost painful to contemplate, he remembered the breathing exercise and the Song of Deep Time, and his mind calmed. Every child of the Eldar, and every Mortal yet unborn, faced the same awe; the knowledge of how late they had arrived, of how much had already happened, of how very old other people were, of how vast and how deep was the past they swam in. 

 

 He became aware of the nightingales, floating around him, he turned to see the elusive, shadowy smile that Melian gave him at times, and had made him certain that it was her smile, that particular smile, that his grandfather had awaited all those years, in the starlight of Nan Elmoth.

 He smiled back, and she moved a little in her chair, and Thingol turned to her with a smile. "Do you mind very much ? That the Onodrim wish to fight ?"

 She sighed "We cannot spare them. Not one. There will be no purpose in victory if the life of Arda is destroyed. They are a necessary part of the world, alive. But dead, they are dust, a part of the void. How can I not mind ? " she sighed, and looked away, then turned to Nimloth, who was leaning back in her chair, weariness visible in face and limb. "However, I agree that closer bonds should be cultivated with the Onodrim, and thank you for your long efforts to accomplish this harmony."

 

 To his own surprise and embarrassment, Dior sat up and blurted out

 "Can I come too ? I want to sing with the Ents ! " he paused, looked at their startled, amused faces, and half-scowled with mortification "If it please you, that is." He sat back, but Thingol laughed loudly

 "Spoken like a true Elf !" he laughed, and Melian laughed, and Nimloth laughed, but Dior did not mind, for the laughter of Nimloth had become as sweet as music to him, and his grandparents had accepted her judgement that he was of the Eldar, and one day, it might be possible for him to perceive her, as she had seen him, and even to somehow have her smile at him in gratitude for something fine he would do...

 He felt his muscles ease, he had not known he felt so challenged, it was the shock, she was so different in formal robes, though the laughing eyes were the same, still sparkling even when the darkest subjects were discussed, with a gleam that made him feel that there was hope, that they could endure, and rebuild, when all was accomplished. To drink the waters of the Onodrim, he thought, a rare privilege that  only his parents had been granted, apart from this Nimloth, and they only since becoming Mortal. What would become of him ? Would the Ents even meet with him ? He turned to Nimloth, then realised that she had not yet agreed to introduce him.

 

But Nimloth smiled warmly at him "My dear child" she began, then blinked, and looked closely at him "You really look, well, full-grown already. Nineteen, you say ?" she turned to Thingol, who nodded. But Melian was looking at Nimloth with a small curious smile. Nimloth, who had not noticed the expression of Melian, smiled in a faintly puzzled way at Dior. "It should be simple for me to accept the strangeness of you. I live much among the Onodrim, and furthermore I know your mother well. But you are both Eldar and Mortal, neither one thing nor the other. 

 It is possible to graft the branch of a tree to a branch of another similar, or not so similar, tree, and both will flourish as one. I see that in you this growth has been a twining of two, or more, strands, a plaiting, and thus you are more than Eldar, more than Mortal, and a little even of Maia, for the vigour of the followers of Yavanna has come down to you in your spirit. It will be an honour and a pleasure to introduce such a one to the Onodrim. And indeed, I am glad to meet you myself, for you are not only beautiful and charming, but you also have had the good sense to share my enthusiasm for the Ents ! "

"Yes" said Thingol "He takes after his mother in that. Whenever her beauty failed to win her argument, she would charm the poor victim. And if all else failed she would sing. Dear me, it was difficult. " He turned to Melian who was laughing softly

 "It was impossible, even for me. You know it was. She did as she pleased. We were fortunate that it mostly pleased her to please us... Look what she did to her Enemies."

 

To his embarrassment, they all looked thoughtfully at Dior, as though at any moment they expected him to unleash miraculous powers, which he knew he did not possess. Even his singing was only nice; pleasant and enjoyable. People listened, but it made his skin crawl to sing for them, he felt that they were not listening to his voice, but listening to him, because it was him, and worse, many had then told him, some in vivid detail, what they wished to do to, or with him. He sighed, he was in the home of his grandparents, who were entertaining an old friend. He was safe, and must attend to his manners. 

  "I am not my mother." he said softly, looking at Melian "Nor do I possess her powers, neither of charm, nor song." he turned to Thingol "I cannot imagine having wishes that would displease you. You are as a second father to me, and I wish only to have you proud of me." He took in a sharp breath, then summoned all his nerve and met the ice-blue eyes of Nimloth "I think you are right, that I am of the Eldar. But you are also right that my blood is Mortal. My flesh is Mortal, though I may live and fade with the Eldar, and my flesh burns with the urgent vigour and intensity of the Quick."

 

 Whether by accident or design, he had opened his spirit as he spoke to Nimloth, who had been straining to perceive his will, with the close scrutiny she might have afforded a tiny creature of the stems of leaves, whose life entwined with her precious forest. In their openness they saw each other, the depth and scale of her wisdom and experience fascinated him, and Nimloth was charmed by the beauty of his spirit, shining with the warmth of the Mortal, the glittering vastness of the Eldar and through all, a gleam of the Light, from his grandmother, the Maia, Melian.