S.A. 3441

A light summer breeze rolled in off the Gulf of Lhûn, pushing back the drowsy heat and bringing relief to the blinding midday of Lindon.

Within the halls of the Otornassë Nyelloréva, all was leisurely.  Out in the fountain court, under the shade of the lime trees, the musicians of the house spent their day of rest writing or debating with each other the merits and flaws of their latest compositions.

Lindir typically enjoyed these weekly respites from his duties.  The rest of his week was filled with instructing the various students whose families wished their offspring to have formal education in music whether they had talent or not, and then in the evenings with finishing the commissions he took on to supplement his meager teaching income.

Music was his love, for only his hunger for his art could have prompted him to leave the familiar cocoon of Imladris for a distant city in which he knew no one, and where his tutors were so exacting to the point of harshness.  His one comfort in those days was the knowledge that he was living in a house where there was always song, where he could learn from the finest musicians of the Eldar.  He pinched himself in awe at his good fortune and applied himself ever more diligently to his lessons.

He worked hard to earn his mastery, and then, it seemed, worked even harder once he had it.  It was good work, if occasionally repetitive, but he had no reason to complain, for he was much in demand as both teacher and composer.   In the last few months, however, he had been restless, even unhappy, his joy in music somewhat diminished, and he knew not why.  Master Túrelio noticed, as he saw and heard all things in the guild hall, and sought Lindir out in the courtyard.

“Do you not enjoy teaching the children?” he asked quietly.  “You have always had much patience with them, and they are for the most part devoted to you.”

“I have no complaints of my students,” said Lindir, “save only….”  He hesitated, continuing only when an expectant look from Túrelio compelled him to go on.  “In the last decades I have noticed they are nearly all mortal now.  So few Eldar to instruct, and as for the Edain who come here, it seems they are grown old and gone before I have even begun to teach them anything.”

Túrelio nodded.  “Aye, this is so.  It is a sad time to be an artist or teacher among the Eldar.  Since the downfall of Númenor, there have been many more mortals here, and many of our people have also taken the passage West.”

It had been thus for more than a hundred years, and the disparity among his students was not an unfamiliar thing, but Lindir’s agitation was something new, a curious dread that dogged his sleep and followed him even in his waking hours.  Tasting it, mulling it over in his mind, he sensed some impending doom, like a dark cloud lingering just beyond his sight.  “An Age is passing,” he answered.  “I have known that for some time, yet this is different.  Grief hangs in the air.  Something comes.”

Earlier, he had confided in some of the others, to glean whether or not this was a feeling shared by all, but his fellow musicians had laughed and said it was but a passing fancy.  Or perhaps, suggested one, he had eaten something that did not agree with him. 

Lindir quelled the laughter with a stern look and walked away.  Since then, he kept his misgivings to himself and wandered the terraces of the guild hall, waiting for the feeling to pass.

“Times have been hard,” said Túrelio, “and the news that comes from the battlefields of the south is grim.  But I know also that you have been working very hard, and with little respite save on this mandated day of rest.”

“I have many students,” admitted Lindir, “and there are always commissions.”

Túrelio rose from the stone bench on which they had been sitting and urged the younger talagand to walk with him.  They strode out of the courtyard and took a leisurely path through the colonnades of the Otornassë Nyelloréva, from whose upper levels they could see the sea. 

After a time, Túrelio spoke again.  “Tell me, what manner of commissions are you working on?  Last week I heard one of Arabeth’s pieces performed at the Rond-i-Tinnu, yet another insipid rendition of the Lay of Leithian.  I would hope you are not are inflicting more of the same on us.”

“I have only the one commission at this time,” said Lindir.  “It is called Nolofinwë ar Moringotto, a symphony to be performed between two singers, a bass and tenor.  But I have not shown or spoken of it to anyone.”

“A rather melancholy piece it must be.  I am surprised you would take on such a work, as you are more accustomed to writing concertos and lighter subject matter,” answered Túrelio.  “Perhaps the heaviness of your subject matter has affected your mood?”

Lindir did not think his work to be the root of his melancholy, but chose not to say this aloud; it was not wise to gainsay this particular master.  “Perhaps,” he answered.  “The parts are very intricate, particularly the final movement; it is a duet and requires much more accompaniment than I am accustomed to writing.  Morgoth’s motif is quite difficult to compose, and achieving the right harmony between his part and Fingolfin’s is challenging.  If I am correct, they may well ask Colindo to sing bass and he will overpower whatever tenor he is paired with.”

“Is that not the effect you are striving for?  Morgoth’s presence should be overpowering, no?”

“Aye, but not so overpowering that Fingolfin cannot be heard over him.  In the third movement they must be equal, or nearly so, going back and forth in rapid duet.  The idea is that they are striving against each other for mastery.”

Túrelio nodded, letting his gaze wander out to sea.  “This is an ambitious project,” he said.  “You are writing both the music and the lyrics?”

“Only the music,” answered Lindir.  “The lyrics are lifted from Erucalimon’s Quentar Hecelmaro.  I cannot do better than his verse.”

For a long moment, the chief master of the Otornassë Nyelloréva did not answer.  Then, still looking to sea, he said, “Perhaps you should take a hiatus from your students.  I observe that you take on more of them than you can instruct, and you have been weary and dispirited of late.”

“I cannot simply walk away from them,” protested Lindir.  “Who will instruct them if I do not?”

“There are a number of junior masters who could take on new students.  Narnion would surely be willing to take a few, if you asked him.  And Laerwen, she does not have nearly the number of students she ought, she might also take some.”

“I would not impose on my friends.”

“Then I will impose upon them instead.”  Túrelio turned away from the ocean vista and met Lindir’s gaze.  “It is already decided.  You will take a respite from teaching and finish this piece.”  Seeing Lindir about to protest a second time, he held up his hand for silence.  “You work far too hard, you know.  You have a great talent, that I will not deny, but you will find little profit in your craft if it is become naught but a chore.”

* * *

Lindir did not know what to do with himself now that he had time to think about it.  Ever since coming to Lindon three hundred years before, he had worked hard to prove his worth to his teachers, many of whom did not conceal their disdain for the informal musical education he had received at Imladris.  He had never taken a respite from his duties, nor ever asked for one. 

His childhood tutors had been lore masters and healers.  Whatever Lindir learned of music at Imladris had been gleaned piecemeal from those skilled enough to play the harp or lute in the evenings, but they had not been formally trained in any instrument.   Music was leisure to them, not an occupation.

When he came to Lindon, he had not known what perfect pitch was or realize that he had been gifted with it.  Over the centuries, he had devised some original compositions upon the few instruments he had, but these were not written down and it was some time before he trusted his teachers enough to share them.  One was kindly enough to help him record them in the format used by the Otornassë Nyelloréva; the others critiqued his efforts to the point that he began to doubt the worth of writing them down at all.

Within an hour of arriving in Lindon, he was summoned by the guild masters and informed that his high connections in Imladris were of no consequence and that whatever prior knowledge he had was worthless.  Furthermore, he was expected to study hard, produce passable results and not complain.

Lindir soon came to realize that the Otornassë Nyelloréva cultivated a certain professional arrogance in tandem with its musical talents.  While the other guilds in Lindon were called by their Sindarin names, the Otornassë Nyelloréva clung to its Valinorean roots and kept its antiquated Quenya name.  Many of its members gave themselves airs, but their collective talent and reputation was such that they could get away with such behavior.

Some no longer cared about the quality of their work, and then there were those who lamented that the guild’s labors were not what they had once been.  The acquisition of commissions had nothing to do with the creative spirit, but was a political mechanism by which a talagand of the Otornassë Nyelloréva might gain power and prestige in Lindon society.  Lindir had not come to Lindon for this purpose, nor was he aware that the arts might be used for political gain until after he arrived.  He took whatever work came his way because he loved his music and, in more practical terms, because he needed an income to purchase certain supplies the guild did not provide.

As he labored over his latest piece, he wondered if it had been worth taking on the commission.  He could not seem to achieve the right combination of menace, heroism and pathos.  How strange that I cannot funnel my own foreboding into Fingolfin’s motif, he thought.   Staring at the parchment under the lamp, he nibbled on the end of the stylus and tried to concentrate.  If I were not so restless it might come to me.

His clients did not always tell him why they desired a certain piece; the information often came to him through other channels.  This particular client, however, was a high-ranking mortal official in Gil-galad’s court who intended to present the soon-to-be victorious High King with the performance of a symphony honoring his grandfather. 

This made it all the more difficult for Lindir to concentrate, for he doubted that such a work would be to the High King’s tastes.  Ereinion Gil-galad was a self-professed connoisseur of music and regularly patronized the artists of the Otornassë Nyelloréva, although he was quite capable of composing and performing himself.  His tastes ran to light, airy compositions in which he might find his ease from the burdens of kingship, but Lindir was astute enough not to point this out to his client.

But if it truly is for the King and he does not like it, he will ask who the composer was that wrote so dreadful a work.  I shall be mortified before all.  He has done so much for me and this is how I repay it, by reliving his grandfather’s death.  Lindir bit down on the stylus, worrying a moist splinter between his teeth.    I am not arrogant enough to think he will approve of this.

Others chided him for his inherent lack of ambition, his naïveté, and his rustic upbringing, never mind that the High King’s own cousin and herald had been one of his guardians.  He knew it was in his own best interest to vie for commissions and patronage, yet such games, as he thought them, would take time and energy away from his craft, and he could not muster the enthusiasm to pursue it.

“I think it is rather fear of your foster father that keeps you humble,” said Pengolod.  The lore master and head of the Lambengolmor was a frequent visitor to the Otornassë Nyelloréva, as both establishments were in the same quarter of the city, and he often visited Lindir as a favor to Elrond.  “If word ever reached Imladris that you had begun to take on airs, Glorfindel would personally ride here to shake some sense into you—and into me for allowing you to behave thus.”

Lindir bit back a smile.  “I would never think to embarrass him so.”

Pengolod reached across the table to give his hand a fatherly pat.  “I always tell your father as much in my letters to Elrond.”  With a sideways glance to see who else might be in the drawing room, he leaned forward slightly and dropped his voice.  “But in this city a little ambition might become you.  Why do you not seek advancement?”

It was not the first time that question had been put to him.  “I do not enjoy vying with others for whatever crumbs the nobility might be willing to throw out.  It is not in my nature to be competitive.  I do not desire fame or fortune or power, and it does not matter to me if I achieve none of these things.”

Pengolod nodded.  “Spoken like a true artist, though it is rather misfortunate that you are so determined to starve for your craft, as you have talent and connections enough that you might secure the High King’s personal patronage.  Elrond has told me that Gil-galad has taken an interest in you since you were small.  Was it not he who recommended you to the guild in the first place?”

“Aye, but I would not abuse such kindness by pressing my ambitions upon him,” answered Lindir. 

“There is no ill in ambition, pen-neth.  Like all things, however, it must be taken in moderation.  You will not advance in life by remaining humbly in the shadows while those of lesser talent step over you.  You are among the best the Gwaith-i-Glîrdain has to offer.  You should not be ashamed to acknowledge this on occasion.”

Lindir could not help but smile to hear Pengolod use the guild’s Sindarin name; the lore master refused to humor the pretensions of the guild and often made the more arrogant singers wait for hours when they came to see him for access to old texts whose verses they wished to incorporate into their compositions.  His distaste for pretension did not, however, extend to himself.  As for his own guild, he insisted on maintaining the old Quenya name Lambengolmor rather than the more colloquial and Sindarin Gwaith-i-Phethdain.  “Pride is not something I wear well.”

“Nor something I personally would suffer from you,” said Pengolod.  “Still, there are ways by which you might advance yourself without seeming to impress your ambitions upon the High King.  He has done much for you already, has he not?  Return the favor by making him gifts of music in which you may show him your talent.  You know what his tastes are, as they are much like your own.  He would, I think, be delighted in some of your compositions.”

“I hardly think he would care for the piece I am writing now.”  Lindir briefly sketched the progress he had made on Nolofinwë ar Moringotto, revealing the name of his client only when Pengolod anticipated him.

“I know this particular man better than I would like,” said the lore master, “and he has not exactly made a secret of the marvelous gift he means to make the King.  Such dreadful taste he has.”  Pengolod rolled his eyes.  “I doubt Gil-galad would hold you responsible for such an atrocity, though I am certain it will sound far better coming from your quill than it has a right to.”

“If it is ever finished,” admitted Lindir.  “It is proving so very a difficult piece to write.  I cannot concentrate on the movements.  I have been restless of late, filled with foreboding, and I know not why.”

Pengolod promptly gave him his answer.  “Eleven years it has been since this war began, eleven years since the King left to join with the hosts of Gondor and Arnor, and tidings of the war have been both scarce and grim.  Such gloom and anticipation are commonplace in such times,” he said.  “I have lived through far worse.  The best you can do is weather the storm and carry on with your life as best you can.”

* * *

Notes:

The city of Lindon is a fan invention.  Tolkien is not specific on where exactly Gil-galad had his capital, except that it was near the sea in the region called Forlindon; no city appears on the map of Middle-earth.  A note in HoME suggests he and Círdan shared a stronghold at Mithlond, but this is a very obscure reference and nowhere in The Silmarillion or Unfinished Tales is this mentioned.  Gil-galad is always placed at “Lindon.”  I have placed the city directly across the Gulf of Lhûn from Círdan, close enough to Mithlond yet separate.

Otornassë Nyelloréva: (Quenya) Brotherhood of the Singers

talagand: (Sindarin) harper, minstrel

pen-neth: (Sindarin) young one

Nolofinwë ar Moringotto: (Quenya) Fingolfin and Morgoth

Lambengolmor: (Quenya) Loremasters of Tongues, a group founded by Fëanor

Gwaith-i-Glîrdain: (Sindarin) Fellowship/People of the Song-smiths

Gwaith-i-Phethdain: (Sindarin) Fellowship of the Word-smiths

Quentar Hecelmaro: (Quenya) Tales of Beleriand.  The document and its author are fictitious.

Rond-i-Tinnu: (Sindarin) Vault[ed hall] of Starry Twilight

Lindir as Glorfindel’s foster son is a fan invention introduced in an earlier story.

Pengolod: According to Tolkien, Pengolod went over the sea to Tol Eressëa around the time of the wars of Eregion.  Since this alternate view does not adversely affect any other canon, I have simply decided to exercise some artistic license and move the date of his departure up to the end of the Second Age.  For aesthetic reasons, I have also chosen to drop the h from his name.

Credit for the Quenya/Sindarin translations in this chapter and all subsequent chapters goes to Hellga.

Leaves, burnished autumnal red and gold, skittered in the wind outside.  It was cold day, where the fog sluggishly clung to the docks of distant Mithlond across the gulf and did not lift.  It was a day for being indoors, curled up with a favorite book beside a roaring fire.  Instead, Lindir stoked the embers in the grate and went back to his desk to work on his composition.

Earlier, Narnion had come to invite him to come down to the drawing room to participate in a friendly chess tournament.  “Aerlinn is wagering his finest lute that he can best Sadorn.  ‘Tis the one with the mother-of-pearl inlay.  I should be sorry to see anyone lose such a prize, yet if Aerlinn does it would serve him right for his folly.  Sadorn is a master player.”

“I should very much like to see that,” said Lindir, for he was not overly fond of Aerlinn, “but I cannot.  This commission wants finishing and it gives me much trouble.”

Narnion leaned into the doorjamb with a frown.  “Even when Túrelio orders you to take your rest, you do not,” he complained.  “A day or two away from your labors might help ease your thoughts.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt my client would see it so.”  Already he had taken more time than promised and his client was beginning to grow restive.   He could not afford to tarry any longer.  “When I am finished I will join you.”

He had just begun the fourth movement, the aftermath of the confrontation between Fingolfin and Morgoth.  It was a lament for the fallen High King, the stillness after the storm.  Lindir had found the violence of the duet in the third movement particularly difficult to write, for fire and thunder had never been in his nature, but at last it was finished to his satisfaction.  Now, in the final movement, the tenor would step outside the role of the dead Fingolfin and give voice to the dread and loss encapsulated in his death.

I lumbor mornar hostanë,
i Ráno ant’ aháldië.
I lúmë nwalc’ atácië,
aranya né mácina.

Erucalimon’s verse flowed onto the page, the meter already well-suited to musical adaptation.  Lindir made his notations above the lyrics, hearing in his mind the mode of accompaniment.  He wanted a sound to evoke the rush of air as the great Eagle Thorondor lifted Fingolfin’s body up and bore it away to its final resting place.

Various instruments lay on the edge of the work table and across a nearby chair, waiting for him to test notes upon them as he worked.  His mandolin and lute he dismissed, as well as the small handheld drum and lap harp.  This movement required neither strings nor percussion, but a woodwind.  The two flutes laid out before him, however, were metal.  One of them would, when paired with a fiddle called a hardinger, serve for Thorondor’s motif, but their sound was too sharp and refined for Fingolfin, whose music in this movement was to be simultaneously sorrowful and nostalgic.  He would have to blend woodwinds to achieve the overall effect he sought.  The clay ocarina lying almost forgotten at the edge of the table might do, or a wooden flute.

He tried a few notes on the ocarina before deciding it was not quite what he wanted.  Rising from his chair, he went to the clothespress, opened it and drew out a long wooden box.  Inside, on a bed of crimson velvet, was a flute, given to him seventeen centuries ago by Gil-galad himself; it was the first instrument he had ever owned.  No one in the guild had ever seen it, or knew that he had had such a gift from the High King.  At first, it was because he feared it would be taken away from him, but then because he feared it would make him the object of teasing.

Although it was old, the wooden flute had been well cared for, kept wrapped in oiled cloth to prevent it from becoming brittle.  Lindir tried a few notes upon it; the sound it made was no longer the clear, high sound of new wood, but something aged and mellow.   

Lifting it to his lips again, Lindir played a few chords of Fingolfin’s motif and decided the sound was satisfactory.  He took the instrument back to his work table and worked out Erucalimon’s meter in musical notation, indicating the accompaniment in this section was to be played solely upon a seasoned wood flute.   

Composers of the Otornassë Nyelloréva customarily placed their scores before and after the sung lyrics, as it had always been done; the idea of having music as accompaniment to a soloist was a novel one, and not always well received.  On more than one occasion, Lindir had received complaints from singers who did not like to have to compete with the instruments.  

He drew a pause, then piped the notes aranya né mácina…  His breath was wrong and the sound did not flow quite as he wished.  After another try, he realized the meter was incorrectly noted on the page; such mistakes were becoming more prevalent the longer he worked on the piece, and he knew he was tired.  I almost have it, he thought.  I cannot stop to rest now.  Picking up the stylus, he adjusted the notation, set it down and tried again.

As he played, the fire in the grate seemed to leap out at him.  He started, for the room was suddenly filled with noise and the choking stench of sulfur and burning metal.  He was on his feet, running down a hill, though he could not recall having stood up.  The flute—no, it had become a gleaming spear—was clutched in a gloved hand spattered with blood.  He thrust it forward as he charged, into a hand that came out of nowhere, and a wheel of fire burned upon one of its fingers.  Burning him with its heat, it grasped him by the throat, and he felt his armor begin to smolder.  His hair ignited, his flesh blistered, and in a blinding moment of pain it was over.

Once again in his own body, Lindir stared mutely at the grate, trying to form words with a jaw too frozen in terror and disbelief to move.  He blinked, trying to shake himself free from the vision, but dread welled up cold in his breast and shuddered through him until his entire body was trembling violently.  At last, he gave a little cry like the mewling of a wounded animal and surrendered to the darkness.

* * *

Pengolod gave up trying to retrieve the wooden flute; even senseless, Lindir maintained his viselike grip upon it.  Instead, the lore master tucked the coverlet around the sleeping figure and his prize, then quietly withdrew to the sitting room where Lindir’s belongings had been hastily deposited.  A sheaf of papers crammed into a set of leather-bound folios caught his attention and he flipped through them as, behind him, the healer made his preparations to leave.

It was a musical score, an unfinished one by the look of it.  Pengolod could not read music, but the lyrics were familiar to him as an excerpt from Erucalimon’s Quentar Hecelmaro.  Seeing that the pages were piled in reverse order, with the most recently finished on top, he thumbed his way to the bottom of the sheaf where the title was printed in a neat hand across the top of the first page.  It was Nolofinwë ar Moringotto, as he suspected.  “He has been working far too hard on this piece,” he murmured to no one in particular.

Peering over his shoulder, the healer gave the score a disinterested look.  “Even so,” he said, “such exhaustion is not commonly found in the Eldar.  In mortals, aye, they work themselves into illness, but our kind is not prone to such weakness.”

“Since you have been unable to diagnose what is wrong with him,” Pengolod answered tartly, closing the folio, “I may make whatever conjecture I wish.”

With a gesture to his steward to pay the healer, Pengolod excused himself.  He could not truly fault Elindirn, a member of the esteemed Gwaith-i-Nestyn who had spent more than the requisite amount of time probing and puzzling over his latest patient’s condition without success.  Other than his listlessness and occasional delirium, there was nothing physically wrong with Lindir, nothing that should have caused his ailment.

The only remark Elindirn made came at the end, as he put his instruments away.  “You may tell me otherwise, but he seems to me like one who is fading.”

Pengolod reined in his tongue, for Elindirn had enough cheek to reciprocate.  “That is nonsense,” he said.  “He has no reason to fade.  Neither tragedy nor injury have befallen him.”

“You asked for my diagnosis, and I have given it to you.”

It was mere coincidence that brought Lindir under Pengolod’s care.  Earlier that day, the lore master had gone to the Otornassë Nyelloréva to consult with one of the senior masters over the use of his verse in a future symphony.  Such favors did not come without negotiation, for Pengolod guarded his works and would not permit merely anyone to make use of them. 

Beyond the foyer, in the hall just outside the drawing room, he had heard a commotion in which Lindir’s name was mentioned several times.  Curiosity led him to the small chamber where the young Elf lay prone upon the floor, covered by a thin blanket and attended by a pair of anxious singers who obviously had no idea what they were about.  Nor did anyone else, it seemed, for half a dozen or more crowded into the corridor just outside the room, nervously whispering among themselves.  Pengolod, who thoroughly detested such scenes, bullied his way through them until he found whoever was most likely to give him a succinct answer.

Unfortunately, this particular singer happened to be the very one with whom he had an appointment, and who, upon seeing the lore master, at once assumed he had come to inquire why he was so late for their meeting.   Sadorn dismissed him with a glance and gesture.  “I will be with you presently, Master Pengolod, if you would be so kind as to—”

Pengolod’s reply was blistering and drew the attention of everyone in the corridor.  “I am never that kind, as you should well know.  But since you seem to know what you are about, perhaps you will tell me what is amiss with the young singer.”

Sadorn’s reply was cut short by Túrelio, whose raised eyebrow inquired why the lore master was taking an interest in matters that clearly had nothing to do with the Lambengolmor.  Pengolod knew very well that Túrelio had every right to question his presence, even to dismiss him, but his formidable reputation was such that he could impinge upon those conventions at will.  He ignored the questioning gaze and drew the master aside, speaking to him as the head of one guild to another.

“You may think my curiosity a trivial matter,” he said, “but I am a friend to both Lindir’s guardian and foster father.  They will think it ill of me if I did not inquire.”

Túrelio looked skeptical.  “I was under the impression that you and Elrond were rivals.”

“Strange are the ways of friendship, as you well know, though I would not have you bandy it about the city that I am actually fond of the peredhel,” answered Pengolod.  “Now tell me, what is amiss with the child?”

He received the tale piecemeal, for it was clear that no one in the guild hall understood what had happened either.  Narnion had gone to inquire if Lindir wished to come down to the afternoon meal, but found his friend lying sprawled on the floor in front of the grate, his eyes wide open and a wooden flute clutched in his right hand.  He drifted in and out of consciousness, his gaze unfocused and his words unintelligible.

“He does not appear injured in any way, but I have already sent one of the servants for a healer,” said Túrelio.  “We will put him to bed and let him rest.”

At that moment, seeing the papers and instruments spread across Lindir’s work table, Pengolod knew very well what was wrong with the younger Elf.   He made a decision.  “I doubt he will have any rest if he remains here.  Once he wakes, he will return straightaway to work.  I know the dedication he has to his craft, as I have seen it among my own people.  He will not keep to his bed, no matter how he is cajoled, threatened or restrained.  Now I have a house in the city where he can rest—”

“Your concern is appreciated,” Túrelio said stiffly, “but we are quite capable of caring for our own.”

“I did not give you leave to interrupt me.  And I doubt very much that Lindir’s guardians would care for your tone, if they heard.”

Túrelio raised an eyebrow.  The exchange was beginning to draw the notice of others in the corridor.  “I was not aware he was a child requiring the constant supervision of his guardians.  He is an adult who has willingly placed himself under the protection of the Otornassë Nyelloréva.  And as for those guardians, Elrond and Glorfindel are in the south with the High King’s host; they have far more pressing matters to attend to at this time.”

Pengolod bristled, yet he knew that Túrelio cared for Lindir after a fashion and did not see that losing his temper would serve his purpose.  “I know Glorfindel’s devotion to his foster child and I would not wish to be you if he should hear you speak thus.  Still,” he said lightly, “we are speaking of hypothetical matters, though I am concerned that the regent of Imladris will become overly concerned when Lindir does not write him as has been his wont.   I do not know if you have ever been introduced to Erestor.  He is rather sharp-tongued and not apt to mince his words.”

“No doubt he must be one of your students, if he has such acid on his tongue,” Túrelio answered.

The acerbic smile Pengolod gave him indicated that Erestor was, indeed, a scribe of his making.  “Of course, you know I have little interest in the politics of your guild, save when some composition requires one of your people to ask me for access to some rare text or other.  Now that I mention it, I seem to recall a certain master asking me to translate the chorus of a certain symphony into Khuzdul.”

Túrelio cleared his throat, his eyes anxiously darting past Pengolod to see who else might have heard.  “I am aware I owe you several favors,” he mumbled.  “I have not forgotten.”

“Ah, but of course this is hardly the time to remind you of such things,” Pengolod said quickly.  “It may be Lindir needs only a bit of rest, or perhaps much rest, as I know he does not give himself any respite from his work.  I would be pleased to have him as my guest, if you will, at no expense to yourself.  I will lock away his instruments and scores and leave him no excuse to exert himself.”

Pengolod had his way in the end.  Lindir and his meager possessions were moved to the lore master’s house in the northern quarter of the city.  A representative of the Otornassë Nyelloréva remained while Elindirn examined the patient, but did not look pleased at the lack of news he was obliged to take back to Túrelio.

Later that day, as Pengolod mulled over a volume of Nandorin verse in his study, news came to him of a curious malaise that had begun to appear in certain quarters of the city. 

“The air in the Great Market is unusually grim,” reported his steward.  “It is as if a cloud dark and drear has descended upon everyone.”

Pengolod rolled his eyes.  Handir had literary pretensions, which his master had done his best to discourage.  “My dear,” Pengolod replied lightly, “how many times have I told you not to give up your current employment to take up poetry?  Surely you are exaggerating things.”

“Nay, sir, there is a certain sad air in the market, as if something has happened.  I asked Idhren in the cloth market what was amiss, but she could tell me naught.”

“Perhaps it was something she ate.  These mortals, they are so susceptible to such things.”  Yet underneath the sharp-tongued banter, Pengolod was wary.  Looking back on the events of that day, he recalled a certain sobriety among his colleagues that he had not thought noteworthy until now, and his sources close to the royal household told him that the High King’s servants were behaving strangely.  “Did you ask any Eldar what they thought?”

“Aye,” answered Handir, “but they did not seem to know what was wrong either, only that they were suddenly taken by inexplicable fits of sorrow.”

Dismissing the steward with a lighthearted caution not to compose anymore insipid verse over the event, Pengolod stirred the embers in the grate and mulled over the information he had been given.  His scholar’s mind told him it all fit together in some way, though he could not quite see how.

After breakfast the following morning, he looked in on his guest.  Lindir was still asleep, the flute still firmly clasped in his hand.  Elindirn had said that such sleep was the habit of those stricken by grief or poison; many who faded lay thus before their fëar departed.  Pengolod continued to dismiss the diagnosis as nonsense, for the young singer had not been wounded and had absolutely no reason to fade.

“But I would be reassured,” he said to the silent figure in the bed, “if you would open your eyes and give me some indication as to what is amiss.”  The reports he had had from Túrelio and Narnion offered no clue. 

In his few lucid moments, Lindir kept chanting in a broken voice a phrase Pengolod recognized as a quote from his unfinished commission.  I lúmë nwalc’atácië, aranya né mácina.  The words were sometimes garbled, the phrase incorrectly uttered.  Atarinya né mácina, mácina.  Clearly it was the utterance of someone who had labored too long and hard on a difficult work.

Pengolod gathered up the sheaves of paper, took them into his study and shoved them into a locked cabinet.  Pocketing the key, he returned to the bedchamber and picked up the mandolin that had been left in the corner with Lindir’s other things.  An idea came to him.  “Now,” he said, “they say music is very soothing to those in travail.  Let us see how well I can play.”

His fingers plucked the strings with little art.  Wincing at the twang he produced, he knew why he had never pursued music.  “Ai, that is not very good, is it?”

“It…is…dreadful,” whispered a voice from the pillows.  Lindir, pale and drawn, gazed at him with drooping eyes.   He did not smile, and as he tried to lift his hand he saw he was holding his flute.  Slowly, with much effort, he uncurled his fingers from around the instrument and let it slide onto the coverlet.  Pengolod saw the imprint of the carved wood deeply graven into his flesh.

“I thought my awful tuning might wake you.”  Pengolod laid the instrument aside and sat down at the edge of the bed.  “Before you ask, you are in a guest room of my house.  You have been working far too much.”

“My…composition?”  His voice was soft, very weak, as though he had been ill for many days or weeks.  “Where…is it?”

“If you are speaking of that depressing atrocity you are working on, I have taken the liberty of putting it away.  And no, I shall not tell you where or give it to you until a healer tells me you are well enough to resume your work,” answered Pengolod. 

“But I-I cannot stay here.”  Lindir’s eyes were wide with alarm.  “My client…he wants it soon….”

Pengolod was unmoved, and with a gesture commanded Lindir to lie still.  “As his intended audience is not likely to return home for some time yet, he may wait.  If it comes to it, and if Túrelio does not anticipate me, I will speak to him about the matter.  It is clear this thing has taken a far greater hold upon you than it ought, for you have been crying out verses in your sleep.”

Lindir’s gaze darkened, his bottom lip trembling with dread.  “Something terrible has happened,” he whispered.   He looked down at his hand, contemplating the red imprint left by the flute.  “In the fire I saw it, pain and ruin…and death.”

“What have you seen?” asked Pengolod.   In that last whispered word--death--was such conviction he had no doubt Lindir believed it true.   “Tell me, pen-neth, for this brooding is not like you.”

“I-I cannot—”  Lindir clutched the coverlet to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut against whatever horror he had seen. 

* * *

Notes:

Lindir’s Quenya composition is taken with permission from Hellga’s “Death of Fingolfin” at: http://www.geocities.com/crazyhellga/silm/fingolfin.html.  With some alterations in punctuation, the translation of the poem’s third stanza is as follows:

The dark clouds thickened,
the moon has hid.
The cruel time has quickened,
my king was slain.

aranya né mácina: my king was slain

Atarinya: (Quenya) my father

Gwaith-i-Nestyn: (Sindarin) People/Fellowship of the Healers

In the course of five days, the malaise had spread to all corners of the city until the entire populace, both mortal and Eldar, moved under a shadow of impending dread.  Even Pengolod, who held himself to be immune from most public sentiment, began to feel a certain heaviness, as though he had lost or misplaced something without knowing of it.

On the third day, Lindir was able to leave his bed but not resume work.  Pengolod refused to tell him where he had stowed the folio containing Nolofinwë ar Moringotto, and threatened to lock away his instruments as well if he did not cease his protests.  Hoping to occupy his patient, Pengolod brought books from his study and, when Lindir was strong enough to accompany him downstairs, showed him a glass case in the study where a handful of ancient, leather-bound texts were sealed to protect them from time and the elements.

“My first works,” said Pengolod, “and those works of my father that he bore out of the ruin of Gondolin.”  Donning a pair of white silk gloves, he opened the case and lifted out one of the books.  “This is a treatise on the Naugrim that I finished in Eregion around the time of your birth.  And this, ai this one is very old, my work on the Certhas Daeron.”

Although Lindir leafed through the books left for him without much interest, he recognized what a rare privilege he was now being given, to see the original copies of Pengolod’s work.

Lindir was given leave to explore the parts of the lore master’s collection that did not require special handling.  He was permitted to see copies of the works under glass.  One of these was Lambi Casarinvë, Pengolod’s aforementioned treatise on the language of the Dwarves, which included glosses on both their signs and spoken tongue, for Pengolod had been one of the few outsiders permitted to learn from them. 

In a quiet voice, Lindir confided that he still remembered Dwarves from his childhood in Ost-in-Edhil.  Miners or traders from Khazad-dûm frequently came to visit his parents, both of whom had been scribes employed by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain to oversee transactions between that guild and Durin’s people.  Pengolod smiled and said that he, too, remembered the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, with their delvings and gruff ways. 

Satisfied that his charge would be well-occupied in his absence, Pengolod called upon Lindir’s client and informed him that completion of the symphony would be delayed indefinitely while the composer recovered from his ailment.  The Man complained profusely, uttering a few choice Númenórean expletives Lindir would not have appreciated, while Pengolod sat patiently and curbed the urge to tell him what poor taste he had.

When he returned to the house, Lindir was sitting by the window overlooking the garden, watching the leaves fall.  Lambi Casarinvë lay open across his lap, but he heeded not its contents.  His eyes were vacant, cold as the leaded glass before him.

Pengolod gently took the text from him and laid it upon a nearby table.  Returning, he took the seat opposite and took Lindir’s cold hands in his own.  “This brooding has never been like you, pen-neth,” he said softly.  “Always you have been light of spirit, no matter what threatens.  Your father has told me you were ever thus, even in the hardship of the fall of Eregion when so many others perished.”

Lindir bobbed his head slightly at the reminder of what had befallen his parents, cut down by Orcs before they could be rescued.  He bit his lip.  “My father is dead,” he said in a hoarse monotone.

Atarinya né mácina.  The utterance had fallen again and again from his lips in his restless slumber, pursuing him like a fever-dream.  Whatever vision he had had, whatever dread tormented him, convinced Lindir that his foster father was dead.  Many others had experienced such premonitions in the last few days, but the knowledge was immaterial to him. 

Some, in fact, had had eerily similar visions, of a furious charge ending in immolation, which led Pengolod to wonder if there was not something to it.  Still, he was not ready to admit this in front of Lindir when he himself was uncertain. 

In times of war or hardship, he reflected, many claim to witness dire portents or have strange dreams, and none can really say that it is the truth. 

“I have faith that Glorfindel is still alive,” he said.   “You must also have faith.”

Shaking his head, Lindir bit his lip and turned his face away toward the window.   He did not want to hear that he had been working too hard on material too morbid for him, or that he did not know for certain that his foster father had perished.

“You did not see what I saw,” said Lindir.

“Nay, I did not,” answered Pengolod, “but you must put aside your dread for a moment and consider the logic of your current state.  You have ample reason to have had such a vision, for in dark times such things are not uncommon, but others, strangers who have never known your father, why should they see thus?”

“And yet you say many others have had visions.  Are you going to tell me now that they are all mistaken?”

“Pen-neth, I will not engage in rhetoric with you; it is not the time for that.  I have no doubt the fighting in the south is fierce, and all of us who are left behind are burdened with uncertainty.  Strange dreams and portents are not uncommon in such times, but your father is a great warrior who will not fall so easily.  Whatever it was you saw, I do not think it was Glorfindel.” 

Early on it had become clear to Pengolod that Lindir did not know the truth about his foster father, that Glorfindel of Imladris was the Balrog-slayer of Gondolin reborn.  And the reincarnated Glorfindel did not fear death; his constant jest, shared with those few who knew his secret, was that Námo did not want to see him again in the Halls of Mandos and would not take him even if he wanted to go.

Pengolod was sorely tempted to tell Lindir these things, but he had sworn an oath to Glorfindel to keep the other’s secret until Glorfindel himself was ready to reveal it.  The most he could do was to show Lindir the other treasure he had, a banner wrapped in oilcloth and locked in a box given him by the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, of thin rock crystal that appeared nearly seamless.  Pengolod showed Lindir the trick of the sliding lid, and the fading green cloth preserved within.

“Look now,” he said, carefully unfolding the cloth to reveal the golden appliqué at its heart.  “This is the banner of the Golden Flower, borne out of Gondolin by one of that House and given to me as a gift.”

Lindir touched the fringe of the banner, but did not seem anymore interested in it than Glorfindel had.  If anything, his grief seemed to deepen, and Pengolod wondered at his own wisdom in bringing out his treasures.  Ai, if I had not sworn an oath I would tell you all.  He replaced the oilcloth wrappings and closed the box.  “Rest now, and do not be grim.  I have known your father a long time and he is much like the hero he is named for, high-hearted and fierce in battle.”

In the late afternoon, after Lindir was helped back into bed, the steward came in bearing a letter.  He wore a troubled look; there was not even a whisper of poetic presumption on his part as he handed the missive to Pengolod.

“Now why are we so silent today, Handir?” Pengolod turned the letter over and looked at the seal; it belonged to one of the regents of Lindon, who also happened to be his chief informant within the High King’s household. 

Handir cleared his throat.  “There are rumors in the market, sir,” he answered.  “I’ve heard that a messenger of the High King came tearing through this morning.  Several told me that he looked like he’d ridden his horse to exhaustion.  Some news he had, but he wouldn’t answer any questions.”

“You should never trust to rumor.  Now be a dear and hand me the letter opener on the desk there.”

Pengolod deftly broke the seal and unfolded the paper.  It was secondhand parchment, and the message it contained scribbled in haste.  Such poor penmanship was rather atypical of Galathil, and the letter lacked even the usual salutations.  Pengolod squinted at the first few lines, wondering what frenzy had prompted the councilor to dispatch such a missive, then, in his frustration, stood and held the page up to the light coming in through the window. 

A messenger comes from Dagorlad bearing tidings of our late High King.  Late I say, as the worst has happened and he tells a woeful tale of it….  As Pengolod read on, a leaden feeling came over him; he felt detached, as though he had somehow stepped outside his body.  His only thought was what an idiot he had been not to see what was right before his eyes. 

Quietly, deliberately, Pengolod folded the letter in half, then made his way past the steward to tell Lindir that Glorfindel was not dead, but the High King was.

* * *

Lindir’s first reaction was horror, then disbelief, and then tears as a grim Pengolod showed him the letter.  He scanned it for a moment, blinking through his tears at the frenetic script, then flung it away from him and buried his face in the pillow.  Pengolod watched him for a moment, then grasped Lindir by the shoulders and pulled him into his arms.  They stayed thus for a long time, the lore master gently rocking the younger Elf and stroking his hair as he sobbed into the fabric of Pengolod’s robe.

Days earlier, Galathil had told him that those servants of the High King who had been afflicted were all found clutching objects belonging to Gil-galad.  At the time it made no sense, but in retrospect it was painfully clear that the royal servants, who held positions giving them the utmost intimacy with the High King’s person, had reason to have such visions.  Still, Pengolod struggled to see the connection between them and a young musician far removed from the court, whose ties to Gil-galad were only superficial.

As he held Lindir, his eyes lit on the flute that lay beside the bed.  Though the imprint had since faded from his palm, Lindir kept the instrument by him, holding it, stroking it with a sad, faraway look in his eyes, though he did not play it.  Very old it was, but in a house where he was surrounded by many such things, Pengolod gave it little notice.  Now he began to wonder.

“Pen-neth,” he murmured into the young Elf’s dark hair, “tell me about the flute.”

In halting words, punctuated by tears, he had the tale.  A gift from Gil-galad, the very first instrument Lindir had ever owned.  It made sense now, and yet was so wild a thing, a horrific, almost improbable coincidence that led Lindir to witness what by rights he should not have. 

Pengolod held him until, exhausted, he dropped off into sleep.  Tucking the covers in around him, the lore master withdrew, softly closing the door and giving orders to the servants not to disturb Lindir’s rest.

Making his way downstairs, Pengolod went into his study, closed the door and, at last finding himself alone, broke down and wept for the first time in many centuries.

* * *

Notes:

Lambi Casarinvë: (Quenya) Language of the Dwarves

Winter held the city in its cold thrall.  Lindir sat by the window in his upper story room, a roaring fire warming his back, and watched the activity in the streets. 

Pengolod brought news, telling him that the council of regents set up to govern in the High King’s absence would continue to do so, maintaining the royal infrastructure until a new High King could be chosen.  “He had no son, but Lord Elrond is his cousin and of the line of Fingolfin.  By rights the kingship descends to him.”

Lindir was not interested in such news.  He kept his place by the window, watching the city go through its cycles of mourning and recovery.   Soldiers were returning from the south, weary bands wearing the High King’s blue, carrying banners that drooped in the icy air.  People stopped to watch them pass but did not cheer, for though they had won a great victory, their return seemed more a funeral procession than a parade.

“Eat something, pen-neth.”  Pengolod indicated the bowl of soup and bread sitting untouched on the fireside table.  “You must regain your strength.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Nonsense,” sniffed the lore master.  “You are too thin and tiny as it is.”

Lindir did not bother to point out that he had always been small and slight, giving the impression he was not vigorous.   The argument would have fallen on unheeding ears, as Pengolod seemed determined to coddle him.

He did not touch his music or ask after his scores, even when Pengolod presented him with the folio containing Nolofinwë ar Moringotto and informed him in a soft voice that his client had decided his services were no longer required.  He stared numbly at the symphony, wondering why he did not feel relief at being released from his contract.

Pengolod noticed his reaction.  “Pay no heed to that old windbag of a mortal,” he said.  “Most Engwar have no taste in music, I have found.”

“And is my work so tasteless, then, that only one of the Edain--?”

“Not tasteless, child,” Pengolod assured him, “but these commissions are not what you ought to be doing.  This funereal piece, I am not surprised you are made so gloomy by it.  Why do you not turn your hand to more cheerful work?”

Unable to muster enthusiasm even for the meal Pengolod’s servants brought in, Lindir shrugged and mumbled that he would think about it; music held no interest for him at that moment, whether it was grim or fair.  The lore master left him then, in his chair by the fire with a thick blanket across his knees and a book within reach if he desired to read.

Fourteen weeks he had been in Pengolod’s house.  Túrelio had visited him, and Narnion and a few others, all asking when he would return to the Otornassë Nyelloréva.  He had little to say to them, even when Túrelio closed the door and asked him plainly about his vision.  By now, the true tale of how the High King led a last charge against the Dark Lord and met his end in Sauron’s fiery grasp was all over the city.  What Lindir had seen in the flames was not something he wished to revisit or share with others.

It was little comfort to him that his foster father was alive and even now on his way back to Imladris; the knowledge could not erase what he had seen or felt.  So few times I took that flute out and held it, so few times and yet this one time among those precious few….  He wondered at the purpose and mercy of the Valar in permitting him that vision, a glimpse into the High King’s last moments that he should never have witnessed.

Nolofinwë ar Moringotto lay on the side table where Pengolod had left it.  Of all the commissions he could have taken, what had possessed him to accept something so grim, so contrary to his own nature?  In its last stages, he had dreaded opening it, setting himself to the task, but he never hated it.  It was not in him to hate a piece of music; hate was too powerful an emotion, particularly for something he loved in all its forms.  But now, as he looked on the score on the table, he felt loathing overcome him.  The force of it made him tremble where he sat.  His fingers twitched on the arm rests, curling around the carved wood in their hunger to rend something.

Flinging the blanket off his lap, he burst from the chair, seized the score and thrust it into the grate.  He found himself on his knees on the hard tiles, his hands close enough to the flames to sting as he frantically wadded one sheet after another and shoved each under the burning logs.  Smoke billowed out toward him, for too much fuel with only a small outlet left no place else for it burn except into his face.

When hands seized him from behind and pulled him away, he did not feel them, did not struggle.  In a heartbeat he was lying on his back and someone was stepping over him to smother the fire.  He heard the sound of crisped papers being pulled from the grate, then a face was in his and hands were pulling him upright by the shoulder.

“What are you doing?” demanded Pengolod.  In one fist was a sheaf of half-charred parchment.  “Have you gone mad?  Why are you burning this?”

Lindir’s eyes stung and his throat burned.  He coughed as he came back to himself and remembered the loathing he felt for the score.   Tears streamed down his cheeks.  “I-I don’t want to see it again.”

Pengolod released him long enough to gather what remained of the symphony into a messy heap on the tiles.  “Listen to me now, child.  You may not care for this work now, but a day will come when you will regret destroying it.  I will put it away for you and you may reclaim it when you are of a mind to look reasonably upon it.”

The lore master helped him sit up and brought him water to ease his cough, as well as a damp cloth with which to wipe his eyes.  Lindir cleaned his face, pressing the cloth to his eyes until the sting subsided.  He did not watch Pengolod take the remnants of his work and lock it away again, but heard a cabinet door opening and closing, and a key turning in a lock.  “The flute,” he said, gasping.  His throat burned around the words.

“What did you say?”

“Take the flute as well.”  He did not need to explain which flute he meant, for between them only one instrument existed.   Rarely had he looked upon it in the seventeen hundred years since Gil-galad gave it to him, keeping it locked away as the treasure it was, yet now it was a jewel whose light had dimmed.  The soul had left the wood; there was nothing left for him to treasure.

* * *

T.A. 1

“A letter has come for you, pen-neth.”  Pengolod laid the packet on the table beside Lindir, while busying himself with his own correspondence.  It had become something of a ritual for the lore master to read letters aloud to the younger Elf, sharing news of the city and beyond.  Such things did not truly interest Lindir, for whom the world was now bounded by the confines of Pengolod’s house, but the custom gave some semblance of routine to days that otherwise had none.

The wax seal was blue, embossed with the Star of Eärendil that stamped all messages coming out of Imladris.  Lindir stared at the letter with his hands folded in his lap, making no move to break the seal until Pengolod threatened to open it himself.

Within the thick packet was a single slip of paper.  Lindir slowly unfolded it as Pengolod explained that when the council of regents sent word to Elrond, the lore master had also slipped in a personal message for Erestor to give to Glorfindel.  As always, Glorfindel did not belabor his words.  His reply was terse, no more than two sentences.  “Word comes to me of your unhappy state.  Come home, yondo.” 

Elrond also sent word to Lindon, informing the council of regents that he had no intention of becoming the next High King.  “He has gone so far as to drop the title of lord,” said Pengolod.  “When you see him again, you will simply address him as Master Elrond.”

But Lindir did not know yet if he would return to Imladris.  Círdan had returned from Dagorlad some weeks prior, and the business of Mithlond resumed with a greater fervor than before; there were not enough ships to bear away those who wished to depart, and some were made to wait while the Teleri labored day and night in the dry docks. 

Slowly, Lindon was beginning to empty.  In the corridors outside his chamber, Lindir heard the servants whispering among themselves that an Age had passed, that the summer of their existence had turned overnight to autumn.  At the dark of winter, before Elrond ever made his answer, some of Lindir’s colleagues had come to the house to see him.  They told him they cared not who the next High King was, or if one was chosen at all; once spring came, they meant to seek the Havens, for they were weary of the strife and sorrow that was ever the lot of those dwelling in Middle-earth.

They had come to ask if he wished to join them.  Of course, they did not say this outright, for the leave-taking to Aman had always carried with it a certain somber air, not unlike that one felt at a mortal funeral, but Lindir knew their purpose in their eyes.  He read it in their low voices and in the way Narnion took his hand, chafing it slightly as if to rub warmth into it.  “There is only shadow here,” said his friend, “and regret.  Perhaps I felt it before, giving it no heed, but now it haunts me and gives me no respite.”

Lindir had no answer to give them, yet was left with a wondering heart.  He could not see himself returning to the Otornassë Nyelloréva to take up his work as he had done before; that life felt so distant now it might as well have belonged to another.  Music was dead for him now; he felt no desire to create, and to the burgeoning spring that had come to Lindon his senses were numb.

And yet, he could not stay indefinitely in Pengolod’s house.  His host did not broach the subject, nor did he give any hint that he was impatient for Lindir to leave, but the question lingered nonetheless.   At some point he must go, find his own lodgings and fend for himself, if not because Pengolod compelled him to leave than because he knew it to be necessary.  He simply knew not where he would go or what he would do, only that he did not think he could take on anymore students or commissions.

“This is not the first time such a heaviness of soul has come to us,” Pengolod was saying.  “I remember the dark days of another Age, when one safe haven after another was taken from us and there was no reprieve from the West.”

“They are saying it is the passing of an Age.”

Pengolod nodded.  “That may well be.  It is not the first time a High King has fallen, but Gil-galad ruled for over three millennia.  Among those who remain in Middle-earth, there are few who remember any other High King.  For all others life has been unchanging and calm.  Now they suddenly find themselves uprooted, reminded that chaos can still touch them.  Mortals are better suited to bear such upheaval.  Much grief and hopelessness I have seen among them, as you have, yet I have observed that it is ever their way to rebuild and strengthen themselves anew.” 

Lindir knew that difference, had known it from childhood.  Among other survivors of Ost-in-Edhil he had built a new life at Imladris.  He had not dwelt much on the hardship and grief of his refugee state, for even as he lost his parents to yrch arrows he had found himself almost at once in the sheltering arms of the one who would become his foster father, and his youth afforded him a certain resilience that permitted such far-off, unhappy things to fade into the fog of memory. 

It was simple enough for a child to bury his face in the embrace of a caring adult and let another soothe away the pains and savage sorrows of the world, yet something else to be an adult and face an unthinkable blow and an uncertain future.   And yet, he understood Pengolod’s observation as well as any Elf might, having seen in his own students, even in the very young, that forward gaze that was the trademark of mortal beings.

“But it is ever in their nature to plan for the future, to look ahead of themselves at all possibilities, even to dream,” he murmured.  He did not add that Elves did not do such things, nor repeat what others were saying, that there was such uncertainty now because the High King apparently had never thought to wed or produce an heir. 

There was little Pengolod could say to this, and so he made no answer.  “Many are already leaving Lindon, but not all are going to Aman,” he commented.  “Some go east to Imladris, others to Greenwood or Lórinand.  The Edain have established a strong presence in the region, so they will stay, I think.”  He paused a moment to sip his wine.  “But you, I know the question has weighed heavily on your mind.  What will you do?”

Lindir folded his hands in his lap and stared at the interlocked fingers.  “I know not what I will do.  Others are going to the Havens, and I wonder if I should not depart with them.”

“Your father desires you to return home.  Still, you are long past the age when you must abide by his wishes, and if it is not your desire to return to Imladris then you cannot be made to go perforce,” answered Pengolod.  “But what does your heart tell you, pen-neth?”

“I know not what my heart desires.  There is only numbness where feeling should be.”

Pengolod offered him another glass of wine, mulled with spices over the fire to give warmth, for even in the spring the nights were chill.  “The numbness will pass,” he said, “and there is time yet to decide.”

* * *

On a warm, clear day at the beginning of summer, Lindir rode out with Narnion and the other Elves who were going to Mithlond.  Only a short distance separated Lindon from the Havens, and the journey should have taken but a few hours, but those who were departing set a leisurely pace, savoring the landscape through which they were passing for the final time.

Not wanting to disrupt the meditative silence of his companions, Lindir said nothing on the journey.  In the last few days, Narnion and the others had become increasingly distant, answering his brief questions with few words, until finally he gave up speaking to them altogether.   Pengolod told him that this behavior was commonplace among those seeking the West, withdrawing from the world even as they prepared to leave it. 

“You have never seen anyone depart, have you?” asked the lore master.

Lindir evaded the question, for in truth he had not.  “I had thought it to be a time of celebration.  There are songs sung about the promise of the West and they are full of joy.   do not understand this sudden turn, this sorrow.”

Pengolod gave him a long, steady look.  “Have you ever known parting to be joyful?  Perhaps on the other side, on the shores of Aman, there is happiness, but I have never known it here.”

If Lindir had cherished any promise of joy in the departure of his companions, the edifice rising to greet him quenched it.  The gates of the Havens were twin arches of pearl-gray stone, their Telerin motifs mottled by the leavings of gulls and the lashing of wind and water.  They were not imposing, yet framed the entrance to Mithlond in such a way that those passing through them felt constrained to lower their voices and listen for the call of the gulls beyond.

Lindir had often heard that no one went to the Havens who did not have business there, and that those whose loved ones left for the West said their farewells before the journey to Mithlond began, for they knew how much sorrow was inscribed among those gray stones.

Telerin grooms met them in the courtyard just beyond the gates, and a pair of ushers waited at the head of the path beyond to escort them to the ship.  They bowed deeply, and in the smoothness of their movements and words Lindir sensed the long practice of ritual. 

The Teleri ushered them through a pair of narrow courtyards and down a gently sloping stone ramp that led to the docks.  The smell of the sea was very strong here, redolent with salt and sand.  Though he had been to the water’s edge many times before, Lindir now felt the sea actively pulling at him, stirring his blood with the memory of places he had never seen.  His companions felt it also; he saw them clasp hands in their mingled excitement and apprehension.

Around a corner, the walls of the Havens fell away toward the green-gray sea.  A breeze stirred the waters of the Gulf of Lhûn, and the waves lapped gently at the wooden piers where the Teleri had paused in their daily tasks to watch the procession slowly move toward the edge of the water and the white ship that waited at anchor. 

A silver-haired Elf, set slightly apart from the Telerin dockhands, stood nearest the gangplank.  The robes he wore were of dark, rough homespun and his hands were weathered by centuries of toiling in wind and wave; he wore no jewels, but Lindir did not have to be told that this was Círdan the Shipwright.  He had a calm, quiet air about him that drew the Elves to him as they approached the white ship, and to each passenger he gave a few words and a kiss of parting upon the cheek.  Lindir did not hear what he said, nor did he think such words were meant for those who were staying behind. 

He saw Narnion bow his head to Círdan and board the ship.  Narnion did not look back, yet a few others did, with their gazes urging Lindir to join them.  His heart leapt toward them, torn between his desire for release and the uncertainty of staying behind.  Tears began in his eyes and he shivered slightly in the sea breeze, knowing why so many did not choose to say their farewells at the Havens.

At last, the Shipwright turned his head and looked directly at the one Elf who had not boarded, who hung back at the lip of the path.  He lifted his hand and gestured for Lindir to approach. 

“Why have you come here and brave such sorrow when others stay away, nello?” he asked.  “You are not one for the ships, not this day.”

Not this day.  For a moment, frozen under Círdan’s appraising eyes, Lindir could not frame a proper reply.  Círdan’s foresight was renowned, and though the words were gently spoken, the thought of it was intimidating.  “I came to see my friends safely into the West…and I-I wanted to see the ship for myself.  I wanted to know.”

Círdan returned his words with a gentle smile.  “And it will be here still, when you are ready to return.”

* * *

Notes:

Engwar: (Quenya) the Sickly Ones.  Pengolod intends it as an insult.

yondo: (Quenya) son

nello: (Telerin): singer

There is nothing in Tolkien to indicate any sort of formal ritual took place with the departure of Elves from the Grey Havens, but it seems quite natural and in keeping with Círdan’s character to have addressed a few words of reassurance or farewell to those who were going to Aman.

In the heat of a midsummer afternoon, Pengolod called him out into the courtyard.  Lindir had been sitting and reading by the open window, and was baffled by the request, for the lore master did not tell him why his presence was required, only that he was to put down his book and come at once.

Visitors awaited him on the shaded walk alongside the fountain.  There were four of them, dressed for riding in leather and light wool, and one had golden hair.  They were speaking to two of the servants, but as Lindir came down the steps they turned at the slight noise he made and he saw that the golden-haired Elf was Glorfindel; the other three were warriors of his gweth. 

For a moment they stood, staring at each other across fifteen feet of shaded pavement, then Lindir flew like a child into the embrace of the one he had not seen in three hundred years.  He buried his face in the other’s shoulder, taking in the smell of sun-warmed hair and leather and wool, and the mingled scents and the feel of his foster father’s arms around him brought tears to his eyes. 

Glorfindel held him in a tight embrace, quietly stroking his hair for a time before speaking.  “I have come to take you home, yondo,” he murmured into Lindir’s ear.

Lindir could not speak even when, with a knowing look, his foster father tilted his chin up and said, “An le nurnen, yondo.”

He bit his lip and closed his eyes against the tears that would not stop.  Glorfindel did not elaborate, did not say anything save to repeat the words with which he had greeted his foster son.  “I have come to take you home.”

Drawing back, Lindir turned and looked over his shoulder toward the house where Pengolod was coming down the steps.  The lore master nodded at the unspoken query.  “Aye, I sent for him.  There is nothing more for you here in Lindon, pen-neth.  Go home now to Imladris.”

Something in Pengolod’s voice, some grim note hidden among his soft tones, gave Lindir pause.  “But what of you?”

Smiling, Pengolod answered with a light shrug.  “In a few years perhaps I will go to the Havens.  There is not much left for me here either, child.”

Lindir paused to wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Why do you not come to Imladris?”

Pengolod laughed outright at this.  “I doubt very much that Elrond and I could dwell under the same roof together and not drive each other mad.”  His humor passed and shifted like a cloud over the sun, and his smile grew strained.  “Nay, if you must know, child, I have begun to feel the sea longing, and I think sometimes that I have tarried too long in Middle-earth.”

* * *

T.A. 2

The leaves were falling in Imladris, heralding the brief autumn before winter brought its first snows to the passes of the Hithaeglir.  In the kitchens and cellars of Elrond’s house, preserves were made, berries, fruits and herbs dried and meat smoked and salted for the long season ahead.  Carpenters cleared the many storm gutters and the woodpiles were stocked, while inside the house down-filled quilts were brought out of storage.

In the courtyard, Lindir and his student were enjoying the last of the autumn sunshine before the weather forced them indoors.  As many of his students were, Valandil was mortal, the thirteen year old son of Isildur.  He had some skill with music, having learned to play from many of the same Elves who taught the young Lindir, but he could not read music and had had no formal instruction in what was considered a necessary art among princes.

However, like most boys, Valandil was not interested in his lessons.  He wanted to ride and hunt, to explore the forest behind the house, and had little patience with his tutors.  Unlike Erestor, who had no experience tutoring mortals, Lindir was patient with the boy, for he saw that what Valandil truly wanted was to be with his father. 

Lindir did not press him as Erestor did, but let him wander about the courtyard at his leisure while he played upon the harp or flute; his only stipulation was that the boy did not go out of his sight until given leave to do so.  Sometimes this tactic worked, for when Valandil was in a quiet mood he would come and sit by Lindir and ask how something was played.

Valandil wanted very much to please Isildur by being a good student, but it was difficult when his father was not present to give his approval.  Isildur had been away for the first eleven years of his youngest son’s life, first in the south with the hosts of the Last Alliance, and then, as king, securing the borders of his realm or out in the field riding down the last remnants of the Dark Lord’s armies.   Only once had Valandil seen him, though he and his mother had regular messages from the south. 

He did not understand why he and his mother had not been summoned to live with Isildur, and ground his fist into his palm or against his knee whenever he spoke of it.  “My older brothers get to ride with him,” he complained.  “Why do I have to stay here?  Nothing interesting ever happens here.”

“That is precisely why your father wishes you to stay,” said Lindir, “because in a place where nothing happens, as you so eloquently put it, there is nothing to threaten you.  Besides, has he not written to tell you that once the roads between here and Minas Anor are safe he will send for you and your mother?”

Elven children were not so impatient, for even at a young age they understood that there was time for all things.  Valandil did not grasp this; like all mortals he felt the pull of time.  What he desired he would have now, and he was not about to be mollified by the promises his mother and tutors had fed him from the cradle.  Even the presence of one of his older brothers would have eased him somewhat.  Lindir made a mental note to ask Elrond if such a request could be made.  Surely Isildur could spare one of the three for a short time.

Gil-galad aran edhellen.

O den i thelegain linnar naer

i vedui i ndôr dín bain a lain

Athran ered ah i aear

I vagol dín and, i ech dín laeg

i dôl dín sílol palan-gennen

i ngeil ernediaid e-dalf menel

cennin be genedril min thand dín cheleg

Dan and-io e palan-rochant

ah ias e dhortha úben bôl peded

A na vôr dannant i ’îl dín

mi Mordor ias i núath gaedar.

Across the courtyard, Valandil was watching him.  “What are you singing?” he asked.  “Gil-galad was an Elven king?  I’ve never heard that before.”

“It is nothing,” murmured Lindir, “only a small something to pass the time.”  It was a song he had begun to compose in the evenings, as the urge to write slowly returned to him. 

His instruments and scores he had brought home from Lindon, save the half-charred symphony still locked away in Pengolod’s cabinet.  The flute he had taken back, but when Pengolod forgot to return Nolofinwë ar Moringotto to him, he did not press the matter.  His feelings about the piece had not changed.

He did not know if he had made the right choice in not taking the ship of departure; Círdan often saw beyond the ken of others, but even he could not perceive all paths.  Lindir returned from the Havens with misgivings that did not lessen as he returned to Imladris with Glorfindel.  He felt the sea longing grow less as he returned to his old life, but a certain unease remained.  Glorfindel watched him closely, and more than once he observed Erestor’s gaze on him.  No one asked about his vision, if indeed it had ever been made public knowledge, although when Elrond greeted him for the first time he saw the Elf-lord’s eyes narrow and his mouth open as if he meant to say something.

He had no intention of making this new song public, for already there were many elegies composed in honor of Gil-galad, all of varying quality.  There was no need to add yet another such song to the roster.  This piece was for him alone, and he cared not what anyone else thought of it.

“Why don’t you sing something about my grandfather?” asked Valandil.

Lindir laid aside the flute with which he had been working out the melody; he would transcribe it later, once he was indoors.  “I do not know a great many songs about Elendil.”

Valandil was aghast.  “How can you not?  He was as great a king as Gil-galad,” he insisted.

“Well, then, if you desire a song about Elendil, perhaps you ought to be the one to write it.”

The idea did not sit well with the boy.  “I am a prince.  I don’t have to write my own songs.”

“You think not?  Ah, but there were many kings and princes of old who composed songs.  Finrod Felagund was a renowned singer, and even Gil-galad himself could sing and play upon an instrument.”

“But those were Elven kings,” protested Valandil, whose tone clearly said he was not interested in hearing about anything other than his own ancestors. 

Lindir smiled.  “Ah, but there were also many princes of Númenor who composed songs.  Here, I will sing you something I heard in Lindon.”

Later in the afternoon, once he dismissed Valandil and went inside, Elrond came and drew him aside.  “As I walk the halls,” said the lord of Imladris, “I have been hearing bits and pieces of a new song about Gil-galad.  When I ask, I am told this is your work.  Is it true that you have composed such a piece?”

“Aye, my lord, but I—”

“And already members of the household are humming this tune, without your having formally presented it in the Hall of Fire?”

Elrond’s consternation was clear; he was not displeased that Lindir had composed such a work.  Rather, he was unhappy that his household had heard it before he had, and a work about the High King to boot.  “My lord, I had not thought to present it.  It is such a small thing really, and there are already so many elegies in honor of Gil-galad.”

“I have not heard the others,” said Elrond.  “And I do not believe I have ever heard any of your compositions.  This one I will hear.”

On his return, Lindir had not said much of his time in the Otornassë Nyelloréva; his early letters, written during those first decades in Lindon, offered description enough of a guild life.  Of his last eighteen months he did not wish to speak, and thus far no one had pressed him.  He had not been asked to share his original works, though surely there were many who might have done so, for at times he had written of his various commissions.

“Other, better works I have.  Surely you would prefer to hear--?”

Elrond was insistent.  “That may be,” he answered, “but this is the one I will hear.”

Before giving him leave to go, Elrond extracted a promise to present the song in the Hall of Fire one week hence, whether it was finished or not.

Lindir truly did not think anything would come of it.  So many such songs already existed.  His would be the piece of an evening, once sung and swiftly forgotten.

* * *

T.A. 2154

Deep in midwinter, Lindir undertook the task of cleaning out his papers.  It was a ritual he observed with greater care on some occasions than others, for he was forgetful when it came to putting things in order and reluctant to throw away any wayward scrap of composition or any broken instrument, whether it could be repaired or not.  Erestor, ever orderly and punctilious, affectionately chided him for his lack of tidiness even as he came to assist with the cleaning.

Sometime later, Lindir realized one of his pieces was missing.  His shelves were as cluttered as ever, despite the efforts of several months ago, but some intuition nagged at him that a folio had been misplaced.  An evening and part of the next morning he spent searching, taking inventory and ruing yet again that he did not catalog his papers as Erestor and Elrond did theirs.

When he came to the brittle leather folio containing Nolofinwë ar Moringotto, he closed his eyes and held it in one hand, weighing it.  For more than two thousand years he had ignored it, but knew his own work intimately enough to know there were pages missing from it—nay, he realized, it was not merely pages that were missing but an entire movement, Fingolfin’s challenge to Morgoth.

He searched fruitlessly, turning his study upside down until Erestor came and, rolling his eyes at the mess, urged Lindir to leave off the search.  “For you have never liked that piece and I doubt you will miss it.”

The next year, word came to him of a similar work that had mysteriously appeared in Gondor.  In the court of the Ruling Steward it was performed to a rousing ovation, and queries had gone out to discover the composer and commission the rest of the work, for it was clear the tenor’s aria was but an excerpt of a larger whole. 

Lindir, realizing someone had filched his work and sent it outside Imladris, fumed even when Erestor reassured him that no one had claimed the piece as their own.  “Elrond has had word from without, and in the lands of Men they are quite certain it was written by an Elf.  In fact, I am told their critics have gone to work comparing the style to other, contemporary Second Age pieces, and a certain other called The Fall of Gil-galad.”

Some smug note in Erestor’s voice told Lindir precisely what had happened.  “You did this!” he hissed.  “You knew how I despised that piece and yet you—”

“My dear pen-neth,” said Erestor, laughing even as he crooked an eyebrow at the accusing finger Lindir jabbed at him, “you are so terribly hasty to assign blame.  I only tell you what I have heard, and that second and third-hand.  If you want better information, perhaps you should consult with Elrond, or better yet, with Glorfindel, as there is no messenger that enters this valley that he does not know of it first.”

But Lindir did not pursue the matter, for he knew then that there was not one culprit but several, and that they had acted in collusion to send his work out of Imladris.  Instead, he found a stout wooden chest banded with iron and fitted with a steel lock, and into this he stuffed the remainder of Nolofinwë ar Moringotto and pocketed the key.

My works were not composed for the sake of public adulation, he thought, and the memory of the pain this symphony stirred in him had not lessened with time.

Over the next several years, messages came from Gondor seeking information about the work or its composer, anything the Elves could provide.  And always the chief minstrel of Imladris gave the same answer, that he did not know what symphony it was excerpted from or who had written it.

* * *

Notes:

gweth: (Sindarin) a household unit or troop

An le nurnen: (Sindarin): I mourn with you.  Yondo is a Quenya word, and though it is not considered appropriate usage to mix Quenya and Sindarin, my Glorfindel is an actively bilingual speaker.

According to “The Disaster of the Gladden Fields” in Unfinished Tales, Isildur and his three eldest sons were killed in October, T.A. 2.  The scene between Lindir and Valandil takes place just before word of the disaster comes to Imladris.  Valandil remained in Elrond’s household for another ten years before formally taking up the kingship of Arnor. 

T.A. 3019

The late autumn chill frosted the windows and walkways of Imladris, but within the Hall of Fire there was warmth and merriment.  One after another, the residents took turns entertaining each other and their guests with variations upon old, beloved songs, while in one corner a few gathered to hear the perian’s latest piece.

Bilbo fancied himself a poet and historian, and the Elves of Imladris indulged this passion, for it was not often that ordinary mortals took an interest in such matters.  He was of a cheerful and eccentric creature, and Lindir delighted in the songs and tales of the Shire he brought with him while gently teasing him for his modest Elven pretenses. 

“Why, I do believe you fancy yourself a minstrel of the Otornassë Nyelloréva,” he laughed.  The guild had long since disbanded and fallen into history, and the halfling could scarcely pronounce the name, but he took the jest in good humor, especially when Lindir gave him a small brooch once worn by the members of that guild.  Bilbo often wore the little silver harp upon his lapel, stroking it with pride whenever someone inquired after his work.

For his latest composition, a lengthy piece about Eärendil, Bilbo had had Lindir’s help and, it seemed, that of Estel, who had lately returned from his wanderings with four other periannath in tow.

Lacking the vigor and training to manage a formal recital, Bilbo was not accustomed to performing before the entire household.  Instead, Lindir had arranged for a small gathering of friends.  They were joined at the last moment by a dark-haired halfling carrying his arm in a sling; this was Bilbo’s nephew Frodo, brought in by Estel and Glorfindel some days earlier.  The group formed a polite audience, smiling and applauding when it was finished.

“Now we had better have it again,” Lindir said.

Smiling, Bilbo claimed it would be too tiring to repeat it all, which no doubt it would have been for him.  He was rather more interested in knowing if his audience could answer the riddle of what Estel had added to the composition.  Bilbo had not confided in Lindir, but the Dúnadan had been Lindir’s student even as some of his ancestors had been, and Lindir knew what imagery and turns of phrase they were apt to use.  The green gem had not been a product of Bilbo’s rampant imagination.

However, rather than spoil Bilbo’s fun by giving an immediate answer, Lindir indulged him by drawing out the game.  Beside him, another Elf told the halfling that it was not easy for the Firstborn to tell the difference between two mortals, and while Bilbo fumed in mock consternation, Lindir answered that perhaps sheep could tell the difference between other sheep but mortals had not been his study.  To an outsider this would have been taken as an insult, and Lindir saw the beginnings of a frown upon Frodo’s face, but all others understood this remark was made in jest, for of them all Lindir had had the most dealings with mortals.

Bilbo returned the banter with gusto, but he tired easily these days and excused himself early.  As always, he waved his walking stick in the air and insisted he could make it back to his bedchamber without any assistance.  Nevertheless, someone usually accompanied him, most often under the pretense of continuing an earlier conversation.  Lindir was about to offer his company, but saw that Bilbo was accompanied by Frodo.

Lindir noticed another halfling sitting in the corner; the young man had been asleep during Bilbo’s performance but was now awake and regretting that he had missed the music.  Two younger halflings were nearby, sharing a particularly lovely walking song with a group of Elves, when the other blearily joined in with a bit of verse he said he had learned from Bilbo.

Seeing Lindir standing off to the side, one of the Elves motioned to his companion and murmured something.  The halfling turned and blushed, though Lindir did not understand why until Tuilinn told him.

“Um, begging your pardon, sir,” the halfling stammered as Lindir came over, “but I didn’t know.”

“Did not know what?” asked Lindir.

“Here I was singing about an Elf-king and all and I didn’t know the one as made the song was right here.” 

Lindir did not know what he meant until, blushing, he repeated the first verse.  Though it was slightly off-key, Lindir recognized it as The Fall of Gil-galad.  Although he had been told that it was quite popular in the lands beyond Imladris, he had rarely performed it for Elrond’s household and was all the more surprised to hear it come from a halfling whose people, he was told, had few dealings with the outside world.

“What is your name, master halfling?” he inquired.

“I’m Samwise, sir,” answered the other, “Samwise Gamgee, but I’m not a master of anything, sir.  I’m just Mr. Frodo’s gardener.”

“Tell me, how much of this song do you know?”

Samwise looked apologetic.  “Well, I only know a little of it, sir.  Bilbo tried to teach me the rest, but it’s all about Mordor and I was too scared to learn that part.  I heard him sing it once, though.  It was very dark and, well, a bit sad.”

Lindir smiled at him.  “Yes,” he agreed softly, “it is all those things to me, and more.”