The Landing

The air had turned to a whip and the rain to biting insects, and both lashed at the small craft. A single sailor fought the rig and rudder, although the boat would have accommodated two or three more. He wished for them then, and wished them more experienced at sea than himself, for he had thought to have an easy week's sailing and the favor of the Valar. Grimly he fought on; it had ever been his nature to continue despite poor odds and certain defeat.

* * *

"Hathil, there is a boat drifting offshore near the point."

He looked up at that, and then out over the water. The sun was bright and the sea was calm, but he saw nothing. He turned back to the excited boys. "I do not see it. Is it one of the trader's craft?" Traders came from the sea infrequently, and were viewed with suspicion as strangers, but were always welcome nonetheless for what they brought.

"It is very strange, not like their boats at all! Galan and I saw it from the hill, and there is no one aboard. Look!" They tugged him urgently along towards the low bluff that marked the east end of the seaside village, but before they started to climb, the boat drifted into view: a small, graceful craft, with something odd about her sail.

"Hmmm. Torn loose from her moorings somewhere in that storm some days ago? You lads row out to it, and see if you can bring it in to salvage." He glanced toward the youths occasionally while he worked mending his net, and as their rowboat approached the strange sailboat. He watched with approval as Hadad came alongside smoothly, reaching for the coil of rope. Something changed then in his posture, and his movements and those of Galan became more urgent. Was the boat foundering? Hadad had made fast the rope, and began to work the unfamiliar craft toward shore, towing the small rowboat. The two wallowed into shore, and Hadad jumped off in the shallows, waving his arm to beckon as he neared.

"Hathil, come quickly." He approached the sailboat, looking for what had occasioned the youths' urgency. The craft was beautifully made and detailed, painted with strange and haunting curved motifs. She was rigged with two sails, not one, and the shape of the sails was different from the normal rectangle; instead they tapered at the top and were broad at the bottom. In the boat lay a... not-man.

He breathed, but it was rapid and harsh, and his head tossed from side to side, and he made hoarse sounds. But his face was...strange. Strangely beautiful for a man, as if it could not decide to belong to a man or woman, yet he was unquestionably masculine. And the ears, they were pointed. A very strange creature indeed. And if he was any judge of such things, a very sick creature. The mouth was dry, the lips cracked, and the skin was slack. There were both a large and small vessel on the deck, empty; and he saw no sign of any other water container.

"Lad, give me your flask." Hadad handed it over, eyes wide. Hathil unstoppered it and trickled a bit of water over the lips of the moaning being. It seemed to be welcome, and the stranger swallowed. Hathil turned to his companions. "Go to where they are harvesting, and call for men to help, and something to bear him on. We will take him to Ithwen; her cottage is close and he will need nursing. If Gundor is not at the harvesting, one of you go and find him after you send the others over." While he waited, he slowly trickled more water into the mouth of the strange one. All was eagerly swallowed. The creature attempted to speak, but only hoarse sounds issued from his mouth. "Shhh," Hathil tried to soothe him, and offered him further small amounts of water.

Hadad ran back to him eagerly. "Gundor is hunting and may not return tonight. Galan will tell him when he returns. The others are coming." Hathil could see three of the villagers walking toward him from the fields, carrying a lashed frame.

The foremost came up to the edge of the stranger's craft and looked at the creature. "What is it?" he asked, face fearful.

"I do not know, Magan, but whatever he is, he sailed this craft, and he will die of thirst if we do not help him. He may die even so," Hathil said, impatiently.

"How do we know what manner of being this is? It could be a creature of the shadow, sent to do evil."

"He does not look evil," said one of the others. "And see the painting on the craft and the carvings; this does not look like what is told of the power in the East, but more like the markings on the ancient knife of Gundor's."

"We can talk about such things later. We must get him to where he can be cared for," Hathil insisted.

"But why should we care for the creature at all?" asked the third man. "Even if it is not of the shadow, it might still be an enemy, in any case no business of ours. It is clearly not human. Leave it until Gundor can tell us what to do!"

Hathil took a deep breath to still his anger. "And if Gundor does not return tonight? I will not leave him to die untended. I would not let a deer or rabbit suffer so. And I would fear to ever go out on the water again if I did not do my best for another who sails the sea." His voice strengthened. "Now help me lift him."

"What if it is healed, and then we find it has power and will do us ill?" whispered Magan.

"And if others of his kind come seeking him? Will you be the one to stand before them and say, 'we gave no help or comfort'?" Hathil said with some force. Then, more softly, "Look at this workmanship, surely that is not the work of dark creatures; and the tales say there are strange Men oversea, and even Elves; and those are not evil."

They rolled him on his side, Hathil gently, the other two hesitantly, with Magan choosing to take charge of the litter rather than touch the alien flesh. At Hathil's direction he slid one side beneath the stranger and the others rolled the unresisting body to lie on his back atop the frame. It took their combined strength to lift the litter from the boat, but once on more even ground, they found their charge no heavy burden.

They bore him to old Ithwen's cottage, sending Hadad running ahead to warn the healer. She met them as they trod the path through the tidy garden, and leading the group to the weathered wooden door her eyes lingered curiously on the stranger.

"Bring him inside and lay him on the bed here. Fill as many vessels with water as you can; we will wash the salt spray off him as well." She took the flask from Hathil with her age spotted hands, and continued to drip the cool liquid into his mouth. He was thrashing a bit now, hands trying to reach for something unseen. Ithwen put one hand on his shoulder, then stroked his hair gently, as one would a young child or puppy. "There, there, strange one, rest; settle and drink slowly," and her words had a soothing sing-song quality, as she continued to help him drink. She nodded to the youth, and to a stack of clean cloth on the table. "Take one, wet it, and start washing him. Gently, mind you."

Between Hathil and Hadad they removed the salt crusted clothing. The garments were as unusual as the being who wore them. They were in the colors of nature, but the cloth was subtle, rich, and soft; and the lines were flowing and beautiful. When he was clean, Ithwen motioned Hadad to cover him with a light blanket. She directed them all, never ceasing her task of placing spoonfuls of water in the stranger's mouth.

"You aren't afraid to stay with him?" Magan asked. Ithwen shook her head, and motioned the group to the door. The others left, but Hathil sat by her as she worked, refilling her flask as needed, and then taking over from time to time.

As if the pressure had finally forced it from him, Hathil asked, "Have I done right, Ithwen? Magan feared him, and did not want to take him in, he feared this one might be a servant of shadow."

Ithwen snorted and shook her head. "As little as I know of this I know better than that! See how fair his face? The trader's tales speak of Elves thus. I would believe him one of them."

If anyone would know the trader's tales, Hathil reflected, it would be Ithwen. There were few enough places for travellers in the village; if no one was ill the extra bed in Ithwen's cottage was much desired by weary traders, better than the stables or floor. She was too old for anyone to take it amiss for her to guest a man, and he suspected that even were that not the case, Ithwen would still do as she pleased.

When a fair quantity of water had been swallowed, the not-man seemed to improve a bit. He still could not speak more than hoarse sounds, and there was not recognition in his eyes, but he could hold the flask and drink; indeed he would have drunk far too fast had not Ithwen only allowed small amounts in the flask as she refilled it periodically.

"Can not he have more by now? I feel for his thirst and am hard pressed to withhold the water," Hathil observed, somewhat shamefaced.

"Ah, that is why I am the healer instead of you. He would have vomited all that he took in by now had he only you to help him." She glared at him, but he knew better than to think her truly angry.

"And do you not have things to tend to?"

Hathil thought of the garden, which could wait to be weeded, and the small boat which was up on the sand with the partly-mended net; of the empty, small cottage he had built so happily but two years ago whose empty space no longer beckoned him home. He shook his head. "I can stay."

By evening there were a few quarts of water inside the stranger, as well as some broth, and he slept. He had seemed to be more cognizant of his surroundings in the last hour before he drifted off to sleep. Ithwen had remarked with satisfaction that his breathing had slowed, and his heart no longer raced. She handed Hathil cheese and bread, after which he reluctantly departed, Ithwen's words in his ears, "Go home, get some sleep. You can come again tomorrow, like enough we'll have plenty to do by morning if he doesn't start making sense."

The morning found Ithwen still sitting at the bedside. The stranger slept, and her heart rejoiced that it appeared to be a natural sleep, breathing no longer labored. Not that I'm sure what is natural to his kind, but it does look better, more comfortable. In her mind she named him 'Golden One' for the color of his hair, and the faint, soft shine that seemed to come from his skin.


* * * * *


This was not the Halls of Mandos.

To wake there now would indeed be a pointless jest. He thanked the Valar that such an ill chance had not been allowed to occur, though if it had, doubtless Olórin would have explained why it was for a good reason, in between his laughter. He did not know if this body would prove more durable than the last, but he had no wish to test it, and find himself back with Mandos.

He was in a rough dwelling, but shelter nonetheless. Bunches of dried plants hung from the ceiling - for decoration or scenting, for healing or food - he knew not.

But if decoration, whoever had arranged it was not of the Quendi. Even the Avari could not so lose their sense of pattern and flow and the harmony of what is beautiful.

The dwelling had not the dark feel of the followers of Morgoth, nor the appearance of the halls of the Naugrim. He turned his head and focused on the beings in the cottage with him. One had skin that was wrinkled and sallow and had lost the glow of health. Her hair was white, but not the silver of the Teleri; rather it was like that of a Númenórean who was close to the time of accepting the Gift. If she was a child of Elros, or of his line, she might be four centuries old, but if of less high blood, two and a half centuries, perhaps. He recalled then that the ones left behind, those who did not dwell near the grace of the Valar, had shorter lives: one century, he had heard; that was all they could hope for. So short a time for them to learn and live, leaving just as a child of the Eldar was barely mature.

The other in the room looked to have the years of a young Elf, one barely an adult, equivalent to a century and a half, though more sorrow lay in his eyes than would be common to the Firstborn of that age.

These Edain had taken him from the ship or the sea, and they had protected and succored him. He lay in a soft bed, and though his lips were yet dry, the intense thirst of his last memory was slaked; someone had given him water during the time of which he knew nothing.


* * * * *

By the time the old woman had eaten and done the simple morning tasks, Hathil was calling from the doorway, and the stranger was stirring. Life came into his bright green eyes and he looked about him, until his gaze fell upon Ithwen. He studied her, and Hathil, and the simple furniture of the cottage, and its rafters hung with drying herbs. After clearing his throat, he spoke the first words they had heard from him. "Hannon le, mellon nîn." The harsh croak of yesterday was much softer, and the voice held a hint of bells.

Ithwen looked at him blankly. Hathil said, "We don't speak that tongue."

The Golden One's green eyes lit with understanding, and he tried other sounds. Finally he hit on something that sounded half familiar. Some of the words were recognizable, if very accented. "I give you my thanks."

They asked him questions and it was clear he did not comprehend much of what they said. He was able to tell them he had come over the sea, but he tired rapidly and it was little enough they understood, although Hathil thought it was not the language so much as the facts they did not understand. Ithwen sent him away to take care of his chores, and let the stranger sleep again after she fed him. When he woke from his strange eyes-open sleep the second time, she tried again.

His speech was clearer now, and he seemed quick to imitate her way of speaking, so that the words were not so accented. They spoke of simple things; his bodily needs, appreciation for her soup, and comments on his returning strength. Her curiosity was sharp, but she knew well enough Gundor would want to be there for the satisfaction of it.

She turned instead to the practical, helping him to sit in a chair after giving him some clean simple clothing. He dressed calmly, seemingly unbothered by her presence. She had become so used to thinking of him as 'Golden One' that it slipped out in the course of their talk.

"You smile when I call you that. You have yet to tell me another name to call you."

The corners of his mouth curved a bit more. "Glorfindel."

"Glorfindel?" she tried the unfamiliar name carefully.

"It means 'golden hair' in our tongue, Híril," he said, and there was amusement in his voice, and perhaps a bit of mischief in his eyes.

She laughed, delighted that the legends of Elves were wrong about their stern manner.

Hathil came again in the afternoon, eager to see how his rescued stray fared. They spoke together, and Glorfindel's speech became easier to understand as they talked. "How came you to learn to speak our language?"

"This is the language of the men of Westernesse, of Numénor. I traveled most of the way across the sea on one of their great ships, and learned much of their language. But they were sailing to Vinyalondë, which men now call Lond Daer, and I desired to travel to Lindon, so we parted company. The Numenoreans call their language Adûnaic and it is close to your tongue. Your people must be of their kin."

Ithwen broke in, "You were in grave danger only yesterday. You must rest more, and drink more. In fact I'm amazed that you look as good as you do."

"Those of my kindred heal fast." He paused. "In politeness, what may I call you, Híril?"

Hathil stifled a snicker, as Ithwen said, "It's so long since anyone round here has been polite, I wouldn't know. Best you call me Ithwen." She spoke briskly, but smiled a little, a hint of warning. Dragon scale under coarse burlap.

"Our head man, Gundor, he will want to meet you," Hathil said. He kept his tone very neutral, information being given, nothing more.

The other's eyes met his, knowing; but calm, not fearful or offended. "I will be pleased to meet him whenever he desires."

* * *

"Hannon le, mellon nîn" - Thank you, my friend
"Híril" - Lady

The Chief

There was a light tap at the door, and Ithwen stood as it was pushed open. She looked at the man who stood there, then motioned Hathil to the door. Hathil stepped through, and was unsurprised when Gundor bade him come out to him.

"Galan tells me of a strange catch you have made."

"Yes. Now that we have caught it, I do not know what it is." He shrugged. "If we can rely on the legends, I have caught an Elf."

"Ah. Show me his boat before I speak with him."

Hathil went with Gundor down to the delicate craft, now tied to the crude dock, like a swan tethered to a log. It rode gracefully on the small swells as they knelt on the deck and examined the beautiful carving and the cunning lockers. They found bags of ship's biscuit, but light and crisp; tasting it, both agreed the Elven bread to be far better than any ship provisions they had known or heard of. They found also a locker, which when opened contained weapons among other objects. There was a bow, skillfully carved and ornamented, and a coiled bow string, and a quiver filled with arrows, fletched with grey feathers bound to the shaft with thread as fine as spider's web. Also there was a sword, bright and sharp, and set about with runes such as the Elves were said to use. The scabbard bore a rayed sun on a green background, and threads of gold were worked into it. They marveled over the fineness of the weapons.

"He did not come expecting peace."

"Who in this land does?"

Gundor grunted in agreement. Indeed, no man of their town would go about without a knife, and in the woods a bow, though none were so wealthy as to own swords. But Gundor alone among them had seen soldiers in the town of Arthrad Lumren, who bore always sword or bow, and some who had shields as well. In truth it was the beauty and richness of the arms which surprised them, not their presence. "It would seem he is a great Lord of their kind."

"But what does he do sailing such a small ship by himself?"

"It is said that the Men of the Ships are tall and stern, and bring great gifts of knowledge and skill to the Men of our shores. Some say they are not Men at all, but Gods out of the West. Could he be of them?"

"Nay, he is no Man. I have never seen an Elf, but Ithwen says he is as the legends describe them." Hathil's faith in Ithwen's words was absolute. "And the Men of the ships, though we have heard talk of them, we hear such different things that it is hard to say where the truth is."

Gundor nodded and considered. I will send word to Baragund of what passes. And we shall ask this traveler of where his road will take him. He continued, "Has he spoken of why he has come?"

"He has spoken little, aside from simple things. But he is still ill and recovering, better this noon than this morn."

Gundor reached a decision. "Come, it is time for me to find out more about him; why he is come and what he plans, and whether there are others we must watch for."

"Gundor," Hathil said earnestly, "I believe him to be of a different kind from Men; there is no deceit in him. He would not hurt us. Do not shame our people before him."

Gundor looked at the younger man with mixed pity and exasperation. Hathil was a good man, and would grow to be a better one, but had not seen the shadow take hold in another.

Gundor had given his youngest sister to this one who she yearned for, and they had known joy for five seasons. When she grew big with child all had rejoiced, for every child was a gain for the struggling town when illness was ever present and the Wildmen of the forests took their occasional toll of the unwary. But Gilwen had died in childbed, and the babe with her, and Hathil had grown silent and solitary; preferring his boat and his nets to the talk of others, unless it was Gundor's own son Galan, or his scamp of a friend, Hadad.

Now it seemed he had taken to this stranger as well, another reason for Gundor to inquire as to the plans of the newcomer. He knocked on the cottage door and beckoned, and Ithwen came out to him, curious.

"What did you find on the ship?"

"Never mind that now. Rather, old woman, tell me what your sharp eyes see. And what does your sharper tongue tell? Truly little escapes you." Her face reflected approval for his wisdom in asking her conclusions.

"His customs and thoughts are not ours, young one; I find him difficult to comprehend. He speaks, so far as he knows our tongue, with directness and I see no guile in his words. I find myself wishing to trust him. I do yet know if this wish is wise, but were he a man, I would."

Only the healer could get away with calling him 'young one.' "Settle him and then leave us be, Ithwen."

Gundor waited for her to proceed him, then after a few moments, walked into the cottage and sat where he could see the stranger. Ithwen spoke their names, each to the other, and fussed over a rich smelling soup which she set before her outlandish guest, and then looking at her townsman pointedly, brought him a bowl as well. He ate slowly, savoring the well-cooked food after a few days of travel bread and game. As he ate he watched, noting the differences that told him with certainty that this was no man. The face was fair beyond any he had seen, and the few words spoken sounded like the song of a bard he had once heard in Baragund's hall at Arthrad Lumren. But fair or not, he must know more of this stranger.

When the guest had finished his soup, Ithwen took the bowls from both of them, and at a nod from Gundor, withdrew from the cottage. He smiled to himself; she would give him a tongue-lashing for turning her out of her own house, but she would choose her time well.

To his surprise, the stranger spoke first. "You command here." He had used the words that meant 'leading in battle.'

"I am chief of the town. My people trust me to look after them."

A very small smile. "That is good. A chief must have the trust of his people." The smile faded, and the face was focused. "What do you wish so that you may know your people are not threatened?"

"Why are you here?"

"It was chance that brought me. I was travelling to the Grey Havens in Lindon by way of the Gulf of Lune, but the storm and my own lack of skill with sail and rudder brought me to your village. And I am thankful that it was so, for your people have cared for me well."

It was no real answer. His voice sharpened a bit. "Where are the rest of your people; where are your ships and warriors?"

The stranger spoke softly now, gaze bright and direct, "There are none on this shore south of Lindon. I came alone from Vinyalondë, returning to Middle-earth after long years away." The eyes challenged him to accept the words as truth.

He believed; he felt the power of this being even as he sat up in bed eating soup and wearing simple fisherman's clothes. But if he believed wrongly, tempted by the beauty and nobility of the unhuman face, all living here would suffer.

Gundor held his tongue and studied the stranger intently.

The stranger smiled again, and his face lit; joy seemed to dwell there, as if only waiting for brief clouds to pass so that it might shine forth again.

"I have come for one purpose, but have been pleased to find another- learning more of the nature of Men."

Abruptly Gundor stood. This being, Glorfindel as Ithwen named him, was a riddle, and one he could not solve tonight. His weariness tugged at him, begging for a warm bed now that his stomach was full. It was no fit state to answer riddles.

"We will speak more on the morrow. We are both weary, you from your ordeal on the sea, and I from my travel and labor. Rest now, and I will send Ithwen back."

He nodded curtly as Glorfindel wished him peaceful rest from his labor, then left the cottage, closing the door behind him. He did not have long to wait before Ithwen reappeared.

"So you are done with my home for the evening? I may return to its warmth?" There was acid in her voice, but not outside the usual tone of their banter. More seriously she asked, "What did you learn?"

"Little, I fear. He denies that there are others of his kind with him, or following, or nearby at all. There are many other questions I would ask, but they will wait until my wits are sharper." She sniggered. He ignored it.

"Ithwen, I will set men to watch the night. I do not wish him to leave with the questions unanswered."

She looked at him narrowly. "I do not think you need worry, Gundor. I am not often wrong about any manner of folk; the more I see of him, the more I think he is what the legends tell of. But we will learn more tomorrow when he, and you, are fit to continue.

Trust



In the morning Gundor felt himself more equal to the task ahead, but not yet ready. He had sent one of the townsmen riding to Athrad Lumren, even as he grudged one more set of hands lost to the harvest. They were a free town, but no small settlement in these lands could count only on themselves. So they kept still to the old loyalties, and were ready to lend aid or receive it from those who were now but distant kin. It was many generations that this alliance had held, a network of settlements in the south, who all sent news to the river town Athrad Lumren where the chief, Baragund, sent news yet further North. And since there was need for vigilance, Baragund would hear of the stranger's arrival within a few days, and Gundor's messager would return within a few more.

The problem of the stranger was much on his mind the next two days, in between harvest work and caring for beasts and family. In the morning and evening he found a few minutes to tap at Hathil's door and hear a brief report; and also to hear from Ithwen how her charge fared. And although he would step into the cottage for a few moments and ask Ithwen to walk outside with him, he spoke little more than a swift greeting to the Elf each time.

He had told himself he waited to give the stranger time to recover. In truth, it was time for himself to recover. If this was an Elf, how did the Northern Men dare to treat with them? His thoughts on the matter as he walked from the horse's enclosure the next morning were interrupted by Ithwen.

Gundor's concern fueled his temper. "What are you doing, leaving him alone? What if he took it into his head to leave while we talk? We would never learn more of this!"

She looked at him calmly as if he were an overexcited child. "This need not worry you - Hathil sits with Glorfindel, along with half the children in the village who have been to visit in the past days. But I thought you would want to know, Glorfindel speaks of leaving."

"You must decide soon, Gundor. At first he took my advice knowing it was what he needed. Then he took it out of courtesy, perhaps thinking that I knew little of how rapidly his kind heal. Now he takes it, but there is that in his eye and voice that says he knows I do not believe it myself. Soon he will stop taking my advice; he will be right to do so, for he is clearly in no need of a healer, now. And I would prefer not to tell him falsehoods."

His face tightened. "Do you think we can persuade him otherwise? At least until I hear from Baragund?"

Gently, she said, "Why not simply ask him to stay until then? I believe he feels he owes us a debt for his life. I think he would do this for the asking. And I will be glad not to have to find excuses to keep him under my eye."

"I have already sent a message, but I do not expect an answer for some days."

Ithwen shrugged. "Ask him. I will await you."

She returned home, finding what she expected: Glorfindel looking well, and the cottage bubbling with talk and laughter around his seated figure. When she entered, her guest gave her an ironic look. No, he would not long remain resting on her advice. Soon he would have to leave just to find respite from the children who were drawn to the cottage by the novelty, and stayed for the tales.

She had been unsurprised yesterday when Hadad came shyly to the door, and asked if he might visit the patient. Peering around his leg was his brother Halmir, barely 6 years old, hair but little darker than Glorfindel's own, and wide eyed at the sight of a creature out of bedtime stories. Ithwen gave Hadad a 'you're not fooling me' look, but allowed him to bring the child in to see the Elf. More surprised than the boy at the meeting was Glorfindel, who took much time to get the child to speak. He seemed unsure how to proceed but reluctant to have the child depart. His eyes were drawn to the small figure repeatedly, and a wistful quality was mingled with joy in his countenance.

Halmir stared at him. The child emerged from his shyness, and began to question. He smiled, delighted with the answers, and relaxing, drifted closer. As the musical voice charmed him, he became bolder and reached out to touch, first the golden hair, then the luminous face.

"Are you from a story?"

"We are all from some story of Arda. What story would you think I am from?"

"I don't know many. Tell me one."

And so it had begun. Tales that she had heard, tales that she knew must exist from hearing other tales, and tales beyond her knowledge; she suspected them beyond any living man's knowledge. She had commented, later, on his fascination with the children who wanted to see him out of curiosity, legend made flesh among them.

"Children are a great gift, and rare to my people, rarer still to those left in Middle-earth these past many years. Our children are much treasured, and many of us receive no such gift. This is a blessing that the second born have in great measure, and I fear take for commonplace; a god-gift to the Secondborn." His words were calm, but the eyes held depths of sorrow. She had no living child, hers had not survived infancy, making her determined to learn as much as possible about keeping others alive. But she had the town's children, hers even if in small part.

What would it be like to live in a town with few or no children? Elves were said to be grave of mien in the tales, though Glorfindel surely was not, and if there were no children to spark laughter, perhaps that explained the solemnity.

She stopped her musing when Hathil brought in the gleanings from the Elven craft, and Glorfindel reached for the harp - eyes alight. His long tapered hands called forth piercingly sweet music, near painful in its intensity.

They listened, awed.

"I am but an indifferent harpist. In Gondolin, my friend Ecthelion - he was a harpist of renown." Seeing their faces, he realized his foolishness. "Come, sing one of the songs you love, and I will try to accompany you."

Hesitantly, Hadad sang a sea song. As he sang, the notes of the harp sounded softly, gaining confidence as the song continued, infusing depth into the simple, cheerful song. By the second verse, they were all singing, and the harp elaborated the tune around their voices.



That evening, feeling he could delay no longer, Gundor went back to the healer's cottage. The stranger looked rested and well. He had changed the simple village clothing Ithwen had given him, and wore unfamiliar but beautiful garments. Gundor knew himself even more out of his depth with the lordly appearing being. He felt as if transplanted to a strange sea, where he did not know the shapes of the coast or the direction from which the wind blew or the currents of the water, so that he could not navigate; as if the stars had reshaped themselves into new patterns, so that he could not read where to steer. He had felt this way every time he walked into the cottage. Now he braved that unease to sit, and speak. "How fare you now?"

"I am well. I thank you, but I need no more rest nor special care, grateful as I am for what you have done." The tone was polite, but firm.

Gundor's mouth was dry. "Ithwen has told me you wish to leave."

"She speaks truly. I know you wish me to stay. You have not told me why."

"Yet you stay, despite your desire to leave," Gundor said cautiously.

"I would not go while my hosts are so solicitous and concerned that it is not yet the time for me to depart."

Gundor squirmed a bit and frowned at that. The two men stationed in the healer's garden at night should not have been noticed from inside. He would have had more, but the village could not spare so many from the day work - indeed could not spare the ones they did use, during the harvest time.

"If you leave, where will you go?"

The green eyes seemed to pierce his soul. "I travel to Lindon."

Gundor hesitated and then forced out the question, "Why?"

To his surprise, the Elf appeared to take no offense. "I dwelt in Middle-earth long ago, and I grew to love the trees and mountains, the land itself. My heart says I owe much, to the land and to the Elven High King, Gil-galad."

He marked the name in his mind, to relay to others. "I expect the arrival of our kin from the North. They will wish to speak with you and hear whatever news you can tell. Will you stay some days until they arrive? They will travel north again, and you could join their company, for it is dangerous to travel alone."

"You desire this."

Holding that green gaze became ever more difficult. "I do."

"Then I will stay to meet your northern kin. I owe your folk much and will be pleased to repay in any way I can. You need no one to watch that I do not leave unexpectedly."

Before he could stop himself it came out. "I'm sorry."

Glorfindel dismissed it easily. "I wish to walk again in the sun and see starlight. And if I could, I would make repayment for your hospitality."

Gundor had not expected this, and stared a moment. "What would you do? We would not ask you to work in the fields."

There was a soft laugh. "I have not done so, but were the need great, I would learn. I have been a warrior, long years past, but thank the Valar you do not need one. I have also some skill with horses or other animals. Although I am no healer, for many years I cared for battle wounds, and so have some knowledge of that lore which I can teach Ithwen. But I had thought, as your people do much upon the sea, also to teach the making and use of a boat such as I sailed."

Gundor could appreciate this. The Elven craft was beautiful, and any sailor would want to try its way upon the water; but even more intriguing was the combination of two sails. This had been a subject of some discussion among the sea-going townsfolk: would they change the way the boat rode before the wind, or the speed at which she sailed? He feared that only the lack of knowledge of use of the two sails had kept the more impetuous from simply taking the boat to find out.

In the following days, when the sun waned and the breezes blew, Glorfindel would be at the shore, explaining the intricacies of the making of the Gwilwileth e-Gaearon. The sails were a marvel - they would catch the wind at many angles , and permit a boat to beat against the wind easily. It was more difficult to work, as the sails had more possibilities, not just raising and lowering as the strength of wind dictated; but actual moving of where the sail pointed. It was as if Glorfindel had just made the town a gift of those quarters of the wind that had never served them well before.

Glorfindel, seeing Hathil's love of the sea and intense interest in his lessons, began to take him out into the protected waters of the small bay during daytime so that the Man might practice with the Elven craft. Glorfindel knew himself merely proficient as a sailor, but as was common with one partly of the Noldor, the skill of objects had come to his hand rapidly. Hathil sailed as one touched by Ulmo, understanding instinctively what he was taught, and by the end of a few days, surpassing his teacher at some tasks. If he had not Elven grace and strength, the Man understood the tides and currents, the lie of the coast and path of its winds. This, Glorfindel thought, must be the way of things for the Teleri.

During the long, mild days of tacking and sailing, they answered questions for each other. Hathil learned of the Gwilwileth and the western sea, and Glorfindel learned more of Ethir Varanduin and its founding, and its way of survival.

There were a few other settlements close to the town, with odd names and different folk, who were both shorter and broader in appearance. These spoke a different tongue, and clustered in small, temporary settlements, seeming to prefer a wandering, woodland life. They were reserved, and armed, but not warlike unless at need. On occasion some of that kin would appear at the edge of town, waiting to be noticed. They would carry game and skins, and would trade these for the products of the more settled existence: meal, beans, bread. The bargaining was done with pointing and finger signs, until eight winters ago when one of the band had brought his daughters with him, and at her word had left the eldest behind for a generous bride-price. Dorleth was short and more sturdily built than the other women of the town, but she had learned their language well enough to speak to her husband, and had already borne three children. That was enough to ensure acceptance, and the town had slowly made her welcome.

The Wildmen were not looked at the same way. These were enemies.

The people of the town counted themselves as higher Men than those about them. The legends said their ancestors had come from the north, and eventually settled here, sending for kin in time. Most would not come, because they feared that the seas would again rise and cover vast tracts of land as in ancient days. But the fishing was plentiful, and the land gave them a good life; the sun shone here, not like the deep dark forests. And they were not severed from their kin, for almost every year some came down the river from the northern lands, bearing objects of metal to trade, and taking salt, dried fruit, fish, herbs, and horses in payment. It was this group that was expected shortly.

Word of the party came when the messenger returned and sought Gundor. "The traders had arrived in Athrad Lumren before me. They were to set out a few days after I left. Dairuin is with them, and Baragund trusts that he can advise us." Gundor felt the news loose the knots that fear had tied. Dairuin was a great traveler, and had seen and heard much, carrying messages between the races. He had made this trip frequently, bringing trade goods, but also tidings from other parts of Eriador. Baragund trusted him, and so, he had heard, did those who dwelt in the far North where many of the goods came from; near Lake Evendim.

Gundor took the news to Hathil when his boat returned to shore; he would keep his word despite the heaviness in his heart. "The traders will be here within the week. I will speak to Dairuin about your traveling with him, if you are still minded to leave."

Hathil surprised him. "There is no need. I am staying."

Gundor probed hesitantly, "What changed your mind? I thought with the Elf traveling north, you would wish to go all the more."

"Glorfindel has said he will leave me his craft, the Gwilwileth. My place is here, and I would miss the sea."

"Did he ask no return?"

"Aye, indeed he did, but little enough return for such a gift. He asked for tales of Men, of their deeds now and in times past, and of their knowledge of the Powers of the West and the Elves."

Gundor had promised his sister he would look out for Hathil should anything happen to her. He had also promised to look out for her child, and he had lost Gilwen and child both, the same day, leaving little chance to keep his word. So now he felt his responsibility to her husband doubly, both from vow and his own affection, and he feared for Hathil on the journey north. It was unchancy to travel the wilds, and many years the parties came back smaller than they had set out. He knew Dairuin would have done his best for Hathil, but that was not always enough, and the weight of the promise had pressed on him. It was well that Hathil would stay in Ethir Varanduin, under his eye for the time.

Gundor knew he owed the Elf a debt, and one he could repay in the coin of Glorfindel's choosing.


"This is the knife, it has been passed down many generations of our family." Gundor unwrapped it with great reverence and pulled it from the cracking leather sheath.

"From its look, it was crafted in the Age now past."

"Our tales, handed down through many years, say it was a gift. That it was given by brother to sister, when she left to marry one of a different kindred. It is told that the brother went along with others among our distant kin, to fight the shadow alongside the Gods, but none that went ever came back among us. Some legends say that all Men in Beleriand perished at the hands of the shadow in the war; others say that all drowned in the sea when the Gods flooded the land, careless of their allies. And some few legends say that our kin were taken by the Gods to dwell with them as a reward for their valor."

"The last story is closest to the truth. Your kin were rewarded for their valor, but do not dwell in the land of the Gods, for no mortal is permitted in the Undying Lands. The Valar raised from the sea Andor, the Land of the Gift, within sight of the Blessed Isle, and there your kin dwell even now. It is their language that I speak, so close to yours.

"Your folk were of the Edain, one of the three houses of men that were faithful against Morgoth's evil. From your looks you would be of the House of Hador."

Gundor's eyes widened. "Yes," he breathed, "that is what our legends say; we are of Hador. My sire told me tales of Hador's deeds as a child, and said that I was named for his son. Many died during the War of the Gods, and those that returned were few; it was told that many went East or North."



The traders arrived finally, poling down the river on their crude vessels. There were eight of them on two flatboats, and they looked weary, poling slowly and waving at the folk who came from their tasks in the village to watch the end of the journey. The simple boats were built near Lake Evendim and were little more than rafts with raised edges. The traders set out from there with furs from the north. Near where the Great Dwarf Road came across the river, one could trade for metal work: fishing hooks, knives, bits and harness buckles, the larger objects stamped with the symbols of dwarven make. They carried also fabrics, well-wrapped to keep out moisture, most the simple textiles of the area around Evendim, but a few beautiful things from the Elves of Lindon. Wine and salt came from the south, grain and flax from the north.

Ethir Varanduin was small and poor, and were it not for its location at the mouth of the river, had little to recommend it as a destination to such a group. It had become a good place to trade the lumber of the boats for other goods, and here the traders could get a most important item: horses for the return trip. So the loop went, down the river once every year or so, trading along the way, until journey's end. Then rest and start the journey back with horses that would be sold in the north. It was a lifeline to the outside world for the coastal town. Anything that the town itself did not need would still be used for trade with those that sailed along the coast and brought other goods from the southern coasts and Lond Daer. The traders from the seacoast were not kin, and looked at askance, unlike those who came down the river. But both formed part of the fragile trade network, with Ethir Varanduin the linchpin.

Although the villagers were eager for the novelty, trade would wait for tomorrow. Today the travelers would unload the boats and rest, honored guests after a tiring journey.

When the day waned Gundor sent Galan from the stone house to tend the beasts, and as Magor and Dairuin sat at ease, the news passed between the two experienced traders and the townsman. Gundor listened, concerned, to what they could tell him of the Men of the West.

"They bring wondrous devices, and teach the building of ships," said Dairuin, "but they cut the forests, also. And we have heard that they are building a permanent settlement up the coast from the Gwathlo, where once was only a camp for their stay, before they sailed back to their home."

"Surely it is no bad thing to have a settlement? And any that seek their teachings may know where to find them."

"Yes, that is so, but some fear also where there is one settlement there one day may be many."

Magor added, "They have brought in soldiers with spear and sword. Who can say where these will be sent next? And lands that were ruled by none, and used by many perhaps will be claimed by these men from oversea."

"We do not know what they intend," Dairuin continued. "At times it seems they do not know it themselves. They too speak with some fear of the power in the east. But what of your stranger? You believe him to be an Elf, has he spoken of these things?"

"And if he is of them, or living in the West has heard more than we, it is information we should discover," Magor said firmly.

"He has told us little, but that he was traveling to Lindon; to see the King of the Elves, he said."

"Then it is time I solved the riddle I was sent to answer," said Dairuin, rising to his feet. "Has Ithwen still her skill with herbs for the pot as well as with those for healing?"

Gundor replied, with a small smile and a pointed look, "You will have to judge for yourself. But her tongue is still as sharp as the taste of her potions."

Dairuin was not disappointed with the smells from the pot on Ithwen's hearth. She greeted him bluntly as ever when she saw him sniffing appreciatively. "Have you come to beg treats like a snuffling puppy?"

"Yes," he said with enjoyment for the game. "But as always, I will more than repay you with tales from the North."

"I could tell you a tale or two after the last few days, and Glorfindel, he could best any tale-teller among your Men of the north. But you have come to meet him, have you not?"

Sharp indeed, Dairuin thought as she continued, "He is at the shore with Hathil, but when the sun sets, he finds his way home." She speaks of him as if he too was a wayward puppy. "There!" she gestured to the path leading to her open door.

Dairuin saw the stranger, and knew him for what he was, a Lord among the Elves. The Wood Elves were overwhelming enough, dazzling to mortal eyes, merry or quick-tempered by turns. Some of the others were stern or wise or fierce. This one was far more than that, with something of the West, and a light in his eyes not known to mortals. Was he one of those even the Firstborn called High? No wonder Gundor felt out of his depth.

"Suilad," Dairuin said, praying that his speech would not shame him.

"Mae Govannen," answered the shining one before him.

"Have you come from Lindon before you sailed here, Lord?" he asked respectfully.

"No. I have journeyed over the Sundering Sea, from the Undying Lands."

"From the Undying Lands! Those that sail that Sea now travel from Middle-earth to the West. You are the first I have heard of to come east since the tales of an earlier Age."

Itwen interrupted with bowls of steaming stew and fresh bread, and the talk slowed. When it resumed, it was the sea journey that Ithwen and Glorfindel spoke of, and Dairuin took his leave more politely than he ever had from that cottage.

Dairuin returned to the stone house to find Magor and Gundor sitting outside with cups and flask beside them. Gundor poured the thin local beer into a clay cup for his returning guest. "Is he as we thought, an Elf? As others you have seen?"

Dairuin took it and sat with relief. "Well do I know why he made you feel adrift in a strange sea, my friend. Yes, he is an Elf. But no, not like the others." Dairuin's voice was touched with wonder. "There is joy in his face that those from Lindon do not have; I think him far greater than those I have known of his kind. His arms bear strange devices, and are richer and more beautiful than those of the Elder kindred that visit our lands.

"The Elves I have seen, it is as if they are a candle in a dark night, and the glow gives hope to the eyes. He is as a hearthfire, blazing with more than hope, lending warmth to all within sight of the flames. I have never seen their King, nor some of the great ones around him, but surely this is one such."

The small lines that netted the skin around Gundor's eyes and forehead eased and softened. "I had feared we harbored some evil. He did not seem so, but after the dark tales we have heard, I feared nonetheless."

"You need fear no longer; clearly he is a high one of the Eldar. What his purposes are I do not understand, but he is worthy of all honor, and we will convey him to his kin in Lindon."

"Why did such a one cross the sea? He looks to be twenty summers or so, not even so old as you, barely older than Galan."

"I think him older than his looks suggest. He is of Elvenkind, do not forget."

"You believe those legends? Immortality?" He looked incredulous.

"I do not believe anything lives forever. But longer lived than Men, yes, I believe that."



It was with true friendliness that Dairuin approached Glorfindel five days later to speak of the forthcoming journey. "We will go north to Athrad Lumren, and then on to Lake Evendim. Before we reach the Lake we will cross the Great Road, and there you may turn west to find your kin if none be found on the road. We will be bringing many horses north, and there will be a mount for you if you are pleased to ride with us."

"I will be pleased to have your company."

As the day drew closer the traders began once again to be busy as arrangements were completed and goods to go north packed up. Dairuin set the time of departure for two days hence.


To Hathil and Ithilwen Glorfindel said special farewells. He left the harp in the hand of the healer to play or give to another as she saw fit. She grumbled, but her eyes were bright. "What good is the harp with no golden hand to play it?"

"Then those of this town must learn, even as I had to learn." He looked slightly mischievous, "even Elves are not born knowing how to harp." He continued, "I will also set down what we have talked of regarding the care of wounds, so that you may keep it on a scroll and remember when I am gone."

"Now what would I do with a scroll, Golden One?" she asked tartly. At his look she continued, exasperated, "Where do you think any in this town would learn such a skill as reading? Can we fish with it, tend gardens with it, bake with it?"

His face was briefly serious. "Forgive me Híril, I had not thought."

She smirked, but did not make the comment Hathil would have expected to hear had Gundor or Dairuin given the healer such a chance.



"Híril" - Lady

Journey Resumed


Glorfindel was much in evidence when the preparations were being made for departure. He stood with Gundor and Dairuin and the idling watchers, interested in how many days the journey would last, how many and which horses would go, how much grain would be carried for fodder.

"It is five long days of travel to Athrad Lumren, and five beyond that to Echad Randir," said Magor. "We have nine mounts to ride, and six horses will go to serve as pack animals, and some can be used as spare saddle horses to rest the others. We will carry supplies to take us to Arthrad Lumren, and enough for an additional day for us, two extra days grain for the horses."

Glorfindel approved of this plan. The people could hunt or go hungry at need, but if the horses could not travel at good speed, the difficulties would compound.

Watching the horses readied within the crude enclosure, Glorfindel's eye was caught by a dark bay. The horse tossed his head and was brought up short by the handler's tug on the lead rope as another man strapped a pack saddle into place. Glorfindel commented, "This one seems no pack horse - with his size and temperament surely he would be more suited than others to carry a rider?"

Gundor's face soured. "So I thought when I bought him from travelers who told of a hard ride, claiming him in need of a rest, and said they could not tarry to allow it. I could see he had no serious hurt, and thought to have good breeding stock and a good horse to sell to those of the north who might see battle. Dagnir is skilled with horses, but barely escaped grave injury. He was sore hurt and suffered drinking Ithwen's bitter potions for weeks, and was most fortunate that it was not worse. This one tried to bite, then to smash him against fences, houses, anything to rid himself of the man on his back. He is strong and fast, and has much stamina, but it does us little good as he will permit no one to place bit and bridle on him, nor will he suffer a rider. We will not get his worth."

The Elf had moved along the fence to where the fractious bay stood, and reached a hand to his cheek. The men working close by took a step away. "He seems calm enough," said Glorfindel. And indeed, the bay now seemed content to be scratched behind the ears.

"Now, he is calm. Let any other here approach him so, and he will not seem so calm."

"And the breeding?"

"Oh, he is willing enough for that! We will have some of his get soon, but I hope their temper is better. We may hope also that he behaves on this journey, as none of the mares are in season."

"Has he no name?"

Gundor was somewhat embarrassed, and glanced at one of the other men who loaded the horses. "Dagnir was very angry when he was hurt. I'm afraid the name given is not fit for the ears of guests."

Glorfindel studied the animal, then looked to Gundor for permission. "May I try?" he asked.

Gundor snorted, echoing the horse. "I'll trust that you will not waste our hospitality by allowing him to harm you."

Glorfindel grinned, and swung himself easily over the fence. Approaching the bay slowly, he put a hand alongside the horse's head, and murmured to him in a strange musical language. He removed the pack saddle that had just been loaded onto the broad back, and after a few soft words and strokes to the broken white stripe that graced the forehead, he led the horse from the enclosure with no more than his hand on the horse's neck. The villagers around stared, and most stepped back several paces when the bay was led out. Glorfindel leapt upon his back easily and sat, speaking still in a soothing tone. The bay stood, calm and steady, ears up as if to catch the strange music from his rider.

"I will name him Galvorn, for the metal that is as hard as steel of Dwarf-make, supple, and shining black as the mane of this noble one."

Some of the villagers watched as the preparations continued, waiting to see if the spirited bay would revert to his previous ways. To the disappointment of some, he made no effort to rid himself of his rider, and when all was arranged and the party set out, he was well behaved on the trail.

They made good time that day. There were no newly fallen logs to block the trail, the sun was sweetly warm, and the scent of the sea followed them. Dairuin stopped the group before dusk where a small clearing by the river showed a used stone firepit and a wooden trough for the horses.

"It is easy tonight, in this camp. Tomorrow night and the next there will be no such luxury, but on the fourth night we will be close to Arthad Lumren and there will be a set place." The horses were rubbed down and picketed, a meal cooked, and idle talk flowed here and there.

Dairuin turned to Glorfindel's question: "Will we meet others on this journey, in friendship or in battle?"

"There are Men here," he replied "but few, and scattered. We are not likely to meet friends until Athrad Lumren, unless a party ventures from the town.

"The Wildmen also know this land, and at times prey upon travellers. Most trips we are fortunate enough to avoid them. And their parties are seldom larger than ours, so we have a fair chance against them should we meet, but some years trading parties have lost horses, and even men to their raids."

"What is their way of fighting?"

"I cannot tell you; I know only a little of them. Magor served in the guard of Arthrad Lumren, and is the most experienced warrior of our group."

Magor now joined the conversation. "I don't really know of my own experience, although I have heard a few tales."

Turning to him, Glorfindel asked, "Have you heard aught of what weapons they favor?"

"From what I hear rarely do they have swords, unless taken from those they attack. They use the short bow, and most have knives."

"And do they come upon a party in force, or secretly steal upon their prey?"

"They do not attack directly, but rather lie in wait or creep stealthily upon their victims."

The questions continued, drawing out knowledge from both Magor and
Dairuin that they did not realize they held. He asked whether the Wildmen had greater comfort fighting in the woods, or in the open? Did they lurk in the rocky areas, or prefer dense forest? Had they been known to use horses? When victorious, what did they take from the camps or remains of their foes?

"You ask so many questions about them," Dariuin said, "do you feel something amiss? I know your senses are keener than ours."

"No, I feel nothing amiss now. I but take this chance to consider the matter ahead of any need. One may always plan better at leisure, and knowledge of one's opponent is never wasted. Even if a warrior never faces that enemy, the consideration of how victory may be achieved trains one to think in this manner in other battles."

Dairuin's eyes held respect, and Magor looked very thoughtful. The younger men, having finished supper, were arguing the merits of various horse breeds among themselves, and paid little heed once Glorfindel had denied an immediate threat.

"Magor, you have told me much of use about these Wildmen. Your knowledge is greater than you thought. Now let us think as they do, to see what we would plan if in their place." Magor immediately became caught up in this new understanding of his craft, but others rapidly tired of such talk.

Dairuin looked to Glorfindel. "Will you teach us the use of sword and bow as you know them? For surely your people have skills different than ours."

Glorfindel nodded. "I will teach you gladly. " He looked at the Men grouped around the fire and asked, "Who here bears a sword?"

Aside from Dairuin and Magor, only one other Man had a sword, the rest knives and bows only, but all were eager to learn. The Elf had each demonstrate what he knew.

"Show me the positions of defense." The would-be swordsman hesitantly swung. Glorfindel stopped him, saying "Wait." He went into the woods and after some minutes returned with branches, smooth and straight and about the length of the sword, handing one to Amlach.

"Those are as toys for children!" said Amlach.

"So I would start any under my command who had scant experience with the sword. But if you wish to spend all spare time sharpening a dulled edge, and risk irreparable hurt to your noble blade, so be it."

The Man glared at him, then seeming to realize others thought him a fool, smoothed his expression.

"Begin," said Glorfindel. He watched. "You are using your wrist. It will give you more control then the arm, but less power. Thrust instead with the arm."

After several corrections Amlach snapped at him, "It means nothing to me, what you are saying. Show me!"

To his apparent surprise, Glorfindel did not reach for his sword, but picked up one of the piled branches, and moved to stand opposite. He held himself very still, with the branch up, and when he did move, his whole body seemed to be behind his movement, so that Amlach's guard was overpowered and he looked, dismayed, at the branch tip resting against his midsection. "It is common to those who begin training with the sword to worry about delicate control. But it is more important to learn to transmit force through your weapon. Delicate control is for later, and for those who do this for play and sport without intent to harm." Their faces showed that this was an alien concept. "You must learn to do harm, as much as you can, or you will not stay alive through a fight."

The sword lessons continued. The Men were amazed at the breadth of knowledge glimpsed behind the brief instructions. Dairuin had expected lessons on holding a sword, positions and movement. These were given, along with comments on more subtle matters.

"You must have a care for your distance from your enemy. The space you create between you must be ideal for your weapon, not his. Do not give him control of the distance, for then he controls the fight, and thus the outcome."

At the end of that first sword lesson Dairuin asked, "Do you shoot as well as you use the sword?"

"I have some skill with a bow, but not so much as with the sword. There were some in the Hidden City that could better my shots."

"The Hidden City? I do not know it, where does it lie?"

"Gondolin, the Fair. It is lost now, merely a memory and legend among my people." He would say no more, but the next night Glorfindel began to teach technique of the bow as well as the sword.

The men all had bows, not long war-bows, but smaller bows with the broad tipped arrows of the hunter. Glorfindel had a longer bow, but said it was not quite as large as the great war-bows of Gondolin.

When Dairuin's eyes asked, Glorfindel handed him the bow to examine, and then nodded him onward to try it out. Dairuin was not quite so tall as Glorfindel, but tall enough among men, yet it was with great difficulty that he bent the bow. He felt clumsy trying to imitate the Elf's actions, pulling toward his ear rather than the more accustomed and easier pull toward the chest. With Glorfindel's help, he was able to imitate the correct motion, but it would be long before the skill came readily to his hands.

When it was full dark Glorfindel wandered away from the camp. Dairuin, not knowing if he should be concerned, followed after a time. The Elf stood at the river's edge, with his head thrown back and his eyes fixed above. Dairuin relaxed; there was no threat from that quarter holding his companion's attention. As he drew closer, he heard the rich, sweet voice singing:

A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!

"It sounds like the most beautiful birdsong on a clear evening when the mist starts to rise and the air is like strong drink. My heart wants to sing with you, though I do not understand the words. Is the song of joy or sorrow?"

He thought he heard a sigh. "It is both. My people remember the light, both when it was created, and now from afar. The last lines rendered roughly into your tongue would be:

"We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas."

"Do you worship the stars, then?" he asked, unsure of his ground.

"No, of course not, I but thank she who made them." Dairuin looked uncomprehending.

"Is she your Goddess?"

"She is Elbereth, a great one of the Valar. The Valar have much power over what passes in Arda, given to them by Ilúvatar the one. Do not your legends tell of them? They walked among us, in Middle-earth long ago, and now in Aman."

"We know little of the Gods who are said to dwell in the West, and many doubt their care for Men, and some doubt that they dwell still in Arda, or ever did. But you believe in her?" Dairuin asked, trying to understand.

"Friend," Glorfindel said softly, "our lives are so different that I forget. I do not need to believe in her; do you question if you believe in the rock that lies yonder? I have spoken with her as I now speak to you. The evil of Morgoth was not a legend to me, and the Halls of Mandos were my home for a time. There is little need for belief when you can not doubt."

The Man was silent for a time, and looked upward, the Elf following his gaze. Finally Dairuin said, "Your people must think we are as the Wildmen or the beasts in the woods, unlearned and barbaric."

"No, Dairuin, I do not think that of you. That there are such Men I do not doubt, but you and the folk of Ethir Varanduin that I have met are not of them. The Valar took those who fought and gifted them with Númenor. But I see now that those who stayed behind were left with a wounded land and a hard road. And, alas, I see a harder road yet at some time ahead, though it be not soon; no, I think not in the lifetime of the Men that now walk Middle-earth.

"Your lives and the lives of my kin in this land have not been easy; when the Valar withdrew oversea, those who remained were left to suffer whatever shadow grew from the seeds Morgoth had cast over Middle-earth. And your kin have lives so short, they had not even the memory the Firstborn carry to sustain them." He turned to the Man. "Come, it is time for rest." Dairuin followed him silently back to the fire.



When they stopped for the noonmeal on the third day, Glorfindel found a quiet moment to speak to Dairuin and Magor. "Something follows us. Not orcs, I judge, but something with ill intent."

"The Wildmen," said Magor. "We are near their woods now. If they do not strike soon, we will be near to Arthrad Lumren where they will not go unless in large groups. Last time they tried that they lost many, and I doubt they have forgotten." His words seemed to encourage him, yet still he looked uneasy.

That night, Glorfindel insisted on choosing the campsite, a thing he had not done before, seeming content to do his share but give no direction. Dairuin and Magor exchanged glances at his decision, but said nothing. He picked a low bluff that nonetheless was higher than the surrounding ground, and that backed on a deep and fast flowing section of the river. There were a few small groups of trees, but there also was a large area that was merely scrub, for the thin soil would not support more; and also here and there were places where the naked rock reared through to reach upward.

He left Galvorn loose and had the men tie five of the horses nearby to a group of trees. All the other horses were picketed nearer to the bluff edge on the other side of the clear area. As darkness fell he kept six of the Men awake, allowing only two to sleep at a time. There was some grumbling from Brandir and Amlach, quickly silenced by a look from Dairuin. At Glorfindel's direction, they had arranged pulled grass and spare clothes from the packs, cooking gear, the bags of salt - anything to make it appear that all but their usual single watcher slept.

"Magor and Urthel, you will be on the ground, Amlach and Dairuin will rest and then relieve you at next watch. Brandir and Baran will trade off as the one on watch by the fire."

Dairuin realized that Glorfindel had chosen those who had swords to be among the ones on the ground, and had left the best archers for the trees. Clearly, from the training he was well aware of strengths and weaknesses, and had planned carefully, placing the young and least experienced among them furthest from harm. "Dorlas and Handir, you will be up in the trees, ready to shoot. You may each rest in turn, but you will not have time to string your bows or make noise seeking arrows, so have all ready to hand."

"You are the best archer among us, shouldn't you be up there too?"

"I will be in the trees with you, but I will be needed on the ground rapidly. Don't shoot me." They grinned back at his smile.

Baran looked like he would protest his duties as Glorfindel turned to him. "We will depend on you to watch that they do not come at us from the other side. I do not expect it, but they may be clever enough to do the unexpected. We will have a signal should this occur - you will raise a torch in your left hand."

"Why a signal? Why shouldn't I just shout?"

"If you shout not all may be able to distinguish the words, and you will reveal to the raiders that they have been seen. If they are cunning, they will either attack immediately before we have time to ready ourselves, or they will leave to try at a different time or place. Better they should attack when we are well prepared."

They watched for hours in the quiet night, but still Glorfindel would not let any more of them sleep, only they might rotate which two rested in comfort. When the night was more than half done, with dawn but a few hours away, Glorfindel touched each of his companions in the tree. A frog croaked, not an unusual sound here, but it was repeated, and after a few minutes, repeated again. Dairuin tried to force his eyes to discern shapes better in the dim light of the quartermoon, an effort doomed to fail.

The shadows were moving in the trees now. His best estimate was eight men, doubtless Glorfindel had an accurate count. The shadows flowed toward the five horses, and they shifted uneasily, catching unfamiliar, but not yet frightening scents. Dairuin waited. Baran sat near the circle of stuffed bedrolls, apparently oblivious to what was happening 60 feet away; Dairuin thought that he would truly have been oblivious, had not Glorfindel warned them. He watched from behind the rocky outcrop near the bluff edge, ready with an arrow should one of the intruders raise a bow to loose a shaft at Baran.

As the vague shapes within the darkness came up to the horses, the frog croaked twice. A volley from the branches above the intruders picked off the first few to approach the horses, four of which were standing alert as the sounds of fighting reached them. The fifth, Galvorn, had startled and would have fled, but a few words in a soft voice had stopped him when he reached the other horses.

Some of the intruders melted back into the trees, the rest clustered together. A few hoarse words and those remaining were cutting ropes and pulling, even as arrows continued to find their marks. Unfortunately an arrow wound in an arm or leg would not usually stop a determined adversary, and these were determined. "Now!" cried Glorfindel, and he and Dorlas jumped down on the dark forms, grappling and stabbing. The remainder of the defenders, hidden behind the rocks, emerged, those behind firing as they had a clear shot, those in front with swords out advancing toward the knot of horses, ready to defend against any who should get so far.

Now all was noise and close fighting. Dairuin felt the sword in his hand more comfortable than in his few past fights; later he would think on how little the Wildmen could stand up to a coordinated defense. Now he noticed only the openings left by his adversary, and the shouts and cries around him. When he could look up again, Glorfindel was at the center, balanced and graceful, blade flickering in the dim quartermoon light. He easily defeated the Wildmen who stood to fight against him, but most were scrambling away. Handir's arrows continued to find targets from the tree above the affray.

With the ebb of battle from his position, Dairuin glanced around, trying to make sense of the chaos and reassure himself about his fellows. One was disregarding Glorfindel's instruction not to pursue the Wildmen too far from the main group. Dairuin swore as he noted the sword the other held; it was Amlach chasing his quarry into the trees. Then another dark figure appeared beside the retreating man and both turned to strike at the pursuer. Even as Dairuin was shouting a warning, Glorfindel leapt to Amlach's side and his sword was a shield for the overmatched man.

The rest of the defenders were in a group in front of the horses, a few of the raiders still fighting as they retreated, but most had turned and fled. One, realizing that he would soon be cut off from escape, grabbed at Galvorn to swing himself up, perhaps thinking that the untied horse meant a more docile mount. It was his undoing, as the big bay squealed, reared and kicked out, striking flesh. The would-be rider grunted harshly and ran to follow his fellows, and suddenly there was quiet - no more hoarse voices or ring of steel, only faint sounds in the trees growing ever more distant.

Dairuin's blood still raced, and he knew the group would not have fought like this even a few days ago. The weapons lessons had been some help to them, but more important was tactics - Glorfindel was right about the Wildmen. Right about how they fought: that they did not want to stand to fight but would raid and run, and if they could not succeed, they would flee. Their main strength was surprise; Glorfindel having deprived of them of that weapon, the traders claimed victory with little loss.

Dairuin was grateful for that last. He had lost horses before, and even men; to see a friend die was to lose a piece of oneself, and left him to mourn and question. Dairuin was almost as glad that no Wildmen lay dead on the bluff or in the trees. He would be content if they could travel here unmolested, with no need to fight those who were likely his distant kin.

Glorfindel's voice cut through the confusion. "Magor, Handir, follow them a ways and report if they start to double back! Urthel, You are on watch now." Yes, Dairuin thought, that made sense; he was one who had slept. The Elf was still speaking. "Who is hurt?" None volunteered information. "Brandir, see to the horses. All others, return to the fire." The blaze was built up, and Glorfindel had Dorlas hold a torch while he checked over each man. He ignored the declarations of lack of injury, rightly so as he found a long shallow gash on Amlach's forearm. After the scouts had returned and everyone was examined, Glorfindel washed and bound Amlach's injury. "Had we light I would stitch it, but it will do well enough."

"Will they return?" Amlach asked, respectfully.

"I think not, it would not be enough gained for what they would lose, and I expect they know this. If they are truly motivated by desire for the horses, weapons and stores, they will look elsewhere. Were they orcs, fueled by hatred, they would not cease to track us."

After sunrise, in the bustle of preparing to ride, Dairuin drew Glorfindel aside. "You would have known if the Wildmen still followed us, as you knew they watched us before we stopped for the night. Why send Magor and Handir after them?"

"Your company is not versed in the ways of war, and need practice. I will not always be with you." There was no apology in the eyes, only the assurance of an experienced commander.

Daruin nodded. The group mounted their horses and rode on.

As the day wore on they no longer had to look sharply for their path, it became a more obvious, well-used trail. That night, as if to compensate for the rigors of the previous camp, there was a clearing and a small lean-to with a trough for rain water, and it held a generous measure still. A stone fire-ring and a pole to tether the horses also heralded their nearness to more settled areas.

"Tomorrow," said Magor, "we will reach Arthad Lumren. It is a true town, not a tiny settlement like that in which we found you. We trade with many of the smaller towns, and when anything menaces, it is to our town that the others look for aid and direction. But there is also more mirth and comfort to be found there, and I will be glad to reach it!"

Many of the younger Men spoke their enthusiastic agreement with Magor's sentiment. Glorfindel reserved judgement on the merits of the various dwellings of Men until the morrow.

This town was larger and the activity of it made Ethir Varanduin seem like a drip of honey, and Arthrad Lumren the bustle of the ants. The boats tied at the river's edge were various sizes, not just the small fishing boats of the coastal settlement. A palisade of logs encircled the buildings, and armed Men were on watch at the wall.

When they emerged from the trees there was a strip where the trees had been cut back from the palisade. As they crossed the cleared area, townsmen were gathering about the gate.

"Ho! We made good time!" called out Dairuin. A murmur of greeting swelled into loud questions, and Glorfindel could not but notice the eyes upon him, even as the owners of those eyes spoke to their kin.

"Who travels with you?" asked one of the guardsmen who had come from the guardhouse to join those at the gates. Glorfindel saw that his gear was finer those already at the wall, and did not answer as he and the others dismounted. He waited, looking to Dairuin first, allowing him to answer if he would.

"This is Glorfindel, one of the Firstborn; he seeks his kin of Lindon. He joined us in Ethir Varanduin." That silenced the questioners for a moment, as none could think of why an Elf would choose to travel there. "There was a fierce storm on the sea, and his boat was driven in." The explanation seemed to spawn as many questions as it answered.

Glorfindel inclined his head courteously and looked around with interest at the town and townsmen. Dairuin turned to him. "As this town is far larger than Ethir Varanduin, there is an inn for those who trade to stay at. Many of the others will stay with kin or friends here, but I will make arrangements for the two of us, if you will permit it."

Glorfindel smiled his agreement, and Dairuin addressed the guard captain. "Greetings Rhadruin. We are weary but I would go to the hall and give Baragund what news there is from Ethir Varanduin. And Baragund will want to greet our guest."

Amlach came up with a lead rope, and offered it to Glorfindel who attached it to Galvorn's halter with a soothing murmur to the horse. But when Amlach reached for the rope the horse jerked his head away. Glorfindel thanked Amlach, but took the lead himself. "Perhaps after I have cared for Galvorn, Amlach will guide me to the hall?" At the young man's nod, Glorfindel turned to follow the rest of the party to the stables.

*~*~*

The town's Hall was built of round river stones, held together with crumbling mortar. The inn adjoining boasted the same construction, and appeared of an age with the Hall. A wise ancestor of the current chief had built these, the only fortified points in town once the palisade was breached. It had not happened often, but the buildings had proved their use on occasion in the past. And the Inn proved its use frequently- the public room was the social center for the town, and a source of information for Baragund whose sister kept the inn. Dairuin would enjoy the warmth and mirth there later.

Dairuin came into a cold stone room where Baragund sat by the fire with a mug of ale. Baragund gestured him in and toward a wooden chair. Rhadruin poured ale for them both as Baragund asked questions.

"Tell us of Ethir Varanduin and the south, how fare they?"

Dairuin considered his words. "The crops flourish, the town grows, but not as fast as might be. There is a feeling as if a man lived on an island and knew that somewhere in a cave there was a wolf, and he waited in fear for the wolf to discover him and attack. They are uneasy there. The Wildmen prey on them even close to the town. They live nearer to the East than you, and they fear it greatly."

"And what of the West? Did you learn anything of the Men from the Sea?"

"Gundor knew only the talk we have heard."

Rhadruin was impatient. "Why should we care overmuch about this? The Wildmen will not march against us, and we have nothing the Sea Men would want."

Dairuin looked pityingly at him. "Nothing? You have heard the talk of forests razed and lands taken in the south, down by the mouth of the Greyflood."

"Rumors, idle talk." He shrugged.

"One of my kin returned to Evendim telling of bare land and ruined villages, and a thriving port. Whether it is the Sea Men or the evil in the east that has done this he could not say, but something cut the forest and drove off those who lived there!"

Baragund held up his hand. "Cease bickering. Rhadruin, I don't know how much I believe of what is said these days either, but we must hear it. Even if none of it is true, some will think it is and will buy or sell differently because of it. We can profit from rumors as well as truths, if we but discover them."

Dairuin's eyes flicked over both men and returned to catch Baragund's gaze. "Do not make the mistake many have made of discounting any breath of trouble."

"You left hurriedly a month ago to see to Gundor's stranger, and we did not speak much. Were you so concerned then?" Baragund asked.

"Aye, and more so now. Did you hear that we were attacked by a band of Wildmen on the way? Better armed than ever in the past?"

Rhadruin looked at him sharply. "If that is so, how did you escape injury or loss? I saw you at the gates, and all appeared unhurt, and you had a full complement of horses."

"Yes," said Dairuin, "and much of that is due to Glorfindel. Without him we would have lost men and beasts on this journey."

"That one? He looks barely grown to manhood, beardless and slender. You would think him fit for nothing but to sing beside Master Gethron." Rhadruin snickered at the thought.

Dairuin replied evenly, "He is no youngling. He speaks and fights as one who has seen many battles, and the Wildmen were turned back without loss to us only by his aid. He knows well the ways of war and we have learned much from him. An Elf may look delicate, but do not think that all their time is spent singing lays, or crafting objects of beauty; they are fell warriors also."

Baragund poured more ale. "Peace!" he said tiredly, "we'll not learn more by arguing." He turned to Dairuin. "So Gundor's stranger, the Elf, what have you learned of him? Is he from Lindon, and if so why land at Ethir Varanduin? Does he have some secret purpose that the Elves have not told Men?"

Dairuin was careful. "I do not believe that. He told of a storm that drove his boat in, and Gundor said that there had indeed been such a storm over the sea. Glorfindel says he is not from Lindon, but from the lands of the West, yet he says he has lived in Middle-earth in the past. From what I have seen of him, I believe him to tell the truth."

"Did he say where he is from?"

"He mentioned the City of Gondolin, and spoke as if he had been a warrior there, but I do not know where it lies."

Rhadruin was impatient. "We will ask him." He made as if to stand, but Baragund was not finished.
"Who will he serve?"

"That, he has told me. He travels to Lindon, and speaks of serving the High King; he names the king Gil-galad, and that is a name I have heard."

"You have visited Lindon?" Rhadruin asked, amazed.

"A few times; we travelled there on trade. I know only merchants; members of the King's court would have no need to meet traders. I have learned only a small amount of their language, but some speak our tongue."

Baragund waved this away. "You will wish to rest and refresh yourself. I must welcome our visitor, will you ask him to the hall? Or does their custom demand I visit him?"

"He does not stand on ceremony. I believe him willing to use the customs of men while he is among us." He hesitated, and continued resolutely, "I believe he is great among his kind, a commander of others." Baragund met Dairuin's eyes. It was clear he understood the warning, although he gave no indication if it would be heeded. Rhadruin appeared bored.

*~*~*

Galvorn having been settled, Glorfindel walked through the town with Amlach. Many glances at him were awed, many were fearful. Baragund welcomed him into the hall, dismissed Amlach, and offered wine brought north from the lands east and south of Ethir Varanduin, and thus precious and little seen. Glorfindel received the cup in the spirit offered, thanking his host with great courtesy. Rhadruin took up his cup and held it, watching the Elf.

Glorfindel saw that the younger man was clearly uneasy around him, but Baragund was less so, and greeted him. "I bid you welcome. Is there a way in which we may serve you, Lord?"

"Your people have served me well with their company and friendship. I owe a debt already to the village of Ethir Varanduin, and do not wish to add more. I but seek the courtesy of your town for the week that the traders will rest, and then I will continue north with them, there to find my kin."

"Will you tell us aught of what news you bear? Tales of the West, or talk of the Men from the Sea?"

"The West is as it ever is, a place of bliss for those who dwell there. As to the Men of the Sea, I know only such little as one travelling with them for a time may know. Tar-Súrion is King now, but he draws toward the end of his days, nearing his fourth century. I do not know what sort of Queen his daughter will make, but have no cause to think ill of her. Those of their line have been mighty rulers, and friends to the Eldar. Would that it shall ever be so."

"And will these Men be friends to the Men of Eriador?" This was the crux of the matter to Baragund.

"It has been so in the past, and we may hope for the same in the future. But alas! Just as not all who serve the shadow appear foul or are evil, so not all who fight against the shadow make wise choices or see clearly."

Baragund's eyes narrowed slightly. "We will speak more of this when you are refreshed. Traveller's tales are always welcome in the evening, and new songs even more so. I hope you will favor me with more conversation when you are rested. For now, I entrust you to my sister's care for your comfort."

When the Elf had withdrawn, Rhadruin turned to Baragund with questions. "Why not ask him more? He told us nothing; we don't know where he is from or why he is here!"

Baragund sighed. "Rhadruin, if Dairuin believes that this is a Lord of his kind, it is likely so. It is ill-mannered among them to question much without offering food and rest first unless the need is urgent. He will be here a week. We have time."

*~*~*

Dairuin had returned to wait beyond the hall for Glorfindel, sitting at ease on one of the benches in the square of which the inn and hall made up two sides. The traders had passed through on the trip south not four weeks ago, and as always, the inn was unchanged- only those who came and went differed. Baragund's sister greeted Dairuin warmly, but seemed frightened of Glorfindel. She gave him a room to himself, presented as a compliment to his presumed status. Dairuin suspected it was given more as their hostess would think others too uneasy to share a room with one of the Firstborn.

The woman nodded to her daughter, and they were conducted to their chambers by Asgareth. Looking at her eyes and her manner, Dairuin was reminded of his thoughts on the trip south - this one would chafe here in Arthrad Lumren. Though it was the largest of the river towns and the inhabitants considered it the center of life along the river, their focus was narrow, their knowledge of the outside world scant. They knew little of other folk, and next to nothing of the dangers abroad beyond the Wildmen and the River.

Asgareth was newly grown to womanhood, and brash as one of the few in town used to strangers coming and going, and accustomed to seeing armed men of various sorts at the inn. But her eyes grew wide at the sight of Glorfindel, obviously no man.

*~*~*

Later in the evening the travelers went to the public room of the inn. Those of the town with coin and liberty to do so would frequent these rooms in the next days, hoping to hear tidings or new songs, or at least catch a glimpse of the stranger. Dairuin was interested to see Gethron, the only bard the town boasted, sitting comfortably by the fire, waiting eagerly. He could almost hear the tale that would come of this night: The Elf and Arthrad Lumren.

There was a buzz of talk when they arrived, but sufficient politeness to wait until they were seated and had mugs of ale, before excited questions tumbled out: about the West, the Sea, and Ethir Varanduin. To Dairuin's eye Glorfindel enjoyed it all, but he doubted that it showed to any who knew the Elf less well. He answered questions about what the West was like, about the Land of the Men from the Sea, and about Elven-lore. As expected, many voices joined in calling for a song. Glorfindel smiled and looked to the bard enquiringly. The bard smiled back in anticipation, and reached down to place a small harp and a lute on the table before him, his gesture an invitation.

Glorfindel gravely inspected the offerings, pronounced them worthy instruments, and selected the harp. He bowed slightly to his now-quiet audience. "Of what shall I sing?"

Many voices spoke simultaneously: "The Elder days!" "Far off lands!" "Heroic deeds!" He waited for the tumult to lessen. "I will sing you of Finrod and how he met Men in Beleriand long ago." He sang of that ancient meeting and most listened, enthralled. His voice was rich and strong as he told of Finrod Felagund harping to the Men newly arrived in Ossiriand.

At the enthusiastic reception and the urging of the group, he sang a few more tales, some accompanied by Gethron on the lute, some alone. At length he begged off, and finally agreed to one more, saying, "I will tell you of your forefathers, the Tale of the Men of Dor-Lómin, in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears."

The tale was told lovingly and sorrowfully, of those who came to oppose the Enemy, of bravery and treachery, of hope unlooked for and hope destroyed.

Glorfindel stopped and sipped his ale. He sang next of the despair -many and valiant were those who died in that battle - Man, Elf and Dwarf fell trying to rid Middle-earth of the Shadow.

Eyes darkened with memory, he sang of the end: for at the last the Elves and Men stood strong together, "But Hurin bid the Elf-king of Gondolin save his host, saying, 'Go now, lord, while time is! For in you lives the last hope of the Eldar, and while Gondolin stands Morgoth shall still know fear in his heart.' And when Turgon would demur, Hurin prophesied, 'out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men.

This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death:
though we part here forever,
and I shall not look on your white walls again,
from you and from me a new star shall arise.' "

Glorfindel plucked a few chords, sweet and hauntingly sad as if the harp cried, and spoke solemnly:

"The tale is oft-told by those who returned, and told again to sons and daughters, to brothers and sisters, of the bravery of the Men of Dor-lómin.

"And at the last Húrin stood alone; axe in hand he hewed all those who came against him, slaying seventy of his foes, and as he slew he cried: 'Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!'

"And though taken and bound and tormented, yet for those left there was also hope - for his words to Turgon were true. From Huor brother of Húrin, sprang Tuor, who wedded the king's daughter Idril. And of them came Eärendil the blessed who sailed to Valinor and returned with the Valar to defeat Morgoth at long last."

Now with his eyes raised to gather his audience, he sang at last, "These are the mighty Men who were your sires."

The harp was very soft as Glorfindel repeated the last line. Many in the room wept, and all called their acclaim for the tale.
He inclined his head slightly to the crowd, and more deeply to Gethron, and bade all a good night.

*~*~*

The next morning Dairuin invited Glorfindel to accompany him about the town. They stopped to watch the guardsmen drilling; blades flashing in the sun as Rhadruin directed the practice. The man was past first youth but not yet of middle years, tall, and with the golden brown hair that seemed characteristic of Arthrad Lumren. "Magor served in this guard for a time, not so long ago. Had he stayed, he would have the captaincy now." Glorfindel heard Dairuin's unspoken comment: this would have been a better choice.

"Do many in the guard choose to travel and learn other ways?"

"Not enough. Too many think it is sufficient to be strong and fast, and feel themselves skilled if they can defeat other guardsmen. They know little of the world beyond the town's borders, or at most they have travelled to other river towns. Magor, and Gethron, and perhaps one or two others are the only ones of Arthrad Lumren who have been north of the Great Dwarf Road, or more than a few days ride east or west of here." Dairuin stopped speaking then, seeing Rhadruin approach.

Rhadruin greeted both of them, turning to Glorfindel after the greeting. "The men tell me that you are a warrior."

"I was a warrior once," Glorfindel acknowledged.

"No more?" He seemed disappointed.

"The skills have not deserted my hand, but my heart prefers other paths now," he said diplomatically. "But I come to serve my king. Were I given my choice of service, fighting is a poor second, but at need I will fight."

"Hmm. Magor has told me of your skill. If you take pleasure in the contest, will you consent to pit your skill against mine in the practice yard?"

"Of course, Captain. I would find it most interesting."

Most of those present would hope for their townsman to triumph, but many still looked at the Elf with curiosity and expectation. Rhadruin was known for a sharp tongue and direct ways. Dairuin was amused to see that when Glorfindel had rapidly braided his hair back, a girl pushed through the crowd to give him a lacing to tie it. Glorfindel smiled at the young woman and thanked her. Then he gathered up the weight of the golden strands, twisted, tied, and tucked the bound hair beneath the collar of his tunic.

Glorfindel picked up the blunt practice blades in turn, feeling the balance. "This one will serve."

Rhadruin shrugged impatiently. "It is a practice blade, they are much the same."

Dairuin watched, wondering if Rhadruin really understood the skills of Elves, and of this Elf in particular. He scanned the group that had drifted over to watch. Several soldiers of the town guard, merchants, idlers and stable boys, and even a woman or two. His eye picked out Asgareth, and his lip twitched. Whether the outcome of the contest was one Rhadruin wished to boast of or not, Baragund would have all the details by sunset.

Even though they but sparred with blunted blades, underneath was deadly purpose, at least on the part of the Man. Dairuin well knew that while this might be sparring in name, to Rhadruin it was deadly serious. He hoped Glorfindel understood that. Glancing at the Elf's calm expression, his eye was caught by the suggestion of a nod. Glorfindel was well aware and desired to reassure his friend.

The play of the blades was quick and fierce. High guard, low guard, … Rhadruin was sweating. Glorfindel was calm and looked the same as when he had instructed the traders on the journey. Every parry caught on the flat of his blade and displaced, every step smooth and flowing - appearing inevitable afterwards, as if no other movement would have served quite so well. He did not seek to disarm or win immediately, but rather to prolong the bout, and that was obvious to anyone with any experience in the matter. It was incredible skill, combined with delicate courtesy, and Dairuin doubted that Rhadruin was appreciating either at this moment.

Still appearing completely at ease, Glorfindel slid inside the other's guard and the sword point was at Rhadruin's chest. The bystanders roared, and Rhadruin looked as if he did not know what to say. Glorfindel inclined his head, lowered his blade, and thanked him for a good match.

It was common for the townsmen to gossip, and Baragund had always encouraged them to bring him news. Each person with any trivial encounter with the Elf brought him word, eager to tell him what they saw, what they heard, what they thought they knew. Now he hoarded his store: four different accounts of the sparring contest; and finally Rhadruin had come, shamefacedly, to give his own.

Rhadruin was unusually soft-spoken as he related the events, but bluster crept in by the end. "He appears scarcely more than a child; I was taken off-guard through my misestimation. Had he granted me the rematch I asked, the outcome might be different, but still, such skill from one so young!"

Baragund tried to be patient. "I doubt another match would change things. My father met Elves at the trading camp on the East Road; he said they all look like that - beautiful and ageless. They appear slender and delicate, but are deadly fighters if the tales be true."

"If this was a sample they are deadly fighters indeed! How can we trust any so different and deceptive? What if he returns with an army at his back?"

"I do not think that is their nature. They are not always comfortable neighbors, but there has never been strife between our peoples. If I were to fear war, it would be that the ill feeling we hear of would incite Elves into battle with each other, or more likely with the eastern Men."

"And why should fighting so distant trouble us?" Rhadruin asked, with a shade of his accustomed bravado. "If they are such fell warriors, so wise and ancient, surely none will ask our aid."

"Even if we are too far away to be drawn into such a conflict, think you this town will fare well if the Great Road grows perilous? Will any be interested in trade while a war rages?" The thought was chilling. He had no desire to see Arthrad Lumren sink to the poverty of the towns further to the east and south, towns where the folk scratched and bled to win their bread in these dark times.

"I had not considered that. All the more reason to be wary of Elves." At Baragund's slight grimace he added, "At least we should stay out of their quarrels."

"We change nothing yet." Baragund added reassuringly, "I do not think such a thing likely; the days of the great wars are past. But I worry that something is amiss." His face remained thoughtful as Rhadruin took his leave, and he resolved to delay no further in availing himself of the knowledge and insight others held.


***

"I hoped we might take counsel together. It may serve us all if each will put forth what he knows of this land and how it fares." Baragund's words were a polite request, but his quick, repeated glances at Dairuin and Glorfindel told of his insecurity. "I have heard of what passes in Eregion and Khazad-dum, but I wish to know more of the dangers we face."

Dairuin nodded - he had thought perhaps Baragund would not feel the fear or acknowledge it; he was not sorry to be wrong. He turned to Glorfindel. "Aye, everywhere in Eriador people look east and worry; no one knows what dwells there that fills hearts with fear, but there has long been a shadow on that land, and it grows. The Men who live there are become cruel and warlike, and were it not for the Men from the Sea, none of the Three Kindreds would venture much east of the Greyflood."

Baragund picked up the thread again, his voice ingratiating. "Lord Glorfindel, will you tell us now of the far west and if there is truly some threat to us in Eriador? For even as our trade grows, the rumors Dairuin speaks of cause those of us here much unease. I beg you will share your wisdom in this."

"Alas that I do not have better to share." Glorfindel's gaze was solemn, well aware that his words brought little comfort to these Men seeking to unweave a web of confusion. "I do not know where the heart of the shadow lies, but that the cold wind of its spirit comes from the east; some dark fear that is felt but cannot be named. We have heard whispers of it, in Aman, and do not know what to make of them: Morgoth it cannot be, for he was thrust through the Door of Night into the Void, and he will not return. But the seeds he left behind have taken root and may blossom yet with foul purpose. More to your point is that Eriador is not free of this taint. The shadow searches for harborage here as well."

Baragund protested, "Surely you don't sense a source of evil here?"

There was compassion in the Elf's voice as he replied, "It is with sadness that I must say that it is so. Something stirs the Wildmen, and even this town is not free from the echoes of shadow."

Baragund was clearly discomforted by this. "You speak of shadow, but the Elves themselves cannot agree on what haunts Middle-earth," he argued. "We hear from those of Lindon that some dark thing stirs, but whence it comes they say they know not. Their King is said to be most suspicious of others, or jealous of the newer realms and those who learn new skills. If the Elves cannot agree among themselves what passes, how can Men decide who they shall believe?"

"As all must, by looking in their own heart as part of the judging," came Glorfindel's calm tones. "But what is this suspicion and jealousy you speak of?"

Dairuin broke in, "In Lindon they say that something is amiss even in Hollin, which they call Eregion."

Baragund added, "The Elves of Hollin do not believe that the shadow will return, and speak of new promise and the power to preserve and heal. The craftsmen of Ost-in-Edhil say that Lindon is foolish and vain, clinging to old ways and unwilling to see new arts taught. And I have heard that the Great Lord who teaches this power will not go to Lindon."

Glorfindel's interest sharpened. "So now there is wariness between them, who are kin. Do they say more of this lord who has brought such benefits?"

Baragund shrugged. "There is good return in trade from Hollin, so I hear some talk from travellers. It is said that Lord Annatar is fair and powerful, and that his gifts infuse that which the craftsmen make, and that the bliss of the West shall be brought to Middle-earth thereby. It is worth a high price to say that a making was wrought with knowledge gained from Lord Annatar. He is much admired, and his followers have proclaimed that his teachings will bring better times to Eriador."

"What manner of being is he?" asked Glorfindel.

"Little is told of his origins," Baragund answered, "but that he says he comes from the West. The travellers say he is neither mortal nor Elf, but how could that be?"

"I know of none sent from the West before me since the War of Wrath," Glorfindel said, and his voice left no room for doubt. He turned to Dairuin. "Do you know aught else of him?"

"Some do not admire him so." Dairuin continued, "It is rumored that that the Elf-king himself forbade entry to this 'Lord of Gifts.'"

Glorfindel's surprise was evident. "He is barred from Lindon? Is there word of why this should be?"

"It is said that the King and his advisors feared that he was not what he claimed - beyond this I have not heard. It scarce seems worthy of such, yet there is much ill-will come of this. Lindon's messengers have gone to many lands, including my own, urging all to shun the one called Annatar. And now those from Hollin who have welcomed him now speak less kindly of their kin in Lindon."

"Has the king refused hospitality to other travellers?" Glorfindel asked, thoughtful.

"If he has, there has been no word of it come to my ears."

Baragund was still unsettled and spoke to his own concerns. "I do not like this talk. Understand me, we do well with the trade that comes from Hollin. Ever do they grow more skillful, and the same is true of the Dwarves in Khazad-Dûm. They make many beautiful and useful objects, and they need grain, wool, wine, flax and salt. Their trade is at the heart of our prosperity, and I wish no ill-feeling between us. But I want no part of an Elvish war."

"You may set your mind at rest; there will be no kinstrife; the Firstborn will not go down that path again," Glorfindel said gently. "But nonetheless, there is much to be discovered here, much that is unexplained."

"Then I wish you success of it. But we of Arthrad Lumren do not mean to take anyone's part in this, we wish to be on good terms with all Elves and Dwarves. We seek only peace and trade. That is all I am interested in."

Glorfindel's eyes held pity, but his words were not soft. "I fear for you then, if you close your eyes to what may come to pass." Baragund shifted in his seat as the Elf spoke. "There will be little trade if the shadow is victorious. Servants of Morgoth, like Morgoth himself, do not hire others - they take them as thralls to live in torment. They do not buy - they take what they desire, caring not for the cost to others. It would be a foolish Man who expects anything other than dominion and harsh measures from such a one. You can not trade with the shadow, you can not bargain with the shadow, the shadow will take what it wants from you, and taint whatever it leaves behind." Glorfindel's musical voice was more forceful now.

"Fear and foulness are its meat. Blood spilled in senseless slaughter is its drink. And to stir ill-feeling among those who would ally against darkness is the shadow's glee," said Glorfindel. It seemed to the two Men then, as they sat in the fire-warmed room, that a chill had crept in, as if a vision of horror hovered just beyond their sight.

Baragund stood restlessly and paced before the hearth. "You speak of dire matters, as if old legends had returned. How do you know these things?"

"I have seen the shadow at the gates of my city; such memories are slow to fade," Glorfindel said simply. "Those of this town have not seen orcs rend their young, nor did they hear the screams and moans of those dragged away as thralls to the shadow. I have. And women and children of your kin were among those tormented by the Easterlings after the brave Men of Dor-lómin fell; I would sorrow to see another generation of Men suffer that fate."

Baragund's face was troubled, but not entirely convinced.

***


It was a pensive Glorfindel who ventured out the next day, caring for Galvorn, preparing for their departure, fulfilling his promise to teach Gethron the tales he had sung.

Dairuin seemed disquieted also. He looked up from the load he was packing to ask, "The tension between Lindon and Hollin does not auger well for opposing the shadow, does it?

"No, and to hear of discordance between those who are kin is always troubling." He considered, and went on, "Why should they be unfriends over this? And who is seeing more clearly in this matter? Were I to choose, I would trust the eyes of Lindon over Eregion, of Gil-galad over Celebrimbor. But there is more: this 'Lord of Gifts' claims to be from the West, yet I know him not. So who or what is he? And will he sow doubt of others who have come from the west?"

"Do you fear his mistrust?"

"Gil-galad has forbidden Lindon to the mysterious stranger, but I do not think to be turned from that land. It is said that Gil-galad is wise, and has counsellors of great lore and knowledge - I hope they would know the truth of my words."

Dairuin said, "If they are as wise as the tales name them, they can not doubt you. And whatever task lies ahead, could any denial deter you?"

Glorfindel's laugh filled the stable, and for a moment his voice held its usual merriment. "Dairuin, I cannot judge how this will affect what I must do, because I do not know myself what it is. I know that Lindon and its peoples will need all aid, and that I will give whatever aid I may. Beyond that, I must seek my own answer." He smiled, and set aside Galvorn's tack to inspect his sword. But as he reached for the sharpening stone, there was again care in his face. "Many things can go awry of this; I hope that Men, whose memory of shadow is short, will not be beguiled."

"This 'Lord of Gifts,' you do not trust him, do you?"

Glorfindel looked up from the edge he was honing. "I would rest easier if I understood his purpose and origin. I do not like such mysteries."


The mystery of Annatar remained to perplex him, along with the question of his own purpose here - to be an emissary of the Valar was no comfortable task. Tuor had burned with it, only quenching his fire at the last in the call of the sea and the West. Eärendil had paid a higher price - home, wife, children.

What price would be asked of him? Perhaps I already paid it, in Gondolin.

Glorfindel remembered Turgon, and his uncertainty when he repeated that which Ulmo had told him: "Remember that the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West and cometh from the Sea."

So it had been - Manwë had sent the armies of Valinor to Beleriand to defeat Morgoth. Did those words still hold true? Was he, too, part of the hope of the Noldor? And did those of Lindon look through eyes too darkened by the shadow to accept new hope?

As they prepared their departure from Arthrad Lumren his heart was heavier than when he had entered.

* * *


A/N:
I welcome any commentary or suggestions on this; it is still a work in progress and I may revise as the last few chapters are written. I anticipate 2 or 3 more chapters.

Ulmo's words to Turgon are from The Silmarillion, Chapter 15, Of the Noldor in Beleriand.

The title for this story comes from an Ursula Leguin novel, 'The Dispossessed.'

In Peoples of Middle-earth, HoMe 12, Late Writings Glorfindel is postulated to have returned to Middle-earth from Valinor in the Second Age between 1200 and 1600. Christopher Tolkien mentions the end of the essay having the note 'Númenorean ship,' presumed to be his method of return.

The essay also contains "it seems far more likely that he was sent in the crisis of the Second Age, when Sauron invaded Eriador, to assist Elrond, and that though not (yet) mentioned in the annals recording Sauron's defeat he played a notable and heroic part in the war."
I have interpreted this to allow me to have Glorfindel fight in the Last Alliance as well as against Sauron's invasion of Eriador.

Miles or leagues? Tolkien mentions both measures of distance in LotR.

When planning this story, I spent a lot of time thinking about how the villagers would view the men from the sea, and how that might change over time in the transition from the 'Days of Help' to the 'Days of Dominion'.

Nath pointed me towards 'Tal-Elmar', a fragment at the end of "The Peoples of Middle-earth", HoME 12. This fragment deals with a small village that sees the coming of Numenorean ships, and has frightening legends about what that will mean. My villagers were not quite as rough, and had a bit more information about the sea-men. I gave them enough political sophistication to see ambiguity, and they had heard of elves, which Tal-Elmar's village had not. Of course, it all depends where along the coast, and what year.

If I am reading things correctly, there were men of several groups living in the sparsely settled areas south Eriador. There were the kin of Haleth, said to reproduce more slowly than others, and also the kin of the folk of Hador. I gather the Bëor were more in the North and East, although there was much mixing.

It would have been most reasonable for inhabitants of southern Eriador in the prewar Second Age to have been of the folk of Haleth. This would have left me with a difficult language problem, since their language was different from that of the other Edainic peoples. Their characteristics were different as well, as they are described as "less eager for lore. They used few words, and did not love great concourse of men; and many among them delighted in solitude, wandering free in the greenwoods…" I chose instead to use the more social and "long in memory" folk of Hador in order to capitalize on legends of their origin. Since Tolkien said there was much mixing of folk, I have used names of all three kin.

Tolkien notes that many of the Edain were afraid of the sea, and I refer to that, and base it on the memory of the drowning of Beleriand.

Tolkien briefly mentions flatboats in The Hobbit; many early civilizations developed commerce along rivers, and flatboats were easy to build and disposable; thus avoiding a difficult return trip upriver.

The Old Forest Road in the Hobbit connects to the Great East Road, also called the Dwarf Road. This was built very early, possibly as early as the First Age when Finrod travels the 'Dwarf Road' in Beleriand east toward the Ered Luin. It is conceivable that this is an extension of that same road. Obviously there would be some road connecting Eregion and Lindon where there would have been much coming and going, especially early on.

Gwilwileth e-Gaearon translates as 'butterfly of the ocean.' Hathil and the townsfolk should rightly shorten it to i ‘Wilwilith instead of Gwilwileth, 'the butterfly' but they don't speak Sindarin and don't know any better. Glorfindel, courteous person that he is, does not correct them.

I owe thanks to many people for their help - Aerlinnel and Ithildin for Sindarin names of places and things; those knowledgeable about horses who kept me from making a fool of myself: Arwen Lune, Anglachel, Jen Littlebottom, Elemmire. Special thanks to ErinRua who was kind enough to do a 'horse beta' for one chapter. I am also grateful to all those willing to discuss Second Age politics with me - Tyellas, Marnie, and above all Anglachel.

Levade was most encouraging and willing to discuss Glorfindel. And always, AfterEver who betas, encourages, and - to my great relief - nags when necessary. Any remaining errors are all mine, alas.