S.A. 1705

“It has come to this, gwador.” Elrond pushed the missive bearing the High King’s seal across the table so Glorfindel might read it. “I honestly do not know what I am going to do.”

Glorfindel picked up the parchment, unfolded it and glanced over Gil-galad’s flowing script. “He means to honor you with a visit.”

“Honor me?” Elrond gestured to the window, whose new glass looked out over a courtyard whose paving stones were still being laid. “Nay, we have not suitable lodgings for him. He will be displeased and I will mortified—”

“Gwador!” Glorfindel’s sharp voice silenced Elrond’s protests. “Most of the buildings are finished and suitably furnished, and by the time Gil-galad arrives all will be ready for him. You have taken great pleasure in the building of this place, and no doubt he will see that and approve.”

“And if he does not? This place is so small compared with Lindon.”

“It is not a city you are building, but a refuge and stronghold,” answered Glorfindel. “And may I remind you that you are the High King’s herald and know his tastes as well as your own? You have served him long enough to know what will please him.”

Sighing, Elrond rubbed his temples with an uneasy hand. “Aye, you are right. It is only that my efforts in this little valley have become strangely dear to me and I know not why.”

* * *

All day, as he put his gweth through its paces in the dirt yard beyond the half-finished courtyard, Glorfindel noted Lindir spying on him from the foliage. Once or twice, he spared a wink for his foster son, but only when he finished and dismissed his warriors did he call the youngster to him.

“What is it, pen-neth, that you watch me so? Are you not supposed to be with Erestor, learning your letters?”

Lindir looked shyly up at him. “Yes, ada, but then Lord Elrond came and wanted him to write some very important letters. Master Erestor said I should go see if I could find some work to do.”

“I do not think lurking in the bushes qualifies as work, yondo. Could you not find work among the crofters, or do you secretly wish to become a warrior?” Lindir was a small child for his age and was not likely to grow to be particularly tall or strong; he would never be a warrior, though Glorfindel never said this aloud to his foster-son. So much had the boy lost in the fall of Eregion, he should have some hope of a bright, useful future to sustain him.

Though I would not call being a warrior a particularly bright or glorious existence, thought Glorfindel. But Lindir had seen enough of how battle-hardened warriors and embattled refugees lived, and had no need to be reminded.

Not for the first time, Glorfindel wondered at the wisdom of not placing Lindir with one of the refugee families who had settled in Imladris. There were two or three couples who had lost their children to the enemy during the evacuation of Ost-in-Edhil and would welcome a new child under their roof. Lindir ought to have both a mother and father, and Glorfindel questioned his own selfishness at keeping the boy by his side.

The truth is, he admitted, the boy lightens my heart when he is near. He knew it was not in the boy’s best interest to stay with him, even though Lindir said he did not want to live with anyone else. “They already have people to help them. Norno said he would show me his harp, but not now. I want to learn how to play, ada, and he says he’ll teach me, but right now he’s busy sanding wood for the floor in the new building. He says it has to be very fine, because we’re going to have very important visitors.”

Glorfindel picked up the boy and held him against his mail-clad shoulder. “So news here travels as quickly as the swallow, is that it? Aye, we are going to have visitors. The High King is going to visit us for a few weeks in the summer.”

“Master Erestor says he is a very great warrior and is very wise,” said Lindir. “Is he like Lord Elrond, then?”

“They are distant kin, yondo, and Elrond is the King’s herald.”

“Is that an important job?”

“Aye, it is very important,” said Glorfindel. “The King could not function without his herald.”

“But what does a herald do, ada?”

“Many things, but I could not describe all of them for you. He helps the King make important decisions and makes sure the King’s wishes are carried out. He sends letters on the King’s behalf and receives petitions and even helps the King decide what to wear in the morning. As for the rest of it, you should ask Erestor, for he knows the workings of the court better than I.”

“Do you think I could be a herald when I grow up?”

Glorfindel tousled the boy’s dark hair with his free hand. “Why do you wish to be a herald, pen-neth?”

Lindir shrugged. “When I still lived with my parents, they were going to teach me how to be a scribe, because that’s what they did, but they’re gone now and I don’t think I can be a scribe anymore.”

“Do you not wish to be a scribe, then?”

The boy answered with a grim look and another shrug. “There isn’t anybody to teach me. I don’t think I can be a warrior like you, ada. I’m too small. All the other boys say so, and even Hallacár says so when I try to help with the building.”

“Sawing and carrying planks is not suitable work for a child, pen-neth. But if you still wish to be a scribe, I am sure Erestor will be happy to teach you. I doubt the other boys know their Cirth and Tengwar as well as you, and I am sure none of them know any Dwarven runes as you do. If you wish my opinion, I think you would make a very good scribe, or perhaps a healer. Lord Elrond is both, did you know?”

“But I thought you said he was a herald.”

“Aye, but he has many interests outside the court. He is a royal advisor and warrior, but he is also a great lore master and healer. Many times I have heard him jest that he could not decide what he wished to do and so decided to do all, but he has also said that it takes much work and dedication to master more than one craft, or a craft that is not dear to one’s heart,” Glorfindel explained. “You should not choose something that you do not love, and I do not think you would love being a warrior.”

“Do you like being a warrior, ada?”

“Like is not a word I would use,” said Glorfindel. Holding Lindir with one arm, balancing him against his hip, and carrying his sword with his other hand, he headed back to their quarters. “My father was a warrior and so was my brother. It was the only craft I was ever permitted to learn and the only one I know.” He allowed himself a smile as he walked. “I do not think I would make a very good scribe, pen-neth.”

“Ada?” Lindir snuggled against his shoulder, clearly wanting to ask him something. “When is your begetting day?”

The question was so unexpected that Glorfindel stopped on the path. “Why are you so curious about my arad en-edonnol all of a sudden?” In seven years the boy had never asked him, nor, he now realized to his shame, had he ever asked Lindir what his begetting day was.

“Because Hallacár had one a few days ago and everyone sang songs for him and gave him presents,” Lindir replied.

“And you want everyone to sing songs for me and give me gifts, is that it? Child, I would be utterly embarrassed at such attention and I have no need of gifts.” And, he also realized, he did not know how to answer Lindir’s question even if he yielded his most carefully guarded secret, that he was truly Glorfindel of Gondolin reborn and not merely an Elda of Tol Eressëa named for the fallen hero.

Is my begetting the day I was first born in Valinor, or the day I was reborn out of Mandos? He did not know, for in his years in Valinor after his rebirth he had not celebrated his arad en-edonnol, allowing himself and all others to forget about it.

“Pen-neth,” he said at last, “I am so old now I no longer mark the years.”

* * *

Notes:
gwador: (Sindarin) friend, associate
ada: (Sindarin) father
yondo: (Quenya) son
pen-neth: (Sindarin) young one
arad en-edonnol (Sindarin) day of begetting. Big thanks to Ithildin for the translation.

While his ada stood with his gweth on the newly finished steps just below Lord Elrond and waited for the High King, Lindir was to stay in the crowd with Hallacár and his wife. Glorfindel, gleaming in his polished mail under a beautiful dark blue coat with the Star of Eärendil on his breast, bent down and explained that this was for show, but that later, if Lindir was good, he might be introduced to the High King.

Lindir brightened at that, for not even his parents had ever offered to introduce him to Celebrimbor or any of the other great lords or ladies who came to their house. Always he was instructed to stay in another room and not get underfoot, although once he had crept out of the study where he was supposed to be learning his Cirth to see the Dwarves who came from Khazad-dûm. His parents, busily conversing with them in a strange tongue, did not see him, but one of the Dwarven miners saw him peeking out from behind a pillar and winked.

He was glad he did not have to go to his room while the High King visited, and Hallacár even let him stand before him at the edge of the path, so he could see everything.

There was much noise when the King arrived, many loud, clear trumpets and the marching of metal-shod feet. Through the wooden stockade came two columns of soldiers in light blue cloaks and golden, leaf-patterned armor, with eight stars upon their breasts. All carried spears, save for those who bore brightly-colored banners that fluttered in the breeze.

The High King of the Noldor was easy to identify, for he was the only one who rode a horse. Tall he was, even in the saddle, with a gold circlet in his dark hair, and he smiled at those who thronged the edges of the path to see him pass. Lindir held his breath as Gil-galad rode past; he had never seen anything so fine, not even in Ost-in-Edhil.

Another fanfare echoed through the courtyard as the procession reached the steps and the King dismounted. A second, shorter blast was the cue for everyone to kneel; Lindir was reminded only when he felt the gentle pressure of Hallacár’s hand on his shoulder. He went down on one knee just as Glorfindel had showed him a person was supposed to do in the King’s presence, and heard Hallacár whispering at him to breathe.

He stayed with the carpenter and his wife for the rest of the day, joining them in the evening when it was time for supper. Great quantities of food had been prepared for the King’s visit; for three days most of the residents, including many of Glorfindel’s own warriors, had been put to work turning spits and peeling vegetables. Lindir did his best not to laugh at the sight of Hathol cutting himself as he scraped the skin off a potato, but the archer saw him all the same and frowned.

“You know,” grumbled Hathol, sniffing at the air which was fragrant with the aroma of rabbit stew, “I’m the one who brought back that meat. You’d think they would trust me enough to let me cook it.”

One of the cooks happened to overhear and told Hathol that leathery, overcooked meat was not fit for the High King’s table.

Tables improvised from boards and draped cloth were set up in the thamas naur. Lindir sat far from the high table and could not see very much, but toward twilight, as lanterns were being hung in the hall and out in the courtyard, Erestor came to see how he was faring. At the high table there was room only for three people, and the lore master was not among those honored.

“Truly intolerable,” sniffed Erestor. “It seems no one instructed Lord Elrond to have a larger table built so a place could be set for his poor advisor. Ah, well, I have suffered my scant meal in the company of a truly dull healer, and Elrond occasionally glances my way, so I cannot say it was too dreadful an evening. Now, pen-neth, that great golden fool who calls himself your ada bids me to make certain you have eaten your fill and do not stay up too late, but if you wish to stay up long enough to hear some of the music we will not tell him.”

The truth was, Lindir was already very sleepy, for he had scarcely slept the night before in his excitement. He did his best to stifle a yawn, but there was no escaping Erestor’s scrutiny.

“One song, pen-neth,” said the advisor, “then off to bed with you. I will not have Glorfindel wroth with me because I let you stay up too late or eat too many sweets. For half a moment, I thought he was going to tell me to eat my vegetables, but then parenthood does seem to make fools out of most people.”

Unlike Lindir’s father, who had been a very grim and proper scribe, Erestor had a tongue that could be both sharp and gently teasing. Glorfindel referred to him as a quáco, which was a crow in Quenya, because Erestor was both raven-haired and noisy, but in the same breath Glorfindel also said that the lore master was also very wise. For his part, Erestor called Glorfindel a golden-haired fool, yet at the same time he also said he was a valiant warrior with a noble heart. Always they called each other names, yet there did not seem to be any bad feeling between them.

Erestor noticed Lindir’s confusion and explained that some friendships were strange ones.

“You are a very strange sort of scribe,” Lindir replied.

The dark-haired advisor only laughed. “Am I now? Ai, if you had had my teacher to deal with you, too, would be fey. At least I laugh and do not froth at the mouth like Pengolod. It would be such insufferable bad manners if I did, and in front of the High King, no less.”

The music began and all conversation ceased. It was a soft, lilting piece played on a harp, accompanied by a reed flute. Lindir tried very hard to stay awake and listen, for he loved the music and knew it was very rude to yawn or nod off while someone else was talking or playing, but he could not help it. The thamas naur was very warm and close, and he felt very snug tucked between Hallacár and Erestor. Despite his best efforts, his eyes grew vacant and the hall faded around him.

* * *

He woke on his own cot in the room he shared with his ada, still dressed in his good clothes but for his shoes, which someone had removed and placed on the floor beside him. A thin blanket had been pulled over him, save for one hand that clutched something lying below his pillow.

Still holding it, he stirred and brought the object close to his face so he could study it better. It was a flute of dark, polished wood, and very fine, not at all like the cheap bone whistle he had had in Ost-in-Edhil. His ada left things for him sometimes, but these were usually practical items like new clothes or shoes, which he knew he needed but did not like very much because new clothes were always stiff and he was afraid to get them torn or dirty. The only truly nice thing Glorfindel had given him was a dagger, but that had been during the war and it had belonged to a warrior who died from a yrch arrow.

Lindir wondered if his ada had left the flute for him, but Glorfindel had, as was his wont, risen early and gone.

* * *

“You have gone to much trouble, Elrond,” said Gil-galad. “Indeed, I would almost say it is too much.”

Elrond bent his head over his morning meal. “There is much yet to be done, hir-nín.”

Years earlier, after the war in Eregion, the High King and his herald had established that Elrond would remain in Imladris and fortify it in the event of future conflict. “For something tells me this is not the end of Sauron,” said Gil-galad, “and I would not center all my strength in Lindon.”

Gil-galad took a sip of the clear liquid Elrond poured into his glass and coughed, nearly choking around the trail it burned down his throat. “Ai, Elbereth!” he sputtered. “What was that?” His eyes were watering as he set down the glass.

Elrond beamed at him across the table. “That is miruvor,” he said. “It is a Dwarven recipe that the women of Ost-in-Edhil have modified for our use. Winter comes early here in the Hithaeglir, and anything that helps fortify us against the cold is welcome.”

“Aye, already I feel the warmth.” Gil-galad wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and smiled. “I know who else might make good use of this draught, if you would permit me to give the recipe to Círdan. No doubt his mariners would welcome such heat on the cold sea. Yet as I was saying before you surprised me with this cordial, you need not have gone to the trouble of building an entire wing for my visit when other, more essential tasks remain to be done.”

“We will find some profitable use for those rooms,” replied Elrond. “You have been most generous in sending furniture and household goods, hir-nín. One suite of rooms I intend to keep for your use should you wish to visit again, as we hope you will.”

“As time permits,” said Gil-galad, “I would be most glad to see for myself what you do with this haven. For the time being, I cannot fault your efforts or your generosity, and hope that my gifts to you are as pleasing.”

Elrond nodded, saying that the King knew his tastes as well as he himself did, and that the books Gil-galad sent were a most welcome addition. Glorfindel also nodded when the question came to him, for he prided himself on the care he lavished on his mounts and new tack supplies were always appreciated.

“And what of your foster-son, Glorfindel? Lindir, is that his name?” Gil-galad inquired. “I regret he was already asleep when I sent for him. It would seem I have forgotten that small boys cannot stay awake past a certain hour.”

“I have left the flute by his bed, hir-nín. He will find it when he wakes.”

“Later you must remind me to ask him how well he likes it. Boys usually prefer swords and bows, as I did, though Círdan would never let me have them. Such dreadful presents he always gave me for my begetting day, although the fishing-rod was actually not so terrible.”

“Lindir has never complained about anything he is given, he has so little,” said Glorfindel.

“Then what manner of gifts have you been giving him for his arad en-edonnol, that you fear he would complain?” Then, when Glorfindel did not answer, the High King raised an eyebrow and asked, “You have been celebrating the boy’s begetting day, have you not?”

Glorfindel chewed his lip in embarrassment and wondered how the conversation had come to this. “I do not even celebrate my own arad en-edonnol, so I—”

“Is this true?” Gil-galad wanted to know. “Elrond, you are the one responsible for keeping the records of the court’s special occasions, tell me we have sometime in the past celebrated Glorfindel’s begetting day.”

“Without the ledgers here in front of me, hir-nín, I could not say for certain, but I do not believe we ever have,” replied Elrond.

“That is because I have two begetting days.” Glorfindel took a breath, for discussing his death and rebirth was not something he cared to do, and explained, “The day of my first birth, in Tirion, and the day I was reborn out of Mandos. Which date would you choose, if choose you must? And how old should I say I am, when the begetting day well-wishers ask? By which beginning do I measure my life? This is not something in which one receives instruction on coming out of Mandos.”

Gil-galad frowned at his tone; anything Glorfindel said about his death or rebirth was likely to be flavored with a healthy dose of angst, and the High King had little patience for self-pity. “I would tell you to celebrate the first date, for Círdan once told me that the fëa does not die. Mortals celebrate the day they come out of their mother’s womb, for their life is bound to their hröa, but among our people the arad en-edonnol is the day on which the spirit is created.”

Glorfindel nodded. “Another told me this once, but even so my old lifetime feels as though it belongs to someone else entirely. Very little that was seems to be mine now, only my name and wisps of memories, some joyous and some terrible.  Nay, I have no need of an arad en-edonnol.”

The High King rolled his eyes slightly, for he had heard this tune before, but did not press the matter. “Clearly this is a matter of your own preference,” he said, “but where the boy is concerned you cannot let it lie thus. You may ignore your own arad en-edonnol, but you cannot continue to neglect his.”

“I know this, hir-nín. This very day I intend to ask him what the day is,” said Glorfindel. Still chewing his lip, he felt his cheeks flush with shame. “I rue not having thought to ask. Already he has asked me the day of my begetting.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“What could I say? I told him that I was so old I no longer counted the years, and it was not a lie, for I do not give anymore heed to such things.”

Gil-galad arched an eyebrow. “It would seem you have not told him who you truly are. Is it right, do you think, to keep such a secret from your foster-son?”

“He is but a child,” answered Glorfindel, “and there is no need for him to know. Perhaps when he is older and able to understand better, then I may tell him.”

“Young he may be,” Elrond pointed out, “but he is not beyond sensing there is something special about you, gwador. I know he is able to see in you the light of Valinor, as you might appear in the Undying Lands. Surely he has asked you about this?”

“Aye, and I have told him that I was born in the West, and that all those who are born thus and have seen the light of the Valar shine from within.”

“I do not know that that is entirely true,” said Elrond. “In being reborn you have been granted a certain grace by the Valar.”

Glorfindel was as weary of hearing that argument as the others were weary of hearing how abashed he was to have been granted that grace. It may be thus, yet I do not have to wave my lineage and the fact of my rebirth about like a banner. I am not so proud that I need to see the awe in the eyes of others. “It is not a hero the boy needs,” he answered sharply, “but a father, and that does not require any special grace of the Valar.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Gil-galad, “but even so, fatherhood requires something more than what you have given thus far.”

In this, he spoke the truth. Ashamed, for he already knew his shortcomings in the matter, Glorfindel nodded.

* * *

Notes:
gweth: (Sindarin) troop or military unit
thamas naur: (Sindarin) hall of fire
hir-nín: (Sindarin) my lord

Tolkien does not say anything about the origins of miruvor, but as it seems to be a cordial that is associated with Imladris, it is not unreasonable to speculate that it came from among the refugees of Eregion, who might have obtained the original recipe from the Dwarves.

Late in the afternoon, just before supper, Glorfindel called for his foster-son.

All day Lindir had been busy in the kitchens, helping with the food preparation. When the messenger came for him, he was in the thamas naur, helping one of the women drape the tables.

Norno led him into a part of the house he had only seen once before, while it was being built. Now that it was finished, it was beautifully decorated with carvings and murals, and flowing draperies billowed in the open windows. This was the part of the house in which Lord Elrond lived. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Before the messenger could answer, Glorfindel himself came out. He was not wearing his armor today, but his sword was girt around his waist as always and he wore a green tunic with white flowers set like jewels on the collar and hem. Lindir’s parents had only worn fine clothes on very special occasions, but Glorfindel was always richly dressed, even when he rode out on patrol. Erestor said that was because he was a great lord.

“He does not own anything that does not cost a small fortune,” sniffed the advisor. “As for my own meager wardrobe, I suppose it cannot be helped. Scribes simply are not paid as well or appreciated as much as they used to be.” He sighed and rolled his eyes in mock distress before smoothing out the folds of what Lindir thought was a very fine robe.

“Ah, pen-neth,” said Glorfindel, hugging him close, “have you been busy today?”

“Yes, ada, I’ve been helping in the kitchen. Hathol and Alagos are there, too, did you know? Sáredhel has them peeling vegetables for the stew.”

Glorfindel chuckled at that. “Does she now? And how do my warriors like attacking carrots and potatoes?”

“Not very much,” answered Lindir. “They tried to sing songs, but then Eruvanye came and said they weren’t fit for the kitchen and swatted them.”

Another chuckle greeted that remark. “I should have liked to see that, yondo. Now do you know why I called you?”

As Lindir shook his head, he looked past Glorfindel’s shoulder and saw two dark-haired Elves standing in the wide doorway. One was Lord Elrond, but the other, dressed in a plain brown robe, Lindir did not recognize until Glorfindel whispered in his ear that this was Ereinion Gil-galad.

He started to kneel, but Glorfindel’s hand on his shoulder and a chuckle from Gil-galad stopped him as he lowered his head and bent down.

“Pen-neth,” said the High King, “kneeling is only for show, during parades and ceremonies. Has your foster-father shown you what to do for a private audience?”

Staring at the floor, afraid to look Gil-galad in the eye for fear of being thought rude, Lindir shook his head. He felt Glorfindel’s hand clasp his shoulder in a paternal way, and then his ada was whispering that he should make a little bow from the waist. Still looking at the floor, Lindir made a bow, which was not so difficult a thing because his parents had once taught him what he should do if he should ever encounter Celebrimbor or one of the great lords when they came to the house.

Afterward, Glorfindel patted his shoulder and all three lords made sounds of approval. He learned that his ada had sent for him because the High King wanted to meet him.

At this, Lindir was so amazed he nearly forgot his manners. “You want to meet me, hir daer?”

“You address the High King as aran daer,” Glorfindel gently corrected.

“Nay, it is all right,” said Gil-galad. “Your foster-father has written much of you in his letters. I would have sent for you last evening, but you were already asleep. I sent for you now to ask how you like the gift I made you.”

Lindir did not understand what he meant, or why anyone as important as the High King would give him a gift until Glorfindel bent to his ear and whispered, “The flute that I left by your bed, pen-neth.”

His eyes widened and, briefly forgetting his manners, he looked up at the King. “You gave me the flute? I-I mean, you gave me a gift, aran daer?”

“I assume you like it?” asked Gil-galad.

All day the flute had been his prize. He had never owned anything so fine, that was new and his alone; his parents had been very careful with their money and rarely bought anything that was not secondhand. Even though Lindir could not play the flute, for it was not quite like playing a bone whistle, he showed it to Hallacár and Norno, who said he would teach Lindir when he had a moment. The only ones to whom he did not show it were the other boys, for fear they would be jealous and take it away. A boy in Ost-in-Edhil had once roughed him up and stolen his wooden hoop, and he had not told his parents for fear they would be angry at him for losing his plaything. He did not want Glorfindel to be angry with him.

Lindir nodded and, remembering his manners, answered, “Hannon le, aran daer.”

Later, as Glorfindel carried him away from the feast and put him to bed, Lindir asked why the High King had given him a present.

“Because you are a fosterling,” Glorfindel answered, “and remind him of when he was young. He did not tell you, for he did not want to stir any unhappy memories, but he also lost his mother and father to war when he was very young. He was taken in by a great Teleri lord named Círdan who then became his foster-father. The Teleri make such flutes, and play them with great skill.”

Lindir was too sleepy to ask all the questions he wanted, or remember them all. He merely pillowed his head on his ada’s shoulder and asked, “Does he know how to play?”

“Aye, and perhaps he will play for us once before he leaves here,” said Glorfindel. “A clear, strong voice he has also, but it is only for those near and familiar to him that he sings.”

“I would like to see that, ada,” Lindir murmured. His eyes were losing their focus, and he could barely hear himself speak.

“Perhaps, pen-neth, but now it is time for you to sleep.”

* * *

The forest behind the great table of rock on which the thamas naur and its adjoining buildings stood was an ideal place to explore. Tall pines reached toward the sky, carpeting the forest floor in green needles that pricked Lindir’s arms and legs whenever he sat down, and wildflowers and mushrooms grew in the hollows and mosses between the trees. He went sometimes with Eruvanye and her daughter to pick berries, and knew from them never to eat any of those mushrooms or anything else he did not know.

This was something he already knew, for in the hard, cold months he had lived and hidden in the wilderness with his parents and the other survivors of Ost-in-Edhil, one of their party had, in his desperate hunger, eaten of a strange patch of mushrooms and died. After that, Lindir was wary of all mushrooms, even those that were cooked and obviously safe to eat. Another had eaten of the holly berries from the bushes that grew everywhere in Eregion, even though everyone knew those berries were poisonous.

After living so long in fear, with the specter of death and the horror of losing one’s home always upon them, his father said, some wanted to go to Mandos. And another time, one of the other refugees, a carpenter with fevered eyes and a split lip, took Lindir aside and told him not to be afraid to answer Námo’s call, that Mandos was a good place to be.

“It’s a good place, a safe place, pen-neth. No yrch can go there, no shadows can touch it. And you’re so young,” said the man, pawing at his cheek and shoulder with dirty hands, “so clean of sin, they would give you a new body very, very soon.”

Talk of Mandos frightened him, and the man was standing too close, his breath foul on Lindir’s cheek. He pulled away from the other’s grasp and ran back to his parents. He did not see what happened to the carpenter after that, but of his party only he and one other were rescued, and the woman had since faded.

In a hedgerow he found some early blackberries and ate them, licking the purple juice off his fingers. He knew where to find berries and nuts, and even where to dig to find edible roots. Squirrels skittered in the branches above him. They hibernated in the winter and were difficult to hunt in that season; his father had gone out a few times with some of the others to bring back meat, but they could not build a fire to properly cook the meat and so they ate it raw. Lindir remembered gagging on the thimbleful his mother made him eat, and how she told him to keep it down.

He was sad sometimes, walking alone through the dark eaves of the forest. Sometimes he expected his father to emerge from the trees and scold him for wandering, or to hear his mother call after him to make sure the grass he stuffed into his shoes was properly dry so it would keep him warm, but no one ever came save for the woodsmen who came to fetch timber for building and kindling or the women gathering herbs and berries.

His new ada he loved very much, for there was no one else like Glorfindel, no one who glimmered in the twilight like he did and made Lindir glow inside when he smiled. But there were days when Lindir felt particularly despondent, either because he had had a bad dream or something reminded him of his real parents or how they died. And when that happened, he slipped away from his chores and went into the woods as if his family was there.

No one at Imladris ever asked him about his parents, but most of the people in the valley were refugees like he was and already knew what it was like to lose loved ones and go cold and hungry; even the soldiers knew what it was like. Some of the warriors in Glorfindel’s gweth affectionately referred to him as maethor-neth and asked if he was ready to join their ranks, but he knew he was not going to grow up to be a warrior.

Norno was going to teach him how to play the flute and maybe the harp. He liked music very much and had been sad when he lost his bone whistle during the flight from Ost-in-Edhil; he had wanted to ask Glorfindel for a new one, but was afraid to ask for anything because it was very rude to ask people for gifts and his ada had not asked him if he would like one.

His parents had taught him that when somebody gave you something for a gift, they should be thanked in return. By this, they meant giving a reciprocal gift, though they were rarely able to afford anything beyond a few very simple items. After each begetting day, whether he liked the present or not, he always gave his parents little items he found or that one of the servants showed him how to make, and his father had had a small shelf built where these haphazard treasures might be displayed.

The flute was the nicest thing anybody had ever given him, but he had nothing to give the High King in return. Surely now Gil-galad would think he was an ungrateful child, even though he had thanked the King in the politest way he knew how and Glorfindel told him he had done very well. His parents would be very embarrassed if they knew.

Sitting down in a patch of green earth with his back to a log, he brooded over the sort of gift one might possibly give the High King. Glorfindel had said it was not necessary for him to reciprocate, and even Erestor said so when Lindir showed him the flute.

“Sometimes,” said the advisor, “people give gifts simply for the pleasure of seeing someone else’s joy, not because they desire like gifts in return. Do you truly think the King gave you that flute because he wishes or even expects you to give him a gift? Jewels and other things he has in plenty, pen-neth.”

“My parents said one should always give something,” answered Lindir.

“And did you take this to mean you had to give a thing, some material object?” Erestor raised a dark eyebrow. “Such a literal child you are, no? Nay, there are other ways of giving that they apparently did not teach you. Did the King not tell you to find joy in his gift?”

“Aye, but—”

“Ah, I did not give you leave to debate with me, silly aiwë. If you wish to make a gift to Gil-galad, then find someone to teach you to play the flute and learn with all your heart. Think on him and his generosity whenever you play. That, child, is a great gift and one that cannot be bought.”

“But how will he know what I am thinking or how much I truly enjoy the gift?”

“When the King returns for another visit, as I am sure he will someday, you will ask Glorfindel if you might play for him, and you will say you learned your lessons well and now wish to give him the joy of them. The King is very fond of music, you see, and would greatly enjoy such a gift as hearing you play.” Then, Erestor’s brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth crinkled in what was obviously mock consternation. “Unless, of course, it turns out that you cannot play worth rodent droppings.”

* * *

Notes:
hir daer: (Sindarin) great lord
aran daer: (Sindarin) great/high king
Hannon le, aran daer: thank you, great king.
maethor-neth: (Sindarin) young warrior
aiwë: (Quenya) little bird

At the height of summer, after three weeks as a guest of Imladris, the High King took his leave.  Once again the household was assembled along the road, this time to watch the procession depart.

Despite the heat that lay like a blanket on the valley, all wore their best clothing and the military units donned their ceremonial mail and armor.  Banners stirred only slightly in the still air; even the one Elrond as the King’s herald carried down the steps and handed to one of Gil-galad’s warriors hung limply from its pole.

Glorfindel was close enough to see the sweat beading Gil-galad’s face as he climbed into the saddle; he knew that once they were out of the valley, the King’s party would stop and remove their stifling armor and cloaks for cooler, more practical gear.  Glorfindel himself would do the same, as would everyone else, and life in the valley would gradually settle back into its normal, comfortable pattern.

The High King was not one who liked to linger over his farewells.  All the courtesies that needed to be made, all that needed to be said was done the night before.  In this, Glorfindel was of the same mind, and understood Gil-galad’s need to move matters along smoothly and swiftly. 

As the King rode past on his gray destrier, Glorfindel was surprised to see a certain feather hanging from his braid.  His gaze dropped to the crowd, looking to see if Lindir noticed.  And indeed, the child, who hung on the High King’s every movement, was following the blue feather with rapt eyes.

The evening before, Elrond had persuaded Gil-galad to play the harp for a small, private gathering in his apartment.  Glorfindel, among those invited, at the last moment remembered Lindir’s love of music and desire to hear the High King play and so sent for the boy.  Seated between Glorfindel and Erestor, Lindir was quiet throughout, occasionally tilting his head to better hear the music of the harp and the soft accompaniment sung by one of Gil-galad’s captains.  Afterward, Gil-galad himself had come over and commented that the boy seemed to have a natural ear for music.

Lindir shyly ducked his head and brought a slender blue object out of his pocket.  It was a feather, probably from a blue jay, and from its bent state it was clear the boy had been carrying it around for some time.   He looked up at Gil-galad and, anxiously chewing his underlip, offered the feather to the High King.

“Why, what is this for, pen-neth?” the King asked gently.

“For the pretty flute, aran daer, and…and because blue is one of your colors.”

“Is it now?”  Gil-galad carefully took the feather and twirled it between his fingers, smoothing the edges.  “Aye, but you did not have to make a gift of such a pretty thing.  Do you not wish to keep it?”

Lindir was firm in his insistence that the King accept his token, because his parents had told him this was what he should do whenever he received a gift, though Erestor later told Glorfindel what he had said to the boy about the spirit of gift-giving.

“About some things he is so very stubborn and literal-minded,” said the advisor.

“I do not see the harm in it,” replied Glorfindel, “and the King was quite touched by the gift.”

Erestor rolled his eyes.  “You empty-headed filit, that is not the point.  He believes he must give some material object to show his love and appreciation, not knowing that this is not always necessary.”

“Or perhaps, you noisy crow,” said Glorfindel, “Lindir wishes to honor his parents’ teachings in this manner.  I do not see that it is a matter for concern.”

Once the procession had passed through the stockade and the sound of trumpets receded into the distance, Glorfindel dismissed his gweth and went to collect Lindir from Hallacár. 

“Come, pen-neth,” he said.  “It is too hot to be wearing this armor and I know you are no less uncomfortable in those stiff new clothes.” 

Through the dispersing crowd they wove, ducking into the shadier halls of the main house.  Glorfindel’s rooms were at the end of a long corridor and very plain; Elrond had offered him one of the larger suites that had been built for Gil-galad’s party, and some of the furniture that had been sent from Lindon, but ostentatious surroundings had never been to his liking and he refused all but the most functional of the furnishings.  He allowed himself a few books and ornaments from his apartments in Lindon, and the clothes that were the wardrobe of a great lord, for in his father’s house he had learned that as a lord of the Golden Flower he had a duty to dress well no matter what the occasion.  That habit persisted well into his second life, though Gondolin and its people were no more.

On several occasions since his arrival in Lindon eighty years ago, Gil-galad and Elrond both attempted to give him gifts of ornaments that subtly incorporated the device of the Golden Flower.  He could not refuse without appearing rude, but made it clear that he would not wear them until he was ready to make it known that he was the reborn hero of Gondolin.

Lindir threw off his formal clothes with as much haste as was seemly, changing into the dusty tunic, trousers and sandals that were his everyday summer wear.  Someday, when he was old enough to take a more active interest in his appearance, Glorfindel intended to teach him about the importance of being well-groomed.  For now, he would simply let Lindir be the boy he was.

“Pen-neth,” he said, “did you mark how the High King wore your feather?”  When the boy nodded, he continued, “Such a pretty thing, yet did Erestor not tell you that you need not have given Gil-galad a gift where none was required?”

Lindir’s fingers paused over the lacing of his sandals and he looked up, already chewing his lip.  “I didn’t want him to think I didn’t like his gift.”

Glorfindel laughed at that.  “Of course he knew you liked it, child.  Before he left, he reminded me to see about finding someone to teach you to play.  But that reminds me also, I have been meaning to ask you a very important question, which I have sadly neglected for a very long time.”

Sitting down in a chair, he motioned for the boy to come sit on the stool beside him.  “I am not accustomed to having children in my house, so I do not always remember certain matters as I should.”  He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed by Lindir’s intent gaze and his own foolish oversight.  “It has come to my attention that you have not had a begetting day celebration since leaving Ost-in-Edhil.”

The boy’s reaction seemed to waver somewhere between joy and sorrow, as if he could not decide what he felt.  “No, ada,” he answered softly.

Even now, he does not want to blame me for being such a fool.  “Well, then perhaps I should ask you what you would like for the occasion.  What sort of gift should I give you?  Somehow I do not think you will want more new clothes; I remember that I never liked such gifts when I was a boy.”

Once again Lindir chewed his lip; it was apparent he had not expected such a question and had not given the matter any thought.  “I don’t have anything to give you, ada,” he said softly.

Glorfindel frowned, thinking perhaps there was something to Erestor’s concerns.  “Did your parents expect you to give them a gift in return then?”

“No, ada, but they always said it was important to show the giver how much you appreciated their gift, and I always gave my parents something.”  Lindir clamped down on his lip, biting back what was clearly a painful memory.  “Sometimes I found things, like the pretty robin’s egg I once found in the courtyard, or one of the servants would show me how to make something.  My ada--my real ada, that is—he kept them on a shelf with all his books.”

“Hush now, child,” murmured Glorfindel, pressing his lips to the boy’s forehead when he saw the tears start in Lindir’s eyes.  “Nay, you do not have to tell me, and I do not expect a gift when I give one.  Now if you do not know what you would like for your begetting day, you may think on it and tell me later.”

Lindir nodded slowly.  “Ada,” he asked, “when is your begetting day?”

“My begetting day?  Ai, I thought I had already answered that question.”

“But you did not tell me,” Lindir said. 

“Child, I have not celebrated my arad en-edonnol in so long that I no longer remember the day.”  Glorfindel twitched uncomfortably at telling such a blatant lie, and had Lindir been looking at him he would have seen at once that it was an untruth.  But though his heart tugged at him to tell the boy the truth, that he was reborn and had two begetting days, he knew Lindir was not ready to hear it.

Lindir, his eyes bright with inspiration, looked up at him.  “Ada, would you like to have my begetting day?”

“I-I do not quite understand what it is you are offering me, child,” answered Glorfindel.  “Why would you offer me your begetting day?”

“Because you need one, ada, and this way we can share.”

For a moment, Glorfindel was speechless.  Such a simple gift and yet so very precious, the boy was offering him a part of himself that Glorfindel knew he should not take.  “Nay, that day belongs to you and you alone.  I would not have others forget your begetting day in remembering mine.”

“But you need one,” protested Lindir.

“I will choose another, if it is so important to you that we celebrate mine, but I will not take something that belongs to you.”  Then, seeing the boy’s crestfallen look, he quickly added, “Though the gift is a generous one and much appreciated.  Now I am not certain, but I believe my begetting day was sometime in ethuil, perhaps Lothron.”  This was his first begetting day, for in that moment Glorfindel chose the day on which his fëa was created; he did not remember the day he had come out of Mandos, as the seasons were static in Valinor and Olórin never told him the date.  “I will try to remember the exact day.”

Now, he realized, they had come to that question Glorfindel most dreaded, for he had never bothered to ask Lindir what the date of his arad en-edonnol was.  “Pen-neth,” he began, “you must forgive an empty-headed warrior for not remembering your exact begetting day.  Would you remind me again?”

The look Lindir gave him said he knew exactly what Glorfindel was doing, and that he forgave it.  “It’s the eleventh day of Hithui, ada.  And you’re not empty-headed, no matter what Master Erestor says.”

Glorfindel gave a start.  “What’s that, child?  Ai, what has that quáco been saying about me now?”

* * *

Notes:

filit: (Quenya) bird

ethuil: (Sindarin) late spring, the equivalent of the Quenya tuilë.

Lothron: (Sindarin) May

Hithui: (Sindarin) November