Lindir's Adventurers 12
Rating G (U)
Part Twelve
The camp that night livened up once the scouts reported all was clear though Gildor sat apart with Erestor. Before Eregion’s shades could be left to their dark peace the Council was mulling what had been done and what must be done both there, and beyond its bounds. He and his had engaged to continue to serve as watchful eyes.
He and Erestor talked at great length. Lately come from Gil-galad and thence to Elrond, he was to travel across the Anduin, venturing the barrens of Mordor’s surrounds with the Council’s dry duty as their beck. “Then on, across the southerly plains and likely west again, who knows?”
He had never wanted to settle down.
“Erestor, this war means yet more men will stay and already they travel far inland. They are not all loyal subjects of their king, either. There was some trouble at one of the camps, so we heard.”
Erestor listened closely to his personal recounting of the state of the north and the watch and wish-list of the Council that Gildor was taking upon himself, until the green-eyed lord fell silent. Erestor followed the line of Gildor’s strayed attention and twitched his brows.
Lindir was checking his mare, and then settled with his instruments, apparently checking them for damp. He fingered the strings gently, and ran a finger along the neck of the harp. He withdrew from his pocket a bar of beeswax and rubbed a little onto the wood and worked it in painstakingly, utterly absorbed. Now and then he added oil, perennial occupation of a musician to prevent wood drying out and warping.
Clearly it was not his craft that their wanderer was admiring.
“Gildor, no and no, and no again!”
“What have I done?”
“I know that look of old.”
“He is quite beautiful.”
“Yes, he is. And young. And Elrond’s particular protégé. And a minstrel.” Erestor bit his lip annoyed at the facile detail. Sure enough, Gildor slid him a sidelong look.
“Losing your way with words, my dear? How unlike you!”
Erestor’s brow quashed his answering smile with a severe look to rival even Elrond’s. “You can’t and I won’t let you. What are you joining us for anyway?”
Amused green slits lit to tease, and hand on chest joined them to mock such gravity. “Cross your path and not join you? My dear, whence such unfriendly manners? The comforts of Lórien call. We’ve been a long time scouring Eriador and far from civil company - ” Some of his men jeered, clearly an old joke between them. “And - and I say,” he persevered through the laughter, “We shall be long about our next duties with only the same old faces to amuse.” He bowed to his hecklers.
When the catcalls subsided, Erestor was not to be distracted. “Lórien? If you are thinking of travelling with us I’d have you know Elrond has made me responsible for him.”
Gildor‘s laugh was genuine.
The flush on Erestor’s face, not hidden quickly enough by turning toward Lindir, raised surprise on Gildor’s.
“Is all well with them, Lindir?” Erestor called softly.
“They are fine. This pack is very well-made, have you seen it?” Both elves got up and joined him, admiring the silk lining padded with buckram inside the light weight cross-bracketed wooden framework. Erestor accepted Gildor’s falling in with this inspection as the tacit not-quite-apology it was. Old friends, older enemies, these two; between them had never been much need to prevaricate.
Lindir let them look for a time and then showed them how the instruments could be strapped in place, obviously pleased with the clever fit.
Fellerien fell in with Erestor at this juncture and they walked among the horses where elves were grooming and inspecting the animals’ legs to the accompaniment of soft snorts from the tall beasts in between nosing for vegetation.
This left Gildor to stroll back to the fire with the musician. Lindir threw him a couple of inspecting glances. It was not long before he spoke. Gildor listened attentively.
“Have you known him long?”
“Erestor?”
“Long enough.” He smiled to remove any seeming curtness to his brevity.
Of their meeting Gildor would not speak, when elf fought elf to no good end. The good and the bad and the utter stupidities of those times were as much beyond description as Beleriand was sunk beneath the seas. Sufficient that he and Erestor had since seen two wars to their conclusion and should this peace prove lasting, they would never have to fight again.
Lindir contented himself with staring across the glade when Gildor said nothing further.
Erestor’s braids were confined under closer control once they hit the deepening wilds, their jingling silenced. He still managed to look flamboyant with his close-cut breeches, long tunic skirts and slinking walk. Lindir sighed.
Gildor’s mouth twitched. So the young minstrel was minded to take an interest? Maybe he was fair game after all. Erestor would have none of him, of that he was very sure. His smile quirked in anticipation.
Part Twelve
The camp that night livened up once the scouts reported all was clear though Gildor sat apart with Erestor. Before Eregion’s shades could be left to their dark peace the Council was mulling what had been done and what must be done both there, and beyond its bounds. He and his had engaged to continue to serve as watchful eyes.
He and Erestor talked at great length. Lately come from Gil-galad and thence to Elrond, he was to travel across the Anduin, venturing the barrens of Mordor’s surrounds with the Council’s dry duty as their beck. “Then on, across the southerly plains and likely west again, who knows?”
He had never wanted to settle down.
“Erestor, this war means yet more men will stay and already they travel far inland. They are not all loyal subjects of their king, either. There was some trouble at one of the camps, so we heard.”
Erestor listened closely to his personal recounting of the state of the north and the watch and wish-list of the Council that Gildor was taking upon himself, until the green-eyed lord fell silent. Erestor followed the line of Gildor’s strayed attention and twitched his brows.
Lindir was checking his mare, and then settled with his instruments, apparently checking them for damp. He fingered the strings gently, and ran a finger along the neck of the harp. He withdrew from his pocket a bar of beeswax and rubbed a little onto the wood and worked it in painstakingly, utterly absorbed. Now and then he added oil, perennial occupation of a musician to prevent wood drying out and warping.
Clearly it was not his craft that their wanderer was admiring.
“Gildor, no and no, and no again!”
“What have I done?”
“I know that look of old.”
“He is quite beautiful.”
“Yes, he is. And young. And Elrond’s particular protégé. And a minstrel.” Erestor bit his lip annoyed at the facile detail. Sure enough, Gildor slid him a sidelong look.
“Losing your way with words, my dear? How unlike you!”
Erestor’s brow quashed his answering smile with a severe look to rival even Elrond’s. “You can’t and I won’t let you. What are you joining us for anyway?”
Amused green slits lit to tease, and hand on chest joined them to mock such gravity. “Cross your path and not join you? My dear, whence such unfriendly manners? The comforts of Lórien call. We’ve been a long time scouring Eriador and far from civil company - ” Some of his men jeered, clearly an old joke between them. “And - and I say,” he persevered through the laughter, “We shall be long about our next duties with only the same old faces to amuse.” He bowed to his hecklers.
When the catcalls subsided, Erestor was not to be distracted. “Lórien? If you are thinking of travelling with us I’d have you know Elrond has made me responsible for him.”
Gildor‘s laugh was genuine.
The flush on Erestor’s face, not hidden quickly enough by turning toward Lindir, raised surprise on Gildor’s.
“Is all well with them, Lindir?” Erestor called softly.
“They are fine. This pack is very well-made, have you seen it?” Both elves got up and joined him, admiring the silk lining padded with buckram inside the light weight cross-bracketed wooden framework. Erestor accepted Gildor’s falling in with this inspection as the tacit not-quite-apology it was. Old friends, older enemies, these two; between them had never been much need to prevaricate.
Lindir let them look for a time and then showed them how the instruments could be strapped in place, obviously pleased with the clever fit.
Fellerien fell in with Erestor at this juncture and they walked among the horses where elves were grooming and inspecting the animals’ legs to the accompaniment of soft snorts from the tall beasts in between nosing for vegetation.
This left Gildor to stroll back to the fire with the musician. Lindir threw him a couple of inspecting glances. It was not long before he spoke. Gildor listened attentively.
“Have you known him long?”
“Erestor?”
“Long enough.” He smiled to remove any seeming curtness to his brevity.
Of their meeting Gildor would not speak, when elf fought elf to no good end. The good and the bad and the utter stupidities of those times were as much beyond description as Beleriand was sunk beneath the seas. Sufficient that he and Erestor had since seen two wars to their conclusion and should this peace prove lasting, they would never have to fight again.
Lindir contented himself with staring across the glade when Gildor said nothing further.
Erestor’s braids were confined under closer control once they hit the deepening wilds, their jingling silenced. He still managed to look flamboyant with his close-cut breeches, long tunic skirts and slinking walk. Lindir sighed.
Gildor’s mouth twitched. So the young minstrel was minded to take an interest? Maybe he was fair game after all. Erestor would have none of him, of that he was very sure. His smile quirked in anticipation.