Lindir's Adventurers 30
Tallath had at last departed for the horses and their keeper at the edge of the forest. The moment he was out of sight, Lindir headed deep into the heart of the wood.
He kept his head high as he made his way to the glade he knew best for playing in. Others came and went there all the time to play or to listen and he had always been welcomed. When he arrived, he looked about him. Instead of being diffident, with a careful smile - he refused to display his difficulties for all to see - he went up to a group he had seen here before.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you might help me?”
The three Laiquendi stood up courteously, and bowed, a little low, thought Lindir, taken aback.
“But of course, how can we serve our visiting musician?” The strange accent was lilting; Lindir would have loved to hear him sing. He frowned away the distraction of a song that welled up instantly, begging to be written; the wood elves were so intriguing.
“Um, forgive me for bothering you. Yet I have had some difficulty finding my fellow-travellers and I would dearly like words with them.”
“The Imladris visitors?”
“Or the Wanderer Lord? They all came in together, did they not?”
“We saw the one called Erestor, did we not?”
They turned to Lindir for confirmation and then conferred. “You will wait? Then we will make enquiries on your behalf.” Another set of bows and they swiftly, and silently, left the glade.
Lindir stared for a moment. He had never expected such a reaction as that. Nonplussed at this deferent help, he barely let himself be encouraged. With Tallath’s cautions uneasy in his mind he settled on the nearest tussock of kingsmoss with his harp in his hand.
As he sat there, Lindir wondered if Erestor would not want to come. They might not find him. He might be unavailable, busy with that elf he saw him with the other night.
Mournful chords rose skywards as Lindir pondered his doubts. Unable to shed Tallath’s words, a tragedy shaped itself under his fingertips against the strings in indulgent strains of lonely endeavours. Only a few staunch companions aided his hero just when it mattered, only to find his paramour dead before rescue.
He had never before guessed how anyone could write the dirges of the greater histories. Now he knew, thanks to his seeming-soulless brother and an elf who did not want him. His fingers played on, his mind drifting with the story he was weaving, his heart low.
He felt he also had his first insight into those who drank too much, too often. He wished Orophin would appear with his interesting distillations and cheerful inclusive exuberance. He missed Gildor and the camaraderie of the lord’s band of fleet-footed, fleet-tongued wanderers. Most of all, he missed Erestor’s kindly company.
Morose for the first time in his life, Lindir played his tragedy through, adding embellishments with great satisfaction: an evil villain, abetted by one who should be trustworthy; an elf captured and kept secretly apart; cruel designs inflicted - here, his imagination failed him, not really knowing much about cruel designs (he kept that part vague) - and throughout, only heroic fortitude to sustain the brave and sorry captive.
His hero’s love might die incarcerated, but he would die with pride, while his hero desperately sought him high and low, thwarted at every turn.
Lindir painted the fortress grimmer, its guardians darksome fiends, its sparse light delivered by evil-smoking torches of putrid fat and worse. He bethought him of dungeons and added those - promptly moving his captive to the most noisome one - and then made sure to threaten him with caves wherein surely lurked fearsome beasts.
These two, forever parted, would never fail each other; the faithful lover’s life would be given over wholly to hopeless searching…
Immersed, Lindir was wholly oblivious to the looks cast his way, and the eyebrows raised over the dramatic, desperate sorrow of his song.
***
“Now there’s an elf that needs cheering up,” observed Orophin, passing around a flagon. He squinted. “That,” he said portentously, “is Erestor’s elf. No good at fungi; good taste in lovers…”
Everyone drank.
“If Erestor carried me off over his shoulder I’d be happier than that,” commented one, thoughtfully.
“Good point,” another answered. “So - if he is Erestor’s lover - what is he doing sitting around here on his own?”
“It’s not much for singing to, is it? He doesn’t show any sign of getting to the end - ”
“I think it might be curdling the wine, too,” complained one of those worse-for-wear.
“Ah, that’s not wine you are drinking,” a friend told him. “That’s the dye you were meant to take home. Blue, is it? The blue stuff always tastes curdled to me.”
“Well, where’s the wine, then? Has someone been dying cloth with it?”
His companion contemplated this, puzzled, but gave up.
“Here - ” Orophin put the flagon in his hand. “Young chap like that; Erestor needs a good talking to, I say!” He was too mellow to achieve the belligerent tone he was aiming for, but just about managed to stand up.
“Absolutely!” said another. “I’ll come with you.” “And me.” “Good idea.” Various voices joined in, enthused by this fresh excitement.
“Or maybe - not now,” Orophin amended, staggering in a tight circle before aiming approximately for his tussock as he let gravity have its way.
He slid off it slowly graceful to land on the mossy grass. “Tomorrow - first thing - first thing in the evening.” He nodded earnestly, “A really good talking to.”
He hadn’t reckoned on his friends’ indignation at their new friend’s plight. They picked Orophin up and aimed him toward two paths in a tug of war while Orophin protested, “Ow, my arm!” “My other arm!” as they pulled him one way and another.
Eventually, they coalesced into a heave of legs and arms travelling more or less in the same direction and somehow keeping each other upright, with Orophin carried along in their midst.
***
High above in the boughs of the tallest mallorn, a studious-looking fellow bestirred himself to look out of the window. His clothes were of the finest if a little dusty. His fingers were inky with orange and violet blotches and streaked with carmine. On the table behind him lay an array of parchments covered with notes and fine drawings, all of plants, some of them decorated with insects and beetles. He had a quill in his hand, and as he looked out over the glen it dripped green ink onto the talan floor to join myriad other splodges. With his free hand, he reached for a small bell.
Immediately from the adjoining chamber a smartly but plainly dressed fellow appeared.
The painter set the bell down on the window ledge. “There is an elf harmonizing in my clearing. Plangently. He shows no sign of tiring of his plaint. It’s distracting. Tell Amroth with my compliments that someone else has fallen in love or out of it or whatever and to see to him, would you? There’s a good fellow.”
His attendant bowed and disappeared.
The king cocked his head for a few seconds longer, listening to a passage about mouldy supper and damp walls in some prison, while another character was waylaid by fantastic creatures in a cave system as he searched for the captive. He shook his head; too many good-looking elves running around with not enough to do, that was the problem. All it took was the drop of a hat and someone gave their heart away or lost it, got it broken or had it stolen They should all get themselves hobbies, was what.
Hobbies, yes, that was the thing. Only, not Orophin’s…
The last time he had tried to sort something out himself to win some peace and quiet he had run into Orophin and co. Amdir shuddered.
His first mistake had been to try and talk to them, his second to accept a drink, and from there it was all down-hill. He had not found his talan again for three nights, as he vaguely recalled. Thankfully the rest of the details remained blurred. Something about digging for truffles, and a mallorn-flower still?
Where and how he had lost most of his clothes remained decently cloaked in mystery (unlike his royal person on his eventual return). He found Orophin’s friendly leer ever since when they ran into each other disturbingly suspicious.
He shook his head over yet another minor chord from the clearing. Amroth would sort it out.
He abandoned the window for his table once more. Plants and their denizens were much easier to understand. He resumed his careful shading of a centipede eating a spider at the roots of the herb called traveller’s joy, and made sure to detail exactly the right number of legs this centipede species should have. Then he started to fill in the red dots along each segment, and the hair-fine yellow bristles which were nearly as long as the animal’s legs.
He cocked an ear to one side: despite being half-eaten, the spider seemed less woeful than the elf singing below.
Amroth would sort it out. His son was good at princely things like that. Amdir had never much liked kinging. Painting was far more satisfying.
He kept his head high as he made his way to the glade he knew best for playing in. Others came and went there all the time to play or to listen and he had always been welcomed. When he arrived, he looked about him. Instead of being diffident, with a careful smile - he refused to display his difficulties for all to see - he went up to a group he had seen here before.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you might help me?”
The three Laiquendi stood up courteously, and bowed, a little low, thought Lindir, taken aback.
“But of course, how can we serve our visiting musician?” The strange accent was lilting; Lindir would have loved to hear him sing. He frowned away the distraction of a song that welled up instantly, begging to be written; the wood elves were so intriguing.
“Um, forgive me for bothering you. Yet I have had some difficulty finding my fellow-travellers and I would dearly like words with them.”
“The Imladris visitors?”
“Or the Wanderer Lord? They all came in together, did they not?”
“We saw the one called Erestor, did we not?”
They turned to Lindir for confirmation and then conferred. “You will wait? Then we will make enquiries on your behalf.” Another set of bows and they swiftly, and silently, left the glade.
Lindir stared for a moment. He had never expected such a reaction as that. Nonplussed at this deferent help, he barely let himself be encouraged. With Tallath’s cautions uneasy in his mind he settled on the nearest tussock of kingsmoss with his harp in his hand.
As he sat there, Lindir wondered if Erestor would not want to come. They might not find him. He might be unavailable, busy with that elf he saw him with the other night.
Mournful chords rose skywards as Lindir pondered his doubts. Unable to shed Tallath’s words, a tragedy shaped itself under his fingertips against the strings in indulgent strains of lonely endeavours. Only a few staunch companions aided his hero just when it mattered, only to find his paramour dead before rescue.
He had never before guessed how anyone could write the dirges of the greater histories. Now he knew, thanks to his seeming-soulless brother and an elf who did not want him. His fingers played on, his mind drifting with the story he was weaving, his heart low.
He felt he also had his first insight into those who drank too much, too often. He wished Orophin would appear with his interesting distillations and cheerful inclusive exuberance. He missed Gildor and the camaraderie of the lord’s band of fleet-footed, fleet-tongued wanderers. Most of all, he missed Erestor’s kindly company.
Morose for the first time in his life, Lindir played his tragedy through, adding embellishments with great satisfaction: an evil villain, abetted by one who should be trustworthy; an elf captured and kept secretly apart; cruel designs inflicted - here, his imagination failed him, not really knowing much about cruel designs (he kept that part vague) - and throughout, only heroic fortitude to sustain the brave and sorry captive.
His hero’s love might die incarcerated, but he would die with pride, while his hero desperately sought him high and low, thwarted at every turn.
Lindir painted the fortress grimmer, its guardians darksome fiends, its sparse light delivered by evil-smoking torches of putrid fat and worse. He bethought him of dungeons and added those - promptly moving his captive to the most noisome one - and then made sure to threaten him with caves wherein surely lurked fearsome beasts.
These two, forever parted, would never fail each other; the faithful lover’s life would be given over wholly to hopeless searching…
Immersed, Lindir was wholly oblivious to the looks cast his way, and the eyebrows raised over the dramatic, desperate sorrow of his song.
***
“Now there’s an elf that needs cheering up,” observed Orophin, passing around a flagon. He squinted. “That,” he said portentously, “is Erestor’s elf. No good at fungi; good taste in lovers…”
Everyone drank.
“If Erestor carried me off over his shoulder I’d be happier than that,” commented one, thoughtfully.
“Good point,” another answered. “So - if he is Erestor’s lover - what is he doing sitting around here on his own?”
“It’s not much for singing to, is it? He doesn’t show any sign of getting to the end - ”
“I think it might be curdling the wine, too,” complained one of those worse-for-wear.
“Ah, that’s not wine you are drinking,” a friend told him. “That’s the dye you were meant to take home. Blue, is it? The blue stuff always tastes curdled to me.”
“Well, where’s the wine, then? Has someone been dying cloth with it?”
His companion contemplated this, puzzled, but gave up.
“Here - ” Orophin put the flagon in his hand. “Young chap like that; Erestor needs a good talking to, I say!” He was too mellow to achieve the belligerent tone he was aiming for, but just about managed to stand up.
“Absolutely!” said another. “I’ll come with you.” “And me.” “Good idea.” Various voices joined in, enthused by this fresh excitement.
“Or maybe - not now,” Orophin amended, staggering in a tight circle before aiming approximately for his tussock as he let gravity have its way.
He slid off it slowly graceful to land on the mossy grass. “Tomorrow - first thing - first thing in the evening.” He nodded earnestly, “A really good talking to.”
He hadn’t reckoned on his friends’ indignation at their new friend’s plight. They picked Orophin up and aimed him toward two paths in a tug of war while Orophin protested, “Ow, my arm!” “My other arm!” as they pulled him one way and another.
Eventually, they coalesced into a heave of legs and arms travelling more or less in the same direction and somehow keeping each other upright, with Orophin carried along in their midst.
***
High above in the boughs of the tallest mallorn, a studious-looking fellow bestirred himself to look out of the window. His clothes were of the finest if a little dusty. His fingers were inky with orange and violet blotches and streaked with carmine. On the table behind him lay an array of parchments covered with notes and fine drawings, all of plants, some of them decorated with insects and beetles. He had a quill in his hand, and as he looked out over the glen it dripped green ink onto the talan floor to join myriad other splodges. With his free hand, he reached for a small bell.
Immediately from the adjoining chamber a smartly but plainly dressed fellow appeared.
The painter set the bell down on the window ledge. “There is an elf harmonizing in my clearing. Plangently. He shows no sign of tiring of his plaint. It’s distracting. Tell Amroth with my compliments that someone else has fallen in love or out of it or whatever and to see to him, would you? There’s a good fellow.”
His attendant bowed and disappeared.
The king cocked his head for a few seconds longer, listening to a passage about mouldy supper and damp walls in some prison, while another character was waylaid by fantastic creatures in a cave system as he searched for the captive. He shook his head; too many good-looking elves running around with not enough to do, that was the problem. All it took was the drop of a hat and someone gave their heart away or lost it, got it broken or had it stolen They should all get themselves hobbies, was what.
Hobbies, yes, that was the thing. Only, not Orophin’s…
The last time he had tried to sort something out himself to win some peace and quiet he had run into Orophin and co. Amdir shuddered.
His first mistake had been to try and talk to them, his second to accept a drink, and from there it was all down-hill. He had not found his talan again for three nights, as he vaguely recalled. Thankfully the rest of the details remained blurred. Something about digging for truffles, and a mallorn-flower still?
Where and how he had lost most of his clothes remained decently cloaked in mystery (unlike his royal person on his eventual return). He found Orophin’s friendly leer ever since when they ran into each other disturbingly suspicious.
He shook his head over yet another minor chord from the clearing. Amroth would sort it out.
He abandoned the window for his table once more. Plants and their denizens were much easier to understand. He resumed his careful shading of a centipede eating a spider at the roots of the herb called traveller’s joy, and made sure to detail exactly the right number of legs this centipede species should have. Then he started to fill in the red dots along each segment, and the hair-fine yellow bristles which were nearly as long as the animal’s legs.
He cocked an ear to one side: despite being half-eaten, the spider seemed less woeful than the elf singing below.
Amroth would sort it out. His son was good at princely things like that. Amdir had never much liked kinging. Painting was far more satisfying.