Lindir's Adventurers 17
Part Seventeen
They emerged into the rocky grasslands that edged Lothlórien to find a kind of horse station enfolded by two wide wings of the forest edge. In a series of hills and dales, rich grass and sheltering scarps furnished a guarded pastureland where horses and a scatter of ponies were dotted around. A few elves were visible. More, Gildor suspected, would be watchful out of sight.
His gaze sharpened. There were men too, a handful of tall, black-haired men in conversation with a tall, blond, smiling elf. The latter spread his hands palm down in a gesture soliciting patience for their discussion; with a glance in the new arrivals’ direction, he excused himself.
Númenóreans. Now that was interesting. Of course Lond Daer to the west had seen them established long since at Gwathló’s mouth, for better or worse. Their depredations pained him. He had known the Dunlendings on their own fierce terms, savage men and distrustful of elves, who still had not deserved the ravaging of their wooded lands by strangers. Civilized Númenor made rapacious neighbours.
Yet Númenor had saved the day against Sauron, when savages had fought for the Betrayer, and there was no gainsaying it.
Adûnaic accents carried across the dell they had dismounted in. Gildor’s ears pricked at the mention of ‘defence’ and of ‘mobile forces’. (He had made it his business to learn that language long since on seeing the explorers were come to stay.) He drifted closer to the knot of conversation, weighing their appearance and their very presence here with what they were saying and with what he did - and did not - know.
“... we must increase our stock,” one was insisting.
“You heard what this Arnedir said; he needs more time to assess what he can part with.”
“Hah. These Elves take forever to make up their minds about anything, and then the price is always too high.”
“That’s because they have forever. This is no place to be critical of them, Hazantaral.” The man looked around him cautiously. Was he concerned for proper courtesy of visitor to host? Or did his shifty, untrusting look proclaim him untrustworthy himself? “Remember we want him co-operative, so mind your tongue. They breed good stock, that’s all you need to know.”
The speaker - their leader? - had the thickest slant to his speech, hard for Gildor to follow. Gildor, watching him, noticed his eyes were not looking at the horses as he spoke. The man was staring at Lindir.
The westerners were an ever-increasing presence with their port and their forts and their travels in Eriador and Enedwaith, south of the Greyflood. The depletion of the forests around Lond Daer had already been occasioning incursions further afield even before the war. Since the war, some who had come for battle were deciding to stay. The Hither Shores represented rich resources to their kind: their king permitted, even encouraged, such ventures.
But outside their king’s aegis came also men of different ilk, men who were debarking in rivers further south. Of these, Gildor knew far less. Whence these particular men? From the west and the king’s camps, or from the south unlicensed by their own authorities? Prior to today, he had not guessed Númenóreans ever came to Lothlórien. Just how far inland had they ventured with their holdings?
Erestor and Fellerien joined him casually, looking more obviously at their own people than the strangers.
“That’s... interesting,” murmured Fellerien as Gildor translated for those less familiar with the outland tongue.
Erestor tilted his head. “They always did love horses.”
“You had more traffic with them than I recently,” noted Gildor. “
“Their battle-ranks? Enough to know we are of different kind though sharing something in common.” He shrugged. “They make noble fighters - brave, honorable for the most part. Then again, you know their appetite for wood has caused grief in plenty for those who relied on the forests.” His frown was more eloquent of disapproval than his considered accounting.
“They do not always like to be outdone, and they hate to defer; they tend to arrogance, though it would be wrong to generalize. I suspect they find us arrogant, actually. Our longevity can be a problem. They seem disturbed by it. They can feel it greatly that their lives are finite when thrown into our company.”
He hesitated. “And I think it arouses their curiosity, along with our appearance. Some find us strange, and some like us a little too well. As if what they find exotic attracts them without quite liking us - it’s a bit odd.”
Most elves found Erestor colourful to the point of exotic, but something about the strangers left Gildor with no desire to disagree with Erestor’s impressions. Even now the last speaker was examining a group of three elves more intently than was courteous: Lindir, Gerrin and an elf of Lórien.
“It’s time we saw to our own arrival, though Lindir seems to be making friends for us already.”
Indeed, men were not the only folk to be taking an interest in their young singer.
***
An elf, the same one who had just been talking to the men, was smiling down at Lindir who had lit down from his grey. “Better grazing out here,” the Lórien elf was saying mundanely to Gerrin without removing his speaking eyes from the curious youth.
Lindir returned the gaze as enthusiastically, not minding at all the flattering attention of an elf, a strikingly handsome Lórien elf of Sindarin descent. Erestor, beside him, visibly suppressed a groan, his thoughts transparent. Was a complete stranger any better than himself for Lindir’s experimentations? Hardly!
“Just let him loose, Erestor. He will be fine.” Gildor grinned when Erestor shrugged ruefully. “Come now. What can you do? This is Lórien after all. No safer place.”
And no shortage of temptation. He smiled benignly at Erestor, who repressed his teasing if not his sentiment with an austere, “Yes, thank you, Gildor.”
Considering which, Lindir truly was lovely and with a little more experience under his belt and a few more years’ weight about him, Gildor would have been delighted to be flattered by his attentions.
He admitted himself entertained at this new facet Erestor was displaying. Elrond must truly have put the fear of the Valar into him. He had never seen Erestor decline a lover before when the elf was one he wanted, not smiling, sinuous Erestor, to touch whom was to invite a kiss and to embrace whom was to deepen friendship.