For about four hours, right after breakfast and right before lunch, the Hall of Fire was usually empty. At midday, some would come here to eat and talk; half of those would linger until supper. Throughout the late meal and afterward, the numbers in the hall would increase. By midnight, most would filter out, but there were those who preferred the warmth of the fire or the companionship of others and stayed until daylight or later, leaving only when the smells from the kitchen brought them to their feet, to stretch and yawn and follow their noses down the corridor.
Lindir would often see them as he slipped into the room. Sometimes he had his harp or his lute; sometimes he would head straight for the old harpsichord that sat often idle in the corner. Other times, he brought only his voice, and tested new phrasings and sang scales into the high ceilings and listened as they echoed back.
Today, he had not brought an instrument, making the decision as he had his early breakfast to use Celebrian’s harp in the hall. It was a monstrous thing. Ornate and intricate, it had the neck of a swan curved up the top, and wings and tail that spread out overhead, providing a canopy to the player. Her father had sent it many years ago – the occasion had since been forgotten. It was kept gleaming white, a cloth folded on the floor beside it to wipe away fingerprints that strayed onto the wood.
Very carefully, Lindir sat down upon the stool (also white) and fine tuned the instrument. It was rare that Celebrian played on account of her shyness to performing in public. At some point, she directed Lindir to play whenever he wished – and he did, from that point on. He ran his hands across the strings now, plucking a series of notes that clung together and faded as the sound traveled away.
He began by playing favorite bits of songs and switching from one to the next as it pleased him. Practice was play for him; he could scarcely think of his occupation as work. He smiled as he worked his way about, strains of a song he could not recall dancing off his fingers. It felt old, but it was new to him. Sometimes, even when he thought he was making up new songs, he knew they were ancient – from some other time and place.
When he stopped, overwhelmed by the somber feeling he was getting, his other senses returned to awareness and he knew he was not alone. He turned his head to see his watcher. Across the room, sitting on the lowest marble step of the dais, Glorfindel looked both entranced and incredibly sad. “Who taught you how to play that song?”
“No one,” answered Lindir. “It just… came to me.” He stood up, uncomfortable by the silence in the room. The log had burned to ash, and the room darkened as the final embers faded. “If you prefer, I can play something else.”
There was a long, contemplative pause. Finally, Glorfindel shook his head – a slow and deliberate motion. He bowed his head, features now unrecognizable. If he smiled or smirked, or frowned or cried, Lindir did not know. “Play that song again,” Glorfindel requested, his voice wavering.
“If it bothers you—“
“It does, but I need to hear it.”
Lindir nodded, confused, but sat down upon the stool. His fingers found the notes, and he wondered in the darkness what expression was on his friend’s face.
