Quendendil

(QUENYA) Quendil masc. Quendë: Elf | -dil: friend
A term translated as “Elf-friend” (WJ/410), but more accurately describing those concerned with the lore of Elven-kind (WJ/412). This name is a compound: Quendë “Elf” and the suffix -(n)dil “friend”. It also appears in the longer form Quendendil.
  - Eldamo.Org

Many are the vineyards of  Dorwinion that lie along the fertile banks of the Celduin as it meanders slowly along the last leagues of its course eastwards into the Sea of Rhûn; and it was within one such great garden that an old man in rude and ragged raiment was found wandering witless and outworn among the grape-laden vines.

Upon seeing the Elves¹ he fell to his knees and threw up his hands as if to entreat succour, then gave a strangled cry and collapsed senseless to the ground. The startled vintners marked that he was no Easterling, for beneath the filth that begrimed his emaciated body he was as fair-skinned as the Lake-men of Esgaroth or Dale in the North (whom the Elves well knew through the trade of their wines with the realms of Rhovanion); nor was he like any Men they knew north of Ered Nimrais, for in his cry was a single word: "Eruhíni!" and no Man of Wilderland spoke the tongue of the Eldar.

And so they hastened him into the House of Healing, for though some might have deemed him dotard, the Elves perceived the vitality of his fëa and the intensity of the Flame Imperishable imbued therein, and they knew that something was grievously amiss; and the healers there were disquieted by his wounds, for they were not of the body only. For nigh a fortnight he lay writhing in fevered dreams, and he oft cried out in anguish at unseen horrors or wept in terror of fell tormentors... and all the while he murmured in hoarse whispers, sometimes in Westron, sometimes in Quenya or Sindarin, and sometimes in a dialect the healers did not completely comprehend. And so a Lambengolmo was brought to his bedside, and when he hearkened to the words of the old man his eyes grew wide, and shaking his head he exclaimed, "It cannot be so!" For he recognised that tongue and knew that no Man in Arda could speak it, for it was Vanyarin, which was spoken only in the Blessed Realm of Aman; and the words the old man whispered were verses of the Ainulindalë! Now the Elves were amazed at their guest, and wondered at what mischance had brought him hither to their halls.

And it came to pass that he awoke at last from his restless stupor, and licking his pale, cracked lips with a parched tongue he croaked, "Sindanóriello mornië caita..." but his dry eyes could shed no tears of sorrow. Tidings were sent to the Lord of Dowinion, and he came together with the Lambengolmo to sit at the bedside of his mysterious visitor, and with his own hand he quenched the old man's thirst with clear spring water mixed with miruvor from a crystal flask. The old man's eyes lost for a moment their haunted aspect, and laying a trembling hand upon that of the Elf-lord's, he smiled gratefully and asked, "Mirubhōze... uito... miruvórë?" and fell yet into a swoon. But now his slumber was restful and his lined face untroubled, and when he again awoke some hours later the Elf-lord was still by his side; and again he held a flask of the warm and fragrant liquor to the old man's lips -- this time undiluted -- and when provender had been brought and the old man had eaten a little, the Elf-lord began to gently ply him with questions:

   "What is your name, Greybeard?"

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Instead a frown creased his brow, then fear filled his eyes and he shook his head as if to loosen the knowledge from the confines of his mind. But alas, he could not remember. For a full hour the Elf-lord and the Lambengolmo questioned him while he ate sparingly from a large platter of sweet ripe grapes and sipped watered wine, but to no avail. He knew not his name nor whence he came; he could recall only that he had journeyed together with his friend through Eryn Galen, that was Greenwood the Great (although its name Taur-nu-Fuin, or 'Mirkwood', was unknown to him), and they had followed Celduin's course eastwards until its confluence with the Carnen. Then they had traversed the plains into Rhûn, on an errand that was of great concern to someone, but now he knew not whom nor the nature of their task. If these words caused the Elf-lord any misgivings, he did not show it, but the Lambengolmo gasped quietly.

   "Is something amiss, my lord?" asked the old man.
The Lambengolmo glanced at the Elf-lord, who answered swiftly, "Long have the Easterlings of that land been enemies of the Free Peoples, for they came under the dominion of Morgoth in the Elder Days and, in recent times, his foul servant Sauron Gorthaur. And you say you know not what business you had in Rhûn? This bodes ill, perhaps..."

But the naming of Sauron had caused to old man to shrink back into his bed, and clasping his head in his hands he cried out in anguish, "Ñortor!" before curling up and sobbing, "Valar valuvar!" over and over.
   "Peace, Greybeard," said the Elf-lord, "What more do you recall?"
   "My friend... my friend..." the old man wailed, "Slain! His head cloven and his lifeless body hung upon a gibbet as carrion for gorcrows! Gone... alas, he is gone..."
He looked up when the Elf-lord laid a calming hand on his shoulder, and said through his tears, "What was his name? I cannot remember his name! O Manwë, do you see now what your brother has wrought in his malice? O Nienna, do you weep for his passing? O Námo, does he now linger in your Halls of Awaiting, in the company of Míriel Serindë? Tell me, O Valar! Who was he?"
The Lambengolmo became distressed at these words, and exclaimed, "Mayhap the spirits of Men are received into the Halls of Mandos, but their place of waiting there is not that of the Elves!"

The Elf-lord, however, looked thoughtful. "You who so easily recall the names of the Aratar and an Elleth of yore in your despair, yet you remember not the name of your closest friend; nay, not even your own name. And they tell me that in your stupor you sang the verses of the Ainulindalë, and with my own ears have I heard you utter the tongue of the Vanyar, my kin. Who are you, Greybeard?"
The old man shook his head in dismay. "O Estë, I beseech your healing touch! I know not how I recall these things, my lord. My knowledge is as a cloak that flails in the wind, aimless and erratic; or clouds that veil Isil's silver sheen in his nightly passage. To my sorrow, even now I cannot bring to my mind any one word of the tongue you call Vanyarin; only the Sindarin in which we speak. And alas, I recall naught -- naught! -- of my life ere emerging from Eryn Galen, and but very little thereafter!"
Though much of what the old man had spoken was indeed Quenya and not Sindarin as he thought, the Elf said only, "Pray, proceed with your account, Greybeard..."

And so the old man's tale unfolded. Long did the two companions journey in the East, until at a time and place now forgotten, they were waylaid in ambush ere they could defend themselves, and placed in fetters of cold iron; and then no memory had he of aught but thraldom in darkness and the slow torment of years in the deeps of an unknown dungeon of the faithless enemy, never to be released unless he made obeisance to the Dark Lord (which he shunned, and thus was his friend slain, deepening his grief with guilt); or perhaps when he was changed and broken. And then sudden freedom unlooked for... after years... or decades? The passage of time had meaning no longer. The golden fire of Anar burning his eyes so that he needs must travel by night under the cool light of Isil, stumbling across the grim tussocks of the grey plains of Rhûn... then discovering the clear waters of Celduin...

But well did the two Elves recall the history of Húrin Thalion, son of Galdor: released by Morgoth, who feigned pity, but only so as to further his malice; a broken man shunned by his kin who thought him in league with the Dark Lord, for whither Húrin did go, the curse of Morgoth followed after. And yet they recalled also the plight of those Eldar in the First Age whom were taken captive during the Siege of Angband and made thralls in the service of Morgoth, their wills chained to his; and feigning to unbind them, he sent them likewise abroad for his evil purposes, and thus if any of his captives escaped in truth, they had little welcome among their kin and wandered homeless and friendless thereafter.

And so they wondered, did this Greybeard escape, or was he set loose? Was he yet a thrall of the Nameless Enemy, chained to his will? Though beset with misgivings, they chose the path of pity, for they sensed no guile or taint of darkness in the waif, and thus for long months did the Dorwinions give comfort to their strange guest. His body had healed ere the harvest time, and though his spirit was sorely stricken, it seemed not broken; though some there were who remarked that perhaps his mind bore the more grievous wound.

For as he recovered from his injuries, and he became less infirm and his strength returned, he would delight in roaming about Dorwinion, and oft did the Elves descry him in the woodlands in earnest conversation with trees, or laughing with birds, or singing to the forest creatures; or wandering unclad along the banks of the Celduin, rejoicing at the touch of clean water and warm sunlight. Or while toiling in the vineyards, he might be seen gazing forlornly across the plains towards Rhûn, and at those times he would afterwards become consumed with Arda Hastaina, the world tainted by the evil of Morgoth, and Arda Envinyanta, that is the world restored to the perfect state as was intended by the creator, Eru Ilúvatar, and his servants the Ainur. Then would he lament the corruption of Arda, both in spirit and form, and his eyes would brighten in the hope that one day this damage might be undone and the world at last be purged of all evil.

Indeed, the Elves regarded him with esteem, for he had knowledge of the lore of the Elder Days that they deemed to be beyond the ken of a mortal Man; and yet still he could not remember his own history, nor could he account any of the tales of the Third Age, and those of the Second Age seemed to him like a fading dream. But when mention was made in passing of Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of Mithlond, he recalled that name with gladness, though he could not recollect whence he knew of it. And he thought therefore to undertake the long journey unto the Gulf of Lhûn; first northwards through the High Pass over the Hithaeglir, and then to follow the Great Road west into Eriador in search of his memories.

And so it was that wellnigh a full coranar after his discovery in the vineyards that he made ready to set forth from the sanctuary of Dorwinion, and on the eve of his departing the Elf-lord laid his hand upon the old man's brow and spake thus:

   "Greybeard, a boon I have for thee, for I know now thy anessë...

   "I name thee Quendendil!"

1. I subscribe to the notion that Dorwinion was an elf kingdom.

(( N.B. To avoid confusion it should please be noted that while this profile records the entirety of Quendendil's sojourn in Dorwinion, his "adventures" -- thus far -- take place during that time. i.e. IC, he has not yet departed that elven realm. ))

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