He tells the hobbits his name is Gildor Inglorion, of the House of Finrod. He offers them hospitality on his trip West, and advice, and some light to break the darkness. He can tell there is great darkness.
The Riders come on his encampment in the night. They are almost laughable, feeble half-housed spirits grasping at remnants of flesh.
He and his folk drive them off, of course, and the sleep of the hobbits in their pavilion is undisturbed. But this is dark business such as he has not seen for centuries, and he pledges to accompany the four mortals on at least this first part of their quest. (Accompanying mortals on dark quests is, by now, what he is known for.)
Aragorn is certain that this Gildor Inglorion is more than he seems. He’s never met the benn before, but there is power in him for all his friendliness and charm and late-Third-Age habits. And he’s old. Very old. Old enough to set a watch and sing the wards around their camp into readiness so that they may sleep in peace. When we reach home, Aragorn thinks, I shall press adar about these things.
The six of them reach Weathertop, and the battle is pitched but subtle. Gildor is good with his sword, and something in him drives the Riders back. Frodo is wounded, though, and even this odd and ancient elf cannot save him. They press on for days, and Gildor sings songs in the darkness and rain to drive out the cold.
When they find Glorfindel (when Glorfindel finds them) his eyes are keen and he shares a long look with Gildor. Aragorn knows they are speaking; he cannot join in. At last it is decided - Glorfindel shall ride with Frodo and make haste across the last flat mile before the Ford, and Gildor and Aragorn shall remain back with drawn swords and torches and meet the enemy in battle should the need arise. It is a desperate chase, and every moment counts, but the day is won and Frodo is saved and brought to the Last Homely House. Gildor and Gandalf go immediately into council and do not emerge except to speak to Elrond, when he is not tending to the hobbit in his care.
It’s almost a relief to Frodo when he finds out both Aragorn and Gildor will be coming with him on his journey. He was afraid of traveling with true strangers, but now it’s only Gimli and the man Boromir who he doesn’t know, and Gimli hardly counts, he’s Gloín’s son. When he asks why the elf is coming, Gildor laughs.
“These are fell and vital days, Frodo Baggins, and I would do my part one final time ere I leave these shores,” he says, and there is a light in his eyes that is almost too ancient to be witnessed. “And more besides - I would not be able to live with myself if you were wounded again and I could have saved you.”
(Gimli is less than enthused about traveling with an elf, but after a simple inquiry by Gildor about the state of things in the Lonely Mountain turns into hours of conversation about metalwork and tunneling and mine shaft construction, he decides that maybe there is one elf in all their race who is not miserable to exist alongside.)
They depart bright and early on the twenty-fifth of December by Shire reckoning. Elrond sees them off. “No oath or bond is on you to journey further than you will,” he says, and while Gimli argues on if such a thing is honorable, Gildor laughs to himself. “My friend,” he tells the Dwarf at last, “your heart is strong and none doubt your loyalty. But we elves have reasons for such thoughts, and they have nothing at all to do with a disregard for honor.” With that the matter is settled, and their Company leaves of one mind.
Aragorn has almost forgotten his suspicions of Gildor being more than he seems, but when their Company journeys into Moria, they rise again. He’s quick to find the secret door of ithildin, trailing his fingers over the scrollwork. His hand rests on the eight-pointed star, and for a moment Aragorn catches what might have been tears in the benn’s bright eyes. He’s also the one who catches the opening riddle (“’Speak, friend?’ he asks with a laugh, eyeing Gandalf. ‘Pedo’ is a direct command, Mithrandir, not an invitation.”) and reads the inscription aloud in flawless Sindarin, watching almost smugly as the doors open. And in the silence of the city and the mines, he is nearly as melancholy as Gimli. They take to whispering together in the darkness, brooding on might-have-beens and the names of the dead. Once in a great chamber he stops and stares at the arches, openly weeping. “Of all the halls I ever dwelled in,” he says to Gimli solemnly, “the greatest were those crafted by your people, and I was sorry to leave them, and I am sorry to bear witness to this decay.”
They find Balin’s tomb. Gildor reads the epitaph, and murmurs something in Khuzdul that makes Gimli gasp. (“I learned much from your people, son of Gloín,” he says in response, “and I have never shared the secrets I was taught. You have my word.”) The two of them pore over the book discovered in the same room. There is a brief debate about if it’s proper to explain and translate what was written, but then a Sindarin section is discovered and that is read aloud without concern.
When the orcs attack, it is Gildor who holds the door closed as the others flee. At last he reaches the Company at the bottom of the stairs, gasping and bright-eyed.
“There is some power there with them, Mithrandir, driving them on,” he says. “They spoke of fire and darkness - perhaps the lower levels are in flames - but I was forced to sing down a pillar and block our escape.”
“A pillar?” Gimli asks, brought from silence by concern. “You’ll bring down the whole mountain on our heads if you’re not careful!”
“Peace,” Gildor replies. “I helped to - I know the ways these halls were constructed. I am old, and have seen much; in the Elder Days we had reason to fear invasion and war and so there were designs crafted to allow certain arches to be toppled to aid in defense. It was one of those I felled.”
The Balrog comes. Gildor offers to fight it and draws his sword. Gandalf argues with him, finally ordering him to flee and to remain alive. It is the first true order he has given at least since their entry into Moria. And he is angry, and alive, and powerful even beyond his physical form. But he listens, and does what is asked. Aragorn watches as the benn seems to shrink down into his hröa, and says nothing as he himself is ordered to run while Gildor guards the retreat.
“Eight there are,” Celeborn says, “and yet nine there were that set out from Rivendell.” His gaze is inscrutable, and the Lady beside him is fair but yet silent.
“Mithrandir fell in combat with a Valarauko,” Gildor says from the rear of the Company, stepping forward to speak directly to the other elves. “He ordered us to flee, else we would have joined him in combat.”
Galadriel’s eyes do not leave Gildor’s for the remainder of their audience. Later, in the evening, Frodo swears he hears her laughing as the two of them walk through the trees.
The Fellowship breaks. Frodo and Sam strike out alone, and Gildor counsels Aragorn to leave them.
“You have work to do here, scion of Beren,” he says privately, “and their path is set by forces greater than ourselves.”
Boromir is dead, slain protecting Merry and Pippin. The three remaining members of their Company see to his body and strike out for Rohan.
It is not until later, much later, that Aragorn remembers he still suspects. Gandalf has returned, and Rohan is saved from Isengard, and the Pelennor is rid of the besieging orc army, and the Witch-King is slain by Merry and Éowyn, and he has unfurled the banner of his royal House for the first time, and now he sits in council for a final debate.
“We need a diversion,” Gimli says, for once choosing to forego softness and poetry in his speech. “If Sauron recognizes that Frodo and Sam are within his borders their chances become nonexistent.”
“But how can we entice Sauron to combat us?” Imrahil replies. “We only narrowly avoided loss and defeat here. We cannot muster up an army of corpses to march and fight for us - not anymore, anyway.”
“Did you not use the Stone of Orthanc to challenge him?” Éomer asks Aragorn.
“I did,” the man answers, “but while he was angered I cannot say for sure he will answer me.” He sees that Gandalf is looking at Gildor, and looking at him in a way that suggests some great amusement. They converse silently, and at last the benn groans and shakes his head.
“I shall, then,” he tells Gandalf directly, almost rolling his eyes, and rises from his seat with an easy grace. He crosses the distance between where he sat and where Aragorn sits now, and bows in antiquated elvish fashion.
“If we ride, lord” he continues, “I can draw out our enemy. He might ignore you mortals as harmless. But he will remember me, and in seeing me he will know your bloodline.”
“Remember you?” Imrahil says. “What do you mean?”
The melody cuts through the air, tearing and repairing and revitalizing, leaving the lone elf standing before the Black Gate holding the threads of song and reality in his hand. His hair is gleaming gold in the faint light, and he seems to grow as the shadows deepen. Around him the very earth shifts as he sings, rising and falling and cracking. There is Discord here, woven into all that is.
He combats it with his own song of staying.
And Aragorn, watching, knows what his heart has been telling him all along.
