Elrond stared into the fire. His mind was in a hundred different places, causing his head to pound furiously. In his hand he held a glass of miruvor which had barely touched his lips. Each night he poured a glass, sat by the fire, and contemplated the worries that burdened him. Sometimes he reminisced about the past. Other times he pondered the future. Tonight, however, his mind lay on the present.

Arathorn son of Arador, Chief of the Dúnedain, was dead, slain by an Orc arrow that had pierced his eye. His young widow and child had left their home and were traveling to Rivendell. They were due to arrive tomorrow, near the noon hour.

There had not been a child of the Dúnadain fostered in Rivendell for centuries. He wondered if this one would bear any resemblance to his late brother and closest childhood companion.

As boys, the two had been inseparable. They’d been together through the destruction of their home; they’d been partners in crime, mischief makers raised among the Kinslayers and later the High King Gil-galad and the Noldor. It hadn’t been until after the war that they’d grown apart.

Thinking of Elros made him grip the glass tighter. It was a pain that lingered in his chest, refusing to lessen with the passing of time. He supposed it was the nature of Elves to feel the anguish of death more strongly than Men. It was unnatural for an Elf to grow old or to die. But his brother had done both.

Elrond raised the glass and swallowed deeply. His eyebrows drew together, shadowing his dark and brooding eyes.

He registered the other’s presence a moment before he spoke. It was Glorfindel, his closest friend and confidante.

“Attempting to drown your sorrows, my friend?” His voice was soft and musical.

“Actually, I mean to read my fortune in the dregs,” Elrond returned, his voice low and sarcastic. Glorfindel abandoned his perch on the balcony railing and crossed the room. He poured himself a glass and pulled up a chair next to the fire.

“You always did split the cork. Better to read your fortune in tea,” he commented, smelling the drink. Elrond remained silent, instead opting to drain the glass.

“What is on your mind, Elrond? You are even behaving even more churlish than usual,” Glorfindel asked, equal parts tongue-in-cheek and concerned.

“I am concerned about this year’s cabbage,” Elrond returned smoothly. Despite himself, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“Ah, I see. Yes, that would trouble me as well.”

Silence fell. The two Elves slowly drank their way through the bottle. Elrond spoke up again when Glorfindel uncorked another bottle. “What was it like to die?”

The golden Elf froze. He turned his head slowly to regard his friend with serious eyes. “What is this about, my friend?”

“Please, humor me.”

Glorfindel brought the bottle and sat, abandoning his chair in favor of the hearthstone. He looked Elrond square in the eye and visibly gathered courage. “I don’t know if you can understand. I will put it as best I can, but it is like a dream…I cannot clearly recall all of it.

“I knew that I was going to die, even before the Balrog struck his blow. My spirit lingered with my body until the very last beat of my heart. And then, there was cold. It was freezing. The Helcaraxë cannot even compare. After the heat of the Balrog, it was nearly welcome. But I thought that I would shatter into a million icy shards by the end. I still believed I had a body.

“Then, there was pain. Sauron himself could not devise such torture. I was without a body, naked in the truest sense. This was torture of the mind, a reliving of past sins. I—” He faltered. His long fingers were clenched on the edge of the hearthstone, his knuckles white. Glorfindel drank another glass of miruvor before continuing.

“After that, there was a finite time in which I felt nothing. There was nothing to hear, or see, or taste or touch. I did not worry, I did not hurt; I didn’t feel.” Elrond’s face was expressionless. Inside, his heart was rent with guilt for making his friend relive these memories. But, in a tiny corner reserved for selfish desires, he was rapt.

“I can’t place any sort of measure on the wait, but I suspect it was not as long as I imagine. But eventually I felt his presence. My senses were blind, but he soothed my battered spirit with so much warmth…” Glorfindel’s voice trailed off, and Elrond did not press him to continue. He didn’t need to hear any more.

“Forgive me, Glorfindel. I should not have asked you to relive that. I only seek to understand…”

“Be at ease, Peredhil. You cannot hide anything from me,” the lord said slowly, with a faint smile. His eyes were tumultuous, and Elrond could not read all of the emotions written upon his face. “You want to grasp the concept of death and know what Elros faced.”

Glorfindel stood, and Elrond did the same. They embraced firmly. When they stepped apart, Glorfindel rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Some things cannot be comprehended, Elrond. Elros is at peace. Be content with that.”

Elrond returned to his chair, and rested there, motionless and blank, until the sun began to climb over the horizon and the birds began their morning song.

Perhaps he never would understand the life that Elros had chosen. Even Glorfindel, who had returned from Mandos’ Halls, could not tell him his brother’s fate. He could not believe that a Man’s soul could be snuffed out with the death of the body.

He got up out of his chair, and walked over to the balcony where Glorfindel had made his entrance.

One day, when Arda Marred was broken and remade, Illúvatar’s plan would be revealed. Elros was not lost for ever. He could wait.

Miruvor – wine

The he that Glorfindel speaks of is Mandos.