Afraid Of Beauty (Don’t Be)

River Lhûn, 1701 Second Age.                                                      

"Are there orcs in Mandos’ Halls, Glorfindel?”

The question caught me by surprise.

Whereas he would listen eagerly to any tale I would share about Valinor or the First Age, Ereinion usually kept a stubborn silence around my sojourn in Mandos –something I appreciated. While I suspect that at first it was not out of respect but rather dread of the answers he might get would he ever dare ask about his relatives, he later became very protective of my privacy after learning from others that I bolted from questions about that time.

“I could not say…”

“Could not or would not?” he asked in that steely voice that caused you to stiffen to attention and almost trip on your feet in haste to do his bidding.

“Could not, my lord,” I admitted. “I … my memories are dim, and difficult to put into words. Mandos is more a state of mind than a place…I could not say. Why do you ask?”

“Because I wonder whether they are routinely reborn and thrown against us in punishment,” he spat, turning a tired, mud-and-blood streaked face to me. “Not really,” he hurried to explain with a mirthless chuckle, regretting, I suppose, his harsh words. “Some say they are descended from elves corrupted by the Morgoth…but elves still,” he sighed softly. “Just wondered where they would go after death.” He shook his head and then turned his back on me.

We were standing on top of a low hill by the southernmost ford of the Lhûn, where he had grouped the bulk of his troops for that last stand in defence of the Mithlond while Sauron unleashed wave after wave of his darkness-bred creatures against us. And our last stand it might have as well been in the end were it not for the timely help of the Númenorean fleet, which reached us when we had already lost all hope and simply looked for a suitable place to do our dying.

For days we had seen the Annatar –Sauron- watching from the rearguard, pushing his hordes against us like storm clouds of despair; had felt his relentless malice seeping our strength. And yet we would hold on. But the price had been high, and we had slaughtered -and been slaughtered- mercilessly. The battlefield was a thick carpet of bloodied remains. Down the clear waters of the Lhûn a dense, dark-red flow carried the news to Ossë. It was no wonder that his thoughts tended to glum.

“I came face to face with my first corpse the year after the Fifth Battle, in the autumn when the Falas fell…and I killed my first orc then, too,” he recalled as we descended the knoll, picking our path amidst hacked limbs and mutilated bodies. “Until then I had believed that Thorondor and his eagles flew all dead elven warriors to their rest in Mandos…and I suppose I expected orc corpses just vanished like morning mists. I had never thought that war and killing were so…vivid, so unclean, so…individual.” He crouched to check an elven body and stood up quickly, sadness troubling his weary face. “I know not how many orcs I have killed since then, and how many men of darkness…How many elves and edain I have led to their deaths in battle…” He kicked a cloven shield and then shouted in anguish. “Resist not evil, indeed!” he cried out, and then turned pained eyes to me. “What kind of life is this for a Firstborn, Glorfindel, where is the beauty in it, doomed to kill and be killed endlessly while only darkness grows and regrows all around us?”

I pondered my answer carefully; because back then I still believed my lot in Middle-earth was to provide unwanted answers for heart-wrenching questions, even for the kind of questions that shout do not answer! to your face and kick you hard in your shins in warning.

“I think that is because of Arda Marred, my lord, and yet…” I began, then caught myself short as he charred me with a single glance.

“Why, thank you, Lord Glorfindel, your wisdom will never be praised with praise loud enough,” he spat with that curt charm of his, then stomped away even as I humbly accepted his compliments and mumbled they were undeserved, and that I just wanted to remind him that there is beauty still amidst the darkest things… 

He was tired and disheartened, I knew, so I did not take his outburst badly. All those terrible years since Sauron first set his might against us he had felt the Maia’s evil power focused on him. Even if carefully secreted away, the rings entrusted to his keeping rendered him more vulnerable to the dreadful, soul-stealing presence of the Maia. He had resisted bravely, but his fëa was weakened and his strength diminished by that gruelling, desperate struggle. Full of sympathy, I followed him at a slower pace to where he argued with the captain of his guard with much gesturing.

“…When you are ready, Gil-galad,” Taurlong finished as I caught up with them. “Are you coming with us, Glorfindel?”

“Of course he is,” Gil-galad answered for me. “He has to guide us through the same secret path he took to get here…Find a horse, Glorfindel,” he said not unkindly, for his wrath burnt out quickly when it was unfounded. “We are departing within the hour...”

I could not understand the urgency. The Ciryatur’s men were still chasing scattered survivors and pressing on the rearguard of Annatar’s army, routed and in a desperate flight towards Baranduin. Our dead were almost as many as our injured, and few of those still standing were unscathed. Worse, we had all been fighting without proper rest or food for several weeks. Exhausted only began to describe how we all felt, and reckless was the more optimistic assessment I could come up with regarding the king’s decision to depart presently.

“Unless you single-handedly wiped it off on your way here -and forgot to mention- there is still another army besieging Elrond and the survivors from Ost-in-Edhil in that hidden valley,” Ereinion reminded me with crumbling patience, my unvoiced concerns obviously clear to him. “We are hurrying east to their help…”

“You will be of no help when you fall from your horse out of sheer exhaustion and break your neck, my lord,” I retorted gently. But it was a useless game, trying to make him see reason when he was worn out and set on one path, and my logic did nothing but boost his testiness. It was a well-known fact, after all, how Fingolfin had at times resorted to forbidding Fingon to do things he actually wanted the High Prince to do, and the stubbornness of Finwë’s line does not thin out down the generations as we all know only too well...

“I will ask to be tied to my mare then, to avoid such misfortune. Now go find a horse. Where is Círdan, Taurlong?”

And again he strode away full of purpose while Taurlong shook his head and laughed at me. “An ennin among us and still you will not learn, the Valar bless you!” he chuckled, then added more soberly: “We will not ride far today, Glorfindel…just far enough from the battlefield to shake off the spell of mortal gloom.  There is no beauty or comfort to be found here. Come; let us get you a horse.”

I had not thought of it.

For one like me, who could hear the sweet song of Mandos’ call and the relieved answer of most faer, the now quiet battlefield oozed a strange beauty, a sea of peace and serenity. Few would refuse the call, and amidst the pain and confusion of death the stranded faer found comfort in their numbers and flocked gratefully after the soothing song. But of course, while I looked with eyes that had seen what few others among the Firstborn had, I also missed much of what my peers perceived with their weary souls –more attuned to the sorrows of Arda Marred.

Where I saw peace and reunion my companions only felt loss and parting –a darkness that would set on the land for long. Blood-drenched soils and fire-twisted trees scarred the lands. The voices of the birds fleeing the clash of iron and the moans of the dying had finally quieted away, replaced by an unnerving silence only broken by the frozen, bitter rage of the Houseless Ones, who would haunt the place until the end of Arda...

My friends grieved for elves and edain alike, with a burning, hopeless sorrow that also carried a heavy weight of guilt. As I listened to their hushed, sad conversations, all of a sudden they looked to me more like mortal Men bent by old age -withered, tired and desperate- than Eru’s mighty Firstborns.

And what of the rest, indeed? I wondered some time later, turning on my steed to cast a last look at the dismal battlefield as we rode away at a slow pace. Ereinion’s question rang insistently in my mind and worried me for, in truth, the Elven song was actually a minor chord, a whisper in the wide, silent desolation of mortal death. Men, serving good or evil, and orcs, tied forever to the will of Morgoth’s then of Sauron’s, where did their faer go, and why in silence? Never again have I felt the weight of Arda’s blemish, the ugliness of darkness, with greater intensity than on that one silent evening of our victory in the ford of the Lhûn.

That night, keeping watch while most of the camp wandered the paths of elven dreams, I finally understood the full extent of the bitterness I had been shown at my arrival; made peace with the unexpectedly frosty welcome. That night I finally understood how deeply wounded they all were by the shadow, and how my presence –fresh and renewed from the Halls of Mandos- had rather brought fear than joy to their troubled lives –at least at first.  

Tracking Eärendil’s watchful path over our heads, settled comfortably against a boulder, I let my mind wander off to the first days of my arrival and my first encounter with Elrond, son of Eärendil.

Lindon, 1545 Second Age.

“Maybe I should have sat at Meneltarma and awaited an engraved invitation,” I complained, following Círdan up the stony steps that led to the palace after a brief visit to his workshop. “Or just ridden past Lindon to Ost-in-Edhil. I am sure Galadriel would have been far more forthcoming…”

The raised eyebrow the Shipwright turned to me was enough to let me know I was being as petulant as I sounded. But I felt disappointed and almost, almost betrayed after less than a moon turn in Lindon.

“I stood by the shore when Ossë came and took our kin away,” Círdan said, stopping his ascent and leaning on a beautifully carved balcony. “We would not leave Elwë behind, nor could we stand the soughing, enticing chant of the waves. So we turned our backs on the Sea and retreated into the dark forests, always longing for our departed kin. That was the first time my people had their hearts broken by the light and the beauty of the West…”

I glanced at him in wonder. Of course I knew Círdan was old, had known in my first life too, but I had never before heard him speak like that; in a soft, low rumble that sounded weary with countless sorrows and endless turns of the tide. His eyes were narrowed as he forced his sharp glance west, the wind whipping at the white beard legend claims grew on him while he waited in vain for Ossë’s return.

“Also it was not the last. As someone who twice walked away from the Blessed Realm yourself, Glorfindel, you surely must understand the… ambiguity of our feelings.” There was barely disguised mirth in that wise face, belying such unholy statement. “But you need not admit to it.” 

I admired his nonchalance. How did he manage to see farther and deeper than many who had lived forever in the presence of the Valar I could not say. Maybe there was some grain of truth after all in the rumour about Ulmo’s frequent visits to the shores of Hither.

“I…” Of course I understood. Ambiguity was too kind a way of defining the restlessness that had evolved into loathing when Melko first poisoned Fëanor’s mind; the darkness that had sapped the light of Valinor not just from the Trees but from our very faer as well; the madness that had driven us from the Blessed Realm in bitterness and distrust and stranded us in the unforgiving shores of Hither. Whatever that had been, ambiguous was not. “I just…”

“You just need to be patient,” Círdan interrupted with a kind smile. “Give us time, to get used to the idea of you being here, and soon you will be again one of us. See, Arien is reaching the end of her journey and I still need to check with the harbourmaster. You should go and pick some berries for dinner’s sauce. Cook will be thankful and it would definitely improve your standing before the king,” he said, patting my back encouragingly.

I grunted my most reluctant acknowledgement.

“And if it serves as a consolation, I do not think the Lady Galadriel is overly fond of surprises,” he shot back as he flew upstairs, swift as a seagull fleeing a storm.

I scowled, mulling my annoyance as I picked a grass path down to the orchard. Things had not been as I expected since my arrival and I felt frustrated. The High King’s welcome had been barely adequate, friendliness regally kept in check behind courtly formality.

To my surprise, news from the court of Númenor and the comings and goings of aging Tar-Súrion had been of more interest to him than those from Valmar or Tirion. Unfortunately I was of little use in that regard, having tarried not long in the Land of the Gift and mingled there with artisans and peasants, whose affairs were apparently of no concern to the High King. None of my impressions were of significance to him: How the mellyrn grew tall and proud on the western shore around Andúnië; the delicate stonework in the new courtyard in the King’s palace, worthy of admiration even for Noldorin standards, or the solemn, joyful processions to the hallow place of Meneltarma…He had listened with barely concealed impatience for a while, then subjected me to a hailstorm of questions, sharp as ice pellets, regarding issues I knew nothing about. It still stung.

“By Ossë’s beard, why would I ever be interested in how many ships were there in the works?” I grumbled as I stumbled carelessly down the track. “As if I had nothing better to do than listening to that short-tempered, full-of-himself Ciryatur! Not to speak of that seagoing brotherhood…what do I care about Telperien or Isilmo or any other of the king’s relatives? And yet that was all he would hear about! Well, my king, I might say I quite not really like where the children of Elros are heading, all bent on war-waging and sea-faring to avoid the longing for...Angband’s pits!”  A patch of rain-loosened soil slipped under my feet, cutting my rambling as I tumbled down the steep slope and into the bushes.

“It is not Angband pit’s they long for, though, and we who live this side of the waters will definitely welcome their warlike attitude and their preparedness when their well supplied armies come to our aid, Lord Glorfindel,” a cool, almost-too-polite voice pointed from somewhere above me. “War is brewing fast.”

To my right, almost hidden by the overgrown bushes, Elrond son of Eärendil stood, apparently engrossed in the same important task that had brought me down to the orchard on the first place: berries.

I shook dirt off my tunic while struggling up with what dignity could be left to an elf who had just managed to slip down a slope and shrugged. “And well met to you, too, Master Elrond… War has been brewing and boiling in Arda since first Erü sang it into being, Peredhel,” I argued. “But it didn’t stop the Valar from creating and preserving beauty…”

“…From behind the safety of the Pelori. Moriquende I may be, but I know the lore of my kin,” he bit back unceremoniously while standing on tiptoes to reach a bush full of ripe berries. “Even back then they were unable to contend the Morgoth and so they abandoned Middle-earth to darkness…”

Such bitter honesty was not what I expected from Elrond at that point. We had been formally introduced only a couple days before, short after his return from a surveillance mission, but we had yet to have a meaningful conversation beyond polite nods in greeting across hallways or gardens, or platitudes at meal times. Gil-galad’s aloofness I could understand, even if it hurt, but this belligerent, grim son of Eärendil really clashed with my fond memories of the bright, happy child his sire had been.  Of course Elrond was just returned from the troubled areas around Nenuial, where restlessness and dark things had been reported by travellers and Silvan elves still dwelling there, but still this serious, preoccupied, almost bitter mien was very distant from what I had expected, even if it matched his king’s and most of the king’s counsellors.

“Well, it does not feel too dark to me,” I stated mildly, pointing to where Arien’s glorious fire burnt fiercely towards the western skies. “Even in our hour of rebellion the Valar never abandoned Middle-earth… Those lights were created as a challenge to Morgoth and his creatures, and beauty was born amidst grief and sorrow…”

“Shall beauty not before conceived be brought into Eä, and evil yet be good to have been, ouch!” he quoted bleakly before dropping a basket that was half full and sucking on a finger. “Too many thorns there! You lived in Gondolin, Lord Glorfindel, you know everything about hiding behind the mountains and shutting out the ugliness and corruption of evil, surrounding yourself with beautiful things and staving off the passing of time...”

That was harsh, though quite true. And since there were more truths whence that one came, I proceeded to add up to the sample. “Indeed. And so did Thingol behind the Girdle, and Finrod in Nargothrond, and Círdan in the Havens…. And the Silvan in their forests of Ossiriand…” I paid no attention to his offended scowl and instead chose a bush with plenty of berries to peel for myself. I did not intend to be out-berried in cook’s regard, and I was sure I would be able to pontificate at the same time. “It is in our natures as Firstborns, son of Eärendil, to enjoy the beauty that is at hand every day everywhere, so we can fight the ugliness of darkness and death and decay that assault us from every corner in this marred world… If we surrender today to the fear of dark things to come, then what good is it that we struggle to remain here? And if not for its beauty and the love we bear for it, why would we tarry in Middle-Earth?

That hit a chord, I could say, or at least gave him pause. He stepped from the bushes, neglecting a heavily loaded specimen I had been eyeing greedily, and took a few steps towards the cliff. He pointed around with a sweeping gesture. “Someone has to fight to protect this beauty, so others can enjoy it unimpeded and free of care,” he said seriously.

I could sense some of the Noldorin hubris there, something I thought the passing ennin might have somehow softened. “If that is so,” I quipped, pointing to the empty stretch of sea to the North, “then you are doing a lousy job. Nothing is left of beautiful Beleriand, or barren Balar, except for memories… which for the Eldar are as sustaining as lembas…Yet you will have no memories of beauty unless you create some, unless you spend more time enjoying the beauty that there is than worrying about the evil that will surely come with time…”

“That sounds like something a wood elf might say,” he frowned, his eyes fixed on that distant point where I suspect, he thought Balar might have once stood.

I chuckled. Exile hubris indeed. “Their blood runs in your veins as well, heir of Melian, and Luthien, and Elwing…Do not let yourself be so consumed by Noldorin gravitas.”

“That’s rich, coming from one of Turgon’s captains…”

“I like to think that dying has taught me something about loving being alive…” I joked, though he was not in the mood to appreciate the humour. Laughter echoed not so often in Gil-galad’s halls, as I had been only too disappointed to notice in the few sun turns I had been there.

He shook his head unconvinced. He walked back to the bushes, picked up the basket and continued peeling through the shrubberies with commendable speed and efficiency while still pondering my arguments, judging from the way he shook his head and pursed his lips in silent disagreement. “If the king does not worry about the future and makes preparations for war…” he mused, almost to himself.

I found their single-mindedness exasperating. “Ah, but the King does, Elrond…” I said with a wide grin, as if that was the most obvious truth in Arda. “And he has always done. And yet he too knows that this beauty is not even his to preserve, only to love with all our might and all our strength, knowing that everything that is in the music must one day come to an end…”

I should have known that what was common and accepted knowledge in Valinor and Eressëa would be a bitter source of contention among our kin in Middle-earth. To prove it, Elrond shot me a ferocious scowl. “So since beauty cannot be protected, we should simply abandon these shores and set sail to the West, as Eonwë urged us to do? Is that what you were sent here to accomplish, showing off the light and untainted beauty of the Blessed Realm to us poor stranded Moriquendë?”   

I felt almost overwhelmed then. How could they not see? Why would they not see? Was it not the same thing –love; deep, bleeding, passionate love of beauty- what moved us all, and was it not clear that the ultimate fate of that very same beauty we professed to love lie in the end in the hands of the One? Why all the hopelessness and sadness then?

Holding up the hem of my tunic in one hand, careful not to drop my meagre harvest, I joined him by the shrubs. “I used to sit by Laurelin and just look as its leaves blossomed into deep gold, and that is one of the fairest things I have ever seen in my life…lives,” I said softly, amazed as always at the precision of the memory; the beauty vivid and the loss sharp, and both alive before my eyes, as if no time had passed at all. “Not even the Trees were safe in the Blessed Realm, yet the memory of their light is still with us…As is that of the first star Elbereth hung up in the sky or the first voice that rose up in song by the waters of Cuivienen…” I waved around with my free hand, feeling the fast pulse of life in Middle-earth beat hopefully, joyfully, all around us. “It is all there in the quiet forbearance of the Music, Elrond: the grief, and the fear and the bereavement, but also the joy of life, even if it is short, and the promise of something more; the promise that – much as it will be for these bushes- there will be again for all living creatures in Arda a season of blossoming, a beauty that will encompass all loss and despair and hope that have ever been; a beauty that will not pass. You should not be afraid of beauty, because that is the only constant in Arda.” 

He stood silent for a while; head tilted as if he actually tried to hear the echo of that first song sung in Cuivienen, and then let a deep sigh escape. “It is difficult at times,” he confessed. Dropping again his basket he sat down on a moss-covered stone and I joined him. We sat there for a while, watching the endless dance of the waves, listening to a brisk breeze that came up from the sea and shook the bushes around us, as in encouragement. He remained silent for a while, then followed through. “After all the ennin of struggle and loss we thought we had earned some peace… thought we might keep darkness at bay for a while…” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly, then pierced me with that clear, grey, wise glance. “Darkness is crawling everywhere Glorfindel, even if only a few turns of the sun have passed since the mighty Valar came to our rescue and drowned our homeland in the process,” he said gravely. “And then they send you back, a single warrior, to tell us that beauty cannot be protected and that we must accept defeat and leave these shores and their peoples to their fates?”

I wondered briefly whether we as exiles had been so stubborn and short-sighted, before quickly acknowledging that yes, yes indeed we were. While gaining a new love for the lands of Hither and the works of the One, which were still unknown to those in Valinor, we had also lost sight of the greater picture. Only in our case, it had been out of pride.

“I was not sent here to convince anyone, Elrond, but to offer counsel and lend strength in battle as needed. But I also came back because I too love Middle-earth and its brief, fleeting beauty. Those of us who have lived in both worlds cannot choose one over the other, because both are part of the very same thing. I just wanted to experience this beauty again, not simply to fight hopelessly against the darkness that consumes it but savouring it day after day as it is. Loving beauty wherever it is to be found and being not afraid of losing it.”

We remained silent for a while, watching the treetops bend gracefully before the seaward winds, listening to the forlorn cries of the seagulls and the never-changing crash of Ossë’s waves against the shores of Middle-earth.

“So you say we should spend less time preparing for war and more time simply enjoying the beauty of Midle-earth while it lasts?” he summed up at last, in his serious, formal manner, but there was a sparkle of mischief, or maybe a tear, that glistened in his starlit eyes, something I had not glimpsed before. “I suppose that we could learn to do that,” he acquiesced gracefully, picking up the forgotten basket and starting the steep path up to the palace. “But as for not being afraid of beauty… let me tell you something, Lord Glorfindel. If we fail to bring these berries in time for dinner’s preparations you will be confronted with Cook’s wrath, which is in itself a frightening thing of beauty!”

There was a sense of humour there after all, I admitted as I followed the echo of his laughter.

In Mordor/where the shadows are. Siege of Barad-Dur, 3441 Second Age.

Dust was omnipresent; pervasive and insidious as the evil spirit that pushed fumes and ashes and despair our way together with endless hordes of dark creatures. Are there Orcs in Mandos’ Halls, Glorfindel? Ereinion’s sardonic words came to my mind too often those days.

And yet what had seemed an unlikely alliance lasted strong, cemented by shared toil and loss and sweat and blood. Despite Oropher’s death, despite the massacre suffered by Amdir and the departure of the surviving Silvan, despite the death of Anárion and the grisly losses among the ranks of elves, men and dwarves, we still held on after seven turns of the sun.

“This must end now. He is definitely weakened, has retreated to his stronghold and soon will have nothing else to throw at us, we must attack now!”

“If only we had horses… a mounted unit might go over those lines of uruk…end the game in one swift strike…”

“We must maintain the siege, and keep the lines tight and closed…”

“Why, brother? Do you think the Dark Lord might attempt escape? He rather intends to sit us out, and since not all of us are Eldar, with unlimited lifespans to spare…”

Our unlikely alliance had also survived many long gatherings in Ereinion’s tent, where Isildur and his sons’ tempers would burn bright in the long hot, dry, dusty evenings that followed long hot, dry, dusty and frustrating days in the siege. Gil-galad’s patience with the short-tempered descendants of Elros was a mystery to me. Perhaps he was reminded of Elros himself, who had also been hot-headed and boisterous, Círdan had often mused within my earshot.

“Easy, Aratan,” Elendil warned his bellicose grandson. “The Eldar are dying here same as the Numenoreans. Even with his host diminished the Dark Lord is still a formidable enemy whom we would do better not to underestimate…”

“But we cannot sit here forever, father, while he remains unpunished,” Isildur chimed in darkly. “He destroyed our land and our people, and sitting here day after day will not grant us retribution for our losses!!”

A very unkingly roll of eyes exchanged with Taurlong was the only sign that Gil-galad was following the conversation while apparently deeply engaged in whetting his sword. It was the same most nights, the Numenoreans staging out full attacks in words to make up for all the inactivity, as if they could conjure a victory and dispel their frustrations that way, while we tried to find solace in silence and routine tasks. Usually I would tire soon of the banter and go outside for a walk through the camp and a quiet late cup of wine with Elrond. But that night before I could take my leave from the king the flap flew open and the son of Eärendil entered the pavilion, followed by a gush of cool air.

“Ereinion, you have to see this!”

We trooped outside after him, intrigued by the excitement and joy in his voice. The sight that greeted us rendered us speechless.

A powerful wind blowing from the west was sweeping away the heavy curtain of fumes and ashes that had weighed down on us for years, dulling Arien’s rays as effectively as our moods. As the dark mists vanished to the east, the silver light of Tilion’s ship flooded the night before us in all its glory. An even stronger gush rolled in as we watched, revealing the defiant silhouette of Menelvagor shinning over the top of Mount Doom; and Vingilot, with Eärendil at the rudder, sailed close to it. At that moment the whole camp erupted in song. From every bonfire in every quarter voices rose: deep and slow in harsh dwarven; strong and vibrant and full of defiance from the Numenorean camp; silvery, sorrowful and steadfast from our side, all rose up together and were carried away in the wind, rolled up into a powerful chant that made our faer swell in hope and joy and purpose. The wind roared up as well, carrying the deep voice of Manwë, and Oromë’s mighty horn and the haunting sound of the Ulumúri, and for a moment I thought we might overcome Sauron with music alone.

Then, the wind calmed down and the song slowly faded away, leaving behind the lingering echo of a chord; a promise and a challenge. And the clouds never returned while Tilion and Earendil stood watch for the rest of that night and the following, fateul day.

We stood in silence for a long while, transfixed. Gil-galad was the first to move.  He exchanged long, knowing glances with each of us: With Círdan, with Elrond, with me. He nodded briefly and then turned to Elendil and his children. “The tide has changed my lords! And no matter what dawn brings, this beauty will not be stolen from us,” said he, and there was a fierce joy in his voice that filled us with renewed strength.

And right he was. It was a beauty that lived in song long after the light of his star fell into darkness.

Imladris, October 25^th, 3018, Third Age. Aftermath of the Council of Elrond.

“You would have made Ereinion proud today, Elrond.”

The Master of the Last Homely House raised a questioning brow. A compliment from the chief councillor always heralded trouble –of one kind or another. He leaned forth on his carved chair, forehead resting on his palms, and waited.

Erestor would not disappoint. “Halflings breaking into a secret council, a haughty man of twilight boasting their supremacy in strength of arms, a grandson of Oropher’s dwarfing a dwarf, a dwarf attacking your furniture with his axe, all council members arguing among themselves…” he paused then for a dramatic smirk. “And in the end several some ones are sent on a dangerous, desperate mission and you manage to include Oropher’s grandson in the party. That was masterfully contrived, Peredhel. True to tradition and speckled with a pinch of sweet revenge…Beautiful, if I may say so!”

“Why, thank you, Erestor! But I had very good masters!” Elrond smirked, dismissing the compliment with an elegant hand sweep that had taken ennin to perfect. “I am sure the beauty of the situation would have not gone lost on Gil-galad. What do you think, Glorfindel?” he asked. “…and many fair things will fade and be forgotten with their passing, yet it is said that all the Elves would willingly endure this loss if by it the power of Sauron could be broken, and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever…”   He quoted my words as a challenge, with a knowing grin that might have been playful had the situation been not so grim.

I shrugged. “Never let it be said that we are afraid of beauty…”

“Beauty?” Elrohir frowned. “What are you talking about? What beauty is there to be found in such desperate times?”

I sighed, Elrond shrugged, Erestor chuckled and Mithrandir suddenly seemed deeply interested in the shape and quality of the blue mists that came from his pipe. I could not believe that after all these ennin we had never shared that particular story with the twins.

Sensing Elrond’s penetrating glance on me, I commandeered a jar of his prized Dorwinion, ignored his frown, sat back on the chair, extended my legs towards the merry fire and began my tale.

“Are there orcs in Mandos’ Halls, Glorfindel?”

The End

A/N: For Redheredh's non-birthday, a challenge I failed to live up to. Cirdan and Gil-galad, among others, insisted.