Note: This piece was originally submitted in response to Teitho's "Memories" challenge, where it was voted second place.

I claim no rights or ownership over anything in this story, and have no aspirations to any kind of profit. I offer this small tribute in the hope of honouring Prof. Tolkien’s work while furthering my understanding of the world he imagined, the art of writing, and the human condition.
 

Vaguely, as if from a great distance, Faramir could hear a musical voice murmuring softly to him as he stumbled onto the palace balcony.

“Come now, young one, only a little farther. All is well, mellon nîn. Be at peace.”

As the gentle stream of reassurances continued to pour over him, Faramir gradually became aware of a hand rubbing slow, steady circles on his back.

“All is well,” continued the voice, seeming closer now. “Feel the clean air upon your face, the cool breeze stirring your hair. The sky is above you; the stars shine down on you. Breathe the clean air, let it fill your lungs—” Faramir gasped and coughed, but the voice continued unperturbed. “Breathe, my young friend. Slowly, slowly. Just so. Simply breathe. All is well. All is well now.”

Minutes passed as the young Steward gradually regained control over breath and nerves and mind. When at last he calmed enough to comprehend who had guided him from the crowded hall and its mass of revelers, he flushed with embarrassment.

“Forgive me, lord,” he rasped. “I—I scarce know what came over me. I would not have you forsake the celebration for my sake…for such a lapse…” Faramir gestured helplessly.

“Peace, Faramir,” the Elf resumed in his soothing tone. “There is naught to forgive. Startled as you were, ’tis little wonder you found yourself thrust into memory.”

Faramir shook his head. “Truly, I know not what ails me, why I tremble thus. A lamp…’twas only a lamp…”

“A lamp that sputtered and flared when young Bergil stumbled into the servant who was re-filling it,” the Elf said, capturing Faramir’s eyes with his own. “I could smell the oil and smoke from twenty paces, and you were not an arm’s length from it. Surely it was enough to take you back.”

A bone-deep shudder wracked Faramir’s body.

“The oil splashed on my sleeve,” he whispered. “Oil and smoke…burning…” His eyes were distant, and he scarcely seemed to notice as the Elf steered him gently toward a stone bench and took a seat beside him.

“Strong scents,” the Elf murmured. “Strong memories.”

“Yes,” Faramir whispered. A long moment passed in silence, then he turned and for the first time looked directly at his companion. The Elf was glad to see the Man’s eyes focus on something in the present, though their haunted look stirred his heart to pity.

“How did you know, Lord…”

The Steward’s voice trailed off apologetically, though the Elf could not say whether the Man knew not his name, or was simply unsure of the correct form of address.

“Please call me Glorfindel,” he said, graciously covering both contingencies. “As for how I knew what troubled you—it is no hard task to see in others a shadow that has fallen across one’s own mind.”

The Elf smiled slightly at Faramir’s uncomprehending look.

“I know well how it feels to be swept into memories of shadow and flame by a bare hint of smoke on the wind,” Glorfindel went on, gazing compassionately at the young Man beside him. “I know the fear the smallest fire can provoke, the horror of the merest thought of burning.”

“You—” Faramir paused suddenly and took in a hissing breath. “Glorfindel,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Glorfindel of…of…”

“Imladris, once of Gondolin,” the Elf replied. “You know the tale.” It was not a question, for the answer was plain to see on the Man’s face.

“I…forgive me…I did not know…”

“Peace, my friend, peace!” Glorfindel urged, gently pulling the Steward back to the bench as he made to rise. “Sit, Faramir, please—I would not have my efforts to soothe you go to waste!” The last he said in a teasing tone that brought a genuine, if shaky, smile to Faramir’s lips. Glorfindel gazed steadily at the Man until Faramir hesitantly returned eye contact.

“So you see, I know of what I speak,” Glorfindel continued softly. “It is a fearful memory, burning, even for one as old as I, even for one reborn. How could I fail to understand the darkness that fell upon you moments ago?”

Faramir was already shaking his head in denial. “Nay, ‘twas nothing, what was in my mind. I was little burned in truth, there was no…there was nothing of the darkness you defeated, nor did it cost me my life. I am only…I must strengthen my mind…”

“And I was not assailed by fever, nor did a kinsman seek to take my life,” Glorfindel said, his tone mild even as his eyes seemed to pierce Faramir’s very heart. “Each of us has suffered, Faramir, in our own way, according to our own kind and our own place and time. Accept the comfort offered by one who knows some portion of this particular fear. And accept these words: you are not less strong in mind than you are in spirit, son of Gondor. Always, perhaps, these memories will linger, but in time they will lose their power to overwhelm you. Fear not for your mind, and be at peace.”

The Man could find nothing to say to that, and the two lapsed into contemplative silence. After some minutes, however, Faramir stirred.

“I should return,” he said reluctantly, gesturing to the archway through which the sounds of merriment spilled.

“Indeed you should,” Glorfindel agreed, his voice light with laughter, “for the Steward should certainly be present to toast his King’s wedding! Moreover, I myself wish to look upon the stars a while longer, yet I think even the indomitable Master Peregrin will be struggling to hold back a certain would-be ranger who fears his clumsiness has angered his Captain, and no doubt seeks to make amends.”

Faramir smiled at that.

“Bergil is a good-hearted lad,” he said, rising to his feet. A shadow crept across his face again. “He aided his father and Pippin when…”

“Think no more on it tonight, if you can,” Glorfindel interrupted softly. “Reassure the child that you are well, make some passing mention of refreshment, and no doubt he and the young hobbit will hurry away and return laden with some dainty treat or ten to tempt your appetite.” He smiled mischievously. “And, should it so pass that you have drifted away to question yonder Rohirric knights about a certain lady’s welfare, no doubt the youngsters will manage to dispose of such delicacies as they have obtained.”

This observation drew a chuckle from Faramir. “I see you know the habits of both halflings and the children of Men,” he said. “I will bid you a fair evening then, Lord Glorfindel.”

Faramir paused, struggling for words adequate to his thoughts, but soon gave up the effort. “I thank you, my lord,” he murmured earnestly. He gave the Elf a deep bow before slipping back through the archway into the festive crowd.

Glorfindel sat in contemplative silence for several minutes before speaking, as it seemed, into the empty night air.

“Fair evening, Thranduilion. The young Steward is well, as you have heard—would you now join me?”

A slim figure emerged from a shadowed corner.

“Forgive me,” he said softly, voice tinged with chagrin. “I was concerned for Faramir and wished only to learn how he fared. I meant no offence…”

Glorfindel smiled. “I know that well,” he said, gesturing for Legolas to sit beside him. “I know too that your eyes have followed me since I entered the city, though only from afar. I wondered why you kept your distance, since I think you found my company pleasant enough while the Fellowship tarried in Rivendell.”

Legolas did not answer but gazed pensively into the distance with hooded eyes. Glorfindel’s expression of mild amusement faded to one of concern.

“What troubles you, my friend?” he asked. “What shadow does my presence cast across your heart?”

Legolas shook his head. “It is not that. It is that now I have seen that which—” Legolas’s voice faltered. “Shadow and flame…”

“Ah…” Glorfindel murmured, comprehension dawning. He sighed softly, regretting the lost innocence heralded by the younger Elf’s sudden reticence.

“I knew of Balrogs from tales, but I did not understand,” Legolas continued. “I knew of them only as dark shadows from the depths of myth and song.” He gave a low, bitter laugh. “I thought such things belonged in Elflings’ games. When I was young, we played at battling Morgoth’s creatures. We imagined we could defeat horrors spawned of shadow and flame as we might frighten off some small, unfriendly beast who wandered near our play-camp.”

Legolas turned to Glorfindel.

“I imagined myself a Balrog-slayer,” he said, his voice laced with self-contempt. “I fancied myself a warrior, fierce and dauntless. Never did I consider the reality of it. The…the terror of it. I did not imagine…I did not know.”

“Nor should you have,” Glorfindel replied. “Even the Wise did not know such servants of the Enemy still lingered in this world. Even if they had, they would never have wished for children to comprehend such dark matters.”

“And yet I played!” Legolas exclaimed. “And then, in the depths, far from tree or leaf or blade of grass, there it was! It was—beyond anything I imagined. Beyond any nightmare.”

Legolas drew his hand across his eyes as if trying to wipe the memory from his sight.

“I thought I had seen much darkness,” he resumed. “I had looked upon Elrond’s realm with awe, yet also, in my deepest thoughts, with some contempt. There was peace unfought for, I thought to myself—peace without peril. Always in my father’s realm, we have had to fight.”

Legolas sighed. “I had seen dark things long before I embarked on the Quest, and I saw far darker things along the way. Did I not follow Aragorn even to the Black Gates themselves? Yet I say to you, Glorfindel, no darkness I have seen has caused my heart to quail like that which fell upon us in the depths of Moria. Even in our victory, even on this day of joy, I cannot forget the horror of it.”

“No Elf could,” Glorfindel responded. “Durin’s Bane, this thing was called, yet its kind was a Bane to the Eldar long before Durin first drew breath. The fear of such things lies deep within our nature—or rather, such things were shaped by the Enemy with the intent to strike fear deep into our nature.” He stopped and waited for Legolas to meet his eye. “There is no shame in such fear.”

Legolas flinched and turned away.

“Is there not?” he whispered. “I could not stand against it. I could not bear to face it, to look upon it, even. Aragorn and Boromir turned back to Mithrandir’s aid, yet I—I could not. I could not do as you did, lord. It was all I could do to flee.”

Lost in dark thought, Legolas startled when Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder.

“To flee was all that was demanded in that moment, Legolas,” Glorfindel said softly. “I would speak no ill of the Men in your Company, neither the living nor the dead, but they could have done nothing against such a foe. Mithrandir knew this. Did he himself not order flight? He alone was appointed to face that enemy at that time, and to defeat it even in the midst of his own defeat. Who knows what might have come of the War that has passed if he had not done so!”

With firm but gentle hands, Glorfindel turned Legolas’s shoulders until the younger Elf was facing him. “Hear me, young one,” he said. “Do not compare yourself to others. What was asked of Glorfindel in the mountains beyond Gondolin and what was asked of Legolas beneath the mountains in Moria—these were different things. You passed the test that was set before you. No Man or Elf could do better, and the Valar themselves could ask for no more.”

For a long moment, the two Elves gazed into each other’s eyes, and what passed between them, no onlooker could say. At last Legolas breathed in deeply and bowed his head.

“You ease my heart, Lord Glorfindel,” he said simply. “I thank you.”

With that, Legolas disappeared into the palace, leaving Glorfindel alone again by the balustrade to gaze out at the lights of stars and city. His apparent solitude, however, was short-lived.

“A pleasant night for eavesdropping, is it not, Mithrandir?” Glorfindel asked after a brief silence.

“Pleasant enough,” the Wizard replied with a low chuckle, stepping out of shadow and further onto the balcony. He lowered himself onto the stone bench and stretched his legs out comfortably before gesturing for Glorfindel to join him. “And would an Elf Lord chide a poor old man for stumbling upon a private conversation or two?”

“A poor old man?” Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. “I think not! Nor do I believe you stumbled upon aught you did not seek. Yet I will forbear to chide, for I think these conversations touched as near to you as to me.”

Gandalf snorted softly, but said nothing further, seeming content to gaze out over the ramparts and across the plain spread below the White City. Glorfindel sensed the Wizard was waiting for him to speak.

“I felt it when you battled Durin’s Bane,” he said without further preamble. “By day my thoughts bent ever toward flame and shadow; by night I found little rest beneath roof or tree, nor could I dream of aught but boiling fountains, fear, and falling.”

“I wondered if that might be so,” Gandalf said calmly, watching the Elf out of the corner of his eye. “Elrond would say only that you were unwell for a time. Did he know what ailed you? Did you know?”

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at the wizard. “You know as well as I that little escapes Lord Elrond’s notice,” he said dryly. “At the least, he knows that the report from Lorien surprised me not, though it did grieve me.” Glorfindel sighed. “When I heard there was a message from the Lady of the Wood, I knew that what I feared was true indeed.”

Glorfindel paused and looked long at the Wizard in silence, eyes filled with compassion and regret. “I had hoped I was wrong, my friend,” he murmured.

“Aye,” the Wizard agreed, his voice more thoughtful than dismayed. Another silent moment passed.

“I thought of you many times as I fell and as I fought,” Gandalf said abruptly. His gaze was solemn, though his lips quirked when he beheld Glorfindel’s confusion.

“I think you know that I fought the servant of Morgoth as one similar in origin and near equal in power,” he went on. “Yet I cannot—nor would I—deny that many times I came perilously close to defeat and despair. When I felt myself near the end of strength or will, I called to mind the Fellowship, the Ring-bearer and his need. Yet when I found my courage waning, it was you I remembered, you and Ecthelion of the Fountain. Few know better than I, now, what extraordinary courage each of you possessed. Valiant indeed were the sons of Gondolin that night.”

Then Gandalf rose to his feet, turned, and bowed to his companion.

“I thank you for your aid in the quest that has brought us to this day,” he said gravely. “Indeed, I thank you doubly, for just as Glorfindel of Imladris met the Ringbearer and the King in a moment of dire need in the north, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower met me in my need in the depths of the earth, though he knew it not.” With that, he sat again.

Glorfindel stared as if stricken. He did not move at all until the Gandalf reached out to grasp his arm. The Wizard raised a bushy eyebrow as a sly smile played across his face.

“Can it be that I have silenced the most un-silent Glorfindel? I must hasten to tell the minstrels, for such a feat should be remembered in song!”

Glorfindel shook his head as if to clear it. “You honour me, Mithrandir,” he murmured. “I know not what to say.”

“Say nothing then,” Gandalf replied kindly, “and allow me to do for you as you have done for the young Steward and the Woodland prince. Do not let your heart be troubled!”

With that, the two rose to their feet, and Glorfindel pulled Gandalf into a fierce embrace.

“It is good to have you here, old friend.”