S.A. 1625

The faint sound of children singing drew him to the terrace.  All that week had been a time of festival, the Gates of Summer, yet rather than join Ereinion Gil-galad and his household to watch the sunrise on the morning of Tarnin Austa, he huddled in a corner of his room, curled in a fetal position, trembling as the memories of another fiery dawn centuries past returned to him.

He was not well.

It was not fading, for in his distant memory were Eldar who had faded, rejecting all sustenance and comfort until the fëa drifted free of the hröa and answered the call to Mandos.  No, he was not fading, for he ate and slept when told, and spoke when addressed, but inside him was a heaviness that he sometimes took for a longing to fade.

Neither the High King nor his servants disturbed their peculiar guest; his reclusive ways were known and tolerated.  No duties were given him, nothing expected of him.  Since his arrival, he spent his days clinging to the shadows, an outsider gazing in on a world too changed to welcome him.  In the court of Lindon there were no familiar faces; all those he had known perished with Gondolin, or had gone elsewhere.

The sounds of youthful laughter drifting up to his narrow window compelled him to leave his chamber.  Few children he had encountered in Valinor, having had little opportunity to do so, and here in Lindon, in an age of growing shadow and few births, they were closely guarded.  Children had been precious in Gondolin, too, and in Vinyamar before that.  He remembered their play in the shaded courts near the fountains of Turgon’s house, and their ringing laughter, but only the face of the lady Idril’s son Eärendil did he remember clearly. 

From an alcove between two pillars, where the children would not see him, he watched, letting a smile slowly steal across his lips.  They were clad in white and pale yellow, with elanor garlands in their hair as they joined hands and danced in a ring.  The tune they sang sounded like an ancient melody, of the kind he used to sing in the willow-marshes of Nevrast, yet the words, drifting piecemeal to him, were unfamiliar.

“…vanwa, tennoio vanwa.  Laurëalótë lántana.  Emmë nyénuvar lin, laurëlótë.”

Gone, forever gone.  The golden flower, he is fallen.  We will weep for thee….  He did not catch the rest of it, only pieces, fragments in Quenya--Laurëalótë, findel laur, emmë nyénuvar lin--but he heard enough to know this was no summer song to greet the solstice.   The yellow elanor, the sweet voices of children, so innocent as they danced to the tune of a lament, and the warmth of the day suddenly turned gray, the words piercing him through like a cold wind from the north.  His smile fell from his lips as they parted and hung open in horror.

Laurëalótë lántana.  Unwitting, he was the subject of their song.  The golden flower, he is fallen

“What is amiss, gwador?”  A hand fell upon his shoulder, startling him.  He turned, instinctively backing away to put distance between himself and whoever it was that had come up behind him--nay, do not touch me!--but the hand would not let him go.  A wild blur came into focus, settling into a pale oval framed by black hair, an Elven face whose wide-set eyes and strong jaw bespoke mixed ancestry.

“Gwador--”  

Sudden tears blurred his eyes and he could not focus on the son of Eärendil.  Covering his mouth with his hand, dragging it across his face to brush away the tears, he broke away and walked swiftly down the colonnade.   Others saw him pass, a pale shadow against the dark stone, but he heeded them not.    

Heavy footfalls came up behind him; a hand seized his arm and stopped his flight.  He had no choice but to turn and face his pursuer.  “Nay!” he gasped.  “Leave me be!”

“You will not run away this time, Lord Glorfindel.  Too long have you clung to the shadows since your arrival, gwador,” said Elrond, breathing hard.  “Too long have we left you alone.”

The corridors of Lindon were too narrow for flight, the alcove in which Elrond cornered him one from which he could not escape unless he seized the perelda and flung him aside.  He did not wish to harm Eärendil’s son.  Trapped, Glorfindel pressed his back against the wall as if trying to meld with the stone and vanish.  “What would you have of me that you must run me down so?”

“You are not well, that is plain to see.  Alatar and Pallando bade me find you and bring you from your chamber.  The High King concurs.  You have been left alone too long.”  His eyes darted to the lawn, where the circle of children was still dancing in the grass.   “But it was an unfortunate time for you to venture forth.  I had forgotten what day it was.”

From Elrond, Glorfindel’s eyes went to the children, some of whom paused in the dance to wave at them, Gil-galad’s herald and his companion.  They do not even know who they are waving at.  “What are they singing?  Laurëalótë lántana.  Laurëlótë, emmë nyénuvar lin.”  His voice trembled to repeat the lyrics, for they stirred hazy memories beyond Mandos.   “And why do they look so at me?”

“Because you are a stranger with the light of Valinor in your eyes,” replied Elrond.

The servant the High King assigned to Glorfindel, a timorous Sinda named Cúran, said he glowed; he dismissed the comment as mere flattery, for Cúran also heaped such praise upon Ereinion Gil-galad, who most assuredly did not shine like one of Varda’s creations even in the Ithil-silver armor that inspired his epessë. 

Glorfindel had seen beings whose glimmering radiance illuminated the very darkness.  He had seen them in the gardens of Lórien where Olórin once brought him for his ease, and in the deeps, he had seen the pale forms of Ulmo’s Maiar shimmering under the waves as they followed the wake of the Númenorean ship that bore Glorfindel and his companions to Middle-earth.  Of the Eldar, only Ingwë and the reborn Finrod Felagund shone with such radiance, but the former sat at the very feet of Manwë and Varda as High King of the Vanyar, and the self-sacrifice and humility of the latter had earned him this grace.

Many times Olórin had told him he was Finrod’s equal in grace and beauty, and that his killing of the Balrog in the pass of Cirith Thoronath was a deed that cleansed him of all prior sins and earned him early release from Mandos, but he dismissed it. 

Olórin frowned at his unwillingness to embrace his worth.  “Humble you are, of that there is no doubt, yet it is not fitting for you to deny all that is good in yourself.  Your deed allowed many to escape.”

And what of Ecthelion, who slew Gothmog and died with him?Glorfindel thought in rebuttal. The same deed, yet it is counted a lesser grace and Ecthelion remains in the Halls of Waiting.  The ways of the Valar remain inscrutable.

“As for what the children are singing,” continued Elrond, “it is a very old song from the end of the last Age, always sung on this day.   Come, there is a garden overlooking the sea where we can speak privately, and I will tell you of it.”

* * *

In the twilight of Olórin’s garden in Tirion, Glorfindel gazed up at the heavens and studied the stars.  As a boy in Vinyamar he had learned the constellations, making his brother Nárello repeat each name, each story until Nárello, laughing, threw him down and began to tickle him in frustration.

Such memories returned unbidden, rushing toward him in a flood of image and emotion that sometimes reduced him to tears.  Olórin was patient with him, holding him as he trembled and wept, and this shamed him all the more, for Glorfindel guessed without being told that the other, neither Eldar nor Man, was one of the Maiar.  Olórin stayed with him in the little house overlooking the bay of Eldamar, and Finrod Felagund at times also came to the house, spending long hours with Glorfindel in which neither spoke.

He did not need Olórin to tell him that being reborn was an ordeal unto itself, or that Mandos was not necessarily aware of the physical or spiritual pain rebirth brought.  “He sees the fates of all who are born and all who will be,” said the Maia, “but His insight does not extend to all things.  Compassion He feels as He is able, yet pity He leaves to Nienna.   You are restored to the living now, and your uncertainty is commonplace among those who are envinyanta.  With time and help, it will pass.”

Speech returned slowly to him.  From the moment he was released from Mandos and lay naked and trembling under the harsh sunlight, Glorfindel clamored with the need to express his sense of loss and disorientation, but he had not the words or the mastery to use them.  Olórin patiently coaxed him with word games, helping him recall the names of things, punctuating his lessons with pantomimes and comic expressions until Glorfindel was amazed by the rough sound of his own laughter and briefly forgot he was in the presence of a Maia.

When Finrod came, he offered only words of encouragement, sharing his own experience on what it was like to be reborn.  Even in the sunlight of Tirion he was radiant and joyous, though his death had been a horrible one; Glorfindel was too abashed to meet his eyes though he knew this would be perceived as rude.

“In time,” Finrod said, “you will no longer feel the terror or confusion of rediscovering that which you have forgotten.  I remember well what it is like.  Even a draught of clear, sweet water is frightening to you, for you fear you will choke on it.  Yet even now you are mastering your new body and when you feel your fëa to be well and truly housed within it, you will no longer fear such small things.  You will taste the water and marvel how cool it is upon your tongue, and how sweet it is to slake your thirst, and you will wonder how you could have forgotten such things in Mandos.”

Glorfindel grunted something unintelligible and hung his head.  Finrod’s voice was so clear, so musical, Glorfindel was reluctant to try language with him for fear of sounding like a beast.  Gentle fingers brushed his cheek; he felt a glimmering presence in his mind and knew the son of Finarfin was capable of mind-speech, as some Eldar were.  Yet then, Finrod withdrew his touch with a smile that said the only speech he would have with Glorfindel was spoken.

“For how else will you learn?” he asked softly.

Of his death they did not speak, glossing over it to recall happier, more distant memories.  Finrod would ask an open-ended question, to which Glorfindel gave the briefest answer possible, no more than three or four words.  That neither Finrod nor Olórin ever corrected his pronunciation did not encourage him; his speech was uncouth and he knew it.

Why do you take such time with me? he wanted to ask.  For what purpose was I brought out of Mandos that you would labor so on my behalf?  Olórin, subtle as he was, once let it slip that Glorfindel was needed in the world of the living.  He would reveal no more, save to say only that Glorfindel’s early release from Mandos had been foretold.

It was plain he was being groomed to return to Middle-earth.  Olórin showed him in maps how Arda had been changed and broken in the intervening centuries, and told him something of the doings of Elves and Men in the new Age.  Glorfindel feigned interest, while struggling to retain the knowledge.  I care nothing for the chaos beyond these shores.  I did once, and died in grief and pain.  I did not wish to leave Mandos, yet now that I have a body I would stay in Valinor. 

Olórin greeted his disinterest with a knowing smile, then set him to work copying one of the manuscripts in his library.

“I am thinking,” he said lightly, “that your penmanship is as lacking as your speech.  Most who come forth from Mandos do not remember how to read or write.  Such a shame it would be if you utterly forgot your Tengwar.”

* * *

An orchard of lime trees overlooked the Gulf of Lhûn.  It was a clear day, and across the water one could see the buildings and wharves of Mithlond, the Grey Havens.  Gulls wheeled overhead, their mewling competing with the inrush of the sea on the rocks below.

Glorfindel contemplated the rhythmic roll and toss of the waves.  Alatar told him that many of his kind who saw the Sea and heard the Ulumúri, the horns of Ulmo, were stricken with a deep longing to pass into the West.   The Doom of Mandos that had been the curse of his people in the First Age had been rescinded; all but a few Noldor were forgiven their part in Fëanor’s rebellion and permitted to return to Valinor.  From Mithlond they departed, accompanied by Sindar and Teleri who also longed for the Blessed Realm.

Elrond lifted his face to drink in the sea air.  “My sire and grandsire both loved the Sea and felt its call.”  Noticing the dispassionate look in his companion’s eyes, he asked if Glorfindel did not also love the water or feel the Sea-longing. 

“Twice I have seen Valinor,” Glorfindel answered colorlessly.  Though that does not mean the longing for it is not upon me.  “And I am not such a mariner that my stomach was able to bear the voyage.  The journey from Alqualondë to Númenor was easy enough, but from thence across the open sea it was rough and unforgiving.”

“I am no mariner either,” admitted Elrond.  “Certainly I do no credit to my sires, yet one day, I know, I shall make the voyage West.  But I can see by your face that this subject does not interest you.”

“My heart does not lie with the Sea.”

“Nay, and I have not forgotten that I brought you here with the promise of something else.”  Elrond turned and walked to the wall where he might look down at the crashing surf or across the water at distant Mithlond.  “Beleriand lies under the waves now, yet in the time before the War of Wrath broke the land asunder there was a place in the Echoriath, near the pass of Cirith Thoronath.”

“My memory of the Eagle’s Cleft is very dim.”  Glorfindel heard the tightness in his own voice.  Part of him wished to end the conversation, while the other half, that which nodded for Elrond to continue, hungered to hear more. 

“After the fall of Gondolin, each year at the Gates of Summer, many went there, despite the difficulty of the journey.  It is a windswept, barren place, but for a single cairn on the westward side of the pass where yellow elanor grows in profusion.  Eagles keep watch from the heights.  I went once, and saw them circling high overhead.  I knew not if the mighty Thorondor was among them, but they called down to us when we sang of the great captain of Gondolin who died and was buried there.”

Glorfindel froze, his body both hot and chilled as he gripped the stone railing.  It is my own grave he is describing.  He had not asked Olórin what had become of his body, for he understood that his hröa, burnt by the Balrog’s flame and dashed against the rocks of Thorn Sir, was a shell he no longer required.  Macabre thoughts flitted through his mind until he chased them away.  “You have visited my grave?”

“I went only once, in the company of the High King.  There were those who went each year, until the sea claimed the cairn and the ruins of Gondolin and all else,” replied Elrond.  “But the third day after Tarnin Austa we still observe with songs and feasts.  I remember learning that particular song as a small child in Sirion.  There were some of the Golden Flower who dwelt with us.”

In Valinor, Glorfindel once asked Olórin for news of his kin, for his father and Vanyarin mother, for his brother Nárello and all the others he lost at the Unnumbered Tears and in the fall of Gondolin.  Olórin shook his head and said only that Glorfindel was the first of his House to be released from Mandos.

“That does not, however, mean there are not members of the House of the Golden Flower still living in Middle-earth,” Olórin quickly pointed out.  Glorfindel at once wanted to know who they were, how many they were and who was looking after them, for he had been the last lord of his House and his death left them leaderless.  Olórin could not tell him, for he did not know. 

“Where are they now, my people?  Are any here in Lindon?”  Ever since his arrival, this was a task Glorfindel knew he would have to undertake, yet dreaded it also (would they look on me with reproach, for abandoning them?) and so refrained from asking.

Elrond shook his head and a look came into his face that made Glorfindel’s heart lurch.   “There were not many survivors of Gondolin to begin with.  The remnants of the Golden Flower were taken in by my grandfather Tuor, but most perished when Sirion fell to the sons of Fëanor.”

Glorfindel had always been slow to wrath, nor had he given much thought to Fëanor and the disastrous oath that bound his House, yet now he felt rage against the sons of Fëanor slowly begin to burn within him.  “They slaughtered my people?”  He heard his voice quaver and took a deep breath to steady himself.

“Some, yes, those who did not flee or would not surrender, but those who survived were taken in afterward by Maedhros and Maglor, as my brother and I were,” answered Elrond.  “I do not condone what they did at Sirion, and they rued it bitterly, once their bloodlust was spent and they saw what they had done.  Maglor told me they were weary of bloodshed, and they recognized your brethren as the people of a great lord whose name and sacrifice they also honored.  But I will not lie to you: life in their camp was harsh, for nearly all the great strongholds of our people were gone and we lived as beasts, hunted and starving.  Some died in skirmishes with the enemy or were taken.  A few fled into the wilderness in grief, and I could not tell you their fate.”  

I knew in my heart I should not have asked.  I should have known they would have stayed with Tuor and then with Eärendil, and so perished in the ruin of Sirion.  Trembling, Glorfindel turned from the wall and the sea, flinching when Elrond touched his arm.

“I did not tell you of your people when you first arrived, for I knew what grief it would bring you,” he said.  “To lie to you would have been far crueler, and I would not be anything other than forthright with you.  Is there aught else you would ask of me?”

He shook his head, clenching and unclenching his fist.  Tears of anger and loss welled up in his eyes, blurring his view of the gardens and stone archways beyond.   Too much had he already asked.  If there was more, he did not want to know the rest of it.

* * *

Notes:

Tolkien was never clear on exactly when Glorfindel returned to Middle-earth, yet in the second, unfinished essay he wrote on the subject, in The Peoples of Middle-earth, he seems to reach the conclusion that Glorfindel’s return probably occurred in the mid-Second Age, around the year 1600.  That Glorfindel returns in the company of the two Blue Wizards, Alatar and Pallando, was also briefly suggested by Tolkien in the same volume.

gwador: (Sindarin) brother, associate

perelda: (Quenya) half-Elf, the Quenya equivalent of peredhel.

epessë: (Quenya) personal or use-name, often chosen by the individual. 

The celebration of the anniversary of Glorfindel’s death is mentioned in The Peoples of Middle-earth, though the children’s song was created by me with the help of Hellga.

The city of Lindon is a fan invention.  Tolkien is not specific on where exactly Gil-galad had his capital, except that it was near the sea in the region called Forlindon; no city appears on the map of Middle-earth.  A note in HoME suggests he and Círdan shared a stronghold at Mithlond, but this is a very obscure reference and nowhere in The Silmarillion or Unfinished Tales is this mentioned; Gil-galad is always placed at “Lindon.”  I have placed the city directly across the Gulf of Lhûn from Círdan, close to Mithlond yet separate.

S.A. 1675

“A great warrior and captain you were in Gondolin,” said Gil-galad.  “Faithfully you served Turgon my uncle.  Now I would have you serve me in the same capacity, as a captain in my household.”

Glorfindel bowed his head, remembering another meeting in another Age in which the same scene was played out, yet with Turgon it had been before the entire court of Gondolin.  Much color there had been in that ceremony, and also much sorrow, for the wounds of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad were still fresh, and Glorfindel was not accustomed to being the focus of attention.  Always he had dwelt in the shadows of those above him, his father and brother, and never thought to become chief of the House of the Golden Flower.  He had not wanted the honor, nor had he felt worthy of it when his kin fell at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the lordship passed to him.

Encouraged by Egalmoth and Ecthelion, most of the great captains welcomed him into their midst and treated him as their equal; only the King’s dour nephew Maeglin and his fawning protégé Salgant were distant.

If only I had paid more attention to them, he thought, I might have seen the shadows they cast.  Although Olórin told him time and again there was no way he could have foreseen Maeglin’s betrayal, Glorfindel berated himself for not having done more.  Nightmare images of the fall of Gondolin sometimes flashed through his mind, tormenting his rest, and even his waking hours were not entirely free of shadows.

Gil-galad made his request in private, for Lindon was not Gondolin of old and it had become a habit of the High King not to parade himself or the members of his household too much in public.  He introduced Glorfindel to his intimates and key members of his court, and let all others think the newcomer a lord of Tol Eressëa whose parents had simply named him after the fallen warrior of Gondolin.  It was not an uncommon practice in Lindon; Glorfindel had seen a mother ask the High King if she might name her newborn son after his sire Fingon.

“And what would you have me do, hir-nín?” Glorfindel asked.  “Captains you already have in plenty.  It does not seem to me that you require another.”

“It is my intention to assign you a gweth of your own,” answered Gil-galad.

“I thought you preferred my counsel to my sword.”

Rolling his eyes slightly, Gil-galad made a weary gesture.  “Advisors I have, too many.  Pengolod and his ilk bore me to tears, if you must know, though Elrond tolerates them passing well.  Nay, though your counsel is much valued, you would serve me best as you served Turgon, in the bearing of arms.   My captains are capable, yet the best of them have perished and they know this.  Among them are no heroes.”

“Nor would there be if I took command, hir-nín.”

“It is well that you are not a braggart, Glorfindel, else I would not be able to bear your company.  However, I find your persistent humility frustrating at times.  Is it your own self-effacing nature that prompts you to refuse, or fear that your secret will become known?” asked Gil-galad.  “For well-nigh fifty years I have permitted you to keep to the shadows.  I have suffered your silent grief because the Ithryn Luin tell me this is not uncommon among those who are reborn, yet I will say again that I do not think the Valar sent you here to sulk.  I need not tell you that a shadow is growing upon the land again.  I need a warrior who is whole, not one who is ready to fade.”

Glorfindel was well aware of the High King’s frustration with him and calmly bore his criticism.  He was no less frustrated with himself.   Strength you need, and I would I had more of it to give you, yet my heart is uncertain.  “The warriors who served under me wore the badge of the Golden Flower, and carried my standard.  I did not lie when I offered you my counsel, my sword and my life, for death does not frighten me anymore, yet I would not resurrect the ghosts of those days long past.  I would not have anyone else bear the colors or emblem of a dead House.”

The High King studied him with grim eyes.  Turgon would have fumed and reproached him for taking such a self-pitying tone, but Ereinion Gil-galad was not his uncle.   Both could be stubborn at times, but Gil-galad had learned to listen, to observe and be flexible.  “Then you will wear the eight stars of my House and take command alongside Elrond if you do not wish to wear the Golden Flower, but lead you will.”

“Hir-nín, I—”

“If silence and seclusion have not eased your sorrow by now, then perhaps this will,” the King said tightly.  “Go now, and in the morning I will send Elrond with your duties and regimentals.”

* * *

In the hallway, Glorfindel met a familiar, blue robed figure.  To casual observers, the Ithryn Luin might have been cut from the same cloth: both were tall and gray-haired, though not elderly in the manner of mortals.  Mortals they were not, nor Eldar, but something indefinable and ageless; it was no secret that they had come from Tol Eressëa and were perhaps lesser Maiar, though this was not loosely bandied about. 

Glorfindel had spent enough time among them to be able to tell them apart.  Alatar was a hair taller than Pallando, and drew his lips in a crooked smile that underscored his occasional love of mischief. 

The one who greeted Glorfindel was stern, almost regal in his bearing, though usually soft spoken.  “It would seem,” commented Pallando, “that something ails you, laurëalótë.”

Glorfindel sighed, but allowed Pallando to lead him aside to a window seat where they could converse privately.  “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

“Alatar and I do not listen to your protests anymore than Olórin did, and with good reason.  To be reembodied does not mean casting all remnants of your old life aside.”

Many times before had he heard that, from all three Maiar as well as Finrod, and he had protested in his turn, saying he was accustomed to hearing that endearment only from his family.   And he did not wish others to suspect what he truly was, a reborn warrior of Gondolin.  It was embarrassing enough that they still celebrated the anniversary of his death; the High King had explained that he could not very well abolish the tradition without going against Glorfindel’s wishes.

“You cannot have it both ways,” said Gil-galad.  “Either you reveal yourself or suffer their remembrance in silence.”

With increasing frequency it seemed Gil-galad was trying to force him into some course of action.  Glorfindel no longer had the energy to resist.  And he was weary of the old arguments, gaining no ground by them.  “The High King wishes me to command one of his gweth.”

“And you do not care for the idea?”

“He has capable leaders in plenty without having to ask me.”

“Do you think he asked merely because he thought you capable?”

“I have not led warriors into battle for more than a thousand years.”  Glorfindel drew in a sharp breath.  “Something in your voice tells me you urged him to this course of action.”

Pallando confirmed his guilt with a small smile.  “In this he does not require much persuasion.  We are of like mind, Glorfindel, in that we wish to see this seemingly endless grief of yours cease.”

Glorfindel turned his head to gaze down into the gardens.  He could not very well protest by claiming the assessment unjust, for in his heart he knew those closest to him were right.  From the very moment he embarked from Alqualondë he knew he must somehow free himself from his grief.  A sense of purpose would have given him something else to focus his energies upon, yet no specific direction had been offered to or thrust upon him until now. 

Why did he wait so long?  Why did he wait until I had grown comfortable with grief and shadows?  “Nearly fifty years it has been since I arrived.  I had begun to believe my coming was without purpose, though even now I am not certain this command is what I am meant to do.”

“Has Olórin never told you that there are many smaller paths on the road of one’s destiny?  Sometimes the music of the Ainur reveals its pattern in a long and tortuous way,” said Pallando.  “Námo has foreseen that you have some part yet to play in the deeds of Middle-earth and so has granted you early release, though he has not seen fit to share his knowledge with others.”

I was released too soon.”

“I cannot speak for Námo, yet if you doubt the wisdom of the judge of the Dead, perhaps you will recall the one who greeted you upon the steps of the Havens?”

Círdan the Shipwright was not an Elf whom one could easily or soon forget.  Although he had never made the final crossing to Valinor, preferring instead to dwell on the Hither Shore, there was yet an air of foreknowledge and sanctity about Círdan that Glorfindel had seen only in certain folk who dwelt in the Blessed Realm.  Olórin told him he and his companions would receive much welcome at Mithlond, though did not see fit to forewarn Glorfindel how immediate that welcome would be.

From among the Telerin dockhands who worked to secure the lines of the Númenorean vessel that had borne them east from Andúnië, one rose from the pilings and strode directly up the gangplank to greet the passengers.  Weathered hands came up, pushing back the hood Glorfindel had worn for concealment and warmth in the colder northern sea, then the Teleri folded his hands across his breast and bowed deeply.

“Twice-born thou art, Golden Flower, and in service to the star thou hast come.”  A faraway look was in his eyes, stifling Glorfindel’s protests.  After a moment, the Teleri blinked, focused and his speech became more regular.  “Welcome to the Grey Havens, Glorfindel,” he said.  Then he turned and bowed to Glorfindel’s companions.  “And welcome also, servants of Manwë.”

Service to the star.  Glorfindel took this to mean service to Ereinion Gil-galad, the Star of Radiance, though he could not fathom what aid he could possibly render to the High King.  Of far greater value to Gil-galad were the Ithryn Luin.  Often they journeyed abroad from Lindon, gathering information and returning with news and counsel while Glorfindel sharpened his sword and sat idle in the royal house.

How much easier it would have been had he been able to accompany Alatar and Pallando on their travels; in his former life he had not journeyed much, save on the long treks of his childhood, across the Helcaraxë and thence from Vinyamar to Gondolin, that he scarcely remembered.  All his other travels had been marches to battle, or heavy retreats, with no time to linger over the landscape.  It might have been invigorating to do otherwise, to see the land at peace.

He had intended to call himself by his father-name, Erunámo, yet Círdan, whether unknowing or by design, had sent word on ahead to Lindon that Glorfindel of Gondolin was come among them.  Erunámo could have vanished into the landscape and found his own path.  Instead, Glorfindel had to swallow his embarrassment when Gil-galad opened Círdan’s missive, looked once at him, then again before his eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.

Pallando meant well, yet had little comfort to offer.  Glorfindel excused himself from the window seat to go in search of Elrond.  At this time of day, the perelda would either be in the royal library, infirmary or herb garden.  Eärendil’s son was a competent enough warrior, but his main interests lay in healing and scholarly lore.

“So, herulótë, you have finally accepted command of a gweth,” commented a voice from one of the open doorways.  “I wonder how hard the High King had to press to get you to agree to such a thing.”

Glorfindel turned, scowling at the tall, dour figure who peered out at him.  “How many times must I tell you not to call me that?”

“Ah, but it is only lore masters who use Quenya these days, my friend,” said Pengolod, “or a certain lord who stubbornly clings to the old ways.”  He pulled Glorfindel into his study and closed the door behind them.   “Had I a mind, I could say scurrilous things about half the people in this city and not a one would understand me.”

Pengolod was a survivor of Gondolin, one of the last in Middle-earth; he was also the one person in Lindon whose notice Glorfindel could not have escaped, whether he changed his name or no.  His second body was close in form and feature to the first, enough that anyone who had known him in Gondolin might recognize him, but Pengolod had seen the old Glorfindel enough times in Penlod’s House of the Pillar to remember him. 

“You do not know who may be lurking in the shadows,” answered Glorfindel.  “It seems to me your students are always hanging about.”

“Ah, my dear gwador, you do not know how many times I have rounded on poor Erestor and Malthir in the old tongue for some infraction and they knew not a whit of what I said; their Quenya is as poor as their penmanship.  Still, I swore I would keep your secret and I am as good as my word, though I know not why you are ashamed of what you once were.”

“You have never been dead.”  Glorfindel accepted a glass of the strong wine Pengolod offered him and took a sip before continuing.  “You do not know what it is like to be in that cold place, without a body or a voice, and then to be thrust back into life once more.”

“I imagine it is not a pleasant experience, yet have enough centuries not passed that you might forget the cold of Mandos?”

Glorfindel took another sip of the wine.  The lore master knew exactly what he needed to calm his nerves.  “You do not know how difficult it is to be reborn.  Perhaps it is worse than being born the first time, for an infant has never known the things an envinyantawë has known.  He does not remember a time when he walked and spoke.  He does not remember fear or death, or guilt.”

Though he and Pengolod sometimes shared their memories of Gondolin, they never crossed the unspoken boundary of speaking of the city’s fall or Glorfindel’s death.  No doubt Pengolod had been curious, yet never once gave hint of it.  “Guilt is a curious word,” he murmured.  “Why should you feel guilt, after you saved so many?”

“And how many more did I not save?  I saw Ecthelion die, did you know?  He was but thirty feet away from me and yet I could not reach into the water to pull him out before he drowned under Gothmog’s weight.  My House is gone, every one of them.  I saved them so they could die by the swords of Fëanor’s sons, so they could starve or die of cold and torment in the pits of Angband.  And when I left, they were still in Mandos, every one of them.  I was released, I alone.”  He tensed, anticipating what Pengolod would say, for it was what all others had said to him, that his deeds had won him the right to be reborn.  “Tell me, ingolmo, what ill did they do that they must remain so long in that cold place?”

“They may yet be reborn, you know.  Perhaps it is not yet their time.”  Pengolod mulled over his wine, sloshing it about in his glass; he had not yet drunk from it.  “Still, I was not aware that Mandos was a place of punishment.  Always I have been told that it is a place of healing and redemption.”

“Do I seem healed to you?”

The lore master gave him a hard look.  “What you feel is no more than what we all feel, those who survive such hardship when others do not.  I was but a child, yet there are nights when I wake in terror at the memory of the flight from Gondolin.  I do not think it a wound that can be healed in Mandos.”

“Long have I known there were some whose spirits were so badly damaged in death that even Nienna’s tears could not wash away the hurt,” said Glorfindel.  “They refuse rebirth.  I do not know how many ages it takes for one to be healed, only that such healing did not find me.  Too soon was I returned to the world of the living.”

“What do the Ithryn Luin say to this?” asked Pengolod.

“Little of use, or that I have not heard before.”  Glorfindel took a third sip of the deep red liquid, draining the glass.  “I am needed here in Middle-earth, they say, yet I do not see that I am better suited to the task than any of the warriors or counselors the King already has around him.”

Without having to be asked, Pengolod refilled his glass.  “Dark days are coming.  You have heard of the one who calls himself Annatar?”

“He is a Maia, I am told, who has approached the Elves of Eregion with words and gifts of friendship.  Celebrimbor has welcomed him into the brotherhood of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” said Glorfindel.  “Alatar and Pallando are wary of him, and suspect his gifts and smooth words are but concealment for his true nature.”

Pengolod nodded.  “Not all of Morgoth’s servants were slain or taken captive in the War of Wrath.  Long have the agents of the King sought for them, but always they have eluded him.  Perhaps this is why he wishes you to take command of a gweth.  Had you considered that?”

“And I told him that I have not commanded warriors in battle since Gondolin, nor have I ridden against a foe in that long.  Whatever evil this Annatar intends, if evil it is, no doubt it will be more insidious than open warfare; I do not know that the remnants of Morgoth’s followers have the numbers to challenge us openly.  Alatar and Pallando have urged Gil-galad to close the borders of Lindon to him, and advised Círdan and Celeborn in the south to do the same.”

“What counsel do you give?” asked Pengolod.

“I have nothing better to give than the advice Alatar and Pallando have given already.  If evil comes, I could not say where or how it will fall.  Never have I been skilled at detecting treachery.  My counsel in this matter is of little worth.”

If Pengolod read the self-wounding barb, he gave no sign.  What advice do I give Gil-galad, you ask?  Nay, do not ask my advice, that is the counsel I give.

“Perhaps, gwador,” Pengolod said softly, “you cannot read treachery because you are incapable of it.”  

* * *

Notes:

Ithryn Luin: the Blue Wizards

hir-nín: (Sindarin) my lord

gweth: (Sindarin) a household unit or troop

laurëalótë: (Quenya) golden flower

perelda: (Quenya) half-Elf

herulótë: (Quenya) flower lord

envinyantawë: (Quenya) reborn person

ingolmo: (Quenya) lore master

Glorfindel’s father-name is not canon, but my own invention.  Glorfindel’s brother Nárello and his family are also fan creations.

S.A. 1695

Fair they were, gold and jewels glittering against the velvet cloth upon which they were laid, but Glorfindel knew they were no mere trinkets.  One ring set with a sapphire, the other with a pigeon’s blood ruby, their glimmer and lure was deceptive, ominous.

“The third, the Ring of Adamant, Celebrimbor has already given to the Lady Galadriel,” said Gil-galad.  “These he sends to me for safekeeping.  Their names are Narya and Vilya.”

At last, and too late, the grandson of Fëanor realized how he had been deceived by Annatar.  Nay, thought Glorfindel, call him not Annatar, but Gorthaur the Cruel or Sauron, ever the servant of Morgoth.  Celebrimbor was, by last report, hastily fortifying Ost-in-Edhil against an attack from the south.

“The roads are perilous now,” said Pallando, “even for us.”  He gestured to Alatar, seated beside him.  The High King’s council chamber was nearly deserted, its seats unoccupied save by the Ithryn Luin, Elrond and Glorfindel.  Gil-galad would have no others learn of the Rings.

“Some refugees from Eregion we have encountered,” added Alatar, “and the news they bring with them is grim.  Celebrimbor has been complacent.  He never thought to prepare for war, and in this Sauron encouraged him, saying the days of ruin and bloodshed were done, all whilst he was massing his forces in the lands beyond the Ephel Duath.  Some inkling we had of this, and attempted to persuade Celebrimbor to strengthen his defenses, yet he would not hear us until he knew himself betrayed, and then it was too late.”

“Celeborn has sent warriors to the aid of Eregion, but the results are negligible; he has been able to protect some of the refugees in their flight, yet their homes are lost.  Thus far, he has been alone in this.  Messengers have been sent to Khazad-dûm, yet no help has been forthcoming from Durin’s people,” said Pallando.  “From Lórien, there is little answer.  Amdír and Amroth have not the numbers to engage Sauron.  Only here in Lindon have we the resources.”  

Gil-galad sighed.  His gaze fell upon the two Rings laid out before him, winking up at him from their bed of crimson velvet.   They all knew the Rings could not be used, for though they had not been touched by Sauron’s hand, they were yet bound to the One Ring and through them he might corrupt any Eldar who wielded them.  Glorfindel knew the Ithryn Luin had foreseen the need to counter Sauron’s evil and had had some hand in their making.

In secret they had gone to the House of the Mírdain at Ost-in-Edhil and, drawing upon Celebrimbor’s relentless need to match his grandfather’s art and redeem the ills of his House, they urged him to forge the Elven Rings.  Three there should be, even as Fëanor had made three Silmarils, and they should be made in secret, without Annatar’s aid, for was Celebrimbor’s own skill not great enough?

You used his own vanity and self-doubt to make these things, Glorfindel thought, looking from one Maia to the other.  Both remained unreadable.  Untouched by Sauron’s physical hand they may have been, yet still there was evil in their forging.

He knew also why he had been summoned.  For the last two weeks, Lindon had been a center of activity, with warriors pouring in from all corners of Forlindon.  He did not need the King to tell him that he and thousands of others would be sent to Eregion, to recover what they could of the situation.  My heart tells me it is too late for Celebrimbor, yet there may be hope for others if we move swiftly enough.

“Now it comes to it,” murmured Gil-galad.  “No doubt Sauron knows Celebrimbor sent at least one of the Three Rings here.  If we cannot stem his advance at Ost-in-Edhil, he will turn his attention to Lindon once he has ravaged Eregion.  Should that come to pass, I would have Narya and Vilya well hidden.”  He exchanged glances with Elrond before letting his gaze fall upon Alatar and Pallando.  “Wise you are, and powerful.  To your hands I would give these Rings.”

Alatar began shaking his head before Gil-galad even finished.  “And we would refuse,” he replied. 

“Such gifts are not meant for us.  We will not take them to keep them or to wield them.  To others you must entrust their power.”  Pallando looked at no one as he spoke; his gaze poured out into empty space, and his voice came as if from a distance.  Glorfindel knew the moment for what it was, and the chill of foreboding that came on such occasions.  Círdan often had his prescient spells, and Glorfindel preferred not to spend too much time in his company for fear of attracting more than the Shipwright’s casual attention.

Gil-galad nodded, yet whether in defeat or acknowledgment Glorfindel could not say.  “I had hoped to entrust them to the servants of Manwë, for I know well there is none among us who might strive against Sauron, should it come to that.  Even Galadriel, mighty in her wisdom, would falter and the gift of Nenya turn to ruin in her hand.  But your counsel does not surprise me.”

“There are others among you, mighty in strength and wisdom, who might keep these Rings and resist the lure of their power,” said Pallando.

“Aye, but will they accept the charge?”  Gently taking Vilya between his thumb and forefinger, Gil-galad placed it before Elrond.  The perelda regarded the offer without emotion; his face was impassive, as if he had expected the gift.  Perhaps they had discussed the matter in private, the High King and his herald, agreeing upon alternate Ring bearers should the Ithryn Luin refuse.

Or perhaps not, reflected Glorfindel.  Elrond laid his fingers alongside the gold band without touching it.  “I must consider this matter carefully, aran-nín.  Círdan might be a wiser choice for the Ring of Air.”

“He has already refused, saying the gift would be more profitably given elsewhere,” said Gil-galad.  “When he gives such counsel, I know better than to argue with him.  Weigh the matter if you must, Elrond, yet do not tarry too long.  As for Narya, I had thought to keep it for now, though perhaps there is wisdom in sending it away also.”

As Narya was set before him, Glorfindel recoiled from it.  Why do you offer it to me?  “I do not want it,” he said.  Do you count me so among the wise and powerful?  “Nay, I cannot take it.”

“You do not even know its power,” Gil-galad said softly.

“Nor do I wish to know it.  Though it was never touched by Sauron, there is evil in that thing.”

“Such was Celebrimbor’s art that these Rings were infused with the spirit of our people.  Aye, there is some ill in them, as there is ill in us all, but much else that is good.”  Gil-galad continued as though Glorfindel had not protested.  “Narya is called the Ring of Fire because it kindles the inner fire, giving hope and spirit and courage where there is none.  When I gave you command, you told me you had neither heart nor courage to give your followers.  That fire I am placing in your hand.”

Once again, Glorfindel could not help but reflect on the difference between him and Turgon.  Turgon would have kept both Rings and dismissed all talk of going to the aid of Celebrimbor, instead opting to remain in Lindon to shore up its defenses.  This was neither greed nor callousness, but the inherent cautiousness that ruled Turgon.  Gil-galad had a very different notion of prudence. 

Aye, he speaks wisely, and the Ring speaks strongly to me.  I would give faith to others, and take courage and strength for myself, yet I know it is not for my hand to wield.  With great effort, he forced his eyes away from the Ring with its glittering heart of fire.  “Were I a king, I might take it,” he answered.  “But I am not a king.  Rather, it is in you, High King of the Noldor, that your warriors should find their hope and strength, not in a mere captain.”

Gil-galad’s eyes dropped to the Ring, although he did not move to take it back.  He contemplated it, turning his head this way and that as he mulled over his captain’s refusal.  After a few moments, he looked up at Glorfindel, his gaze steady and questioning.  “You do not think I should send this Ring away?”

“That decision is not mine to make, hir-nín, but if this Ring must be worn or wielded by any, it must be the High King who kindles hope and great deeds in his people.  If Sauron’s might is as great as we fear, then your courage must guide us all in the dark days to come.”

Carefully picking up the Ring of Fire, Gil-galad held it in the palm of his hand but did not put it on.  “I do not wish to contemplate a time when I might have to wield this, yet I cannot ignore the shadow that looms over us all.”

* * *

Notes:

Lórien:  At this time, the area that would become Lothlórien was ruled by Amdír.  Galadriel and Celeborn dwelt in Lórinand, which was west of the Misty Mountains.  Amdír was slain during the Last Alliance and his son Amroth became king.  When Amroth died in the mid-Third Age, the people of Lórien welcomed Galadriel and Celeborn, with whom they apparently already had contact, as their rulers.

According to Unfinished Tales, it seems Gil-galad gave Vilya to Elrond after S.A. 1700, after Sauron was defeated by the combined strength of Lindon and Númenor, and after Imladris had already been established.  For the purposes of this story, and for reasons that will become apparent in later chapters, I have chosen to move the date of the gift up slightly.

Gil-galad offering Narya to Glorfindel is purely my invention.  Tolkien makes no mention of Glorfindel’s involvement at all in the Eregion crisis, although if he had returned to Middle-earth by this time, no doubt he would have served Gil-galad in some capacity during the conflict.  Nor is there any mention of the involvement of Alatar and Pallando, who, it seems, went directly East after their arrival.  

S.A. 1697

There was little left of the green country of south Eriador.  Sauron’s forces ravaged as they went, stripping the land of whatever they could carry and destroying the rest.  Well they knew the needs of the army Elrond led out of Lindon, and did their utmost to assure he would find neither food, fodder nor shelter as he marched east.  Baggage trains were harried, supplies often intercepted before they could reach the Elves.

When Celeborn at last found them encamped on the banks of the Mitheithel, they were a ragged echo of the force they had been.  Weary, cold and hungry, had Elrond’s soldiers been mortal their ranks would have been crippled by illness as well; the wounded were already more infirmity than they could spare.  A wavering cheer rippled through the ranks as the silver-haired lord rode into the camp with supplies and reinforcements, both of which were sorely needed.

The tidings he brought were not so joyous.

Tight-lipped, with Glorfindel and two other captains at his side, Elrond listened as Celeborn told of the fall of Ost-in-Edhil.  Sauron had at last broken through the makeshift defenses and laid waste to the city, demolishing the House of the Mírdain and seizing Celebrimbor, who, foolishly refusing to flee, made his stand before the doors of his house. 

“What torment was dealt him, I cannot say,” said Celeborn.  “My scouts report that he is dead and his body….”  He paused, taking a steadying breath before continuing, “The enemy has stripped his corpse and uses it now as a banner.  I am told it is mutilated and riddled with Orc arrows.  I pray only those wounds were given after his fëa escaped to Mandos.”

“I would not count on any such mercy from the enemy,” Elrond replied.

Glorfindel could not help wondering why Celebrimbor did not flee.  His initial reaction was horror and pity, though a part of him had always held the Elven smith in contempt.  It was wrong, he knew, to despise one he had never met, who had severed his ties with his father Curufin and the rest of the House of Fëanor long before they descended upon Sirion and slaughtered the remnants of the House of the Golden Flower, yet he did. 

You cannot hate one who repented long ago of such rash deeds.  You cannot be so unforgiving.  And yet, he was.  Kinslaying was a grievous matter, and he cared not what the reason.  Maedhros, Amrod and Amras were dead, but Maglor lived on, somewhere.  If I should ever see him, if our paths should ever cross… 

He stopped himself before the thought came to fruition.  Nay, I will not become that which I despise, however just my anger. 

After he stepped outside in the blustery winter air and had a moment to collect himself, he realized he should not have been so surprised that Celebrimbor insisted on staying to defend Ost-in-Edhil.  Turgon had done the same, refusing to leave Gondolin even when his captains urged him.  The image of Celebrimbor, or any Elda, hanging mutilated upon a pole stirred possibilities Glorfindel did not want to confront.  After we fled, did the enemy impale Ecthelion’s head on a spike, or drag Turgon’s corpse through the burning streets?

He frantically pressed his hand to his eyes as if to wipe away the images that came like tears.  The ruin of Gondolin could not have been any other way, he knew, yet he did not want to think on it.  More pity should I have for Celebrimbor, and any who stayed with him.

An hour later, a messenger came.  He was one of Celeborn’s scouts, harried and bespattered with mud and gore, some of it his own.  The news he bore was grim, and Celeborn summoned both his captains and Elrond and his captains to hear it.  Sauron’s forces were on the move, two full Orc regiments pushing northward from the ruin of Ost-in-Edhil toward their position.

“How many days behind you do they march?” Elrond wanted to know.

“No more than a day, hir-nín.”  The messenger spoke raggedly, his eyes drooping with exhaustion as he sipped at the tankard of hot liquid someone pressed into his hands.  “They march mostly under cover of darkness, yet do not stop the entire time they are afoot,” answered the messenger.  “Others trail them, harrying any refugees they find, and burning and looting wherever they can, by day and night.  These two regiments do not stop even for that.”

“Go now and rest, Calmandur,” said Celeborn.  “We will send for you later.”

He waited until one of the guards led the messenger from the tent before speaking again.  “It is clear Sauron desires an engagement.  An Orc regiment can number as many as two hundred.  Usually they are not well-trained, but my scouts and warriors have found that this is not always the case.  Sauron has spent much time preparing and training his armies.  This treachery was long-planned.”

“What news is there from Lindon?” asked one of Celeborn’s captains.  “Does the High King send reinforcements?”

“He has sent all that can be spared,” replied Elrond.  “Mithlond and Harlindon are being fortified to the banks of the Gwathló.  Emissaries have been sent across the sea to Númenor, yet word is slow to come of their progress.”

Gil-galad reported that Pallando himself undertook the voyage, yet on the winter sea, even with Círdan’s most experienced mariners at the helm, the Maia would not make landfall in under a month.  And Tar-Minastir, if he responded favorably, would need additional time to mobilize his forces.  The earliest reinforcements might arrive was in the summer or even autumn of the following year, far too late if their fortunes continued on this downward course.

“We cannot hold this bank,” said Elrond.  “The land lies too low, and the enemy will come upon us from higher ground.”  A dog-eared map lay across a wooden plank, held fast at the corners by daggers and blunt arrow heads.  “Here, where the Mitheithel meets the Bruinen, we are flanked on three sides by water.  It is a more defensible position.”

“But too vulnerable.  The confluence of the rivers is too shallow at this time of year; it would not stop an advance, and the Bruinen is too easily forded to the north.  We would soon find ourselves encircled.  Now farther north along the river there is higher ground.”  Celeborn’s finger traced the line of the Bruinen toward the mountains.  “And here, near the High Pass, I believe Oropher’s people have found a sheltered valley.  If memory serves, the approach is narrow and could be defended should we need to make a retreat.”

But the valley, if such existed, was not marked on the map.  “I will not send my troops into the reaches of the Hithaeglir in the cold of winter on the slim chance that the scouts of Greenwood know what they are about,” said Elrond.

“We need a winter camp,” Glorfindel pointed out.  “Our ranks are swelling with refugees, and half of those we send on to Forlindon are intercepted and slain along the way.”

Pursing his lips, Elrond nodded.  His inability to protect the survivors of Ost-in-Edhil and the outlying communities was a sore matter for him, and Glorfindel did not speak of it unless absolutely necessary.  For you know now what I know, what pain it is not to be able to save those who look to you for protection.  “We have sent what escort we could.” 

Perhaps it was deliberate, this continuous preying upon those noncombatants who tried to flee west, for it meant the refugees would have to stay in the vanguard of Elrond’s camp where they would hamper his movement.  Or perhaps it was but an unintended disadvantage provided by an inherently cruel enemy.  

Glorfindel continued, “It is not safe to remain here.  If we were to turn north, we might be able to hold the high ground and send those who cannot bear arms through the mountains to Oropher.”

“He has not sent word back to us for the duration of this war.”  Elrond glowered at the map.  “Ever have he and his people distanced themselves from the High King’s affairs, though he has oft been told that that evil which threatens us will not leave him in peace should we fall.  But he is stubborn and will take no counsel from us, so we should not expect any aid from that quarter.”

“Messages have been sent, but my lady and I have not been able to prevail upon him,” murmured Celeborn.  “Amroth is more amiable, though he has few warriors to spare.  Glorfindel’s counsel is wise.  We cannot hold this shore, Elrond.  We must turn north, to higher ground, and we must do it swiftly.”

* * *

Where the Mitheithel met the Bruinen, the land rose slightly, affording a comfortable view of the country beyond the confluence of the two rivers.

Elrond grudgingly took Celeborn’s advice, bypassing the juncture entirely for the mountains, but not without sending Glorfindel to the rear to scout out the enemy’s advance.  Pockets of Orcs had been detected moving through the fog about a mile back, but these were stragglers rather than part of the main force, and did not give any indication they were aware of the Elves; they were prowling the thin woods on the opposite bank as if in search of food or fodder.   Glorfindel thought it wiser not to engage them.

Half an hour, that was all he could spare on the lookout.  Elrond, determined to put as much distance between his force and the enemy before they realized he was headed into the mountains, set a bruising pace.  All too much it reminds me of retreats long past, of the march of tears from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the flight to Cirith Thoronath, Glorfindel thought.  I wonder if the Hithaeglir will be as cold as the Echoriath, or if there will be Eagles to watch over our ascent.

Remembering how his last retreat had ended, he shoved the brooding thoughts from his head.  Another life, another Age, he told himself.  I will not dwell on it.

“Cáno, look there,” called Alagos, motioning down the slope toward the far bank of the Bruinen. 

Running haphazardly out of the mist, stumbling toward the water, were a group of six or seven people.  More refugees, who had somehow managed to elude the enemy until now.   Orcs swarmed on their heels, dragging down two from the rear; the thrust of a crude scimitar ended their struggles.

“Roqueni!” shouted Glorfindel, his blade already drawn.  He did not have to look to know his warriors were behind him; he heard the ring of their steel and snorting of their mounts as they plunged into the river.  The water was not deep or particularly fast moving at this time of year, but frigid where it moved against Glorfindel’s ankles.   His momentum carried him across and scrabbling up the opposite bank.

He could see the first Elf stumbling toward him, and see the other recoil in a moment’s horror before he realized Glorfindel and his warriors were not Orcs.  Fear and desperation swam in the his eyes, and perhaps hope as he strove for the protection of the gweth, yet from behind him came a dark blur that embedded itself between his shoulders and flung him facedown to the ground.

Bellowing his fury, Glorfindel spurred his mount directly into a swarm of Orcs who were greedily stripping one corpse.  A head went flying, spraying his horse’s white flanks with blood, to be joined by an arm that raised a scimitar at him.  The others hung back, and he saw fear in their eyes; these were not the well-trained Orc soldiers of whom Celeborn had spoken, but brutes accustomed to terrorizing those who could not or would not fight back.

Those who did not resist broke ranks and fled; Glorfindel saw an arrow take down one before their dark shapes disappeared in the mist.

His body trembled with the aftermath of battle as he slid from his saddle to see what carnage had been wrought.  Already his warriors were moving among the bodies, quickly dispatching wounded Orcs and searching for survivors among the Elves.  He saw Alagos helping an elf-woman into a sitting position while he probed a gash in her arm.  She was moaning in pain between sobs, alternately clutching at Alagos and pushing him away.  Another warrior bent to inspect her leg, which was twisted at an odd angle; she cried out when he touched it.

Blade still in hand, Glorfindel turned, eyes searching every corner of the battlefield.  Bodies lay sprawled across the ground, their meager possessions scattered.  None stirred.  One, that was all we could save?  Anger and shame filled the back of his throat with the taste of bile.  Had he the numbers, he would have charged after the Orcs and cut every last one of them down.

“Cáno!” shouted Hathol. 

The archer was pulling at the corpse of an Elven male, gently shifting him aside to reach something lying pinned underneath.  Muffled sobbing reached Glorfindel’s ears; he saw a dirty face streaked with tears laid against Hathol’s shoulder, and a pair of arms come up to twine in a death-grip about the archer’s neck. 

“Is the boy injured?” asked Glorfindel.

Reddened eyes opened and went wide at the sight of the warrior walking toward him; as Hathol turned, still holding him, the boy turned his head to follow Glorfindel in mingled terror and fascination.

“He is bruised and badly frightened, cáno, but he does not seem otherwise injured.”

“Then you will carry him.  We cannot linger here.”

Alagos and the other warrior swiftly lashed together a makeshift stretcher for the woman, whose leg was shattered.  The Elven dead were left where they lay, though it pained Glorfindel to do so.  Once they were gone, the Orcs would surely return to finish the grisly work they had begun.

That night, surrounded by massive oaks and the rushing waters of the Bruinen, camp was made.  Warriors from every gweth were set on patrol, stationed at regular intervals along the perimeter and watched over by archers in the trees and on a low promontory overlooking the river, so no ground was left unguarded.

Elrond was not pleased that some Orcs had escaped Glorfindel’s charge, though he readily acknowledged that the captain had had neither the numbers nor sufficient time to pursue them.  “You did what you could,” he said.  “Our only hope is that the enemy is not close enough behind us that they will attack this night.”

“Such stragglers do not venture far from the main force,” said Celeborn, “yet that is not assurance that battle will find us tonight.  The day’s fog has concealed some of our passage, and they know we send scouts far abroad.  They are not especially perceptive, these raiders; they are not likely to suspect our main force is so close at hand.”

“I would prefer not to rely on such matters of chance.  It would have been better had none of them lived to report our presence.  This march into the mountains is an uncertain one,” replied Elrond. 

“My scouts report the way is not difficult.”

Of Oropher’s valley, there was yet no word.  Elrond did not hold much faith that such an ideal mountain vale existed, or that they would find a suitable defensible site before the enemy overtook their rear.  With so many non-combatants, most of whom had not the stamina for a forced march, they could not afford an ambush.

It felt too much like the flight from Gondolin.  Glorfindel avoided the refugees, for the hopeless faces with their tears and frightened queries were too familiar and stirred foreboding in him.  At least then our guides knew the way to take.  Now we are blind and fumbling in the wilderness.

Uncertainty and dread slowly gave way to anger.  I was not reborn only to die again on the same path.  The Valar would not send me back for so brief and empty a purpose.  Yet he could fathom neither Námo’s foresight nor the design embroidered in Vairë’s tapestries, for much that seemed without reason had been woven there. 

Elrond found him brooding by the tent flap.  “No rebuke did I intend, gwador.  You slew as many of the enemy as you could, and saved two of our own.  I had been meaning to ask how they fared.”

The perelda had not seen the boy and woman Glorfindel brought back.  His healing gifts had been sorely taxed in the last months and Gil-galad had sent orders that he was not to strain himself in this way, regardless of how much he might be tempted to ease the suffering he saw.  “Healers you have supplied with in plenty,” the High King wrote, “that you might turn your energy to other things.  Only through the strength of your command may you secure the peace with which to practice the arts dearest to you.”

“The woman’s leg is broken,” replied Glorfindel.  “She will have to be carried.  As for the boy, he is frightened but not much hurt.”

On his return, he had given both over to the camp healers and expected to see neither again, but when he joined his gweth around their fire, the boy was there.   Nestled between Alagos and Ondoher, he watched Glorfindel’s movements with rapt eyes.

“His name is Lindir,” said Ondoher, gently patting the boy’s arm.  “He does not have anyone among the refugees.  We let him stay here by the fire where it is warm.”

By Elrond’s order, few campfires were permitted that night, and those that were lit were kept small, so the enemy might not sight them across a long distance.  And even if they saw, they would greatly underestimate the size and number of the camp.

Glorfindel stared down at the boy.  Lindir was slightly-built, and did not look to be anywhere near his majority.  “This is a gweth camp, pen-neth,” he said sternly.   “Unless you can bear arms, you do not belong here.”

Lindir’s eyes grew large, and he bit his underlip as if in an effort not to cry.  He did not seem capable of speech, even when addressed, though Glorfindel shortly learned that in fits and pieces he had told some of his tale to the warriors.

While Glorfindel took a small ration of lembas from his pouch, Alagos leaned over and gave him the tale.  “He is from Ost-in-Edhil.  They lived in the wild since summer, he and the others, but yesterday eve the enemy found them and pursued them through the night.  Eight or ten others there were, that they lost on the way, and the ones that died today.  It was his ada’s corpse that saved him.”

Scores of similar tales haunted the refugee camp.  Glorfindel hardened himself to the grief of the widows and orphans, quickly shutting away the sorrow of those who faded on the march.  “This is no place for a child, no matter how fond you are of him.  There are mothers in the camp who will gladly take him in.”

“I know it, cáno,” replied Alagos, “but he is badly frightened and says he wants to stay with the lord with the golden hair, because you will protect him.”

“I can protect him far better if he is not underfoot.”  Glorfindel washed down the morsel of lembas with a draught from his waterskin.  “He may stay here the night, but in the morning you will find him a suitable guardian.”

Lindir nervously glanced from one warrior to the other, but his eyes lingered longest on Glorfindel.  Alagos patted his shoulder to reassure him.  “Lord Glorfindel is not wroth with you, pen-neth.”

The boy blinked at him.  “Glorfindel?  Like the hero of Gondolin?” he whispered. 

Awe filled Lindir’s voice.  How much more would you be if you knew the truth?  Glorfindel was aware of the way Alagos and some of the other warriors, those who heard the boy’s soft spoken query, anticipated his answer.  He had never confirmed or denied that he was the reembodied captain of the Golden Flower; that he came from Valinor and flavored his speech with Quenya did nothing to alleviate the rumors.

Why do you shy from the truth after so many years?  Is it so inconceivable a thing among the Eldar to have been reborn?  It was not that he had been dead once, for his memories of Mandos had grown less with time, until they were little more than wisps of faintly remembered cold or grayness; if anyone had been rude enough to ask outright, he could not have told them what death was like. 

Glorfindel decided it was easier to be a living non-entity than a dead hero.  No one would expect from him anything more than what he was able to give.

“Yes, like the hero of Gondolin,” he replied, his throat constricting around the word.  “Go to sleep now, pen-neth.  We have a long march in the morning and we cannot carry you.”

* * *

Notes:

Hithaeglir: the Misty Mountains

cáno: (Quenya) commander

roqueni: (Quenya) knights

pen-neth: (Sindarin) young one

An icy wind gusted down from the reaches of the Hithaeglir as the host pressed northward.  Forests of dark pine shadowed their path, and above their tops the mountain peaks thrust toward the sky like snowy daggers. 

Glorfindel shivered in his thick woolen cloak as he watched his breath turn to steam before him.  A light dusting of snow covered the ground; the snowfall had stopped near dawn and as the sun rose higher in the sky the air warmed slightly, enough to melt the frost and turn the path to slush.  People and horses went cautiously, avoiding puddles where they could.

Heedless of the cold, the enemy harried them from the rear, picking off whatever warriors or civilians they could from the trees.  Clearly this was the main host, and they knew they followed an army rather than a troop of Elven scouts.  Elrond wanted to turn, dig in and make a stand, yet he lacked a suitable position from which to do this.  All he could do was trust to Celeborn’s scouts.  He felt himself helpless, and his mood, heavy before the retreat, became grim.

In such moments, Glorfindel regretted the decision not to accept Narya.  More than ever, as they trudged toward the mountains, burdened by cold and despair, the host needed the kindling of inner spirit that was the Ring of Fire’s power.  They needed the exuberance of spirit that was Elrond’s to give them renewed strength and hope.  If I had but taken Narya when it was offered, I might have taken his hands in mine and given him that.

But then, he realized the evil in what he thought, for if he had taken the Ring of Fire and wielded it, Sauron would have become aware of him, and through him the Elven host.  There is no doubt he already knows our route and has found us already, but I would not risk such peril should he somehow not know.

It was ever the way of evil to prey upon noble intentions.  That was what Glorfindel told himself as he shoved all thought of Narya from his mind.  Whatever I give Elrond, it will come from myself alone.

In the evening, when camp was made and the night’s patrols assigned, Glorfindel allowed Lindir to tend his horse.  The boy spent his days marching with the other refugees, so he would not get underfoot if a sudden attack forced the gweth to turn and retaliate.  By the time he joined the warriors of Glorfindel’s gweth, he was weary and footsore, but brightened as Alagos and the other warriors greeted him.  Many months had he spent in the wild, hiding with his kin and often going without food or rest; whatever complaint might have been in him was long since chafed away.

Lindir was small for his age, with sad eyes, but was more resilient than Glorfindel expected from one so young; the woman rescued with him was silent and vacant-eyed, and those who tended her knew her name only because Lindir told them.  He brooded sometimes, hanging his head on the march, yet his smile returned when evening fell and when one of the gweth, seeing him loitering at the edge of their camp, beckoned him to join them. 

Glorfindel was initially apprehensive about allowing Lindir to associate with his warriors.  A gweth camp was no place for a child, however unobtrusive he was, and Glorfindel had little experience with children.  But when he saw how infectious Lindir’s exuberance was, and felt his own spirits lift, he allowed the boy’s evening visits.

As for tending the horses of the gweth, Lindir had asked for something useful to do; the boy balked when told to sit quietly and not get in the way.  Glorfindel was not about let him stray from the camp in search of firewood, nor did the boy have the skill or strength to repair weapons.  When Lindir insisted on trying to whet his sword, Glorfindel pulled the blade from its sheath and handed it to him, watching as the boy’s arms were dragged down by a length of steel nearly as tall as he was.

“The horses need watering and rubbing down,” Glorfindel said, calmly taking back the sword and replacing it in its scabbard, “and you need not lift them.”

Lindir followed Ondoher on his rounds, listening attentively as the warrior explained how to care for a horse and its tack after a long day’s ride.  He had no experience with animals.  His parents had been well-to-do scribes in Ost-in-Edhil; he knew all his Cirth and Tengwar, he said proudly, and even a few Dwarven runes. 

“We had a big house and from my room you could see the House of the Mírdain on the hill,” he said.  “All sorts of people came to the house, even Men and Dwarves, but my ada said that was because the Mírdain didn’t keep scribes of their own and whenever someone bought something from them someone had to write it down in a special way.”   Then his youthful boastfulness was replaced by a sad, faraway look and he grew quiet.

After a moment, he picked up his supplies and went to tend Glorfindel’s mount while the warrior sat on a stone and took his long knife and a handheld whetstone from a pouch.   It quickly became obvious, however, that the white destrier intimidated the boy.

“His name is Asfaloth,” said Glorfindel.  “That is the name I give to all my horses.”

“Why, hir-nín?”

“Because it is easier to remember that way.”  And because his last horse in Gondolin had been called Asfaloth.  Any others he might have had, he did not remember.

“I-I don’t know how to ride a horse, hir-nín.”

The knife blade paused over the whetstone.  “Do not call me that, pen-neth.  I am not your sworn lord.  But since you are tending my horse, you may call me cáno.  It means ‘commander’ in Quenya,” he said.  “In time, when you are old enough, you will learn to ride.”

Once he had nosed the boy, snorting through Lindir’s disheveled dark hair, Asfaloth obediently let him rub down his flanks.  “Will you teach me, cáno?”

“I am not a very good teacher, pen-neth.”

“Alagos says you are from Valinor.”

Again the blade hung motionless above the whetstone.  “Alagos says far too much.”

“Are you from Valinor, cáno?”

“You ask if that is such a rare thing,” said Glorfindel.  “I was born in Tirion.”  And reborn in Mandos, but you are too young and have seen and known too much of death already.

“My naneth told me Valinor is a beautiful place where nobody ever fights or goes hungry,” said Lindir.  “And when you live there you can see the Valar who are bright and more beautiful than any creatures that have ever been.”  He paused, chewing his lip as if wanting to say more.   When he did speak again, it was in a shy, soft voice.  “You’re very bright, cáno.”

“I am not one of the Valar, nor have I ever laid eyes upon them.”  Glorfindel heard the harshness in his voice the same moment he saw the hurt in the boy’s eyes and at once softened his tone.  “They say those who are born in the West have a certain light about them.  Perhaps that is so, but it does not imbue me with any special power.”

That was not entirely so.  He had heard it said that those who came of Valinor dwelt at once in both the realms of the seen and unseen, and against the shadow had great power.  Celeborn’s warriors spoke of their lady, Finrod’s sister Galadriel, who glimmered with the light of her own long wisdom and radiance; she was one of the last of the Firstborn in Middle-earth who had seen the Two Trees, and within her, it was said, shone the mingled radiance of both.

I am neither wise nor radiant, nor do I remember the age before the darkening of Valinor.  It seems I have always walked in a shadow, in this life and before.

“But you are beautiful, cáno,” insisted Lindir, “so you must be very wise and powerful, like the Valar.”

Glorfindel wanted to tell him how sometimes the most beautiful of things could conceal a rotten heart.  Sauron wears a form so fair, they say, you would weep to see it.  Surely having survived such hardship, you must know that.  He opened his mouth to speak, but bit his lip before he could begin, his voice catching at the prospect of souring Lindir’s innocence.

I would tell you, to spare you the pain of learning such wisdom unaided, but I cannot.  Even in the telling there is pain.  Such simple faith, he reflected, that in beauty was wisdom and strength and the light of the Valar.  Only in a child’s world could such a thing be true, and only in a world of such sorrow and pain could one wish for a child’s wisdom again.

* * *

Two days later, one of Celeborn’s scouts rode back with word of a sheltered valley a few hours’ ride to the northeast.

“Erion has given me a full account, yet I could not tell you if it is Oropher’s valley,” Celeborn told Elrond.  “It is enclosed by high rock walls, and is well-sheltered and watered.  The only approach is through a narrow pass which could easily be defended by a handful of archers.  Even if it is not Oropher’s valley, it will serve our purposes.”

Elrond said nothing, but in his eyes Glorfindel discerned the first glint of hope since word had come of the fate of Ost-in-Edhil.

With the scout as their guide, the host turned northeast toward the valley.  Already it was late in the day, with the promise of a long, chill night ahead.  All through the ranks, warriors and refugees alike were urged to move with all possible speed; behind them, rattling and echoing ominously from the trees, the sound of their pursuers gaining ground hastened their steps more than any order could have done.

Then, as darkness threatened and the red rock of the mountain wall drew nigh, their pace began to flag.  Elrond spurred his mount to ride from fore to rear and back again, urging greater speed.

Glorfindel met him toward the center, where the column of refugees began, and caught Elrond’s reins when the other would have ridden past.  “Be not so harsh with them.  They are going as fast as they might,” he said. 

“It will be for naught if we do not reach the safety of the valley before night is upon us,” Elrond shot back.  “Hear you the shouts of the enemy behind us?  They know we have quickened our pace.  They will be on us once darkness falls.”

“Our people cannot move any faster, and the way is treacherous.  I will take my gweth to the rear and attempt to hold the path clear should an attack come.”  Knowing that was precisely what he had done on the flight from Gondolin, knowing there he had met his end.  Am I to give my life again, so these weary few can escape?  Why does it seem that it always comes to this: a few harried souls fleeing from one haven to the next?

“Celeborn has already sent archers to the rear,” said Elrond.  “Nay, if the women and children cannot walk, then take them up behind you and ride hard for the pass.”

Orders were given, and mounted soldiers turned from the fore and rode toward the center of the column, where they pulled foot-weary women and children up behind them.  Glorfindel saw the warriors of another gweth ride past him and on ahead in the direction of the pass in a blur of hoofbeats and snorting mounts as he leaned over in the saddle and took the arm of a woman laden with a small child.  Many were doing the same, taking on double passengers.

Twenty feet away, he overheard one of the captains arguing with Elrond.  Some disapproved, fearing that if the enemy attacked, half their force would be too burdened with baggage to ride out to meet them.

“That baggage is my charge, do not forget that,” Elrond retorted.  “If it comes to it, we will hold the line with foot soldiers and archers.  Now take your gweth to the center column and save what you can.”

Whatever answer the captain made, Glorfindel did not hear it.  A rush of air sweeping past his cheek was punctuated by the thud of an arrow embedding itself in the tree just behind him.  His shield came up, deflecting a second arrow.  The woman behind him whimpered and tightened her hold around his waist; he turned Asfaloth so her unprotected back was to the tree.

The familiar twang and whistle of arrows told him Celeborn’s archers were returning fire.  Hathol rode past him, bearing two children, and he heard Ondoher call out.  Half a second and a whine of air later, and a shaft sprouted from Ondoher’s shoulder.  The warrior flinched at the impact, but stayed upright in the saddle, maintaining his hold on the boy in front of him.

“Ride!” Glorfindel shouted at him.

Through the trees they tore, arrows flying past them with a deadly whine; Glorfindel heard the clatter of shafts striking trees and hedgerows, scraping armor plate and, once or twice, hitting a live target.  Someone fell behind him, crashing to the ground even as his horse raced on, and Glorfindel did not see whose body it was.  Asfaloth set too swift a pace, and the woman had crushed herself to his back in a death-grip; he tightened his hold on the toddler that rode pillion before him and barreled on.

Half a mile, nearly all uphill, with clods of frost-rimmed mud flying, and the arrows were behind them, the shouts of battle growing more distant, lost in the trammel of hooves tearing the earth.  The rock wall loomed before them, and within it, black between dark pines, a deep cutting through which three could ride abreast.

The world narrowed to steep walls and the long, echoing rush of flowing water.  Twenty seconds in that dim space, then they were out, moving down a sharp incline and a flat mile to the ford of the Bruinen.  Across the river, the ground rose again in a twisting track, leading somewhere unseen.

They had lost sight of the river days earlier as it climbed and tumbled through places where they could not follow.  Here the current was shallow and slow enough that they might cross without difficulty; scores of riders had already gathered on the opposite bank, letting down their passengers.   As Glorfindel crossed, he saw several captains urging their companies to make haste.  One of them, Naruthol, was already coming back across the river with his gweth.

Glorfindel urged Asfaloth alongside him and reached over with his free hand, laying his hand on Naruthol’s pommel.  “Where are you going?”

“We return to the fight, cáno,” the other said stiffly, his tone indicating he would not have answered at all had Glorfindel not outranked him.

“Who gave you such orders?”  Glorfindel knew very well it had not been Elrond.  “You will turn your gweth around and get those people into some semblance of order.  We are not yet out of danger.”

Beyond the river, the winding track led through stands of pine and larch, past crags that pushed through blankets of green moss as if thrust up from below by Aulë’s hand.  To the east, the walls of the valley framed the snowy peaks rising in the distance; from between the rocks, tapping some unknown mountain reservoir, sheets of water tumbled down into channels that fed the Bruinen. 

Glorfindel noted the shape of the valley, which suggested the image of Aulë pulling the mountains apart to create a rift.  Gondolin had also been surrounded by mountains, but the vale of Tumladen had been a vast green bowl set within a ring of encircling peaks; the only similarity between the two valleys were its ample waters and the narrow passes that gave entry. 

At a quieter moment, he would have to inspect the pass and see about establishing permanent archer posts such as those that had guarded Gondolin’s Hidden Way.  For now, the crags overlooking the Bruinen would suffice.  He gave orders for the refugees to be moved farther up from the river, to a wide, flat table of rock near one of the falls; Naruthol’s gweth was assigned to accompany them. 

His own company, minus a few, had rejoined him on the riverbank.  Alagos told him that Henluin and Elmagol had been struck from their mounts on the ride to the pass; he had not seen whether Henluin’s fall had been mortal, but Elmagol had slammed into a tree.

Glorfindel only nodded, mentally adding the two to the number who had fallen since his gweth set out from Lindon in the summer.  Turning, he saw Ondoher at the rear, listing in the saddle, his face waxy.  The arrow still protruded from the back of his shoulder; earlier, he or someone else had broken the shaft in two, but he seemed to have forgotten the arrowhead remained, for no attempt had been made to pull it out.

“Hold him!” 

At Glorfindel’s words, Hathol, who was nearest, brought his horse alongside Ondoher’s and supported the warrior as he slid sideways into his comrade’s arms.  Careful of the arrow, Hathol wrapped both arms around him and pulled him forward across his own saddlebow.  Ondoher groaned, flinching and twisting slightly in pain as the movement jarred the arrow, but let Hathol bear him up.  Glorfindel sent them on with the refugees, to find whatever leechcraft was available.

The shadows lengthened toward evening and the first promise of rain misted down from a gray sky; the storm that had threatened throughout the day would find them that night, and if it was cold enough the rain would turn to snowfall.  The only shelter they had were the tents packed away in the baggage train, which might or might not reach them in time.  Glorfindel instructed some of the scouts who had ridden in with them to search the rock walls for caves or overhangs that would offer some protection from the elements, and to do it swiftly.

Word soon came back that three small caves had been found.  Archers managed to flush out the creatures hibernating in one, taking down one that turned on them; the others were empty but for scattered bones and animal droppings.   The caves were not large enough to accommodate everyone.  They would have to tether the horses outside and pray there was no thunder and lightning to frighten them, or hope to find another cave before the rain came.

Glorfindel sent the scouts back the camp with orders to move everyone into the caves even as the thunder of many riders coming down through the pass reached his ears.  He quickly signaled to the archers stationed on the crags.  Bows were drawn, held tense, then slowly lowered.  A signal came back as the riders came into view.

Elrond’s horse splashed across the wide ford, its rider bearing a gash across the forehead; he clutched his right arm with one hand while clinging to the reins with the other.  Behind him came his gweth, battered and panting, bearing women and children on their mounts.  Winded infantry came stumbling down out of the pass moments later; the archers came last, pausing and turning to fire at their pursuers.   More archers fired from above, and from the depths of the passes came shrieks of surprise and outrage.

“They are…coming through.”  Elrond shoved aside the hand that tried to probe his wound.  It had bled freely before crusting over, and half the perelda’s face was dark with blood that ran down his jaw into the collar of his mail.  “Call them back.”

“The archers will take them at the entrance,” said Glorfindel.  “Look there, Celeborn’s troop is already taking position; the enemy will have to climb a wall of corpses before they can reach us.”

Elrond stared at the archers climbing up to the walls of the pass to join those already engaged.  He pressed a trembling hand to his brow, feeling the blood.  “They do not have enough arrows.  Those on the ground, call them back now!” 

“Spears we have,” said Glorfindel, “and the archers will use stones if they must.  Elrond, it is not wise to leave the pass so--”

“Call them back, away from the river, back!  Do it now or I will!”

He is mad, or has been struck too hard.  “You cannot leave the pass undefended.”

Growling, Elrond wheeled his mount away from Glorfindel and shouted the order himself.   The quavering of his voice was enough to bring Celeborn to his side.

“You are wounded, gwador.”  Celeborn laid a hand on his shoulder, his fingers pulling at the collar of the mail shirt to see how much blood had run into it.  “You should not be giving orders.”

“The scouts have found caves,” said Glorfindel, “but they are not large enough for everyone.   I have sent them to find others, if they can.”

But Elrond would not go, instead repeating his order to bring all foot soldiers back across the river in a trembling voice that made both Glorfindel and Celeborn wonder if his wound had not made him delirious.  Such things often happened with head wounds, even among the Eldar, and if Elrond was not yet complaining of fever, he would by morning.

At last, Celeborn leaned across Elrond and urged Glorfindel to pull the infantry and riders back toward the caves.  “My own archers I will keep here, should the enemy win through.  I will bring him myself, once the pass is secured.  Go, and keep a place for us.”

Still doubting the wisdom of leaving Elrond in the company of archers whose quivers were nearly spent, Glorfindel called the warriors back across the river and sent them up toward the caves.  They straggled through the icy water, bearing up wounded comrades and shouldering supplies rescued from the wrecked baggage train.  With them were male refugees, smiths and carpenters who could bear weapons and had offered to fight.  Glorfindel waved them along, urging them to follow the torches to the caves.

With one last look at Elrond, Glorfindel nudged Asfaloth up the path.  If he could not trust Celeborn to keep Elrond safe, then no one could.

* * *

Once Glorfindel was gone, reluctantly taking the foot soldiers and riders with him, Elrond urged Celeborn to do the same with his archers.  “Pull them back to this side of the Bruinen,” he said.

Celeborn hesitated.  “Gwador, they have neither the numbers nor the arrows to hold the river from here.  The water is too shallow.”

Elrond lifted his face to feel the drizzle mist on his skin.  It will not be.  With shaking fingers, he pulled off one of his riding gloves and thrust his hand into his surcoat.  There, sewn into a little pocket between the lining and his mail, he felt a lump.  He found the seam and ripped, while Celeborn watched in alarm. 

You think I have lost my mind, that the Orcish blade took my wits along with half my scalp.  Nay, it is what I do now that may not be so wise, and yet there is no help for it.  “It is beginning to rain.”

The fabric pulled free and he caught the small circle of gold in his fingers; at the merest touch, he felt its power tremble through him.  As he fumbled with it, drawing it from his surcoat, he saw Celeborn’s eyes fall hard on him.

This was a lord whose wife also held one of the great Rings, Elrond knew, and he reflected on the irony of remembering too late.  Yes, you also feel it, and you know also that I have no choice.  It would have been far easier had Celeborn left with Glorfindel.  A moment, give me but one moment to call the river into flood, only that.  Do not try to restrain me in this.

“Elrond, if that thing in your hand is what I suspect,” Celeborn began, “do not use it.”

Howls rose from the pass, and the clamor of battle carried down the long mile to the ford.  From the heights, one of Celeborn’s archers was struck and tumbled down into the darkness of the pass.   Little time remained.   There is more wisdom in your counsel, but nothing of hope.  “I do not know that I have a choice now.”

Celeborn clutched his fingers before he could slip Vilya on; his grip was chill and bruising.  “This is folly!” he hissed.  “Would you risk being ensnared so by Sauron?”

“And if I do not we shall perish regardless.”  Elrond pulled away, but made no move to put the ring on.  “Take your blade and strike me down if it comes to that, if Sauron seizes my will through this ring.  Slay me swiftly, and then deliver Vilya back to the High King with the words that the river gave hope and life to more than I could.”

* * *

The storm took Glorfindel by surprise.  Rain he had expected, but the clouds that day had not been so threatening.  Now the wind blew cold through the valley, whipping torrents of rain sideways into his face as he went outside to check on the horses.  Well-trained mounts they were, but against the forces of nature such training counted for little.  The violence of the storm made them uneasy; even Asfaloth pawed the ground nervously.

And from somewhere, out in the valley, came the unmistakable ripple of power.  Subtle it was, almost imperceptible, but Glorfindel could taste the tang like metal on his tongue.  He saw his breath turn to frost before him; the wild rain should have turned to snow in the intense cold, as it had done on past nights.  Off in the distance, toward the river, he heard a cry and the roaring of water.  Lasto beth nîn, rimmo nîn Bruinen!

No natural tempest is this, he thought.

“Do you want me to look after them, cáno?” asked a small voice from the cave’s entrance.  “The horses, I mean.”

Lindir watched him with uncertain eyes.  Glorfindel had seen him hovering nearby as he and Alagos tended to Ondoher’s wound, his eyes growing large as the arrow was pulled out, then frightened when the warrior gasped and went limp in their arms.  A sticky black substance clinging to the arrowhead was a poison widely used by the Orcs, and many of their blades were also laced with it.

As he moved among the horses, trying to relieve the tension that could not be eased in the too-close quarters of the cave, Glorfindel tried to push aside his fear that Elrond’s wound was also poisoned.  Three of my company have I lost today.  Merciful Elbereth, do not let there be a fourth.  Do not let it be said that I left Eärendil’s son in his need while I rode for safety.

“Cáno--?”

His attention came back to the boy, who stood trembling from both fear and the cold.  In his eyes was Ondoher’s death and the flight from the enemy and a myriad of other terrors Glorfindel could not name.  “Nay, the storm makes them difficult to handle.  Let them be until morning.  But come, you should not standing out here.”

“It is too warm inside, with too many people, and there is too much smoke from the fire.”

“Yes, that is so, pen-neth.”  Glorfindel draped an arm about the boy’s shoulder, steering him back inside.  “But you should be grateful the scouts found the cave, else we all would have had to sleep this night out in the rain.”

Lindir’s gaze went past Glorfindel, lighting on Asfaloth’s white flanks in the darkness.  “Does it not bother the horses, to be out in the rain?”

“Not as much as it bothers old warriors and small boys.  Come, you do not belong out in this weather.  Are you hungry, pen-neth?”

“No, cáno.  An archer gave me a bit of lembas.”

“That is good.”  In the shadows past the horses, Glorfindel sensed movement.  Something, or someone, was coming up the path.  Either it was some creature of the valley or one of the host’s own warriors returning with news; the enemy was not known for coming upon them in stealth when it knew its numbers were superior.   Keeping his voice level, he quietly reached under his cloak for his sword.  “Go inside now, pen-neth.  I will join you in a moment.”

Glorfindel saw the boy off with a forced smile and a glance before turning his attention back to the edge of the camp.  He caught the eye of one of the sentries and with a gesture directed his gaze to the path.  The horses were shifting and snorting, as though someone was moving among them.  It was not unknown for the enemy to confound them and gain an advantage by loosing the tethers and driving the horses off, though of late this tactic had not proven successful.  Gil-galad’s master-of-horse had seen to it that the horses sent with Elrond’s host were trained not to respond to attempts to frighten them.

The sentry calmly moved past Glorfindel, waiting until he was outside before drawing his weapon.  “Daro!”

The command to stop was answered by a voice in Sindarin telling the sentry to stand down.  Two shapes appeared on the path, one bearing the other up.  Glorfindel saw pale, damp hair; half a second later he realized it was Celeborn, supporting Elrond.  The perelda swooned even as he trudged through the rain; he slumped against Glorfindel, who immediately slid an arm under his to help keep him upright.

“He is not injured,” said Celeborn, “only weary.  Some of the enemy attempted to cross the river.” 

“They have gotten through the pass?”

“Some few, yes.”  Celeborn’s face twitched with some unreadable emotion.  “The river is in flood and my archers are placed on this side of the bank.  They cannot get across now.”

Glorfindel gently took Elrond from him.  “There is food and fire within, Lord Celeborn, though the quarters are close.  I will bring Elrond in myself.”

“I-I do not…need to…be carried.”  Elrond pawed at Glorfindel’s mail shirt with a hand that dropped the moment it was lifted.  “I will…walk.”

“Not without help, gwador.”  As he held Elrond, Glorfindel felt again the metallic tang of power that had ebbed through him earlier, and it was coming from the other’s body.  Turning, he waved the sentry back to his post and nodded to Celeborn that all was well. 

Celeborn gave him a knowing look.  So he senses it, even as I do.  “He is stubborn,” was all the silver-haired lord would say.

“Elrond, what did you do?”  Glorfindel grasped the perelda’s chin in his free hand and pulled it up so their eyes met.  “What did you do?”

“Something…not very wise.  The storm….  A moment, only a moment, enough to bring the flood….  I-I did not have…a choice.”  Before he could say more, Elrond’s head sank forward onto Glorfindel’s breast as he lost his struggle to stay upright.

He did not have to say anything else. 

Glorfindel already understood.  The power whose ripples he felt and the storm he tasted upon his tongue, that soaked him through his cloak and mail and lashed his face with its fury, he understood it all in one word: Vilya.

* * *

Notes:

Vilya:  Elrond having possession of the Ring of Air this early is, as was noted in an earlier chapter, a slight deviation on what Tolkien wrote in Unfinished Tales.  By extension, his using Vilya in this capacity is something that would not have been wise for him to do while Sauron held the One Ring.  However, other instances are mentioned, most notably in The Fellowship of the Ring, where Elrond does use the Ring of Air to defend Imladris in a similar fashion.

S.A. 1698

The falls spread a much welcomed cooling mist over carpenters and volunteers laboring in the early summer sunshine.  It had taken several weeks to clear the table of rock of weeds and other foliage, and to level the ground enough to build upon, but at last the foundations had been prepared and the structures ready to be raised. 

The first building, hastily erected in the deep of winter, had been a smithy.  Whatever bits of metal could be salvaged from scavenged enemy armor and weapons were melted down and poured into makeshift molds to make arrowheads.  From there, all who could cut or shape wood were enlisted to make shafts to which the metal tips were attached.  Arrows were stockpiled, both in the camp and at the sentry posts Glorfindel and Celeborn established on the heights overlooking the pass and on the crags on the near side of the Bruinen.  When the enemy returned, they would be prepared.

Now, as it became clear that they would be staying in the valley for some time yet, thought turned to the imminent winter, which came earlier in the reaches of the Hithaeglir.  The caves were too cramped and uncomfortable to bear the possibility of yet another winter; the permanent wooden shelter being built down below would consist of a central hall suitable for communal dining and sleeping, with outbuildings for supplies and stables.

Game and fish were plentiful, and the women found wild berries, nuts and herbs to supplement the dwindling stores of lembas.

“Such a change will be welcome,” said Elrond.  “For my part, I will be grateful if I do not see another lembas wafer for the next five hundred years.”

“Yet the gift of it has sustained us all these many months,” Glorfindel reminded him.

Elrond gave him a bemused smile that said he did not need to be reminded.  “I have not forgotten, gwador, and for that gift I thank the Lady Galadriel and her daughter.  But the taste of lembas has always reminded me of the cold, hungry years after the fall of Sirion.  Such unhappy times I have no wish to revisit.”

Gazing out over the workers, Glorfindel marveled at how readily, even cheerfully they worked.  “One would not think they have suffered so much.”  In watching them, he could not help but wonder if this was what Sirion had been like, when Tuor and Idril led the survivors of Gondolin into the river lands that would become their haven.  Had they laughed at the sight and smell of the sea, after having braved such peril and lost so much?  This was something he did not like to dwell upon too much, for inevitably he was reminded that he had not been there to see it.

“In such times,” said Elrond, “we cling to what small comforts we are given.  Their wounds are such that we do not see, save in quiet moments when they believe themselves alone.”  He gave Glorfindel a meaningful look, yet did not press the matter.  Since coming to the valley, he had returned somewhat to his healer’s ways, moving among his warriors and the refugees alike, easing their pain and lifting their spirits where he might. 

Glorfindel hovered nearby as Elrond made his rounds, concerned that he might tax himself beyond his strength.  The perelda had been uncommonly weak in the days after they took refuge in the valley, weakened by both his head wound and the use of Vilya; the wound had not been poisoned, but a slight fever incapacitated him for several days.  Celeborn, who tended him, remarked that perhaps Elrond’s mortal blood made it more difficult for him to heal as swiftly as other Eldar; the observation was not unkindly made, and there might have been some truth in it, for Elrond’s weakness lingered days after he should have been fully healed.

Neither spoke of the other cause of his malaise, keeping their counsel as if by shutting away all reference to Vilya they could undo the peril it brought.  Glorfindel knew the matter weighted heavily upon Elrond, for in his sleep he murmured uneasily, sometimes lifting his hand as if to defend himself or ward off a blow.

Once, when he opened his eyes and found his captain sitting beside him, he said, “Such ill dreams I have, gwador.”  He licked dry lips before continuing.  “A shadow looms over me, peering into me until all my secrets are laid bare.”

Glorfindel brought him water, holding the cup so he might moisten his lips.  He knew very well why Elrond had felt such foreboding in his dream and what it signified, yet he said nothing of what he knew.  “Such dreams are not uncommon in these times.”

Elrond frowned at him over the rim of the cup.  “Say rather that in such times we are too weary by fight and retreat to walk the road of dreams and I will believe you.  Ill dreams I have had before, in the camp of Maedhros when we believed the enemy was nigh, yet never have I felt such dread in sleep.”

I could tell you of dreams that would make you relish this one.  I could tell you of a white city falling into ruin and of a flight through a lightless tunnel more like a tomb than a way of escape.  I could tell you of a Balrog’s flame in the darkest night, and burning alive like a falling star.  I could tell you also of the cold of Mandos, what little I remember of it.  Yet to no one save Olórin had Glorfindel ever confided his night terrors, which at times still came upon him.  “What does Celeborn say?” he asked.

“I have not spoken of it to him.”

“And yet you speak of it to me, gwador?  I know not what counsel I could give you.”

“I would rather hear you chide me for my foolishness than he.”  When Glorfindel began to protest, Elrond silenced him with a look.  “All this time you have said nothing, yet I know what you would say.  I have done an ill thing, using Vilya, and we both know it.”

“What would you have me say?” murmured Glorfindel.  “The deed is past.  It is too late to undo it.”

Elrond started to touch the pouch in which Glorfindel had placed Vilya; he drew his hand away at the last moment.  “And yet, the terrible thing is I do not know that I would have chosen differently.   The only choice was death, now or later.  Had it been myself alone, I would have died rather than reveal the King’s gift or surrender it, yet I could not choose the way of despair for anyone else.”

There was much truth in what Elrond said, yet also uncertainty, for if Sauron knew now where Vilya was hidden he made no move to retrieve it, and Elrond had said that he had worn the ring for but a moment, long enough to call the downpour that flooded the Bruinen.  I tore it from my finger with my next breath, he said, and would have had Celeborn pierce me through the heart if Sauron’s will had proved the stronger.    

For many days after the storm, the Bruinen remained impassable, and the sentries posted above the pass reported no new incursions; the corpses of the enemy continued to block the way, attracting only wild carrion eaters.  Bands of Orcs occasionally tried the pass, but these were scouts rather than the disciplined warriors who had harried the host from the rear; the archers easily took them down and left their bodies for the animals. 

Spring came and the land was silent.  Elrond left his pallet at the rear of the cave and moved among his people, yet Glorfindel could see his uneasiness.  His eyes frequently darted to the horizon, clearly expecting disaster to befall at any moment; as the weeks passed with no assault, his nerves grew ever more strained.

“It will come,” he said.  “Sooner or later, the enemy will find us, but I will not risk using Vilya again.”

Glorfindel had heard many such voices whisper in dread in the years before the fall of Gondolin; he himself had known such fear, had dreamt of fire and ruin long before Morgoth’s siege engines crept like flaming worms down from the hills of Tumladen and broke the gates of the city.  And until the fatal moment came, there had not been a breath of peril to warn the Gondolindrim their doom was coming; there was only Ulmo’s prophecy, words spoken by a mortal Man to whom few listened.

Part of him wanted to speak soothing words, to put Elrond’s fears to rest, but the inner voice overriding that instinct urged caution.  Elrond was right.  The blow would eventually come.  Sauron would not turn away from such a prize as the High King’s herald, whether he knew that Elrond held Vilya or not.

The day after the Gates of Summer, scouts returned with news of a great battle fought not a mile from the mouth of the pass.  Sounds of skirmish coming from the forest had come to them two months before, yet wary and not wishing to betray their presence, the sentries noted the disturbance but did not investigate.  If the enemy host was on the move, they would appear soon enough. 

A day had passed, and with them went the campfires and noise.  Once again the forest was still, until the scouts, cautiously venturing abroad, found evidence of battle.

“The corpses are old,” said one, “and the fletching we found on the broken arrows was not our own.”  Unwrapping a weathered shaft whose feathers were faded by sun and rain, the scout handed it to Elrond.

Celeborn took the arrow next, holding it to the light to discern the colors of the fletching.  “This is an arrow of Lórien,” he said.  “Amroth’s people have been here.”

Elrond took the arrow back from him, turning it over in his hands.  “And yet there is no word from them,” he murmured. 

“Amroth and his people are secretive,” said Celeborn.  “Either they do not wish to announce their presence or they may not know we are here.”

“Hir-nín, there is more.”  From his pouch, the scout withdrew the pieces of a broken axe, turning it so the two lords could see the Dwarven runes incised on both the metal and wooden haft.  “We found it buried in an Orc’s back.”

“There is a mystery here,” said Elrond.

* * *

Lindir smiled up at Glorfindel, urging him toward the grassy sward where, days before, Elrond had presided over a much-needed holiday.  The Gates of Summer was past and the adults had gone back to work, but the children were given leave to sing and dance below.

“Pen-neth, you know I have much work to do,” protested Glorfindel.  The knock of hammers called to him from above.  He had no skill as a carpenter and left the splitting and shaping of planks to those who had, but he was judged fit enough to hammer pegs into place if he was of a mind to help in the building. 

Most of the warriors, idle these last few months, eased their boredom by helping the carpenters when they were not on shift, and the work went much more quickly.  The framework of the common hall was finished and was ready to be roofed.  The few artisans among the refugees offered to decorate the beams and doorways with charcoal sketches of flowers, vines and birds that could later be carved out, while masons combed the hills in search of stones suitable for a central hearth. 

Glorfindel took pleasure in the work, stripping off his mail and plate to labor under the warm sun; he continued to wear his sword, ordering his warriors to carry their arms at all times.  Quiet would bring complacency if he and Elrond permitted it, and that was an oversight they could not afford.  Even the refugees were given weapons, or already had them, and these they were told to keep with them; when Ondoher’s possessions were distributed among his companions, Glorfindel chose a dagger and gave it to Lindir.

“But they’re singing about the balrog-dagnir,” said Lindir, “and he has the same name as you.  He was a great hero, you know.  My ada said we should sing about our heroes so we can be brave when bad things happen.”

Remembering what day it was, Glorfindel stopped in the middle of the path, and Lindir, who had been tugging at his hand, was abruptly wrenched backward.  He let go the boy’s hand.  “I-I am sorry, but I do not have time for such games.”

As he turned back toward the camp, he heard Lindir’s disappointed voice calling out to him, but did not answer.  He thinks I am wroth with him, but what can I tell him?  That I am the hero of whom his ada would have him sing?  I could not even save his ada.  Empathy for the boy quickened his steps; he could not bear Lindir’s tears when he was so close to tears himself.

Stopping in his tent, he donned his mail and spent the rest of the day in the remotest sentry post he could find.  At twilight, Elrond found him brooding over the horizon with eyes that looked yet saw nothing.

“I think, gwador,” came the perelda’s voice, “that a horde of Orcs could come shrieking down from the hills and you would not even notice.”

Glorfindel had heard Elrond’s footsteps come up behind him long before the other spoke; he noted the perelda’s approach with distant apathy.  “If you needed me, why did you not send a messenger?  You need not have come for me yourself.”

Elrond climbed into the stone hollow and stood crammed beside Glorfindel.  “Nay, it is rather you who need me at this moment.”

“I would rather be left in peace.”   

“And do you remember what I once said to you, on another such day, that you had been left too long in the shadows?”

“Do you expect me to walk joyfully among those who sing of my death?”

“All these years you have been so blind, gwador.”  Glorfindel felt a hand fall upon his shoulder.  “Do you not understand?  It is not your death they celebrate, but your life.”

Glorfindel turned, nearly dislodging Elrond’s hand.  “What is so meaningful or special about my life that makes it more so than that of all the others who fell?  If you wish to sing of a Balrog-slayer, why do you not also remember Ecthelion in your songs?  Why do you single me out and forget all those others in Gondolin who did great deeds and perished?  Why do you dwell on a glory that never was?”

A moment passed, and it felt heavy and thick.  Why could Elrond simply not leave him as he was?  Was it so odd that he should be repulsed by this macabre celebration of his death? 

“Have you never considered who composed those songs?” Elrond asked softly.  “There were simply no survivors of the House of the Fountain to remember Ecthelion.  It was those whom you saved who chose to remember you thus, or have you forgotten that there were some of the Golden Flower who saw you challenge the Balrog and die?

“Of course, if their remembrance is not to your liking, you may put an end to it any time you wish.  Certainly there is one small boy in the camp who, wishing only to celebrate this day with you, does not understand why you are so wroth with him.  I dried his tears, if you would know, and was of half a mind to tell him the truth.”

“Would you make it worse?” hissed Glorfindel.

“What harm can there be in revealing yourself to one small boy?  Is there such shame in being the balrog-dagnir that you feel you must hide yourself behind my Star of Eärendil banner rather than ride proudly under your own Golden Flower?”

“Yes!”  And he could see Elrond’s surprise even as he continued, “I would rather have been reborn as one of the Naugrim than a dead hero.  Do you know what it is like, to hear oneself spoken of in the past tense--?”

“As I have said many times,” answered Elrond, “you may put an end to that anytime you wish.  You simply choose to remain hidden in the shadows, more dead than alive.  Even so, do not think the servants of your household or the warriors of your gweth are so dense they do not sense the truth.  Even if they have not a name for their suspicions, they see the light of Valinor in your eyes and know you are not like other Eldar.  Perhaps one of them will find enough courage to ask you if you are not Glorfindel of Gondolin reborn.  Will you then lie to them?  I have never known you capable of dissembling.”

Of the suspicions of others, Glorfindel already knew.  None had asked the question, he knew, because it was considered impolite to pry into the personal affairs of another.  There was, however, no protocol for dealing with envinyantawë, as they remained in Valinor once they were released from Mandos.  Only for him had an exception been made.

But at some time, in some fashion, perhaps even from the lips of a child too young to fully appreciate tact, someone might ask the question.  Elrond was right, he was incapable of lying.  Questions had been put to him, never the one he dreaded answering.

Elrond tapped his shoulder.  “Look now, gwador.  Luinár comes for the evening watch.  It is time for us to return to the camp.”

As night fell and the moon rose, Glorfindel reluctantly returned with him to the camp.  The warriors of his gweth looked strangely on him, their gazes inquiring where he had been, until he quelled their curiosity with a glare.  Hathol handed him a platter with his portion of the evening meal; he sat picking over the fish and stewed berries in silence.

Off to the right, he heard Alagos and Tuilinn give Lindir an enthusiastic greeting; he had to strain to hear the boy’s shy response.

“Why such a sad face tonight, pen-neth?” asked Alagos.  Glorfindel looked up and saw Lindir shrug; the boy mumbled some vague answer, which Glorfindel did not catch. 

“Well,” Tuilinn was saying, “why do you not ask him?”

Lindir answered with another indecipherable mumble.

“Wroth with you, pen-neth?” Alagos laughed.  “Why, now, what did you do?  Did you accidentally tie brambles into Asfaloth’s tail or drop saddle soap into the cáno’s wash basin?  Well, then it cannot be all bad.”

The other warriors chuckled and began to join the banter.  Glorfindel saw Lindir give a shy, nervous smile as Alagos clapped him on the shoulder and urged him to sit next to him.  The others offered bits of food and encouragement, and Glorfindel would have let them continue if not for the fact that he was slowly becoming the butt of their banter; he did not want to have to interject with a reminder that he was their commander, recalling his father’s stern admonition that a leader who had to remind his followers of such was not fit to command.

“Lindir, come here,” he said.  His voice was soft, yet the moment he spoke all other conversation ceased.  All eyes turned on him; he returned their gaze with one that said he would not suffer any comment.  “Come here and sit by me while Barandol fetches you some more of those stewed berries you like so much.”

“But, cáno,” Lindir protested, “I’m supposed to rub Asfaloth down and give him water, like I do every night.”

“I set him loose from his tether this morning that he might graze and drink as he wills.  Do you wish to rub him down, pen-neth?  He enjoys your touch and will come if I call him.”

Lindir looked down at his plate, where someone had left another morsel of fish.  “I don’t want to be lazy.”

“I gather you have been working at least part of the day.  Here, now, let me see your hand.”  Glorfindel took the boy’s hand in his larger one and turned it over so he might examine the palm.  “You are not accustomed to hard labor, pen-neth.  I see Elrond has tended your blisters and dug out a splinter.  And here, you are massaging a pulled muscle in your arm.  What have you been doing, that you strain yourself so?”

“I helped Hallacár carry stones so he can build a hearth.  He says it will be big, so many people can sit around the fire.  Lord Elrond says it will be a thamas naur, where people can tell stories and listen to songs.”  Lindir bit his lip.  “Cáno, don’t you like songs?”

“Yes, I like songs and stories, and I imagine this Hall of Fire will be very fine once it is finished.”

“But why did you leave when I wanted you to come sing with us today?  Everyone says you have a very beautiful voice.  I wanted to hear you sing.”

Although normal conversation had resumed among the gweth, Glorfindel felt the attention of his warriors.  No doubt they also wondered why he refused to partake in the Gates of Summer celebration and all that came after.  In Lindon, it had been easy to invent some errand year after year to explain his absence, but here, in this small camp in a narrow valley, what he did or did not do was noted by all.

“I do not care for that song,” he said simply.  “Those of us who remember the First Age do not like to dwell much on the sorrow of those days, and it is a sad song they sing.  I do not like sad songs, pen-neth.”

“Then will you sing a happier song for me, cáno?”

Glorfindel was in no mood to sing, nor could he recall any song he might wish to sing.  “When this Hall of Fire is completed,” he answered, “perhaps I will sing something.”

* * *

On a day toward the end of summer, a pair of archers hunting game near the mouth of the pass encountered a scout wearing the colors of Lórien.  The scout, whose name was Máramo, was astounded to have found anyone living in a valley his people had long known to be uninhabited, and Elrond’s followers at that.

“For no sign of you did we find,” he said, “save the wreckage of your baggage train and what remains of your fallen were left by the enemy.  We believed you lost, and sent word to Lindon that you could not be found.”

From Máramo, Elrond and Celeborn learned that the Elves of Lórien and the forces of Khazad-dûm under Durin had fallen upon the enemy’s rear flanks and smashed their line.  No farther had they gone, for the Bruinen had inexplicably been in flood and there was nothing to indicate anyone had escaped across the river.  Sauron’s forces had been turned from the Hithaeglir, save for a few scattered bands that harried the scouts of Lórien on their patrols.  Eregion was now almost entirely under Sauron’s control, from the doors of Khazad-dûm to the banks of the river Baranduin in the north; the enemy was now massing for its push westward, moving in the direction of Lindon.

Messengers came the next day, bearing token gifts of food, weapons and medicinal herbs.  Amroth himself did not come, for he was, as Celeborn said, of a strangely reclusive nature, but letters written in his own hand came for Elrond, assuring him that word would be sent on to Lindon.

Autumn came, with leaf-fall and icy winds that swept down from the Hithaeglir, and yet no word came from Lindon.  Elrond’s thamas-naur was complete, its outbuildings filled with as much smoked game, fish and dried berries as could be stored.  The refugees moved indoors, where the hearth burned brightly by day and night, and work on the hall’s decorations continued.  Carvings began to take shape upon the rafters and pillars, flowers and vines that sprouted from the wood, and among them the faces of Valar and Maiar as the artisans imagined them.

“I do not even know that we will remain here,” murmured Elrond, running his hand along one of the freshly smoothed carvings.  “Such beautiful work, I would not have it go to waste.”

“It gives them pleasure,” said Glorfindel, “and hope.”  His eyes traced the contours of a face half hidden among the vines; it reminded him of Olórin.  “I would join them in their craft had I but the talent.”

Winter in the Hithaeglir was long and chill, and spring came late, with rain that washed the melting snow in torrents down the Bruinen.   A bridge was built over the river that messengers, scouts and sentries might pass freely over the river; the span could easily be dismantled in the event of an attack, yet there had been very few skirmishes.  Sauron, it seemed, knew his enemy had escaped into the mountains, but the absence of any concentrated attack told Elrond that Sauron did not know precisely where he was.

Late spring at last brought a message from Lindon.  Elrond received Gil-galad’s missive with equal parts pleasure and apprehension, for between the High King’s relieved sentiments was his displeasure at the unexplained flooding of the Bruinen.  Vilya was not mentioned by name, nor was any specific reference made to a ring in the event that the message was intercepted by the enemy, but Elrond understood well enough.

“I will send it back to him if he desires it,” he told Glorfindel.  “I should not have yielded so readily to its lure, and it is only by the greatest fortune that the shadow did not ensnare me in that moment.”

Glorfindel made no comment.  Many times before had Elrond spoken of his folly, ruing the day he had accepted Gil-galad’s gift, waving aside Glorfindel’s reminder of his desperation at that moment.   “It does not seem that any ill has come of it,” he said at last.

“Too much ill has come of seeming.  Much that seems fair and good turns to ill.  Nay, I have put Vilya away from me, where I cannot be tempted by it.  If the King should command it, I will readily return the ring to him, or perhaps I shall give it back without his asking.”  Elrond glanced at him, holding Glorfindel’s gaze for a moment, before looking away.  “I wonder sometimes if you were not the wiser for refusing Narya.”

* * *

S.A. 1700

“It would seem,” said Elrond, “the King is weary of writing imlad ris.”  He handed the letter to Glorfindel, that he might read Gil-galad’s words for himself.  “He insists we find some name for our valley, and that before I make my reply to him.”

Two years they had abided in the narrow valley, and in that time the buildings had grown to include stables, additional living quarters and an infirmary, for the enemy had at last discovered their presence and on several occasions assailed the pass.  Never again did Elrond yield to the temptation to use Vilya, nor did he speak of it.  Whatever victories were won came of a calculated use of the valley’s natural defenses and swift raids upon the enemy’s rear. 

Into the rock wall of the stone of the pass the masons had built several guard posts, furnishing them with arrow slits and murder holes through which stones or burning liquid could be dropped upon intruders.  Arrows were stockpiled as quickly as they could be produced; never again would Elrond’s host be caught in such dire straits.

Gil-galad was pleased by the discovery of the valley and gave much credit to Celeborn and his scouts, and in his letters he urged Elrond to remain where he was.  “For such a stronghold is rarely found by itself, and only after long labor and skilled planning do men, be they mortal or Eldar, produce it.  Abide there a while yet, in this our most eastern outpost, and keep watch upon the shadow.”

Glorfindel’s eyes scanned the letter, until he came to the words Elrond wished him to read.  “Our councilors are pleased with your small successes in the east, though they complain that a stronghold of such import should be aptly named.  In particular we weary of Pengolod’s laments that you do disservice to the title of ingolmo and lambengolmo, and that imlad ris is no fit name for a stronghold of the High King.”

“Ah,” said Glorfindel, returning the letter to Elrond, “but that is ever Pengolod’s way, to complain of everyone’s skill but his own.”

Elrond folded the letter and put it away in the locked casket containing all his other correspondence.  “He shall not have the better of me, gwador, of that I can assure you,” he chuckled, and in his eyes gleamed a challenge.  “But there is much truth in the King’s words, you know.  It would seem that he intends for us to remain here for some time, and we must give some name to this place to make it ours.”

“You know I have no talent for such things,” said Glorfindel.  He had never told Elrond that, upon seeing the cleft valley with its falling waters and encircling mountains, he was at once reminded of Gondolin.  I would not stain this place with such ghosts, even if I thought Elrond was of a mind to name it after the place of his sire’s birth.

“Perhaps, gwador.”  Elrond’s eyes narrowed and his face took on a crafty, almost sinister appearance, the look of one about to perpetrate a particularly elaborate jest.  “But I have something fitting, I think, that will give our friend Pengolod an apoplexy.  I only rue the fact that I shall not be there to see it.”

* * *

That evening, Elrond’s squire brought a letter for Glorfindel and a message that his lord desired the captain to proofread it.  With misgivings, Glorfindel took the rough, homemade paper and unfolded it; Elrond never asked him or anyone else to look over his correspondence before it was sent.

He got no farther than the salutation when, biting his lip to hold back his laughter, he realized why Elrond had sent it to him.

“Elrond Peredhel son of Eärendil to Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, from Imladris on this day of 14 Cerveth, may the Valar keep you under their grace…”

* * *

Late autumn brought chill, vibrant days to the valley.  Messages from outside were slow to arrive, at times not arriving at all.  Elrond and his captains knew only that Harlindon was besieged and Sauron’s forces were preparing to cross the Gwathló to assail Lindon.  Tension, even whispers of fear, crept into the thamas naur, for all that Elrond urged his people that all would be well.

And then, on a brittle, vibrantly clear day such as one often saw at this time of year in the lower reaches of the Hithaeglir, the creak of wagons echoed through the pass.  The sentries glanced down from their posts in bewilderment, for the caravan flew the colors and sigil of the High King and yet no supplies or reinforcements were expected; Elrond had, in fact, been told he would have to manage without.

Glorfindel, holding a post upright in the ground while a pair of carpenters packed the earth in around it, heard the river sentries call out.  Looking up from his work, he saw them hurry out of sight toward the bridge; from where he stood, his view half-blocked by the winding path and several inconvenient shrubs, he could not see what prompted the challenge.

Calling another to take his place, Glorfindel swept his sword off a nearby rock and, hastily buckling it around his waist, moved toward the river.  He half-expected to hear the sounds of battle, or the sentries raising the alarm, yet as he crested the path and descended toward the water he heard only the clomp of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels over wooden planks.

“What is this?” he inquired of the nearest sentry.

The archer saluted him, replying, “They are from Lindon, cáno.”

“Yes, that is obvious, but—”

“Well, if you do not wish to take these supplies,” said a voice from the wagon, “I am certain I could find some profitable use for them.”

A dark-haired Elf grinned down at Glorfindel from the driver’s seat.  Although dressed in a mail shirt with a sword at his belt, the young stranger did not much resemble a warrior.  He offered no salute, even when Glorfindel glared at him for his impertinence, giving him only a lopsided smile.  “Now let me guess,” he said, “you are either Ingwë himself or the peredhel’s golden captain.  Glorfindel, is that your name?”

Glorfindel did not smile.  “I do not believe I have your name.”

“I am Erestor,” was the reply.  “Ah, I hear them in the back yelling at us to move along.  Go on, Mínar, set us up over there.”

As the wagons crossed the bridge and were brought to a stop on the riverbank, Glorfindel followed alongside the lead wagon.  Crates were stacked atop each other; a tarpaulin prevented him from seeing what labels, if any, had been painted on them.  “What is all of this?”

Erestor hopped down from the driver’s seat.  “For so high-ranking a captain, you are remarkably dense.  These are supplies from Lindon.”

Whoever this young Elf was, he was grating on Glorfindel’s nerves.  Such an impudent pup.  “That much is obvious, quáco.  Now tell me why the High King sends us supplies when we were told nothing would be forthcoming.”

“‘Quáco,’ is it?  Yes, Master Pengolod warned me you had a penchant for throwing Quenya about like bread crumbs.  Of course, in the same breath he also informed me I would no doubt need to bring along a translator, as my Quenya is apparently as poor as my penmanship.”

Hearing Pengolod’s name, Glorfindel was finally able to place the young Elf.  Erestor was one of the lore master’s assistants.  “And why does the High King permit a scholar with soft hands to travel so far from safe haven in these perilous times?”

Erestor lifted an eyebrow.  “It would seem, malthener, that you have not yet heard the news.  The enemy has been defeated, their advance halted and broken upon the banks of the river Gwathló.”

For a moment, Glorfindel gaped at him, uncertain of what he had heard.  The war is ended?  “When did this happen?”

“In the spring,” said Erestor.  “Númenor took its time coming to our aid, but at last they made good their promise of assistance and came up the river with a mighty fleet.  Pockets of Orcs and other such foul creatures yet plague the countryside, and on our journey here we have encountered four such bands, yet it is safe enough to travel.  Now then, gwador-nín, I bear the High King’s official tidings for Lord Elrond, if he will receive them.”

As a flustered Glorfindel worked his jaw in amazement, trying to find words, he heard shouts and exultations of joy from the sentry posts and, higher up, from the work crews.   “The thamas-naur,” he finally answered, “with the healers.  I will have one of the sentries take you.”

Erestor’s eyes traveled up the path to the hall and its outbuildings on their table of rock.  A slow smile stole across his face.  “Master Pengolod will be most…disconcerted to hear how aptly Imladris is named.” 

Both workers and guards were coming down to help unload the wagons.  Once the tarpaulins were taken away, Glorfindel saw crates of foodstuffs, cloth, tools and healing herbs that could not be locally obtained.  One of the carpenters came and, shoving everyone else aside, pried up the nails on one crate to open it; with a cry of joy he drew out a cask of Númenorean wine.  The bottle was passed around, then another.  No doubt such fine vintage was a gift from the High King and had been intended for Elrond’s table, but this night it would find its way into other hands. 

So long they had all labored and waited, none would begrudge them a little celebration.

Glorfindel wandered up the path, still in a daze.  He had not expected joyous tidings to come to this valley, or if he had, not until many long, hard years had passed; such joy and relief had never come to Gondolin, and he had grown accustomed to the long heaviness.  That was another place and another Age, he reminded himself.

“Cáno!” called a small voice.  And then Lindir was at his side, tugging impatiently at his hand.  “I can’t find Henluin to help me with Asfaloth’s saddle.”

“What is this about a saddle now, pen-neth?”

“Asfaloth, cáno.  I oiled his saddle like you asked me to, but I need somebody to help me put it on him.”

“And why do you want to put on his saddle?”

Lindir’s eyes widened.  “But aren’t you going out on patrol today?  I’m supposed to have your horse ready, you said.”

I did, and I had forgotten.  “I am not riding out today, pen-neth..”

“Don’t you have to go on patrol and make sure the enemy doesn’t find us?  You always go on patrol.”

Glorfindel bent down and lifted him in both arms.  The boy had obviously not heard the news; fear crept into his voice at the prospect of his protector neglecting his duties.  “Nay, I am neither lazy nor forgetful,” he laughed, and he was surprised at the sound.  Lindir, too, was surprised, but readily returned the warrior’s embrace.  “Not today, pen-neth, and not tomorrow.  The war is over.  There will be no more fighting.”

* * *

Notes:

thamas naur: (Sindarin) hall (of) fire.  Unfortunately it does sound a bit like Sammath Naur, which has a similar meaning.

balrog-dagnir: (Sindarin) Balrog-slayer

imlad: (Sindarin) a narrow valley with steep sides.  Ris is a cleft.  Thanks to Elvenesse and Aerlinnel for the translation of Imladris.

ingolmo: (Quenya) lore master

lambengolmo (Quenya) lore master of tongues, a linguist

quáco: (Quenya) crow.  Glorfindel means it in the sense that Erestor is a noisy bird.

malthener: (Sindarin) golden one

T.A. 1100

The library was the quietest place one might find in Imladris, a haven of silence in a household always bustling with noise and activity.  Glorfindel did not consider himself a scholar, for he had always been more comfortable on the back of a horse with a sword in his hand, but on dark, gloomy days when he could not venture out, he might be found in the library with a book.

As he passed through the doors, the softly-worded lyrics of a song fell upon his ears, and he knew at once who he would be sharing the library with.

Gil-galad aran edhellen.

O den i thelegain linnar naer

i vedui i ndôr dín bain a lain

Athran ered ah i aear….

“Even when alone, talagand,” he commented, “you cannot resist singing your own tunes.”

Lindir smiled up at him from a stack of uncollated manuscripts.  “But the occasion is appropriate, I think.”  He tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear and gestured toward a corner of the library, where amidst a mess of crates and stacked volumes stood a glass case.  Glorfindel was not close enough to see what it held, but above it hung the banners of the Star of Radiance and the Star of Eärendil. 

“Now what is this, pen-neth?”  Venturing closer, he saw the case held the blackened, half-melted remains of Gil-galad’s spear Aeglos, all that had survived of the High King when he fell to Sauron.  Beside it was a mithril circlet set with eight blue stars.  “I was not aware that Elrond kept Aeglos.”

“That and a great many other things.”  Lindir brushed the dust off his dark brown robes and joined Glorfindel by the case.  “He was keeping them in a crate down in the cellar, can you believe such a thing?  Lady Celebrían wants the space for an additional root cellar.  I could not tell you whose idea it was to display these items, but I strongly suspect the lady threatened to leave them out in the damp if Elrond did not once and for all do something with them.”

“I find it difficult to believe the lady would threaten him so,” said Glorfindel.

“From what I hear, her attempts at gentle persuasion fell on deaf ears.  How else was she to get him to display these things as he ought?”  Using his sleeve, Lindir wiped an imaginary dust mote off the glass. 

“And Elrond chose you for this work?  I would imagine his first choice to catalog anything in the library would have been Erestor.”

“Oh, perhaps it would have been, but he’s been brooding over the texts he lost when the roof began to leak last winter.  Now he is trying to replace them and cannot be disturbed.”  Lindir rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.  “You cannot ask Erestor to do anything when it means neglecting his precious texts.  He is altogether insufferable.”

“You would behave no differently,” Glorfindel reminded him, “were it your harps or mandolins in place of his books.”

“That is true enough.”  Lindir turned from the case and began rummaging through one of the crates as if searching for something in particular.  “I am glad you decided to visit,” he said.  “There is something here I have been meaning to show you.  Now where is it?  Ah, this must be it.”

From the crate he pulled out a flat object wrapped in a protective sheet of onion-thin parchment; Glorfindel detected a faint whiff of mothballs as Lindir began unwrapping the parchment.  The object within was a square of fabric, once a rich, dark green now much faded.  “Look now,” said Lindir, carefully unfolding the cloth with hands that smoothed it as they moved over the weave.

Golden threads gleamed against the appliqué design, a rayed golden flower on a field of green.  Glorfindel lifted a hand to touch it, but stopped short of the edge of the fabric.  “This is a banner of Gondolin,” he said.  “I did not think any relics of its fall survived.”

“Nor did I, though I am told Pengolod sent Elrond the few items he had when he departed for the West.  I could not say with certainty where Elrond acquired this,” said Lindir, motioning to the banner, “but I know my heraldry well enough to know whose it is.  It is the Golden Flower, and it is yours.”

Glorfindel did not meet his eyes; it was easier to keep his gaze fixed on a dead length of fabric than it was to acknowledge living curiosity.  If he asks now, how can I possibly answer otherwise?  “When have I ever told you that I was Lord of the House of the Golden Flower?”  He concentrated on keeping his voice even.  “That Glorfindel died long ago.”

“Yes, I asked myself the same question.  I asked myself how you could possibly be the balrog-dagnir when you yourself had said that you were born in Tirion, that you had been named after the hero of Gondolin.”

“I did not lie.”

“No, but you did not tell the truth either.  Not all of it, for it is clear to me that no one ever asked you the question directly, for who would have the gall to ask someone if they had died and been reborn out of Mandos?  Even I did not believe it, for though we are taught that such a thing is possible, who among us has ever seen it?”  Lindir stood at his shoulder, separated from him by only a hair’s breadth, and Glorfindel felt the talagand’s words as a warm breath in his ear.  “I will not be so uncouth as to ask you directly, but I am not blind and not Erestor’s student for nothing.”

Glorfindel, trembling with fear and anger, shoved the banner away from him, into Lindir’s hands.  “Then keep this, and your counsel.”  

Lindir took the banner and carefully laid it and its wrappings across the nearest table.  “My memory is long,” he murmured.  “I have not forgotten the day you heard the children singing of the fall of the balrog-dagnir, and how you rebuked me and then fled.  Being but a child, I thought you were wroth with me.  I did not mark the tears in your eyes.”

“And I remember telling you it was a sad song, and that I had no liking for sad songs,” Glorfindel said tightly.  “There are many who weep to hear it.”

“Yes, I know it, even as there are many who weep to hear of the fall of Gil-galad.  But you said to me then that you found it a sad song because you remembered that time.”  Lindir leaned closer, without quite touching him.  “I have often wondered how your parents could have named you for the hero of Gondolin if you were born before his death.”

Curse you, Erestor, for teaching your pupil to be so observant. 

Glorfindel wanted to demur, to provide some quick and simple explanation, but Lindir’s eyes plainly said his convictions were set.  He knew the truth and would not be turned from it.  “You cannot deny that the light of Valinor is in your eyes.  In your joy and wrath, you glow with it.  Why would you deny this grace of the Valar?”    

“You are asking me a question for which I have not the words to answer.”

A softness came then into Lindir’s face, and he withdrew a pace, placing himself between Glorfindel and the banner.  The sharp-witted talagand and his probing questions were gone; he looked again like the boy who went in fear of provoking or disappointing his protector.  “Is it so a shameful thing to be reborn?” he asked gently.

More than once over the millennia, Elrond had asked that selfsame question, for which Glorfindel never had an answer.  “I do not know that shame is the right word, pen-neth.”  He hung his head, staring at the floor as if it could somehow tell him.  “I do not know what word I would use, only that I believe life was returned to me too soon.  There were many others who deserved rebirth, yet I was the one chosen to leave Mandos and return to Middle-earth.”

“Life is a gift of the One,” said Lindir.  “My parents deserved life also, and perhaps had the attack come but a second later, they would have lived.  I do not know why Mandos decided it was their time, or why an Orc arrow took my ada and left me unscathed.  I do not try to fathom the ways of the Valar; they simply are.  Nor do I waste my days brooding over my loss.  Life is too precious, too full of joy to spend lingering in the shadows, and I prefer to live.”

“You do not question it,” Glorfindel pointed out, “because you have never been dead.”

“Is Mandos not a place of rest and healing?”

“Any healer might tell you that healing often means pain,” said Glorfindel, “and there are wounds that do not heal save through yet more sorrow.  It is the way of things.”  He glanced, his jaw set firmly against the threat of tears.  “Is it not enough, to have my name?  Do not ask for the memories of my death as well.”

Lindir reached back with one hand, stroking the faded silk with careful fingers.  “There is a place upon the wall for this, if you would have it.”

“Nay, it is ill enough that I must endure such reminders of Gondolin in song, but it is one day out of the year and I have learned to bear it.  But I would not have others look upon the Golden Flower when they come here and dwell upon a dead hero.”

“I spoke not of a dead hero.”  Lindir pulled the banner from the table.  It flowed from his arms and pooled on the floor between them.  “Nay, I spoke of a living one.”

* * *

Even at high noon, a thin mist clung to the walls and rooftops of Mithlond.  Gulls shrieked overhead, their mewling as omnipresent a reminder of the sea as the mingled smells of salt, sand and fish. 

Glorfindel loved the sound of rushing water, but the sea had no pull upon him.  He wondered at Círdan, who had dwelt content upon the Hither Shore since the Teleri first beheld the Great Sea and built the ships that bore his people into the West while he himself remained behind.  This he had never bothered to ask of the Shipwright, why he stayed, for Círdan’s replies were often too cryptic to make it worth the effort.

And yet Círdan summons me now, for what purpose I know not.

Such an errand to Harlindon he had not undertaken since the days before the Last Alliance.   Gil-galad was dead and Lindon stood abandoned to time and the elements; the one kinsman who might have had a claim upon the throne of the High King of the Noldor had refused the honor, renouncing even the title of lord to dwell as a healer and lore master in the haven he had founded. 

On the road to Mithlond, Glorfindel encountered Men where once only Elves had ruled.  He passed through lands bearing strange names, and upon crossing the bridges of the Baranduin and Mitheithel, he had had to pay tolls in the names of rulers unknown to his tongue.  The inhabitants of those lands looked strangely upon him and whispered behind their hands when he came among them; after a time, he took to avoiding the roads and so came to Mithlond in secret.

The time of the great Elven kingdoms was past, said Elrond.  Even in Thranduil’s kingdom east of the Hithaeglir and in Lórien, the Eldar knew their time in Middle-earth was fading. 

Círdan met him upon the steps of the Havens.  Tall and robed in gray, the Shipwright waited quietly for Glorfindel to dismount his horse and give the reins over to a groom.

“Él síla lúmena vomentienguo, Glorfindel.”  Círdan pressed a hand over his heart in greeting.  In such matters, Gil-galad once said, the Shipwright was obstinate in his use of Telerin and it was most diplomatic to oblige him.  Glorfindel returned the salutation, phrasing the words as gracefully as he could, then stood quietly waiting for Círdan to address him.

“Do you wonder why I requested your presence, malthener?”  Círdan gently laid a hand upon his arm.  “Come, walk with me.”

Of all things in Arda, Mithlond was unchanging, seemingly immune to the fading Glorfindel sensed elsewhere.  Perhaps because it was a point of departure and would always be thus.  Through the tall, arched windows, he could see Círdan’s people at work on the docks, laboring over an unfinished vessel.  Always there was construction of some sort going on at the Havens, for Círdan always kept one ship at the ready for those who wished to sail West.  Farther down the dock, away from the knock of hammers and the rasp of saws, the ship of departure quietly awaited its passengers; beside it were moored a pair of fishing sloops from which several Teleri were busily unloading the day’s catch.

“Several visitors have come to me in the past week,” said Círdan, “one of whom desires your presence.  By name he has asked for you, and now awaits you.”

The summons had come more than a month earlier, but Glorfindel did not bother to point this out.  It was common knowledge that Círdan saw things long before they ever came to pass, and there were whispers that he had foreseen Gil-galad’s death on the slopes of Orodruin before the High King ever joined his force to that of Elendil.

In the corridor they passed a tall white figure who met Glorfindel’s eyes with a cold, appraising gaze.  Glorfindel sensed power emanating from him and somehow knew he was neither Elf nor mortal.  He turned to Círdan for some explanation, but the Shipwright’s attention was focused elsewhere.

Through another corridor they passed, coming at last to Círdan’s library.  It was not as large or impressive as Elrond’s library, and upon the nearest shelves Glorfindel saw row upon row of nautical texts.  Books about shipbuilding, books about maritime weather and ocean currents, all of it suitably dull reading. 

Tucked in a far corner of the room, studying a chart in the light of one of the windows, was a tall figure in gray.  Like an elderly mortal he seemed, but as with the other being in the corridor, Glorfindel sensed he was not all he appeared to be.

“This is Mithrandir,” said Círdan.  And without any further explanation, he gave a little bow and withdrew from the room, pulling the doors closed behind him.

The figure slowly set down the chart and looked at him.  Glorfindel returned his gaze, wondering what Círdan expected him to say to this stranger.  I know him not, and yet Círdan sends for me to welcome him.  What madness is this?

After a moment, the one called Mithrandir spoke.  “We have met before, long ago.”  His voice was grave and measured, though not unkind, and somehow strangely familiar.

“Forgive me,” said Glorfindel, “but surely I would have remembered such a meeting.”

“Is your memory so bound up in the appearance of the hröa that you have utterly forgotten those you knew in Aman?”  Mithrandir set one hand upon his hip and with the other beckoned to Glorfindel.  “Come closer, unless you wish to shout across the room.”

Only one being had ever spoken to him with such a voice, but the form he had worn was ageless and otherworldly.  Still, Glorfindel complied and, drawing closer, sensed both the power hidden beneath the other’s flesh.  And his eyes, pools of compassion and strength, the first eyes that had looked upon him when he emerged from Mandos.  “Olórin?  But how can that be?  The shape of Arda has been changed; there is no longer a Straight Road by which you could have come, and yet….”

“And yet I am here,” Olórin finished.  “There are powers set far above and beyond mine, of which you have never glimpsed, and it is by their agency that I am come to these shores.  But no more may I tell you of whose will I serve and what task they have set me.”

Glorfindel took Olórin’s outstretched hand, marveling at the feel of mortal flesh.  So fragile it seemed, with its seams and pores and wrinkles, yet it was but a glove for the strength of the Maia spirit within.  Warm it was, the mere touch of a hand soothing his spirit, kindling both joy and hope within him.

Frowning, he looked down at the hand in his own and saw a band of gold where none had been before; from it winked a dark ruby like an eye of fire, like blood.  I have seen this ring before.  And then, he knew.  It was Narya.  “How came you by this ring?” he asked.

Olórin closed his hand about the Ring of Fire and in the next breath it vanished as if it had been a mere illusion.  Yet the subtle aura of power remained, and Glorfindel knew Olórin had not removed it.  “A gift,” he said, “from the one who waits and watches upon this Hither Shore.”

“Círdan gave it to you?  Has it been in his keeping, all these many years?”  As many who knew of the existence of the Elven rings, even the High King’s own herald, had believed, the Ring of Fire had perished in the flame that obliterated Gil-galad.  None had ever given thought to the possibility that the High King might have offered it elsewhere after Glorfindel refused it.

“Many things he has seen,” answered Olórin.  “My road is yet untrodden, yet already he perceives I shall have a need to give hope and courage where it may falter in these dark times.  I am told that a shadow grows in Dol Guldur.” 

Thranduil’s people had reported that the ancient outpost of Mordor, pulled down and left in ruin after the Last Alliance, had become again a place of darkness.  Strange vapors emanated from its stones, withering and blackening the surrounding forest in all directions.  Not even the hardiest of the woodland King’s scouts would venture near that place now; those who had reported eerie cries in the night, and then there were those who never returned at all.

It was clear that Sauron’s evil, long thought ended on the plain of Gorgoroth, had returned.

“Three of us there are who have come this time,” said Olórin.  “Círdan has given us the name Istari, for he has perceived our true nature.”

“He recognized also the Ithryn Luin,” answered Glorfindel.

Long ago, after the fighting ended in Eregion, Alatar and Pallando had journeyed East.  Reports of them came sometimes to Lindon, until all news ceased and they vanished into the wild lands beyond the Hithaeglir.  Once in a while, Glorfindel thought of them, wondering what fate they had met.

Olórin could not tell him, though he did not think they had met an end in the bodies granted them.  “For their spirits have not returned to Aman,” he said.  “I will have you meet the others, ere we leave.”

“Where do you intend to go?”

“I have heard that Imladris is a place of sanctuary, of knowledge and healing, and that Eärendil’s son is wise among lore masters.  I think, perhaps, it is the best place to make a beginning, for I sense I shall have much need of Elrond’s counsel in times to come,” said Olórin.  “I am not surprised to hear you have stayed with him.”

Glorfindel nodded.  “When first I came here, Círdan told me I had come in service to the star.  I took that to mean I was to serve Ereinion Gil-galad, the Star of Radiance, for I had served his uncle in Gondolin.”

“Yet that was not what Círdan meant.  Ever mysterious, even ominous at times are the words of the Shipwright.  That much I have learned in my brief time here.  No doubt he meant you were to serve the Star of Eärendil, and that, too, is fitting.  Were it not for your deeds, Tuor and his son would not have survived.” Drawing closer, Olórin clasped Glorfindel’s hands between his own, and once again Glorfindel felt the solid heat of Narya.  “Much sorrow you have borne in the centuries since last I saw you.  You still grieve for the lives you could not save.”

“Time has done little to ease the memory of Gondolin.  Everywhere there are reminders of what was.”  Glorfindel had permitted Lindir to hang the banner of the Golden Flower as one of the relics of Gondolin on display in the library, but stood firm in his refusal to claim it openly as his own.

“And yet all things must pass in time.  It is not only to confront the shadow that I have come to these shores.  I come to you also with words of comfort and renewal.”

“Many words have already been spent on me, and many of those wasted.  I would not have you—”

“Did I give you leave to speak?  Twenty-seven centuries have passed since you left Mandos, and it would seem you have spent much of that time wallowing in self-pity.  Did you think time in Aman was unchanging?”  Olórin gripped his hands all the more tightly, as if to force Narya’s warmth into him.  “You fool of a Quendi, did you think you would be alone forever, that you would never again see those whom you have lost?  Did you think they would dwell in Mandos forever?”

In the gentle sting of Olórin’s reprimand, a wild hope stirred in Glorfindel’s breast.  He did not know if it was Narya he felt or his own heart thawing.  “I-I do not—”

“Aye, nessimawë, that is obvious.  But no more words now.”  Olórin raised a finger to his lips.  “Upon the shores of Aman they await you, and many words of love and longing to see you again have they sent with me.  Would you hear them now?”

Glorfindel was beyond answering.  He laid his head upon the other’s shoulder, feeling the coarse weave of Olórin’s robe and hearing the beating of his heart beneath it, and his tears came without stopping.  Once before he had stood like this, a bruised fëa thrust too soon into a new body, but the tears he wept then had been tears of pain and frustration.  He never thought to weep with joy, or that it would be such release.

He felt a hand gently comb through his hair, tenderly smoothing the strands.  “Perhaps,” Olórin murmured into his ear, “I will wait to tell you.”

* * *

Notes:

talagand: (Sindarin) harper.  Tolkien does not specifically say what Lindir’s profession was, but because he critiques Bilbo’s song in the Hall of Fire he is commonly taken for a minstrel or lore master of some sort.

The Fall of Gil-galad: The words are in as near a Sindarin translation as I could find.  Tolkien does not say who composed the song; for the purposes of the story, I have given credit to Lindir.

pen-iaur: (Sindarin) old one

The realms through which Glorfindel would have traveled are Cardolan and Arthedain.

Él síla lúmena vomentienguo: (Telerin)  A star shines on the hour of our meeting.

nessimawë: (Quenya) youthful one