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Chapter Text

HIRAETH: (noun) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

There had been a great many missteps in the weavings of Arda’s history. Bringing the elves over the sea to Valinor was widely regarded as a mistake, and the return of a doomed few to the lands of their ancestors was an even greater one. The idea that any elf would journey across the Sundering Sea yet again, defying death to do so, must be the height of folly.

. . .

It would be highly inappropriate for the King of Arda, Highest Amongst the Valar, to play favorites. That is why when he bestowed upon the Vanyar his gifts of music and poetry, it was not preferential treatment, it was simply his duty to pass along these talents

Now with these gifts, which were in no way proof of favoritism, it reasonably followed that the Vanyar also had a prodigious vocabulary. This wasn’t the Noldor’s vocabulary, with a hundred or more specific terms to describe the color, clarity, and composition of a gem or for orderly designations to classify the world around them. These were beautiful, flowing words that painted masterpieces with the pen and captured the feelings of the elfin soul.

There was one such word that described the subtle and elusive feeling of a homesickness for a home that you could never return to, or maybe was never your home at all. Glorfindel felt this way now.

To the Vanyar, homesickness was more of a wistful longing for a past self, for a younger, more care-free time. The Vanyar has never truly lost a home to mourn. They had followed Orome to Valinor with their whole heart, and never looked back.

Glorfindel had, of course, lost his home. He had lost his home in the most spectacular and public of fashions. Multiple times. He always had been a terrible Vanyar, he supposed.

One would think life after rebirth would be colorful, yet it seemed to Glorfindel he was still trapped in the fogs of Mandos. He stood alone in the center of the grand council hall, kneeling now before a new king.

Everything was new now, from the languages to the lay of the land. Gone were the ornate armors and rich velvets of Beleriand’s Noldor. Instead, unknown lords of a new age draped in light, gauzy robes gazed down at him from around the room. Their expressions ranged from awestruck to incredulous, a few bordering on hostile. All were equally uncomfortable for Glorfindel.

“Glorfindel of Gondolin, you say?” echoed the new king - well, perhaps not so new anymore.

“Yes, your Grace,” stuttered Glorfindel, never before feeling such pressure to be himself.

The tension in the room was smothering. “He would not be the first fair face claiming to be an emissary from the West,” murmured one lord nervously. A rumble of agreement swept the room, and Glorfindel began to worry he was loosing his identity battle.

“Nay, I can vouch for this ellon,” came a voice from the back, “but as for why he is standing before us now, I am as much in the dark as you.”

“Galdor!” Glorfindel’s eyes lit with hope, clinging to the familiarity of his old friend like and anchor. His gaze flitted back and forth between his old friend and the king as he steeled himself to deliver the lines he practiced at nauseam during the journey East. “It is by the grace of the Valar that I stand before you now. It would seem that they are not ready to let me rest quite yet.”

“By the grace of the Valar?” demanded another lord incredulously, fixing Glorfindel with a piercing gaze. “What grace have the Valar ever shown the dispossessed and those born free of their rule? Tell me, in their infinite wisdom, why have the Valar deigned to send you back to us?”

Glorfindel was taken back by the venom in the other's voice. “I cannot tell you why it was I who was sent back, for that I do not know, but I can tell you for what purpose I stand before you now. The Valar have given me a great gift in this second life, but I fear in exchange I come before you now bearing dark tidings. Sauron has returned. He sits now on his throne in Mordor gathering old allies back to his side.”

“You are mistaken,” declared another. Elrond—Glorfindel realized—for he would recognize Eärendil’s son anywhere even had the Valar not told him of the boy’s place at the King’s right hand. “Sauron was destroyed in the Fall of Númenor, one of the few blessings that came about from the destruction of my brother’s kingdom.”

“Elrond, son of Eärendil,” Glorfindel addressed him, reveling in the kind gaze so reminiscent of his father, his grandmother, “I am truly sorry, both for your loss and for the message I bring, but it is you who is mistaken. Sauron is very much alive, and is once again turning his gaze toward dominion over Middle Earth.”

“This is grave news indeed. Disastrous, even, had we not been forwarded,” mused the king.

“And what aid are the Valar prepared to send to dispose of one of their own who seeks to enslave the children of Eru on Middle Earth?” asked the sharp-eyed elf who had questioned him earlier.

Glorfindel stared blankly, unsure how to answer. He, too, had questioned the Valar’s wisdom in sending just him back, but that did not mean he was ready to admit it aloud to an audience.

“How many forces will they be sending? What other elves have been reborn? Surely you cannot be the only one who desired to return to Middle Earth,” the elf pressed.

“That is enough,” demanded the king. Annoyance flickered across the king’s face as his antagonist turned Elrond for confirmation. Elrond raised a hand, silencing his agitated companion.

"It would appear that we are, again, alone,” Elrond concluded. A flicker of emotion passed between the two, some ulterior message in his words meant just for knowing ears. "Friends," Elrond said, rising to address the small council, "the Valar, in their, ah, grace, have thought to warn us of this new threat, but it will fall to us to fight for this land that we will not abandon."

From the king's other side, another advisor nodded in agreement - Cirdan, Glorfindel recognized, from reputation if not personal acquaintance. When the shipwright spoke, his voice was soft, but carried a commanding lure that Glorfindel felt himself gravitating toward. Glorfindel noticed with interest the gleam of a large, red, gem worn on his ring finger.

"It will take all of our strength, all of our courage, and likely old alliances and new for us to make a stand. I have marched on the Gates of Hell before, I shall do it again. To the jaws of death I shall charge with our king, hopefully but likely not for the last time, for I still believe in the power of the Eldar. I hold hope, who is with me?"

Rumbles of assent vibrated throughout the room, accompanied by a few more enthusiastic shouts of 'for the glory of the High King.' Gil-Galad smiled, nodding at the display of deference. "We will need to send diplomats to the far realms of elves and men. I am hesitant to invite these leaders to our capitol for fear of Sauron realizing we are gathering powers to plot against him. Best not to show our hand so soon. Cirdan, you will send emissaries to Oropher in the Greenwood. Hopefully he will be reminded of your distant kinship to his former king and more inclined to listen."

Cirdan nodded. "That would be for the best, your Grace."

The king turned then to Elrond's agitated companion but, seeming to think better of it, then turned to an elleth at the far end of the room. "Narien, you will seek King Amdir along with Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel in the Golden Wood."

"I will leave at first light, your Grace," replied Narien, taking her leave of the small council room.

Gil-Galad tasked Galdor with assembling a team of ambassadors to send to the Kingdoms of Men, after which many of the other advisors filtered out of the chamber. Glorfindel stayed. Having never been given a chair, he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. Elrond had stayed as well, accompanied by his grumpy shadow.

"You would not have been wrong to trust me to take this message to Galadriel. We were friends once, you know," the other elf accused, not quite meeting the king's eye.

"Oh?" asked Gil-Galad, some of his formality melting away in the empty chamber. "What was it you once called her? A second-rate witch with a Sindar-kink hiding her rotten-heart behind a tarnished, fool's gold façade?"

Glorfindel's eyes widened, half expecting Finwe's granddaughter to materialize in the small chamber to strike down the two elves who dared speak of her thusly. The others did not seem half as worried.

"Well, we always did have an odd relationship. Besides, if I recall correctly I was bereaved when I said that and grief always did bring out the worst in me."

"Everything brings out the worst in you, Erestor," admonished Elrond. The other elf - Erestor - shrugged and smiled conspiratorially at his friend.

"Besides," Gil-Galad continued, "It is Amdir we need to convince. Given old alliances, I think we can agree that a refugee of Nargothrond would make the better representative than the alternative."

For once, Erestor did not have a snappish response, allowing Gil-Galad to continue. "There is something else," he said tentatively, turning toward Elrond. The other had been standing at the window, arms folded, gazing down at the bay below. Glorfindel wondered if his mother used to stand thusly in her tower, eyes searching for signs of Earendil on the horizon. Glorfindel had not been given a full account of history after his death, but he knew enough to know that young Earendil and his wife had not led a life free of heartbreak and strife.

Gil-Galad clasped Elrond's elbow, turning the other elf to face him. Glorfindel stiffened at that casual touch, feeling oddly protective of his princess' progeny. Across the room, Glorfindel noticed Erestor's eyes narrow at the touch as well. It struck Glorfindel that where Elrond went, Erestor seemed to follow with sharp eyes and sharp tongue. He wondered how much that irritated the High King.

"I want you and your people to return to the capitol," Gil-Galad demanded.

"What?" exclaimed Elrond. If he had been expecting anything to come from this conversation, the king's request clearly was not it. "You can't be serious, Gil!"

"Imladris is too remote to be defensible. I want you here, where it is safe."

"Imladris is more important than ever," argued Elrond. "There is strategic value in not having all of our power in one place. Furthermore, I am closer to Moria and Lothlorien."

"Moria has closed it's gates to us since - well, since long ago - and the road to Lothlorien is not an easy one. What if Sauron were to come upon your canyon and cut Imladris off from the remainder of the realm."

"That depends," said Erestor spitefully, "would you send your armies to Elrond's aid, or only one small company?"

"I would never send my full army forth and leave the city open to attack, regardless of the circumstances," replied Gil-Galad coolly. "Furthermore, if Sauron was marching on Imladris and you had knowledge of the threat, I would expect Elrond to notify me or retreat. Preferably both.”

Glorfindel watched the exchange with curiosity. Animosity simmered in the air between the king and Elrond's advisor, both ready to snap.

Elrond sighed and took Gil-Galad's hand to cradle it in his own. "I appreciate your concern, but I am not leaving my home. Imladris is important, Gil. I can feel it."

The king opened his mouth, but Elrond quickly cut off the protest.

“It’s not worth your time to argue, Gil.”

"Very well," sighed the king, "in that case, Lord Glorfindel will accompany you."

Glorfindel started, until that point not entirely sure that the others remembered him.

Elrond turned then to Glorfindel. "Would that be amenable to you?" he asked with that kind smile that conjured memories of childish laughter and willow whistles in a far-away home where celandine bloomed on sharp, snow-covered peaks.

"I admit,” he continued “I am overwhelmed, perhaps even shy, upon coming face to face with a hero from my childhood. Though I was raised on tales of your deeds and the sacrifice you made for my family, now that you stand before me I cannot conjure the right words to thank you or to welcome you."

"Very amenable," replied Glorfindel, blushing, "and no words of thanks are necessary. Seeing with my own eyes that your father survived and started a family of his own is reward beyond what I could ever imagine."

"It is settled then," grinned Elrond, appearing younger than his years. "To Imladris we will go, the last homely house east of the sea, and what excitement will follow in our wake I am eager to see!"

Glorfindel smiled, finding his new lord’s joy infectious. What excitement indeed?

Chapter Text

ENERVATE: (adj., verb) lacking physical, mental, or moral vigor.

Wind swept through the valley carrying with it salt from the southern seas and sulfur from the north, mingling to create that sharp metallic scent of home. It wasn't a valley, truly, for a valley had mountains and these were no mountains, nor where they quite hills. Rather, the plains were scattered with great, sprawling mounds of black rock jutting up from the sea of emerald moss and jewel-toned lichen.

Some were tall, sharp spires cutting into the sky. Others were long, low piles of boulders resembling sleeping beasts. On the largest crag there rose a great stone keep, looking for all the world as though it belonged there, having grown straight from the black precipice itself. 

Small feet pounded against the walkway, running with the carefree abandonment of childhood as the wind playfully whipped his hair about his face. He skidded to a halt in front of his favorite view point, elbows scraped against stone as he struggled to pull himself up to the top of the parapet. In a few more years, he would be tall enough to see over the wall without standing on the tips of his toes.

Beneath the soaring walls of Keep Himring the whole world spread out before him, from the sharp peaks of Mount Rerir to the dense forests of distant Doriath. Though the chill night air burned his lungs, it made him feel invigorated, alive.

To the north, flames flickered to life on the horizon.  

. . .

Erestor woke with the usual heavy weight of his memories sitting on his chest, making it hard for him to breath. By the time he convinced himself to get out of bed, he was already tired again. Sleep brought no rest – this was a bone-deep weariness that tugged at his limbs and seeped into his soul.

He was tired of the circling darkness, always cast out but never truly defeated. Erestor was old enough to have seen the darkness come creeping back time and again, regardless of the efforts of the free people of Middle Earth. It mattered not who ruled, whether they were just, wise, or ruthless. It was always the Darkness who took power in the end. 

He was tired of not having answers when others turned to him for wisdom. Erestor prided himself on his uncanny ability to simply know things, regardless of the situation. In the past his knowledge and council had kept him alive, now it secured his place in Elrond's household. What was he to do when others came to him asking why the Dark Lord had survived? Why had their efforts been in vain? Why, when Eru thought to cast down the nation of Numenor, had he not thought to also protect the peoples of Middle Earth by also casting down Sauron the Abhorred?

 In a more immediate, tangible sense, he was tired of Glorfindel. Erestor was tired of those three syllables—combined to make an astoundingly pretentious-sounding name—on the lips of every resident in Imladris. Why hadn't he scheduled Glorfindel to meet with the textiles guild when the day before he was seen consulting with the equine husbandry masters? If it took him so long to approve the coming year's crop rotation, why didn't he ask Glorfindel for assistance? Didn't he know the returned lord was an expert in horticulture? Did he know why the ancient lord was returned at all? Why him? Why just him?

Over a month had passed since they returned to the valley with the legendary balrog slayer in tow. During that time, Erestor had tried to squelch the rumbling dread in his chest, but it was proving difficult when he was reminded of the walking theological dilemma at every turn. If Glorfindel truly was the only one to be reborn, what did that mean for the other Noldor still in the Halls of Mandos? What did it mean for the Noldor who remained east of the Sundering Sea? When would the Valar's forgiveness come for them?

'No heed was given to our House's plight before the Darkening, no aid given in our times of torment, and there will be no mercy to come. We are alone in the world, except for one another.'

Erestor shuddered, harsh words uttered an age before ringing in his ear. Slowly, still reeling from memories of fire and ash carried on once familiar winds, he prepared for the day.

. . .

It was almost midday when Elrond's summons came. When Erestor arrived, he was unsurprised to find that heavy refreshments had already been laid out. No doubt the half-elf chose this time specifically so he could have an early lunch.

"You called for me, oh gracious Lord?" Erestor asked in mock reverence.

"Ah yes," said Elrond, looking up guiltily from the pile of pastries he had already begun inspecting. "Thank you for finally showing the respect we both know I deserve—though the effect would be better if you didn't ruin it by snorting while I speak, really, you sound like a congested donkey.

Erestor laughed at his old friend and snatched a savory pie on the way to his usual arm chair by the fire, a buoyancy he revealed to few but Elrond bubbling to the surface. He curled in the chair in a manner most undignified for the Chief Counsellor.

"Elrond, promise me that if you ever remodel your office, I can keep this chair." 

"Mellon, just have the carpenter build you a chair for your office," chuckled Elrond.

Erestor shook his head mournfully. "Wouldn't be the same."

"Very well, be dramatic," chastised Elrond. "So, how is my Chief Counsellor on this fine morning?"

"Exhausted. I fear 'fine' is in the eye of the beholder."

The shadows under his eyes and the tightness of his expression came into focus. Elrond frowned and rested a hand on his friend's forehead. "Have you eaten anything suspect? Angered anyone enough to hex you or tamper with your tea? Are you also chilled and listless?"

"I am not – Elrond do not shine that light in my eye! -- I am not poisoned or listless," Erestor hissed, swatting the hand away, "I am just not sleeping well."

 Elrond signed. "Have your dreams returned?" 

"I am fine, just restless is all," Erestor answered, avoiding Elrond's critical eye.

"Very well, I will make you a sleeping drought. I just wish you would talk to me about it."

Erestor glanced at his oldest friend guiltily. "Not that you ever cease to amaze me, but you are taking this impending war much better than I expected. Aren't you afraid?"

"Of course I am," replied Elrond softly. "This war will come, and by now there is nothing we can do to stop it, fretting won't change anything. Just remember—we have both survived worse."

Erestor nodded, unable to argue. "You are right, of course. It is just that every night when I close my eyes, I see fire, and ash, and the faces of those we have lost."

Elrond nodded. "I know, mellon. How about this: we make a promise to each other—and we both know that you and I take our promises seriously--that no matter how terrible the days ahead of us are, we will both survive to bicker over chess and brandy another day. This won't be the last war, it will just be another in a long line of battles during our otherwise dull lives."

Erestor looked at Elrond with his earnest blue eyes and soft smile, as though he truly believed everything would be alright again one day. Sometimes Erestor questioned their friendship, wondering whether a fea as mangled and tarnished as his should be allowed such a gift. Elrond had every right to hate him, yet Erestor wondered if he was even capable as such feelings. Selfishly, Erestor was grateful for this.

Pushing his guilt down, he smiled at the other. "Very well, El. It is a promise. You always did have all the answers, didn't you?"

Elrond grinned. "Sometimes the simplest of answers are the best. In the meantime, I have some business that will hopefully take your mind off your pessimistic brooding."

Erestor perked up. "Is this Imladris business or...?" he inquired, pausing hopefully.

"Other business."

"Excellent. So what is it this time? A mirror that deludes it's unfortunate user into thinking they have visions like the Lady Galadriel herself? Celebrimbor's personal smithery tools? I hear he hexed them to critique any poor soul who used them—himself excluded—in the disapproving tone of his grandfather. Imagine the insults those things could hurl!”

 Elrond couldn't help but chuckle. That sounded like Celebrimbor. "Nothing that… inventive. It's jewelry of some sort."

"A cursed amulet? A charm for luck? Nothing wrong with the classics."

"Not sure exactly, I just know that it is powerful."

"Not sure?" demanded Erestor. "What do you mean 'not sure?' You tell His Grace that he is losing his touch in his old age."

“You’re older than him!” exclaimed Elrond in.

“Barely.”

“Besides, this task does not come from the King.”

“Oh?” asked Erestor, interest piqued. “I didn’t think Círdan used his ring that often.”

“Not Círdan, Galadriel.”

“Hum…”

“Hum, indeed.” 

“Wait a minute, why didn’t she come to me herself? We lived side by side for hundreds of years before the city fell!”

“Maybe she didn’t want to talk to you…” Elrond drawled.

Erestor shrugged, not sure if he could argue. Most days, he didn't want to talk to himself either. 

"She didn't tell me any specifics," continued Elrond, "just that of late she has sensed a strong presence of elfin magic coming from the Bay of Umbar. I know this is not the first time we have had to reclaim artifacts of the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil from humans, but with the looming war the task is even more urgent" 

"I can gather a few supplies and be gone by morning, if that is your wish."

"Give it a day or two. Glorfindel will be coming with you."

Erestor froze, meat pie half way to his mouth. "I'm sorry, I think I misheard you," he replied, trying to pretend he hadn't just choked on flaky pie crust.

Elrond, who had survived the melodramatic ways of Maglor and would blink at nothing less than a convincing faked death, continued.

"Haven't you noticed? He has been melancholy. I fear that introducing him to the whole of Imladris so soon after his return has proven to be a bit overwhelming. This will do him good."

"He is melancholy because everyone he knew is dead," replied Erestor dispassionately. "Sending him out into the wilderness, crawling with orcs and other foul beasts, with only a cynical librarian for company is hardly a recipe for happiness."

"Glorfindel has expressed interest in wanting to see more of his new world. He's not some helpless child, Erestor, he is a formidable warrior."

"He is an unnaturally blonde  Vanya Lord who probably failed out of finishing school, took a wrong turn during the Age of Trees, and somehow found himself amongst Fingolfin's host in Beleriand."

 "I hope you are kind enough not to say that to his face. Besides, you might just find yourself grateful to have his sword at your side. Maybe it will do you both good," suggested Elrond gently.

"Don't do that," Erestor whispered, all levity vanished. "I am tired of you looking at me like I am one of your patients to be healed."

Elrond sighed. "That was not my intent. I can’t help it if hundreds of years of training are hard to suppress.”

“Well you better help it,” snapped Erestor. He tried hard to remain calm, but  there was a roaring in his ears that threatened to drown out Elrond’s voice and his own sanity. “Listen, El, we have known each other almost our whole lives— there are not many elves I can say that about—and it would kill me if I thought you considered me some delicate little soul to be protected. I am fully capable to looking after myself.”

“There is no judgement, Erestor, I just worry. You have lost much—I know this, I can relate on a very personal level, if you will remember—but it was different after Ost-in-Edhil. Eru, some mornings I thought I would wake to find you had thrown yourself into a fiery chasm or some such nonsense.”

Erestor shifted, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was suddenly taking. “You worry yourself needlessly, Elrond,” he muttered, pouring them each a distracting cup of tea. “I recovered, and how could I not under your smothering care.”

“It has been over 1500 years. I have watched you toil by my side, working endlessly to ensure Imladris thrives, but rarely have I seen you partake in festivities nor do you go out of your way to endear yourself to the other inhabitants here. This is your home, give yourself permission to make a life here."

Erestor opened his mouth to protest, but was quickly silenced by Elrond. 

"No, I have had enough of your arguments," he admonished. "Glorfindel is going with you and that is final. Humor me and look out for him. Besides, I will rest easier knowing you have someone looking out for you as well."

"But Elrond, he annoys me," whined Erestor, already coming to terms with his defeat.

"Yes, as does harsh sunlight, raucous laughter, rain of the wrong intensity, and half of the elves in our acquaintance," snapped Elrond, utterly devoid of sympathy.

Erestor sighed. It was hard to be agitated when Elrond loomed over him, glaring in what surely would have been an imposing manner to another elf, looking for all the world like his father's son. Maglor also had a tendency toward oppressive concern for others.

"I suppose there is no use opposing you on this, is there?" he asked, resigned. 

Elrond smiled slightly, not entirely able to hide the smugness from his victory. "No, there is not. I wanted to give you the courtesy of discussing this with you first, but after lunch I intend to send for Glorfindel so we can begin planning your journey in earnest."

"Why is it you never ask of me small, simple favors?"

"Fine," grinned Elrond. "Do this for me; before the end of the day, I want you to learn something new about an elf you don't already consider a friend. Ask questions, get out of your shell."

Very well," Erestor muttered, "but you are going to regret that."

 Elrond chuckled. "You don't scare me, Res. For one, I'm taller. For another, I know you were terrified of chickens until well after your hundredth year."

Erestor responded by hurling a cream puff at Elrond's expensive robes, but this only succeeded in making the elf lord laugh harder. Outside, rain began to fall at an annoyingly moderate intensity.

Chapter Text

MONACHOPSIS: (noun) the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.

It was a lovely afternoon. The sun hung lazily in the sky, a gentle breeze swept through the valley bringing with it the first scent of rain, and Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower was most definitely not hiding behind an overgrown tangle of Wisteria in the garden. 

If one cared to look, they would have found the reborn lord curled on a long-forgotten marble bench made soft with moss, cloak and scarf pulled up around his ears and book in hand. Creeping branches intertwined to form a sequestered alcove, only letting the most determined rays of light through their leaves. This had been his sanctuary since first stepping foot in Imladris. 

Glorfindel smiled, recalling his new lord's  near-childlike excitement upon introducing him to his new home.

. . . . .

"Just one more bend in the canyon, then you will have your first glimpse of the valley, Lord Glorfindel!"

The party had been traveling for weeks after leaving Lindon, but no matter how long it had been or how many times he had asked his new lord, Elrond had yet to drop his former title. Glorfindel cringed, but the excited grin on Elrond's face softened Glorfindel's rebuke.

"I can hardly wait, my Lord. I must say, this canyon brings to mind the hidden tunnels to Gondolin. I have no doubt the view at the end will be just as breathtaking."  

Glorfindel was rewarded with a warm smile that could almost be Idril's if he glanced from the corner of his eye.

"You may find Imladris to be somewhat more welcoming, and certainly more open," replied Erestor, not bothering to look at Glorfindel. 

Upon learning you will be living and working closely together, one may feel the desire to endear yourself to this new acquaintance. Glorfindel certainly did and as such had quickly befriended Elrond, not to mention many of the guards. Erestor, it appeared, did not share this desire. Luckily, an upbringing during the darkening of Valinor had taught Glorfindel to smile through anything.  

"I am hoping so. Believe it or not, I never found much time to travel between fighting Morgoth and living in a secluded city. Funny, right?" Erestor's blank look suggested that he did not, in fact, find it funny.  

"After we are able to raise the military, perhaps we can schedule joint training with Lothlorien. It is one of the most beautiful places in Middle Earth, after Imladris of course," suggested Elrond.  

Glorfindel laughed and shook his head. "Not that you are biased, though."  

"Nooo, never," replied Elrond seriously. Erestor rolled his eyes, but this only caused the two lords to laugh harder.  

Glorfindel's laugh caught in his throat as the small party finally exited the narrow canyon. He shaded his eyes as the few sharp rays of sunlight that filtered in through the winding stone walls gave way to a bright, wide open valley and green pastures.  

As his vision adjusted, he took in more of his new home. Waterfalls tumbled down sheer cliffs in white ribbons to join the glacier-blue river and ornate, elven-crafted bridges and halls twisted across the valley. Dense congregations of moss and ferns blanketed the surrounding earth, beckoning Glorfindel to get lost in the soothing sea of green vegetation and golden sunlight.  

“So, was he biased?” Erestor pressed as Glorfindel stood rooted in place, awestruck.

“No,” he replied breathlessly, “not biased at all.”

Erestor smirked as he nudged his horse onward. The party broke into a gallop as they neared home at long last.  

Though it shouldn’t surprise him with the size of the settlement, it gladdened Glorfindel to see the love between Elrond and his people. In a selfish way, he was proud of what baby Idril’s grandson had become. If he only had this one connection to his past life, he couldn’t have asked for a better one.

As they road rode toward the main house, Elrond paused to greet every elf they passed by name. Glorfindel eventually became accustomed to the curious gazes that lingered as their eyes slipped from their lord to the strange blonde by his side.

“I am afraid staring will only get worse from here on out,” called Elrond.  

“Oh, and why is that?” Glorfindel questioned.

  “We are nearing the Great House, and well, welcoming a reborn hero of the first age is not exactly an every day occurrence. We are but a rural outpost of Lindon, usually the most exciting news is when Gildor and his wandering company are in town. Plus, it is a small valley and gossip will travel fast.”  

Glorfindel's heart clenched. Hero. It was hardly what he would call himself.

. . . . .

After the council of the king, Glorfindel had sworn himself to Elrond to serve him as he served his family a lifetime ago. While Lindon’s generals would be organizing an offensive against Sauron, it was decided Glorfindel would prepare Imladris for the battles to come. The mountain outpost may have been founded during the last elven war, but was more of a haven to the wayward, displaced, and weary than a military outpost.

Despite being welcomed with open arms, Glorfindel was unsure if he would ever be comfortable being called a hero. How could a hero sit peacefully amongst the blossoms and the sunshine while his king and friend’s lay dead, bodies rotting beneath the sea?

When Elrond thanked him during their first meeting, Glorfindel flushed, too in rapture of the idea of Elrond's existence altogether to care what he said. Now when elves flocked to him, eager to meet the Hero of Gondolin, he would shrink away, always offering some nicety and a polite excuse as to why he was needed elsewhere. Eventually Glorfindel found himself avoiding the main house altogether. 

Not that Glorfindel was hiding, of course.

Though the aggressively friendly inhabitants of the valley had been quick to accept him, he still had yet to acclimate to his new home. It was nothing in particular that anyone did. It was the change in dialect and apparent fad of rapid, excited speech. It was the food, cooked with foreign spices and vegetables Glorfindel had never tasted. Even the land and the air seemed to have a different aura, as though time and the loss of their northern continent had forever altered their melody. Everything was almost as Glorfindel remembered it, but just off enough to be disconcerting.

The Vanyar had a word to describe that subtle, disconcerting feeling of being slightly out of place, as though you had a nagging feeling there was somewhere else you should be but no way to get there so you fumbled along as best as you could. Glorfindel suspected this word was invented by some poor Vanya who had taken a wrong turn and wound up in scientific debate regarding mineral density with a group of Noldor. 

Strangely enough for a Vanya, Glorfindel had never minded the company of his eccentric Noldor brethren.  Many of the Noldor were more beloved kinsman than his own family. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the melody of Ecthelion's flute mingling with the tinkling water of the great fountain, Idril's soft voice as she sung her first – her only –child into a peaceful slumber, and Turgon's infectious laughter as he slung an arm around Glorfindel's shoulder, the king oddly relaxed in those private moments away from the court. Of course, that was all in the past. 

Glorfindel absent-mindedly scratched at the scars running down the length of his leg and torso. He couldn't feel the worst of his burns, which since waking on the swan ship months ago had already started to fade into tangle of thick, white knots and gashes. While this was no small blessing, it didn't help the fact that the flaking, healing skin around the deeper wounds itched like mad.

His famed golden locks now hung just past his shoulders, a stark contrast to the images of him depicted in paintings and tapestries around Imladris. He had not instantly realized that much of his hair was charred almost to ash – it had been the hellish scent that had alerted him to it. Glorfindel has quickly chopped of the dead locks and if anyone in Middle Earth questioned the change, they were too polite to say so to his face.

He could only assume that whatever dark magic fueled the Balrog's flames was powerful enough to seep into his second life. Glorfindel tried not to consider the alternative, that the Valar may have willfully pulled him forth from the Halls of Mandos unhealed.

Glorfindel's self-deprecating diatribe was cut short by a rustling on the other side of his hidden alcove, followed shortly by Galion, Elrond's assistant, stepping into view. Glorfindel quickly wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, concealing the scars from view.

"Um, my lord, begging your pardon, but if you have a moment?" Stuttered Galion, still somewhat awestruck by the reborn hero despite providing him with assistance the past few weeks.

Glorfindel tried to smile reassuringly at the younger elf. "What can I do for you, Galion?" 

"If you are not otherwise engaged, Lord Elrond would like to invite you to join him for lunch, sir."

Glorfindel winced. "That sounds lovely, Galion. Lead the way."

. . . . .

It appeared Glorfindel was not the only one accompanying his lord for lunch. Glorfindel realized this with a start when, after already having been seated for several moments with his food, he finally noticed Elrond's taciturn advisor curled on one of the plush chairs like a large, agitated, jungle cat. He was glaring at Glorfindel with those gem-green eyes narrowed to slits. Glorfindel gulped, a nagging feeling that he had done something wrong but could not remember what playing at the back of his mind. 

"Lord Glorfindel, did you hear me?" prodded Elrond.

Glorfindel jumped. "I am sorry, my lord, could you repeat that?

"I have been thinking about what you said to me during our chess game the other night." Glorfindel stared at him blankly. "About wanting to see more of Middle Earth?" Elrond reminded him. "I was thinking, there may not be much time for that once this war begins in earnest, so time is of the essence. It just so happens that Erestor is about to leave on an errand that will take him across Middle Earth and through the elven realms of Greenwood the Great and Lothlorian on his return to Imladris."

"Not the Greenwood," Erestor interjected.

"Fine then, around Greenwood the Great and through Lorthlorian on his way back."

Glorfindel looked to Erestor. The other was delicately blowing on his tea, but Glorfindel could see him studying Glorfindel right back through the corner of his eye. His interactions with Elrond's Chief Counsellor had been limited since arriving in the valley. From scheduling Glorfindel to attend various guild meetings and ensuring the armories were stocked to overseeing food storages and library curation, it seemed as though the Counsellor had a hand in nearly every sector of Imladris' business. Despite this, Erestor was scarcely seen outside of his office in the library. On the rare occasions Glorfindel did cross his path, it was typically when the other was following closely behind Elrond, whispering in his ear with that rapid fire speech.

"I appreciate the thought, my lord," replied Glorfindel, "but I am hesitant to burden Master Erestor during his journey."

Erestor's head swiveled to stare pointedly at Lord Elrond. 

Elrond smiled at him warmly. “Don’t fret, Lord Glorfindel, you would never be a burden.” The thing about Elrond was that when he said these things, it was not merely to placate but rather a heartfelt declaration. The elf lord was never less than sincere. Glorfindel wondered if Erestor was the same, which would certainly explain why the other did not chime in to agree with their lord.

"You should inform him of the nature of this trip before you sell it any further," muttered Erestor.

Elrond sighed. "I suppose you are right. Glorfindel, I know you have been diligent in studying your missing history after the Fall of Gondolin. Do you remember reading much about the city of Ost-in-Edhil?" 

Glorfindel frowned. He was fairly certain Ost-in-Edhil had fallen centuries prior, but it was possible he was mixing this up with a different city. "Ost-in-Edhil was the capitol of the elven kingdom of Eregion, ruled by Celebrimbor, Galadriel, and Celeborn. It fell after Celebrimbor was deceived by Sauron's treachery and the one ring was forged," he recited. 

Erestor stared resolutely into his tea. "It was much more than that," he corrected lowly.

"Maybe this conversation is better paired with wine," interjected Elrond, quickly moving to pour a glass for Glorfindel and then for Erestor and himself. It did not escape Glorfindel's notice that Elrond remained perched on the arm of the advisor's chair, hand resting gently on the other's shoulder. He had seen kennel masters act similarly when working with untrained hounds who were liable to lunge at unsuspecting passerby’s.

"In the early years of Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor founded the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, a fellowship of craftsmen," Erestor continued. "The Gwaith was comprised of the most brilliant artists and inventors of the age, be they Noldor, Sindar, Dwarf, or Man. It was the culmination of overcoming centuries of prejudices and past harms for the sake of creating a better world for future generations. Such an alliance between the races has not been seen since the fall. It is a pity they are remembered by many for the deeds of Sauron when they had worked toward so much more."

Erestor paused to sip his wine, giving Glorfindel the opportunity to observe him without the other's scrutinizing gaze. His midnight-black hair fell in curtains around his face, shadows playing across the angular planes of his drawn expression. Sharp eyes gleamed from under knit brows and pursed lips suggested he was not accustomed to smiling easily.

Even his robes, a heavy wine-red velvet that must have been smothering, seemed designed to intimidate. Delicate stars spun from gold, the garment’s only adornment, were embroidered onto the neckline and hems of the garment, mirroring the gold flecks in his otherwise dark green eyes.

Glorfindel jumped as Erestor's eyes briefly flitted back to him. Fortunately, the sharp gaze quickly slid away again as though adverse to the intimacy born from holding eye contact for too long.

"Many remember them for the rings of power forged under the tutelage of Sauron in disguise, but in truth this was but a fraction of their accomplishments," he said, swirling the wine in his glass and staring into the cold ashes of the fireplace. "Though we tried to recover as much of their work as we could after the fall, many of their inventions were lost. Between the invading army carrying off whatever caught their fancy and treasure hunters coming to claim whatever was left, it is not unusual for the Gwaith's work to surface again in the hands of men. Most of these relics were not meant as weapons, but could still be dangerous in the wrong hands. Therefore, when stories of these treasures make their way back to us, I am sent to… ensure they find their way home."

Glorfindel stared at Erestor in shock. "You steal them?" he exclaimed.

"One cannot steal what rightfully belongs to them," snapped Erestor with resolution, the steel edge in his voice taking Glorfindel by surprise.

Elrond worriedly fiddled with a star pendant that hung around his neck. “With the threat of Sauron lingering over us, it is more important than ever that we do not let these relics fall into the wrong hands," he explained diplomatically. "The journey won't be dangerous. Erestor is skilled in what he does and will be a good guide."

"The journey will absolutely be dangerous," snapped Erestor incredulously.

"In that case, will it not be better to have someone watching your back?" asked Glorfindel, careful to keep his tone neutral and unthreatening. It didn't help that Elrond was grinning smugly at Erestor.

"You do not need to convince me of your value," Erestor sighed. Glorfindel smiled tentatively at him, thinking perhaps the other was not as offended by his presence as Glorfindel originally thought. "Our Lord Elrond has already decreed that you are to join me in this endeavor, regardless of my feelings on the subject."

"And you will be joining him," Elrond interjected, glancing back and forth between his advisor and his new captain. Glorfindel deflated somewhat, any budding hopes of being able to work together with the advisor dwindling.

"You will have the remainder of this afternoon and tomorrow to prepare, then we will leave before first light the following morning," instructed Erestor, finishing his wine.

"As you wish," replied Glorfindel, not bothering to hide the dejection in his voice. Erestor glanced at him sharply, but did not immediately reply.

"I will help you gather supplies after this," he added haltingly.

Galion quietly entered the room upon realizing the trio had finished their wine. "Would you like me to fetch another bottle, my lord?" he asked.

"No, we are wrapping up our lunch, but thank you," dismissed Elrond.

"Thank you Galion," replied Erestor, beaming at the young assistant. The sudden shift from his previously icy demeanor instantly put Glorfindel on guard. "And how, if I may inquire, has your day been?"

"Just fine, Master Erestor, though better once my duties are done this afternoon," the young elf grinned.

"Your work is not too taxing, is it?" inquired Erestor. Elrond, Glorfindel noticed with amusement, was also watching his advisor with mounting suspicion. Yes, there was certainly some other scheme at play that he was not privy to.

"Nay, it is only a burden when the sun shines and the trees are calling me to join them," Galion smiled.

"No one could fault you for that. Tell me, Galion, what is your least favorite task of the day?" asked Erestor, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially.

Galion glanced at Elrond, a nervous giggle threatening to bubble forth. "Well," he whispered back, "I have never loved feeding that giant pet bird that our lord keeps. It is very nasty for being so brightly colored, and even if I cannot understand it's language I know it is cursing me every time I enter the room."

"Ugh, who would? That bird is a menace!" exclaimed Erestor. "I'll tell you what; from now on, Elrond will feed the parrot himself. Would that be better?"

Galion's gaze flitted nervously back and forth between his lord and the counsellor for a moment. "'Tis not a great burden, I will still tend to the bird."

"Nonsense," replied Erestor in a business-like manner. "I am in charge of assigning duties to members of our household, isn't that correct, my Lord Elrond?"

Glorfindel shifted nervously as a venomous smile played on Elrond's lips. "That is correct."

"So it is established--I assign household duties, and from now on feeding that bird will not be on your chore list."

"Thank you, Master Erestor!" Galion exclaimed, shooting an apologetic glance at their lord.

"Do not mention it," replied Erestor with a wave of his hand. The boy finished gathering the plates from lunch and left the room beaming.

The door had hardly closed before Elrond was glaring at Erestor. "Helyanwë was a gift from High King Elendil," he snapped.

"Helyanwë is a wretched feathered rat and I am still appalled by his apparent lifespan. If he is such a great gift then you can take care of him yourself," replied Erestor with a grin.

"I fret over you, I try to look after you, and this is how you act. There is no need for you to isolate yourself the way you do," admonished Elrond.

Erestor rolled his eyes. "Truly, you have a love for the dramatics. I am perfectly happy with my life as it as is. The next time you think about meddling, remember this moment."

"Eru forbid I look after my friends," muttered Elrond.

Glorfindel chuckled. He had a feeling he was missing important information to the story, but enjoyed watching the two friends banter nonetheless.

Erestor smirked. "I am off to prepare for the journey. You had better look after my plants while I am gone."

"I'll enjoy watching them whither and die," Elrond shot back.

As the door closed, Elrond turned back to Glorfindel with an apologetic smile. "Please excuse us, Lord Glorfindel. I have known Erestor since I was young, and I am afraid it is far to easy to slip back into childish antics with old friends. A word of warning: Erestor is a wicked and malevolent creature. Never ask anything of him without expecting it to be turned on you in some way. Unfortunately for Erestor,” he smirked. “I do not care about losing that battle. I am more concerned with winning the war.”

Glorfindel chuckled. “The best of luck to you my lord. I suspect this is not a fight I should meddle in.” 

“Meddle is such a nasty word,” scoffed Elrond with a wave of his hand. “All you need to worry about is being yourself.”

Glorfindel laughed nervously, not entirely understanding his lord’s response but also not entirely sure he wanted further explanation. "Thank you for allowing me to join in this journey,” he said, opting instead to change the subject. “I promise you will not be disappointed."

"Glorfindel I would never worry about you disappointing me," smiled Elrond warmly. "Simply enjoy the scenery, learn more about this new land, make a few contacts when you return home through the Golden Wood." He paused for a moment, making Glorfindel wonder what it was he was holding back. "Whatever danger arises, look after Erestor, and Erestor will look after you. He has a good heart beneath everything," he finally added. 

“First you tell me he is wicked and malevolent, then you tell me he has a good heart?” asked Glorfindel, shaking his head ruefully. “I miss the first age, when the line good and evil was easily distinguished.”

 “There was never a line between good and evil,” replied Elrond, smiling sadly. “The only ones who could believe that are those who were too blind to look so they simply trusted the line was there.”

Glorfindel thought about arguing, but decided it would not be worth the effort. "If you say so, my lord," he conceded. "If you will excuse me, I should probably catch up to Erestor." Elrond nodded farewell as Glorfindel rose. Unsurprisingly, the other had not waited for him and was already halfway down the hall.

"You keep plants, Erestor?" he asked by way of greeting. He was panting as he jogged up to the advisor, excited at potentially finding common ground with his traveling companion.

"I find their company more agreeable than most," replied Erestor coolly.

"Herblore is fascinating! I also kept plants in my previous life. House of the Golden Flower, and all," he beamed, pointing redundantly at his house sigil that had been embroidered into most of his tunics that Elrond had commissioned for him. Erestor looked at him blandly but did not bother formulating a response.

The other elf turned, continuing his journey toward the courtyard. He didn't glance back to see if Glorfindel followed. “First we must stop by the stables. The  Master of Horses will need to be alerted of our journey so he can ensure our mounts are ready for travel.”

“I can help with that,” replied Glorfindel eagerly, his longer strides easily matching the advisor’s quick pace. “I also bred horses in my past life as well—the finest in all of Gondolin.”

“Of course you did,” sighed Erestor.

Raindrops fell on the pair as they hastened across the courtyard. It was a soft, gentle rain that Glorfindel decided was quite agreeable. Erestor stalked along next to him, looking for all the world like a wet cat, specifically the scrawny black cat that once hunted mice in the Golden Flower’s gardens.

Glorfindel debated whether or not it was worth the return trip to Mandos that could result in sharing this bit of information. Of course, it was possible that being likened to an angry feline was actually a term of endearment in this age and Glorfindel simply did not know it yet. It was also possible that Erestor could take something usually insulting as a compliment.

Unfortunately for Glorfindel, neither of scenarios were true. Erestor was not placated in the slightest as Glorfindel tried to explain that he was actually quite fond of the little black cat that carried the strong resemblance. As he bore the outraged insults thrown his way for the entire courtyard to hear, Glorfindel was forced to agree that Erestor was, indeed, a wicked and malevolent creature. 

. . . . .

Glorfindel watched as dark storm clouds spilled over the mountain peaks and crawled into the valley, eventually blotting out the sun and sky altogether. The rain, it turned out, was not a fickle summer rain but rather a true spring storm in all of it’s tireless glory. 

It had rained all the next day as Glorfindel followed Erestor around, jumping at the barked orders as they prepared for their journey.

It had rained the day after that as the pair pulled their hoods over their heads, leaving behind the warmth of the Hall of Fire and comfort of their beds for the wilds of Middle Earth.

It continued to rain the entire week, keeping conversation at a blessed minimum as neither were keen to yell over the constant sound of raindrops pattering in leaves above them.

Many storms would begin to wane after such a drawn-out performance, but not this storm. There is a popular phrase—‘it is always darkest before the dawn’—that this storm must have been particularly fond of, for after a week had passed the rain gave way to what could only be described as a torrential downpour.

Chapter Text

KAIROS: (noun) the fleeting, crucial moment in time and place during which the opportune atmosphere for a thought, decision, or action occurs. Alternatively, the weather.

From the fortress on the hill, one could see the entirety of the Eastern highlands. It was defensible. It was exposed. It was a strategic point. It was hauntingly isolated.

The wide open spaces caused his stomach to clench, the hair on the back of his neck standing up in response to the lack of shelter. Somehow without the presence of great stone outcroppings and looming mountains, the air grew heavier, oppressive, making him feel inexplicably claustrophobic.

If one traced the Andram Hills westward, they could see almost to the Fens of Sirion. It was said that the hidden kingdoms of Nargothrond and Gondolin, glittering pillars of Noldor society, were sequestered away in those mountains and canyons. Doriath loomed even closer, walled off to all Noldor but a select few. No help would come from the west of Beleriand. No help would come from the Western Shores. They were alone.

Ragged lines of refugees slowly trudged under the portcullis and into the keep. A few wagons in various states of disrepair were interspaced amongst the elves, but most belongings had been abandoned without a thought when they were forced to flee south after the disastrous Nírnaeth Arnoediad. The noises from the courtyard, though soft, seemed amplified on the empty plains. 

Ash drifted lazily through the air, catching in hair the way snowflakes in Himring once had. Ash fell across most of the continent since the Sudden Flame. Ash had been covering his hair and shoulders when a squire pried him from his parents’ graves for the last time, some explanation about abandoning their home falling on deaf ears. His lord hadn’t come to find him. Maedhros hadn’t spoken since returning from the battlefield, defeated.

Looming clouds rolled up from the Bay of Balar hundreds of miles to the south, building into mighty storms that blacked out the sky. The rain began suddenly, great torrential downpours so heavy it almost hurt. When the thunder cracked above, Erestor was sure it would split the world in half. The earth trembled in response and lightning lit the landscape, from the distant Ered Luin to the Andram Hills. It was the first time in weeks the ash had been washed from his skin.

. . . . .

Erestor woke with a start, physically shaken by the crack of thunder that rolled along the mountainside. Sparks of anxiety coursed through his body as his mind whirled, attempting to make sense of his environment while shaking off the cobwebs of dreams. Slowly he pieced together the past few days; the assignment from Elrond, the trek along the Old Hollin Road, the persistent rain eventually building to the storm raging outside the walls of the small cave where he and Glorfindel took sanctuary.

Erestor glanced over to where he expected his companion to be sleeping and was momentarily startled to find the bedroll empty. A quick sweep of the cave revealed that Glorfindel was sitting bolt-upright against the back wall, staring wide-eyed into the torrential rain and winds beyond their little shelter and cocooned in his new traveling cloak.

The cloak, a gift from Elrond, was wildly impractical and Erestor had thrown a right fit about it but naturally no one listened. The material was adequate, Erestor supposed: a finely-spun light wool to provide warmth and repel most rain. The color, a rich green, was a shade too vibrant for their surroundings and with the downy cream underside of the cloak Erestor was glad it was not his job to keep the garment clean. The thick, gold stitching was where Erestor drew the line. Intricate patterns of flowers and whorls started along the hems and softly faded into the green field of wool, all tied together with an expensive-looking golden pin.

Currently, Glorfindel had a ratty scarf wound tightly chest to nose, his hood pulled down over his brow, and even his toes tucked under the voluptuous folds of the cloak. By all appearances, it looked as though he were trying to drown himself in fabric. Erestor was sure there were easier things to drown in, but he was also hesitant to debate manners of death with one so much more experienced in the subject than he.

"Glorfindel," hissed Erestor, "get some rest. We need to be ready to ride as soon as the storm breaks."

Glorfindel didn't respond. He obstinately ignored Elrond's request to humor him and take care of the dispossessed warrior ringing in his head. Having ensured that the other was, indeed, safe, he rolled over and treated himself to about four-and-a-half minutes of rest before the guilt kicked in. Crawling begrudgingly to the back of the cave, Erestor propped himself up against the wall next to Glorfindel. 

"Hey, are you alright?" asked Erestor, shaking him slightly.

Glorfindel swallowed heavily and nodded in the most unconvincing manner. 

Erestor sighed. He wrapped an arm around Glorfindel, jostling him in an attempt to maneuver the blonde until his head was resting on Erestor's shoulder. Due to height difference and the uneven wall they leaned upon, his success was moderate at best.

Fortunately Glorfindel did not seem to mind. The sweet scent of mountain wildflowers greeted him as Glorfindel leaned into the embrace, golden head nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

Erestor awkwardly rubbed Glorfindel's back. "It's an impressive storm, isn't it?" He was treated to a noncommittal noise and nothing more. Strong fingers traced the delicate embroidery around hem of the ornate cloak, hands too nervous to stay still.

"You like the cloak," he stated more than asked. "Elrond will be tickled by that."

"It's a lovely garment. Elrond had it made from an old Gondolinian design," replied Glorfindel almost shyly. "I told him he shouldn't have."

"Well, Elrond is like that," Erestor replied breezily. "He is kinder than he has any right to be. Don't know where he gets it from."

Glorfindel softly smiled at this, but moment passed as quickly as it came. When another roll of thunder shook the cave he quickly buried his face again, desperate fingers clinging to Erestor's thick traveling tunic with a grip so tight it felt as though he may as well have been clinging directly to the skin beneath.

"Does it remind you of the balrog?" asked Erestor tentatively.

Glorfindel looked up at him curiously, startling blue eyes much too open and trusting for Erestor's comfort. "No, I hardly remember anything about the city's fall. Trying to recall those last few days is like trying to recall a dream after waking. I can remember a few details, but even then it feels as though they happened to someone else and I am just an onlooker," he admitted softly. "It reminds me of the ice.”

Oh. Feanorian guilt, that inheritance from birth, clawed at Erestor's stomach.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" asked Erestor. He assumed - he hoped - that Glorfindel would say no. For a while it seemed like he would. Despite the knot in his stomach, Erestor knew he had made the right choice in offering to listen when Glorfindel tucked himself further into the embrace. It was one of the few times Erestor was irritated about being right.

"I remember we would walk and walk for days, no light—not even stars through the constant storms and snow flurries," Glorfindel began. "The only sound was the whistling of the wind, until suddenly there would be a sharp crack. Sometimes there would be a roaring cascade of ice crashing down. Other times, it was only a crack, the ice opening up beneath you and swallowing whatever unlucky soul was standing there, then silence. Sometimes I prayed it wouldn't be me who was swallowed up by the shifting glaciers, but more often I prayed that it would be."

Erestor clutched Glorfindel tighter, allowing his cheek to nuzzle against the crown of the other's golden head. He fought the urge to apologize. For one, he had not even been born yet. More importantly, how could any amount of eloquence or restitution begin to make amends for such an experience?

“We elves are creatures of light,” he said gently. “Our souls were not meant to dwell in the darkness of memory, but to face each sunrise with hope in our hearts.”

“Pretty words. Do you believe them?” prodded Glorfindel. 

Erestor laughed at the boldness of the question. “Maybe on a good day? I don't know, but they were told to me by an elf considered much wiser than I, so they must have some merit.”

“Memories are as dangerous as they are comforting,” Glorfindel sighed, shifting his position as he shifted the subject. "From the beginning this has seemed like more than a simple job. You lived in Ost-in-Edhil, did you not?"

Erestor started, glaring down at Glorfindel slightly longer than was necessary before eventually relenting. "Aye," he admitted. "I lived there for longer than anywhere else I have called home."

"May I ask you something," Glorfindel asked tentatively. Erestor gave him an exasperated look, but didn't explicitly tell him no.

"Were you a part of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain?" he prodded. 

"No," Erestor responded flatly. Glorfindel must not have accepted this response because he continued to stare at him with those unnerving blue eyes, waiting for Erestor to continue.

Erestor sighed dramatically. "Much to both my parents’ chagrin, I never had much skill in craft. I was not a member of the brotherhood. I was the Chief Advisor in Celebrimbor's court. I was there with him from the beginning, when Ost-in-Edhil was just an unlikely dream. I should have been there until the end,” he finished softly.

"So this is personal?"

"I am simply the best qualified for the task,” Erestor corrected loftily. “I am well-versed in the languages of Middle Earth, am skilled at detecting objects of elven make, and am no stranger to surviving on my own in the wild.” 

It could have been an echo, a trick if the cave, but Erestor would have sworn he heard the other giggle. He glared sharply at Glorfindel, who was currently bending at the neck and waste to accommodate his headrest as though he were some defeated contortionist.

"Are you comfortable like this?" he asked, partially concerned but partially curious.

"Not really."

"Then say something! Or just move, you oaf!"

"No, this is fine," he mumbled, fingers once again clutching tightly at fabric.

Erestor huffed, pausing momentarily before taking pity on the elf beside him. "Here," he said gently, trying to guide the other to lay down. "You can rest your head in my lap so that I can continue to hold you, like so, but you won't be burdened by your needless excess of height."

 "When we get back to Imladris, we should find you some real friends so you don't do things like accost a perfect stranger every time there is a light spring shower,” he continued, prodding at the arm Glorfindel had wrapped around his middle. “I imagine it is unbecoming of a Lord of Gondolin."

"Erestor, are you trying to call me pathetic?"

 Erestor paused. "Well," he said slowly, "Elrond did suggest that it would be better if I did not say such things to peoples' faces."

 Glorfindel laughed, seemingly unoffended. "Have you no respect for your elders?" he teased.

"Elders?" exclaimed Erestor indignantly. "I have over a thousand years on you! Your time in Mandos does not count."

"It absolutely counts! I was born during the Years of the Trees, making me undeniably older."

"In what world?!" 

A vein of lighting chose that moment to light up the sky, followed shortly by a deafening crack of thunder. Glorfindel buried his face into Erestor's stomach, clutching desperately at the folds of his tunic.

"Shhh, it will be okay, I have you" whispered Erestor, holding Glorfindel close and rubbing soothing circles across his back. "Did you count the time between the lightening and the thunder? The storm is right above us, it will be moving away soon enough."

Glorfindel nodded, but kept his face hidden. Erestor smiled, slipping back into memories of comforting two decidedly smaller, non-golden haired elves during a thunderstorm in a similar manner.

"You know," he said, running his fingers through wavy blonde tresses, "Elrond was afraid of storms when he was younger as well."

"Really?" Asked Glorfindel, voice muffled by the night robe.

"Mm-hmm," continued Erestor. "On Amon Ereb we could watch the most spectacular thunderstorms roll in from the south and the west. It was like the storms held all their rain and all their thunder only to unleash it over the open plains. You could see lightening for hundreds of miles on all sides of you."

"Sounds lovely," Glorfindel said insincerely. 

"Elrond used to think that the wind and the rain would sweep away Amon Ereb and everyone in it. We did not yet know that he had the Sight." 

Glorfindel frowned. "That must have been difficult for him as a child." 

Erestor nodded. "None of us understood it. Maglor used to tell him that the stars looked down on all the beings of Arda, that they took joy in our joy and felt sorrow for our sorrow. Their watch was almost never-ending, except when the thunderstorms appeared and blocked out the skies. Then, sometimes a star would get lost in the clouds, coming too close to the boarder between the heavens and the earth, and would fall down to the ground. That was the lightening. The thunder was all the other stars yelling at their friend to come back home, and as long as we were not outside where a star could fall on us, they wouldn't hurt us."

"So, you followed the Feanorians? Even in the first age?" asked Glorfindel tentatively.

"I was born in Himring. I would not say followed, for it implies that there was some other trail I could have taken should it have struck my fancy," replied Erestor carefully.  "My life was determined by the time and place of my birth, but that does not change the fact that I would have died for my lords in a heartbeat."

Glorfindel paused to digest this. The silence stretched on longer than Erestor would have liked, but eventually inevitable follow-up came. "How old were you when you met Elrond?" asked Glorfindel. Erestor had to give it to him, it was worded much more politely than if he had been the one conducting the interrogation. 

Sighing, Erestor glanced down at him. "Are you asking how old I was when I met Elrond or how old I was at the time of the Kinslaying?" Glorfindel didn't respond. "I was almost one-hundred-and-three when I met Elrond and Elros in Sirion." After a pause, he added, "I was seventy-one when Doriath fell."

"Seventy-one?" exclaimed Glorfindel.

"For what it is worth, I stayed behind in Amon Ereb that time."

"But you were at Sirion?"

"I was at Sirion," Erestor nodded.

"Why?" asked Glorfindel, failing to keep the horror from his voice.

"It was the last path left to us," replied Erestor numbly. 

"You cannot believe that," prodded Glorfindel.

Erestor shrugged. “We saw the Silmarils as our only chance of redemption."

“What proof do you have that the Valar required those stones in exchange for a pardon?” 

“What proof did we have that the Valar took any notice of our struggles? What proof did we have that the Valar cared for anything other than ‘those stones?’”

Glorfindel drew the dilapidated scarf closer around him as though it were some kind of armor. Even with their voices level, Glorfindel was apparently much less comfortable with conflict than Erestor. “There may have been reason behind their actions, if not honor, but that didn’t mean you had to follow them down that road.”

“I assure you it was an act of desperation, not honor,” hissed Erestor. “Do you think I am proud of what I’ve done? I will not deny my crimes, but fear not, I find them just as contemptible as you.”

“I remember feeling trapped, like there was no air left to breath, like no matter how hard my lungs struggled they were left wanting,” Erestor continued, “It felt like there was no other way. Beleriand was shrinking as Morgoth was pressing in on us. Many of our allies were dead or gone over the mountains into Middle Earth. Those who were left despised us, flaunted our damnation and our lords’ birthright in our faces. Our people were dwindling. We were out of time.”

“There is always another way,” replied Glorfindel firmly.

Erestor closed his eyes, unable to face the other. “That is easy for you to say, safe in your gilded halls hidden from Morgoth’s eyes. Tell me, the night my parents died in The Battle of Sudden Flame, was there wine and dancing in Gondolin? Or was it just another quite night? Maybe you crawled into bed early with a smile on your face, feeling warm and safe. That is not a luxury many of us had. And then after my lord took me in, fed and clothed me, you would have me abandon him.”

“I know it is not as simple as right and wrong,” conceded Glorfindel, fiddling with the wad of Erestor’s robe clutched in his hand to ease his discomfort, “but I was at Alqualondë, and it was horrific and incomprehensible and there were some tragedies I thought we would need to bare only once. I can't comprehend how any one of the Eldar could think to stoop that low for a second, and then a third time”

“We weren’t always monsters, Glorfindel, but it is a terrible thing to live without hope,” Erestor replied, tiredness evident in his voice. “I will not try to pretend we were justified and I can assure you I neither seek nor expect forgiveness for my deeds.”

Glorfindel was silent again for a time. It struck Erestor that he knew very little about Glorfindel beyond his deeds told in books and songs. Perhaps he was of the rare cautious, intellectual nature that took the time to reflect before formulating an answer.

Finally he shifted so that he could look Erestor in the eye. “I wish things had been different. For Gondolin. For you and your people. For everyone under Morgoth's shadow," he whispered softly. "For what it is worth, I don't think it is not my place to condemn you."

"That is all I can ask for,” replied Erestor in a steady, business-like tone. He was carefully studying the golden embroidery of Glorfindel's cloak, running up the hem of the garment, past the predictable golden flower pin, around the edges of the hood where it lay complimentary against his golden brow, even his skin seeming gilded and sunkist. Anything to avoid meeting Glorfindel's eyes and the unnerving lack of contempt to be found there.

Long moments stretched between them where the only sound to be heard was the persistent fall of rain. Erestor was beginning to feel his eyes glaze over when he noticed that  Glorfindel was once again fiddling with his shirt, a nervous gesture Erestor had taken to mean Glorfindel had something to say, but was fighting with himself as to whether or not he would actually say it. He did not need to wait long.

"Erestor?"

"Yes?"

 “May I say something?”

“You already are saying something, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel hesitated, unsure if it was permission to continue speaking. "It seems to me as though you do not often seek the presence of others and could have easily left me to my silence, so I guess what I am trying to say is thank you for your kindness tonight. It was unexpected and unsought-after, but greatly appreciated."

Erestor looked down at him a moment before responding. "During my many years I have come to the realization that I am quite content with my own company. I have also come to the realization that many others do not feel the same about my presence. It seems more pleasant for all parties if I mind to my own business and let others mind theirs."

"Your presence is not so objectionable,"  whispered Glorfindel, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain.

A smile played on Erestor's lips, and Erestor let it. "Thank you," he replied, softly dragging his fingertips down Glorfindel's brow and to his eyelids, coaxing them to close. "Sleep now, and I will watch over you. When this storm lifts, we must travel south with haste."

With tired fingers Glorfindel carefully pulled the sorry scarf up around his ears, likely hoping to block out the thunder outside. His lashes fluttered before eventually settling at half-mast, eyes glazing over in reverie.

Erestor nestled his charge close to his chest, arms wrapped protectively around him. Lightening flashed, briefly illuminating their little cavern and reflecting off of the tangled mass of golden waves sprawled across his lap. It was surprising to learn that holding Glorfindel like this, feeling the warmth of his body and the gentle rise and fall of his steady breaths, was almost relaxing. It was also surprising how endearing Erestor found it that Glorfindel even in his sleep, trusting as he was, clutched at Erestor and nestled closer to his stomach when the thunder roared.

Warmth blossomed as happiness nagged at the edges of Erestor's consciousness. He kept these feeling close to his chest, small and tightly wound, where they would be safe. All the old, familiar ghosts settled around him. He did not know by what right he could still find joy when so many others were dead and gone; some dead by his hand or the hands of those he loved, others dead who he had loved but been unable to protect. It did not matter if the fight was against Morgoth, Sauron, or each other; most wound up dead just the same. He considered, briefly, listing their names--the ones he knew, at least. It was a practiced routine, but one he found he did not have the energy for at the moment. 

He heard as much as he felt another rumble of thunder, more distant this time as the storm drifted away. Leaves whispered to one another as they danced in the wind while the rain still fell heavily outside and ran in rivulets down the entrance of the cave, colliding with the earth in a melodic symphony. It was easy to lose one's self in the din of the storm.

Fingers twined through Glorfindel’s messy locks of hair, anchoring him to the present. Head lolled against the cold, stone wall, he quietly watched the storm travel onward while Glorfindel slumbered in his arms and memories of past homes swirled in his mind.

Chapter Text

SAUDADE: (noun, Portuguese)

A feeling of longing, melancholy, desire, and nostalgia; a vague yearning for a happiness that has passed, or perhaps never even existed.

The storm, having exhausted all of it's best efforts, finally broke around mid-morning as dark clouds crept away over the far hills like some great defeated beast. The two travelers prepared to set out once again, but not before Glorfindel pleaded and cajoled Erestor into taking a morning nap. It was with no little amount of guilt upon waking that Glorfindel had noticed the dark bags and drawn expression on Erestor's face. When their eyes met there was no cool aloofness, just exhaustion. It was no surprise that the other elf was tired, Glorfindel reasoned, after staying up all night apparently for the sake of Glorfindel's comfort.

While Erestor slept, Glorfindel tip toed out of the cave following the sound of bubbling water. It did not take him long to locate a small creek whose banks were swollen with rain water. After searching a few more moments for a pool deep enough to accommodate him, Glorfindel promptly removed layer after layer of traveling clothes, carefully peeling his under layers from the blistered skin running along his left side.

He groaned as he sank into the creek, allowing the cold water to soothe his burns and wash away dust and grime from days on end of travel. Glorfindel set about carefully washing his hair and cleaning any open wounds, singing wordlessly as he went. The cold mountain water was infinitely more pleasant the salt water during his sea voyage and he even allowed himself time to luxuriate in the numbing water after he finished his task.

Eyes closed, floating in the improbably turquoise water, Glorfindel smiled as he realized he felt at peace with his surrounding for the first time in a long time. The mountains, though not as sharp and imposing, brought to mind the mountains that had once watched over Gondolin. The trees, open and friendly, spoke to him of the passing winter and flowers waiting to bloom. Even the company was not as bad as Glorfindel feared.

Upon waking in the cave earlier that morning, Glorfindel had marveled at the peace he felt at having another by his side. As consciousness crept over him, he had gradually become aware of graceful fingers delicately scraping along his scalp and sending shivers down his spine as they wove through his hair. Erestor had been humming, rather tunelessly if he was being honest, but sweetly all the same. True to his promise, the raven-haired elf had watched over Glorfindel and kept him safe from the night terrors.

A smile had crept over his features then, and he tried to keep his eyes closed to savor the sensation a few moments longer. Erestor, unfortunately, must have been more perceptible than Glorfindel gave him credit for. Whether the other elf felt the smile on his face or sensed a change in his breathing Glorfindel did not know, but all too soon he felt the wayward locks of hair being tucked away from his face and Erestor's soft voice washing over him, coaxing him into wakefulness.

With a start Glorfindel realized he could hear that voice now, muffled though it was by the water. He scrambled to sit up and, panicking, made a desperate grab for his clothing.

"Erestor, I am at the creek. Give me a moment," he shouted back.

Rather than giving him a moment, Erestor began running directly toward him. "Glorfindel, you lord of lackluster wits and ill-conceived notions, was it only a momentary lapse in brain function when you decided to wander off alone or has your mind been permanently addled since your return?" he shouted as he tromped through the underbrush, bringing to mind a small but very angry animal. Whatever gentleness that had come over him while holding Glorfindel the night before had vanished.

"Erestor please, I am bathing, wait for me to dress!" exclaimed Glorfindel, trying to quickly pull a base layer over his shoulders to hide the flame-branded skin.

"For Eru's sake, we are Eldar. We are not meant to feel shame of our bodies," snapped Erestor, walking into the clearing. He did, much to Glorfindel's relief, keep his eyes trained on the ground.

"I am sorry, Erestor, it must just be a Vanyar peculiarity," called Glorfindel as he finished tugging on his leggings and wound the scarf carefully around his neck. Gathering the remainder of his clothes in a sloppy bundle, he crossed the distance to the other elf in a few long strides.

Glorfindel was startled to see how heavily the other was breathing. "You cannot disappear like that," he admonished, shaking Glorfindel by the arm. A frantic fire was lit behind his usually cool eyes.

"I'm sorry, Erestor, I wanted to let you rest."

"I am plenty rested!" snapped Erestor. "Now if you are quite finished tending to your golden hair, come back and pack up your gear so we can stop dallying." Perhaps he was worried Glorfindel would continue said-dallying because instead of releasing him, Erestor proceeded to drag Glorfindel back by the arm. Glorfindel smiled at the insistent fingers tugging at his sleeve and allowed himself to be led back to their camp.

. . . . .

When they finally did leave the cave, the pair were forced to go on foot while leading their horses through the thick mud left in the wake of the storm. Though the air was still cool and crisp with the scent of rain, sunshine was beginning to peak through the clouds. Echoes of thunder reverberated off of distant mountains, but was no longer close enough to pose a threat.

The pair walked side by side in silence through the grassy meadows between the River Bruinen and the Misty Mountains. They were close enough that Glorfindel could reach out and take the other’s hand should the need arise, yet he suspected that this would be met with some scrutiny. Erestor was quiet, even more so than usual. Glorfindel was disappointed, but at least his traveling companion had not reverted back to cold hostility.

While walking, Erestor paused on multiple occasions to consult the map, each time seeming more and more agitated. Eventually, Glorfindel decided the behavior was worth addressing.

“You know, I hope you are not taking advantage of my lack of geographic knowledge to lose me somewhere in the wilds of Middle Earth,” teased Glorfindel.

Erestor looked at him sharply for a moment before recognizing the jest for what it was, simply a jest, and relaxing slightly.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, my lord, but I know exactly where we are. It is where we are going that I take issue with.”

Glorfindel huffed at the purposefully baiting tone and use of title. “Somehow that does not put me at ease.”

Erestor sighed, kneeling on the ground and unfolding the map for Glorfindel to review.

“Before the end of the day, I suspect we will encounter a barrier to our path. Ideally we would travel over this pass here,” said Erestor, pointing to the spot on the map, “and then through Lothlórien, but it is much too early and the pass will still be snowed over.”

Glorfindel watched almost indulgently as Erestor allowed two slim fingers to trail lightly over the Misty Mountains “If we stay too close to the mountains, we will have two rivers to cross, both of which will be running high and fast from the snow melt. On the other hand, if we stick to the banks of the Bruinen, we will become lost in swamps before reaching the Great South Road.”

Glorfindel waited breathlessly as Erestor’s fingers lingered over Tharbad and the swamps. “I know of one location along the river where we can safely cross,” he continued eventually, his fingers slowly coming to rest in front of the small dot labeled ‘Ost-in-Edhil.’

Glorfindel looked at Erestor uncertainly. The other's face had become a mask of cool complacency, too closed and too calm to be anything but practiced. “But you are familiar with the area, are you not?”

“Aye, though I have rarely returned since the sack of the city.” Erestor looked away, refusing to meet Glorfindel’s eyes.

"Why not?" asked Glorfindel. "I have often thought that if I could go back to the Hidden City, at least once, perhaps it would help me accept that it is gone and move on with my new life."

Erestor laughed bitterly. He paused, and for a moment Glofindel wondered if he would be ignored. "I suppose that is the problem," Erestor finally admitted. "I do not think I want to move on. Moving on means admitting that the Ost-in-Edhil and the ones I cared about, that the one I loved, are all gone, and there is nothing I can do to change that.” 

"What happened to its people after the city fell?" asked Glorfindel tentatively. Of this, the history books spoke little, at least as far as Glorfindel could find.

"They perished, mostly," whispered Erestor. "Galadriel led a small group to Lothlorien years before the fall. After Sauron officially declared war, a few made it to Lindon or Imladris. They mostly sailed after everything was said and done, but a few are still scattered throughout the wide world."

"And the one you loved?"

"Dead."

Glorfindel stared at him silently. "Then there must be other routes,” he said finally. “We can start at the base of the mountain, then follow the rivers until we find another ford."

Erestor shook his head, still not quite meeting Glorfindel's eye. "We don't have time for guesswork," he replied. "Besides, both us and our horses would need to be excellent swimmers given the state of the rivers during this season."

"We will manage," Glorfindel promised, grinning reassuringly. "Besides, I learned how to swim from Ecthelion, and he was half Teler. Did you know they would dive into deep canyons beneath the ocean floor searching for pearls? A river will be nothing."

Unsurprisingly, Erestor did not look impressed. "Somehow I find it difficult to trust the instruction of someone who drowned in his own fountain," he snorted.

For a moment, Glorfindel was sure that he had misheard him. There was an odd ringing in his ears which made it hard to think, to comprehend what other meaning there could be behind Erestor's words because certainly it couldn't mean that Ecthelion had drown during the attack. Not Thel, who had lovingly taught little Idril and later Earendil how to swim, who had once earned an enraged lecture from Turgon when he filled the king's fountain with soap and he, Glorfindel, and Egalmoth proceeded to get outrageously drunk amongst the suds, who swam so well most assumed he was distantly related to Osse. It felt wrong.

He was vaguely aware of Erestor looking at him with growing alarm on his face but found it difficult to focus on anything around him. The next thing he knew Erestor had pushed the map away and was now kneeling in front of him, speaking in that rapid Sindarin almost too quickly for Glorfindel to follow. It was too fast, too loud, too close. Glorfindel couldn't breath. He pushed Erestor away, eyes unseeing as the other fell backward onto the ground.

"You're wrong," Glorfindel whispered hoarsely, but why would he be? Glorfindel knew Ecthelion was dead, it shouldn't matter how. Tears dripped unheeded down his face.

"Glorfindel, I am so sorry," Erestor pleaded, "Please, I thought you knew. It was cruel of me to say that, regardless. Glorfindel, please say something."

Glorfindel shook his head, dejectedly sinking back onto the grass. Erestor crawled over to him and for the second time in as many days he found himself pulled into the other's lap and held close.

“I did not know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I couldn’t bring myself to read of my friends’ deaths. Without knowing, I could almost pretend that all was well, that they were simply at peace in Valinor. You must think me a coward.”

“Never,” Erestor assured softly. “Sometimes it is easier to live in happier memories and forget the worst of the past. Not better, just easier.”

“There is a word amongst the Vanyar—suadade. It means a nostalgic longing for something that has been loved and lost. I know I can never return to Gondolin, yet I find that is ever where my head and heart dwell. When I close my eyes, I can go back there,” murmured Glorfindel. “with Ecthelion and Turgon, Idril and Tuor, and everyone else who was lost. It may not be real, but it is home.”

Erestor cradled him tightly. "For what it is worth, he accomplished feats that would be counted as heroic even among the greatest of the Noldor."

Glorfindel didn't say anything, unsure if he found it comforting or not. Tears continued to fall from his eyes as Erestor once again ran his fingers soothingly through Glorfindel's hair.

 "It is said that when Ecthelion marched into battle, his voice struck fear into the hearts of the enemy and they fled before him. After the gate had fallen," Erestor continued, "he retreated, already wounded, to the Square of the King, where he was followed by Gothmog, the Lord of the Balrogs. Their duel was fierce, and though he had no shield and walked with a limp, it is said that he fought Gothmog back many times. Finally, beaten down and divested of his sword, Ecthelion lunged at Gothmog, piercing him with the spike of his diamond helm and throwing them both into the King's Fountain to their deaths. It is possible that the War of Wrath could have been very different had Morgoth's general not already been defeated. The Free People of Middle Earth owe your friend a great deal."

Glorfindel nodded, not quite consoled but regaining his facilities now that the shock was wearing off. "That sounds like Thel. He always was a perfectionist, never happy unless he was the best."

"I truly am sorry, Glorfindel, both for your loss and for my insensitivity. For what its worth, I don't always mean to be such an ass, it just happens." Erestor paused a moment before asking; "Is Ecthelion at least the type who would find some sort of ironic humor in his end?"

Glorfindel smiled sadly. "No, I don't think he would. Perhaps some tragic beauty, but not humor."

Erestor sighed. "Well, you have my word; if ever meet the ellon, you can let him slap me in front of everyone who happens to be in the room."

"Seems fair," nodded Glorfindel sagely, still sniffing slightly.

Erestor rose slowly, helping Glorfindel to his feet. "Perhaps you can tell me more of him that while we walk.”

Glorfindel nodded. "You know," he said, gathering his horse's lead, "There have been times I have thought you and Thel would have been friends, in another life."

"Really?" asked Erestor in interest.

"Aye, you are both sharp to a fault. Since I have avoided reading many of the texts that focus on Gondolin since my return, I am not sure how he is portrayed in writing. As a friend, though, you could not find anyone more loyal. He was reticent, particularly around strangers, but he did not intend to come across as aloof as many assumed. He was kind, and he loved animals. He would often let hours fly by as he sang to the birds or chatted about the changing of the seasons and impending wildflower blooms with the trees and the squirrels."

"He would fit in well in Imladris," Erestor smiled.

"Indeed," agreed Glorfindel. "And above anything, he loved Eärendil with all his heart. Not even Idril spoiled that child as much as he did."

"It is clear he meant a lot to you," replied Erestor softly.

Glorfindel nodded. "I loved him. He, Turgon, Aredhel, they were my family when I had no family of my own. You know, I fancied myself in love with Turgon for a time in my youth."

"What?!" Erestor shouted excitedly. "You and the future king of Gondolin?" Glorfindel grinned at receiving the reaction he expected from the other when dropping this bit of information likely excluded from the history books.

"Aye," nodded Glorfindel. "As you know, it was not destined to be and I soon learned that platonic love could be just as deep. I was happy when he married my favorite cousin. Elenwë was one of the few members of my family who I kept up correspondence with after moving into Fingolfin's household in Tirion."

"So you and Elenwë were related," Erestor exclaimed, more of a statement than a question.

Glorfindel nodded again. "I suppose it is killing you knowing this and not being able to update the books in the library immediately."

"More than a little," admitted Erestor.

"Turgon never truly recovered from losing her," Glorfindel continued. "Once Gondolin was settled, after Idril had grown and did not need him as much any more, the two of us would often spend our nights on the balcony; two old ellon sick of company but who didn't want to be alone, listening to the music float up from the Square of the King, drinking wine and talking about all the many pointless things you encounter when running a city."

Erestor smiled. "That does not sound like a bad way to spend an evening."

"Sometimes we would play a game of chess or risk, but more often than not we just drank wine, complained, and occasionally swapped riddles."

"Maglor loved riddles as well. Unfortunately he passed that down to Elrond."

Laughing, Glorfindel replied; "I seem to remember that about him from Tirion."

Erestor smiled, reminiscing about his previous lord. "I suppose it is inevitable that Elrond would have learned traits from him. It was obscene how much Maglor doted on the twins. Ours was not a lavish life, but when it came to love and attention, those children wanted for nothing."

"It makes my heart happy to hear that. What about you? Were you always as close with Elrond?"

"Begrudgingly," snorted Erestor. "Elrond was the perfect child. Quick to learn, quite talented, and eager to please. It was incredibly annoying."

"Is there anything you wouldn't have found annoying?" teased Glorfindel.

"Not likely. Elrond's twin, Elros, was the exact opposite, which I also found incredibly annoying. I suppose it didn't help that I had been the youngest before their arrival," explained Erestor. "I wasn't the only child or even the only orphan - there was a rag-tag bunch of us between the refugees of Himring, Thargelion, and Amon Ereb - but even after my hundredth begetting day I had still been the baby."

Glorfindel laughed in earnest. "Was someone jealous?"

The remark earned him an exaggerated eye-roll. "It would not have mattered if I were. I was subjected to the Feanorian logic that the next oldest must watch the new children - at least in the rare moments Maglor wasn't by their side. Fortunately as you have seen, it is difficult not to warm up to Elrond."

"That is certainly the truth," chucked Glorfindel. "I look forward to learning any new riddles from him that I may have missed in the past age when we return."

"Good," snorted Erestor, "You can be the one to trade riddles with Elrond from now on."

"Come now, it is a great way to pass time!" exclaimed Glorfindel. "Give this a try: What is at the beginning of the end, the start of eternity, at the end of time and space, was in the middle of yesterday but is nowhere in tomorrow?”

"Death?"

"Eru no, you morbid thing," laughed Glorfindel, "It's 'time.' Are you purposefully bad at this?"

"Yes, if I wasn't I might find myself stuck in a riddling duel with Maglor," replied Erestor. "Listening to his terrible puns was bad enough."

"Puns? I can only imagine your pain," laughed Glorfindel.

"Thank you for your acknowledgement," Erestor said solemnly. "Unfortunately, Maglor had the superior sense of humor between him and Lord Maedhros."

"Oh?" asked Glorfindel, eager to hear more.

"I don't know if it was everything that he had been through, but Lord Maedhros' sense of humor can only be described as horrendous," shuddered Erestor. "I remember once when I was young, not too long after my parents' death, I woke for some reason or another and went to seek Lord Maedhros in his office. He was likely working on something important, but stopped what he was doing to sip mulled wine with me and tell me jokes to take my mind off of everything."

"He gave you mulled wine as a child?" asked Glorfindel, scandalized.

Erestor shrugged. "It was but a splash. It helped me fall asleep quicker and probably helped with the jokes as well. Sometimes I think I only laughed because I did not know what else to do in the face of such sheer absurdity."

"What were a few of the highlights?" asked Glorfindel, unsure if he truly wanted to know. 

"What has two wings but can't fly, two legs but can't walk, and two eyes but can't see?"

"What?" asked Glorfindel tentatively.

"A dead bird," replied Erestor with a slight twisted delight.

Glorfindel shook his head. "That is truly terrible."

Erestor laughed. "What did Orome say to the elves when he wanted them to follow him to Valinor?"

"I don't know, what did he say?"

"Elves, follow me to Valinor!" cackled Erestor.

"Please stop, you are done," laughed Glorfindel, understanding what Erestor meant by absurdity.

"What is worse than a rotten apple?" asked Erestor conspiratorially.

"Do I want to know?" countered Glorfindel.

"It's Morgoth. Morgoth is worse than a rotten apple."

Gem-green eyes glittered as he drank in the horror on Glorfindel’s face. It occurred to Glorfindel that this is what friendship with the raven-haired elf was - equal parts sweetness and sharp edges, but always on the inside of that cold barrier he presented to the rest of the world. The thought warmed him.

"You know," said Glorfindel ruefully, "I think I am starting to understand more about why you have no acceptable sense of humor."

Erestor laughed harder. "I am well aware that the jokes are terrible. You know, I am not sure if that is one of my worst childhood memories or one of my best," he said shaking his head.

Glorfindel smiled at the other, delighted to discover that when Erestor laughed, his nose scrunched and small wrinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes, smoothing his usually sharp features. It was an unexpected surprise to be able to observe his companion openly enjoying himself like this.

"What, why are you looking at me like that?" asked Erestor, still laughing.

Their eyes met, full of joy long denied, and for a moment it was easy to imagine that they were both thousands of years and dozens of deaths younger. Dark eyebrows rose in mock criticism, waiting for a response.

"Tis nothing, it is just good to laugh," replied Glorfindel breathlessly.

"Aye, it is," Erestor smiled.

Miles disappeared beneath their feet as the sun staggered on from morning, to noon, to dusk. Occasionally they chatted amicably, but more often they walked on in a comfortable silence, close enough that shoulders could bump against one another while navigating the old, overgrown road.

The dense greenery gradually subsided, finally allowing the last golden rays of sunlight to peek through the trees. Towering cedars dripping in moss and ferns gave way to twisting oaks and airy beech until finally, the forest dwindled away altogether.

Glorfindel froze, staring out at the scene below him. A wide river valley strewn with gleaming white boulders and emerald shrubbery lay beneath them. Sweeping fields—impossibly grand after a week spent in wooded semi darkness—raced out to meet the open horizon. Clusters of holly trees, branches dusted with white spring flowers, littered the landscape. In the distance, at the roots of a jagged mountain range, great crumbling towers crept toward the sky.

Erestor materialized by his side, a silent, solemn presence. “Welcome, Lord Glorfindel, to Ost-in-Edhil.”

Glorfindel gazed at Erestor, cold and silent in the fading light. He could be a statue if not for the slight flutter of hair in the breeze. A wistful melody danced on the wind, soft as a memory and heavy with longing.

Glorfindel frowned. “Erestor, are there usually lights burning in an abandoned city?”

Gold lights danced like enchanted stars between crumbling white towers, almost imperceptible in the warm glow of sunset. Erestor peered through the waning light and swore under his breath. Without so much of a glance back at Glorfindel, he swung himself onto his horse, the urgent pounding of hooves clashing with the rising music.

“Erestor!” shouted Glorfindel, quickly leaping on to his horse in pursuit. “Erestor, don’t run toward the unknown source of light,” he exclaimed in exasperation.

Traces of civilization grew as he flew down the road. Beneath the clinging vines, he could almost make out the traces of archways and pavilions of what must have once been a grand city.

Glorfindel followed as Erestor and his mount flew over the remains of a vast bridge, barely heeding the crumbling stone beneath his horse’s hooves. He vaguely realized that this must be the river crossing Erestor had referenced, but the thought left him as quickly as it came.

The city was growing denser around them and the music he had heard on the bluff now bounced eerily off the many towering walls of charred white stone, growing louder with each echo. It was at that moment that Glorfindel began to recall the many stories of Wraiths and Barrow Wights that inhabited abandoned castles and knolls outside of the Hidden City.  

“Erestor,” panted Glorfindel, heaving as his horse darted sharply between winding alleyways, “it is not wise to charge into an encampment without knowing what we will face. It could be a trap or ambush… or some dark magic.”

“Nay, I know exactly who we are facing,” snapped Erestor, charging forward into a grand plaza lit by sparkling, floating lights and warm bonfires.

The second thing Glorfindel noticed upon entering the plaza was the delicate elven arches stretching up to the stars, now covered in moss and bright bursts of blue flowers. The third thing he noticed was the intricate mosaic covering the plaza floor, an unfamiliar design doubtlessly from one of the many other cultures that made up Ost-in-Edhil’s population.

The first thing Glorfindel noticed was undoubtedly the host of dozens of elves gathered around various camp fires strewn across the plaza. At their center, perched jauntily on an upper tier of a long-dry, crumbling fountain, came the source of the haunting melody. The elf had deep, honey blonde hair and a voice to match, but it was his eyes that gave Glorfindel pause. It seemed to Glorfindel that they reflected equal parts joy and sorrow, hope and longing.

The elf stopped singing as Glorfindel and Erestor came to a stop in front of the company and rested his harp casually under one arm. He cocked his head as he surveyed the pair, a lopsided smile playing on his lips as his gaze settled on Erestor. Glorfindel watched apprehensively as several emotions flickered across Erestor’s face.

“Well hello, Res,” chirped the strange elf. “I see you still remember my old haunts—I’m flattered.”

Erestor fixed the elf with a level gaze, the effect of which was only slightly ruined by the need to look up at the elf perched on top of the fountain.

Finally, after a pause that bordered on rude, Erestor sighed. “Hello, Gildor,” he replied. 

Chapter Text

APOPTOSIS: (noun) The regular death of cells allowing for an organism's growth and development, without which disease or death could occur.

Though torches burned in the wan light of dawn there was no warmth to be found in the courtyard. Winter had come with a vengeance to Amon Ereb, bringing with it a dry, piercing cold that cleaved the flesh and smothered the spirit. Around him the clang of armor and whinnying horses echoed in the chill air as they prepared to march to war. Again.

He stood quietly aside, merely a flicker of a shadow lurking in the dim crevice of the gate house. His breath, the only sign of movement from his dark corner, hung in white clouds in the air, seeming weak and impermanent.

Celegorm raced his horse up and down the courtyard, inspiring cheers wherever his gaze fell. Even in the weak winter light the elf lord was impossibly bright against the drab world around them. Bright and full of life.

The shadow next to him smiled indulgently at the spectacle. Erestor was not sure when Maedhros arrived, just that he had been standing there in silence for a long while.

“Don’t leave me behind,” whispered Erestor, hating every word that crawled past his tongue.

A soothing weight came to settle on his shoulder. Maedhros’ hand - left hand. “Your time will come soon enough, little blackbird.” He sounded resigned, not reassuring. It didn’t matter. No tone would have been reassuring in that moment.

“Don’t forget us, should we fall in Doriath. We will live on in your memory," said Maedhros, tapping Erestor's forehead affectionately, "until we meet again when the world is remade.”

Erestor looked up sharply. Maedhros’ gleaming hair in the torchlight seemed almost made of flame and Erestor fought the urge to draw closer to the light. “But you are coming back,” Erestor argued. “You are all coming back, after you regain the Silmaril.”

Maedhros smiled, but it only made his countenance seem more forlorn. “Of course we will all come back. But if we don’t—promise me you will remember us.”

. . .

Waves of dread prickled under Erestor’s skin even after the dream began to fade. He shivered, snuggling deeper into the warmth of his bedroll to escape the lingering ghosts.

Dawn crept slowly over the holly-laden valley, bringing with it the soft sounds of the elven encampment rising from it’s slumber. Time meandered on at an indeterminate pace as Erestor lounged in a hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, reluctant to greet the day.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

“Ulmo’s salty balls!” He exclaimed loudly, tangling himself in his bedroll as he recoiled.

Glorfindel laid across from him, depthless blue eyes that had a moment before been gazing back at his sleeping form now crinkled in mirth.

“Erestor, must you be so loud?” wheezed Glorfindel when he was finally able to stop laughing.

“Sorry, I am not accustomed to being stared at in my sleep. I apologize if I don’t know the proper etiquette for that,” Erestor snapped, irritation adding emphasis to each word.

“Erestor, I had just woken up as well,” protested Glorfindel, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “I was just waiting for you, I didn’t think I would scare you so.”

“I wasn’t scared!” snapped Erestor. “If you woke early, you could have joined the others by the fire.”

“I don’t know them,” whispered Glorfindel. “Besides, I was happy to wait.”

“You met Gildor and several of his eccentric followers last night,” replied Erestor in exasperation. Glorfindel simply blinked at him. “Fine,” he sighed, “give me a moment to wake up.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“That is none of your business.”

“I am here, you know,” offered Glorfindel hesitantly, “in case you ever want anyone to talk to.”

“Talk about what?” snapped Erestor, who was not quite a morning person when morning entailed waking up on the cold ground.

“Whatever it is that plagues you, even in sleep. You watched over me during the storm, I can help watch over you as well,” came the soft reply.

“I don’t need to talk about anything,” replied Erestor, praying that Glorfindel couldn’t see the embarrassed flush rising on his cheeks. Truly, the nerve of this elf, speaking to him as though they hadn’t met mere months ago.

Glorfindel, though, was undeterred. “I said want, not need.”

“All I want or need is caffeine before anyone else tries to speak to me.”

Glorfindel laughed again unperturbed, much to Erestor’s annoyance, and followed him to the fire.

Conversations dropped to a whisper as he walked by, but he still heard 'Feanorian' muttered as though a curse under many a breath. He had no doubt he would have heard whispers of ‘Doriath’ and ‘Havens had he been listening harder, probably even 'Alqualonde' – not that he had been alive then, though he doubted that mattered. Erestor stared ahead, mouth set in a grim line. He spoke to no one, and no one approached him.

“Tea, black,” barked Erestor at the unfortunate elf tending to the kettle. The mug of tea was handed to him almost immediately. The other elf probably assumed Erestor would slay him where he stood should he be kept waiting. At the moment, Erestor wasn’t inclined to argue with this reputation.

“Do you by chance have peppermint tea?” asked Glorfindel. His tea was much slower as neither loss of life nor limb was on the table. Erestor had nearly finished his first mug by the time Glorfindel finally joined him.

Much to his annoyance, Glorfindel was not alone. Sometime during their walk across camp Glorfindel had picked up a tail of several Wanderers, all of whom now seemed intent on being as near to the famed returned lord as space would allow. Erestor huffed and scooted further from the fire and Glorfindel's gaggle of admirers.

An elf with skin and hair so fair he could have been made of starlight sat close enough that he might as well have crawled into Glorfindel's lap. "Are you truly Glorfindel of Gondolin? You really returned from the Halls? How did you get to Middle Earth?”  he asked, open and excited as a child. "I always imagined you would have longer hair!"

"I cut it," replied Glorfindel lamely, not prepared for the onslaught of questions after a week in the wilderness.

The other elf, undeterred, plowed on. "Was Gondolin really guarded by the Eagles of Thorondor?"

Glorfindel smiled indulgently. "Aye, they kept their eyries high in the encircling mountains. From Gondolin, we could often see them soaring above the clouds as they watched over the land."

"I have yet to see a Great Eagle, but in songs they seem magnificent," the elf lamented wistfully. "Is it true that they are of the Ainur? That Gondolin was watched over by the Lords of the West?"

"The Eagles came from Valinor, but I don't know their exact nature," replied Glorfindel.

The buoyant elf at his side seemed undeterred. "The First Age was truly the Age of Heroes," he sighed. "I am only a simple story teller, but one day I will be known as a great minstrel and will compose songs for the heroes of old and of grander ages. I could write something for you, if you like," he offered eagerly.

Glorfindel looked nervously at Erestor. "I am honored, but it is likely we won't be staying for long. Our travels have already been delayed by the storm."

"Oh, but you must stay!" he exclaimed. "It is my begetting day next week, and there will be a great bonfire with music and dancing."

"I am sorry, pen-neth. Perhaps next year you can persuade Gildor to turn your company toward Imladris in time for your begetting day," replied Glorfindel gently. "How old will you be turning, if that is not rude of me to ask?"

"One-hundred-and-three," replied the elf smugly, as though this were some milestone age. Perhaps at that age begetting days were still a novelty to some.

Erestor felt a stab of pain at the declaration and a sudden resentment rose up in his chest for the young elf with the light, joyful laughter and the eyes that had yet to see any horrors of the world. He glared down at his mug, wondering if he focused hard enough if it would shatter in his hands. He felt a childish, overwhelming desire to break something, and if he wounded himself in the process, then all the better. 

It was at that moment that Glorfindel glanced across the fire at him. "Erestor, do Noldor read tea leaves?" asked Glorfindel curiously.

"Of course not, why would you ask such nonsense?" snapped Erestor, affronted.

"Oh," stuttered Glorfindel, "you were just studying your cup so intently, I thought perhaps you practiced the art."

"I would hardly call it an art." Erestor scoffed. "More of a passing amusement invented by elves with too much time and not enough substance in their lives." 

"Here," said Glorfindel, disentangling him from the bunch of elves seated around him and walking over to Erestor's seat on the far side of the fire, "let me see it." Erestor peered at him suspiciously for a moment before passing it over. "Oh look, it is a swan! Great joy and love will come to you."

Erestor laughed in earnest. "Now that is how I know this is foolishness. It looks like a clump of tea leaves, that is all. Well, maybe a very bloated snake."

Glorfindel looked at him with a start. "Don't say that," he whispered. "Snakes are bad omens! They foretell dark creatures lurking in your future."

"Well that prediction seems more likely," Erestor grumbled. “But your signs are hardly fair! Swans are much more vicious. What did snakes ever do to deserve your ill opinions?"

"I don't determine the signs, Erestor, that is just how it is," replied Glorfindel earnestly.

It was at that precise moment that Gildor decided to join the pair by the fire. He draped himself over Erestor with an easy familiarity that Erestor was tempted to flay him over. Unfortunately, the other elf was resting his chin on Erestor’s shoulder and the familiar scent of honeysuckles from his messy blonde hair temporarily disarmed him.

Smiling, Gildor glanced down at the contents of Erestor's mostly empty cup. "Ah, a swan. Congratulations on your love life, Res!"

Erestor promptly shoved Gildor off of him and, after dumping the contents of his cup into the other elf’s lap, stalked away.

Other elves quickly jumped out of the way as he stomped through the camp. Behind him, the young silvery elf had apparently acquired two bowels of porridge from some cook pot that had not been offered to Erestor and was now handing one to Glorfindel. Fortunately he could no longer hear their idle chatter as he left the confines of the plaza.

Erestor paid no heed to where he was going, a poor choice for his feet carried him upward across spidery bridges leaping from precipice to precipice and under crumbling arches once adorned with gems and mosaics until finally he found himself at the base of the great stone steps of the House of the Mirdain. The destruction of the city was at its worst here, where the once-gleaming halls were now burnt black and falling in on themselves. He sat down heavily on the steps as he gazed eastward upon the jagged layers of mountains in the distance.

"I don't know if it is wise to climb so high into the city," quipped Gildor from where he had rounded the corner of the house. "A few of those bridges were in a sorry state. I thought for sure that last one would collapse beneath the two of us."

Erestor sighed. Though the sun had not even reached its peak, he suddenly felt incredibly exhausted. "What are you doing here, Gildor?"

"Oh, I like to swing through every once in a blue moon to keep an eye on the old place," he replied casually. "The company is coming from the western havens. I hadn’t yet decided whether to turn north to Imladris or journey on to Lothlórien. I knew we would receive a sign eventually.”

Gildor paused, taking a moment to settle himself on one of the steps above Erestor. “The stones lament our flight. Can you hear them?” he asked softly. “They long for the days when these high hills of stone spires and bejeweled palaces rang with the laughter and music of the peoples of Ost-in-Edhil."

Erestor could hear them. They called to him, despondent and wallowing in their loneliness.

“Don’t leave us,” they pleaded.

“Remember us,” he responded.

Neither were happy.

He was not sure if he felt better now knowing that the voices were not a sign he was losing his mind or worse knowing that the lonesome cries were real.

"I meant what are you doing here, on the steps, following me," he replied, hating the weariness evident in his own voice.

“Oh,” said replied Gildor, voice turning dark. “I am here to challenge you to a duel to the death to avenge my tea-soiled robes.”

Erestor rolled his eyes, a sardonic stare his only response.

“Fine,” Gildor laughed, “I’ve been told that brooding alone is bad for the health—it’s always better to brood in pairs. Besides, if one of these bridges collapsed or a building fell on you while you were alone, can you imagine how much time I would waste looking for your corpse?”

“So you would look for me?” crooned Erestor teasingly.

“Without hesitation,” replied Gildor cheerfully, draping am arm over Erestor’ shoulder. “Though I must admit, I would’ve assumed you’d avoid Mirdain.”

“I would’ve assumed the same, but my feet led me here nonetheless.”

“Well, we have always known you were a masochist,” quipped Gildor.

Erestor shook Gildor off in earnest at that statement, swatting at him in vain as the other elf leaped away to the safety of a crumbling retaining wall covered in withered vines. Ancient stone crumbled beneath his feet, echoing eerily amongst the cracked stone walls and dried fountains. The courtyard of the House of the Mirdain, one of the highest points in the city, should have been buzzing with life.

Once it had been adorned in gleaming stone tiles and cheerful Feanorian lamps of many colors. There was a food vendor who parked outside of the Mirdain, selling clever dishes of meats or fried chickpea on skewers or wrapped in flat breads to hurried scientists and craftsmen who didn’t have time to sit down for a meal before dashing off to some project or another. Erestor could still remember the mouthwatering smell of the meat, slow roasted on a spit and rubbed with exotic spices.

The courtyard had been encircled by ivory pillars and intricate, carved archway dripping with hanging vines of brilliant green and brightly colored blossoms. Pathways lined with complex geometric tiles led to bubbling fountains and hidden alcoves interspersed amidst the greenery. To these alcoves Erestor had frequently escaped when tending to less sensitive state correspondence and enjoying his regular lunch of lamb kabobs and pilaf.

If he sat there long enough, Erestor could always count on Celebrimbor to burst through the Mirdain doors, proclaiming some new, awe-inspiring revelation. His eyes would be bright with the excitement of creation and the Light of Aman, wisps of dark chocolate hair that had inevitably escaped his braid flying about him. He would scan the garden, eventually landing on Erestor and crinkling in a smile as the elf lord made his way across the plaza.

There was never any question of why Erestor wasn’t in his cool office in the government buildings lower in the city with the other bureaucrats, never admonishment for his need to seek out the sunlight and sounds of the city and the high ground where he could look out over the surrounding landscape and anyone coming his way. Celebrimbor would just smile, say something witty about how Erestor was always right where needed him, and launch into an exuberant explanation of his latest project.

Erestor would listen, captivated, though in truth some of the more technical details were outside of his area of expertise. It was when talk turned to the finer points of drafting a contract with the keen and scrutinizing dwarves of Kazad-Dum for a new project or negotiating a trade treaty with Harad for a rare conductive crystal that could only be found in their sandy mountains that Erestor spoke up. They would sit sometimes for hours, speaking in rapid, excited tones and heads bent so close together that Erestor feel every breath of air from Celebrimbor’s laugh and watch those long, charcoal lashes brush against smiling cheekbones with every flutter of his eyelids. For every dream Celebrimbor brought to him, Erestor found a way to turn them into reality. 

In those moments, when silver eyes blazing with hope would meet his gaze, it was almost as though he were an elf again, not a monster. Celebrimbor was a flame bright enough to drown out the darkness that surrounded Erestor, and now he was gone.

“I should have been here,” Erestor started, but Gildor quickly cut him off.

“No, we have been down this road and it leads nowhere productive. Why should you have been here? So Sauron’s minions had one more elf to murder?”

“So he wouldn’t have died alone!”

“He still would have died alone,” exclaimed Gildor. “Sauron would have slain you where you stood and Celebrimbor’s fate would remain unchanged.”

"I should have at least told him I loved him."

"That I can agree with."

"It wouldn't have changed anything," continued Erestor, his tone resigned.

Gildor hummed in agreement, the sound reverberating throughout the empty courtyard. "No, not likely," he admitted.

"I just wish I could have changed things," whispered Erestor. "I tried so hard. I was so careful, so vigilant, so suspicious about any potential threat to our people, but it was all for naught. I knew there was something sinister about the rings, about that man, about all of it, but I wasn't able to make Celebrimbor see that so instead I just followed his lead. Valar, Gildor, I drank wine with that, that thing, and we talked about art, and music, and mundane gossip. We debated over the Noldolante and he recited parts of it. Maglor's words were in that monster's mouth."

Erestor was vaguely aware of Gildor's hand softly rubbing circles across his back. His voice had risen in pitch as the memories continued to fall from his mouth. Now that he had stopped, the silence seemed to echo even more loudly in the ruined city.

"Of course you tried," said Gildor soothingly. "How could you not, when I know the Feanorians raised you to be sharp, and wary, and to always look out for your own? I know because Celebrimbor was raised the same way. I can imagine how terrible things were for you by the end of the first age, but at least you were surrounded by people who loved you. You don't know what things in Nargothrond were like toward the end--I know Celebrimbor never spoke of it--but I was there, Erestor, and I saw just how toxic that family and their mindset could be. I can understand why he was so determined to be accepting and trusting to a fault, because if I had gone through what he had, I too would do anything to separate myself from those who hurt me."

"Even if that trust left you blind?"

Gildor sighed. "You are not the only one who distrusted Annatar. I suspected that he concealed his true motives from us. Erenion suspected, Galadriel, of course, suspected. Celebrimbor was one of the greatest minds of our generation--do you honestly believe he was fooled when the rest of us were certain that Annatar was hiding things from us? No, I believe he saw through Annatar more clearly than any of us."

Horror bloomed across Erestor's features. "You can't honesty be suggesting that he knew that thing was Sauron and he let it live among us anyway."

Gildor gave a careless, one-shouldered shrug--the kind that made Erestor want to smack the back of his head and tell him to shrug all the way or not at all. "I don't know," he replied calmly, "but I think he believed that anyone could rewrite their story and would sooner die than deny someone a second chance."

"That is idiotic," scoffed Erestor

"That is principled," Gildor shot back.

Erestor stared out at the mountains, steadfastly ignoring Gildor. The morning fog that hung over the ground was creeping back between the mountain valleys, revealing the forest of holly below.  How many times had he stood here, gazing out at the same scene in the time he had called Ost-in-Edhil home?

“He gave me a new life when I didn’t think I deserved to go on living,” he finally said. “Never before had I felt like I had a purpose I could take pride in. I know he never loved me the way I loved him, but that didn’t stop me from letting him be my reason to wake up each and every morning. Now, I feel like all that is left in my life is ghosts,” Erestor finished in a hollow voice.

“You can have that again,” replied Gildor softly. “It is never too late to start over.”

“I don’t want to start over!” snapped Erestor. “I have started over, again and again, and every new beginning ends in fire. I can’t handle any more.”

“So what, you will simply live for your work, waking up each morning and going to bed each evening without once smiling in between?” Gildor shot back.

Agitation bubbled in Erestor’s chest, angry and sharp as a viper. “If I do,” he hissed, yanking his shoulder out of Gildor’s embrace, “then that is my prerogative and none of your business.”

“Well,” said Gildor, stubbornly wrapping his arm back around the elf seated in front of him, “as one of your only - and therefore by default one of your best - friends left on this rotten continent, I think it is my business. And unfortunately for you, I can be just as stubborn as you. Do you talk about this with anyone else in Imladris?"

Erestor blinked at him in confusion at the sudden change in Gildor's line of inquiry. "What? About my work in Imladris?"

Gildor shook his head, pausing for a moment. For some reason, his hesitancy had Erestor's nerves flaring in alarm. "No," he finally said, "not that. About Ost-in-Edhil in general, and everything leading up to the fall."

"No," replied Erestor shortly.

"I think maybe you should."

"And why would that be?" Erestor asked, features carefully blank.

"Because there are still good memories amongst the pain and talking about your past is normal? Because I know there are other refugees from the city who would share in your grief?  Because bottling up these thoughts that have clearly festered in your heart for years is unhealthy? Just a few reasons, but I can keep going."

Erestor carefully studies his nails to avoid Gildor's earnest gaze. "They are dark memories, and I would rather not burden others with them, especially when I have already brought such darkness into the world."

Gildor stopped pacing along the ruined railing. Erestor didn't look up to confirm, but he could tell by the way he no longer heard crunching stone beneath booted feet. "The last time I was in Imladris, Elrond asked me to stay," Gildor said softly. "He said he was worried about you and thought it may be better if I was there. I declined--told him you would hate to think we were trying to take care of you."

Any color to Erestor's face drained to an ashen white. "Thank you," he forced out through pursed lips. "I appreciate that at least one of my friends respects me enough not to think I need minding like some child."

Gildor shrugged again--the annoying, half-shouldered, half-hearted shrug. "I was wrong. I should have stayed."

"What?" Erestor gaped at him. The other elf didn't respond, just leveled him with an unwavering stare. With every passing moment of silence, his ire rose. "What do you mean, 'I should have stayed'? That I am so weak I can't care for myself without you looking over my shoulder? That I am some pitiful responsibility for you now simply because I am not the same person I was hundreds of years ago?" he shouted into the silence of the hilltop.

Gildor's eyes narrowed to slits. "That is not what I mean, nor is it what I said so don't try to put words in my mouth," he shouted back. Erestor could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Gildor truly angry. It looked like he would need to add this afternoon to the list.

"Pain is not  synonymous with weakness, Erestor," Gildor said empathetically. Old, weather-worn tiles cracked menacingly beneath his feet as he jumped to the courtyard floor and stalked toward him.  "I know you think that you are in this alone world. No--don't argue," he snapped, raising up a hand before Erestor could get a word in. "It is not you against the rest of the Free Peoples--it's not the First Age anymore. You have people who love you, and more who would like to if you gave them a chance. You didn't die on these steps, Res, so stop acting like your life ended that day."

Erestor stared blankly at a point past Gildor's left shoulder. There was a buzzing in his ears, and he fought the need to breath or swallow, anything to ensure he didn't move. Slowly, Gildor dropped down to the steps next to him. Despite his best efforts to hold his shoulders as rigid as possible, Gildor managed to pull him into awkward, half-hug.

"It feels like if I move on, then I am closing the door on that part of my life. That it is finally real, and none of them are coming back," he admitted softly.

"I know," whispered Gildor into his hair. "But moving on and forgetting are not synonymous with one another."

"But what if Celebrimbor is reborn and the Valar send him back as they did with Glorfindel?"

"Do you think they will?"

"No, not truly, but I can hope," sighed Erestor. "I just don't understand why they didn't choose him, or your foster-father, or any number of other heroes who came before."

"Probably because the Valar hate us. "No--" he interjected before Erestor could reply, "That was a facetious comment, not a philosophical comment. I don't actually want to actually argue with you about whether the Valar hate us."

"Has anyone ever told you that it is rude to interrupt?" snapped Erestor.

Gildor laughed. "I only interrupt because I have known you for so long that I know what stupid arguments you are going to make before you open your mouth."

“I curse the day I met you,” muttered Erestor.

“Nay,” Gildor chuckled slyly. “I seem to remember you drunkenly telling me that my hair looked like amber and smelled like wildflowers the day we met.”

“And I seem to remember you taking advantage of an unsuspecting, heartbroken ellon your first night in town,” snapped Erestor.

Gildor laughed at that, light and airy as the sound of bells. “Unsuspecting? No one in the history of Arda would ever call you unsuspecting, you shifty son of an orc,” he teased. “No, someone had to get you out of your own head, otherwise you would have spent the night making eyes at Celebrimbor while he spent the night making eyes at my aunt, who was simply too busy savoring the vineyard’s latest vintage to make eyes at anyone.”

“You can claim to be a hero all you wish,” scoffed Erestor, “I still suspect you may be the most unsavory elf I have ever met in the long line of unsavory elves I have been acquainted with.”

 “Unfortunately for you, you are stuck with me, so why don't you tell me about our quest to Umbar?"

"We don't have a quest to speak of."

"At least let the Wandering Company see you to Edhellond. You can hire a boat to cross the Bay of Belfas from there."

"Why, so that you have more time to pester me about coming with?"

"Precisely," replied Gildor with a wink. "I will wear you down slowly, methodically, over the course of the journey."

Erestor sighed, not sure he had the energy to start another argument with Gildor. "Fine," he relented. "At least that silver-haired waif will be happy to have Glorfindel around during his begetting day."

"Silver-haired waif?" choked Gildor through his laughter. "You don't mean Lindir, do you?"

"I don't know, was that the one sitting in Glorfindel's lap during breakfast?"

"Oh Res, don't be like that. He's been with the Wandering Company since he was a child. Maybe we didn't do the best job of teaching him boundaries, but he is just friendly and still young enough for idealism."

"Very friendly," muttered Erestor.

Gildor lips curled into a gleeful smirk--a smirk that Erestor didn't care for at all. "Why, if I didn't know better, I would almost say that you are a bit protective of him."

"I am not protective," exclaimed Erestor indignantly. "It's just that, well, he is a bit shy, and Elrond did tell me to look out for him."

"Look out for him?," Gildor drawled, continuing to smirk like a jackal. "So tell me, from your no-doubt professional observations, what are we to make of this returned balrog slayer?”

“Oh, I would say he is about what you would expect from the songs and legends; excessively tall, blonde, and heroic," replied Erestor with careful indifference.

Gildor laughed. “Don’t try and tell me you don’t find him charming.”

“I find him annoyingly idealistic and at times overly concerned about things that do not pertain to him,” snorted Erestor.

"Well, I think he is quite handsome," grinned Gildor slyly.

"You," said Erestor, poking the other in the chest for emphasis, "are to stay away from him."

"Yes, sir," Gildor laughed, "wouldn't want to set off your protective -- oh sorry, observant -- instincts."

"Gildor we are very deep into the city, and I counted at least eight bridges I could throw you off between here and the lower market level," Erestor growled.

"Oh, but you would need to catch me first," cackled Gildor as he darted through the courtyard and started down the steep mountain stairs.

"You are ridiculous," scoffed Erestor, sauntering after his old friend at a more leisurely pace.

"And yet you still love me," Gildor quipped.

Erestor sighed in a way he could only hope conveyed his utter annoyance. "I suppose," he relented, staring down at Gildor from his vantage point on the top step.

Beneath them, the steep stone stairs curved around the cliff side and down into the lower levels of the city as the ground dropped away around them. From this height, they could have been in another world entirely; a city in the clouds. Wind rushed along the face of the cliff, pulling with it errant strands of honeyed gold from Gildor's messy knot of hair. He cocked his head, a mischievous grin spreading across his features that Erestor knew could only mean trouble.

"I have a better idea," started Gildor, reaching out a hand, "one that involves less death and is much more entertaining."

"And that would be?"

"Instead of pushing me off a bridge, you and I walk arm-in-arm back to the lower market and watch gleefully as the rest of camp explodes with speculations of what exactly we have been up to all morning and why we returned looking so happy."

Erestor huffed, rolling his eyes skyward. "You're impossible."

"I am," acknowledged Gildor, "you may as well accept this and give in."

With no small amount of grumbling, Erestor relented and took Gildor's hand, allowing himself be pulled to the other elf's side and led down the stairs. The lingering scent of honeysuckle hair oil engulfed him, bringing to mind evenings spent with a bottle of rich, fruity wine between them at one of Ost-in-Edhil's burgeoning vineyards and running through tiled streets to escape a summer cloudburst, and other, less tangible memories such as the sharp pain in his stomach brought on by too much laughter and the warmth of another's arm casually thrown over his shoulder at the end of a long day.

"I will try to…" he started, letting the wind carry his words away.

"Yes?" prompted Gildor.

"I don't know," sighed Erestor. "I will try to do things differently? To be better."

"I don't need you to be better, just happier. Now, enough of this. Lets get back to camp so that you can continue your observations--wouldn't want to let Elrond down."

Erestor shoved Gildor into the cliff wall and continued down the stairs without him as raucous laughter followed behind.

Chapter Text

MIMEOMIA: (noun)

The frustration of knowing how easily you fit into a stereotype, even if you never intended to, even if it's unfair, even if everyone else feels the same way.

Chapter Text

TROTH: (noun, archaic)

A solemn pledge of commitment or loyalty.

He coughed, throat coated in the thick film of smoke and melting metal. He could almost imagine he was a child again following his mother to the forge,  if not for the permeating scent of blood and burning flesh. Most of the screams had since withered away until the only sound was the roaring fire as a city burned. Blood matted his hair and ran in rivulets down his limbs, though he was not entirely sure from where it came as he had no injuries. Beneath him, the ground tilted as his head began to swim.

A strong arm caught him around the chest. He looked up at his lord, still impossibly tall even now that Erestor had passed his hundredth begetting day.

 "Steady, there," said Maedhros softly. "It is over now, and I need you to stay upright a while longer." Erestor swallowed an nodded. After the Sudden Flame, he would never question he was safe as long as his lord was present.

"Here, hold this one," Maedhros commanded, handing Erestor... a child? Eyes blue as the twilight sky stared unblinkingly through him. Erestor shifted the thing awkwardly on his hip, having hardly met another child let alone held one before.

"Can you watch him? The young king makes his way across the bay. I must organize our retreat,” said Maedhros gently. “Stay close to Maglor for now.” Erestor glanced at his lord’s brother and vaguely registered that he, too, was holding a child, though his squirmed more.

"What will happen if King Gil-Galad catches up to us?" asked Erestor, willing the tremors in his voice and his knees to cease.

“Don’t worry, little blackbird, we have a head start and the wind is against him. We will be alright.”

Erestor nodded, breath catching in his lungs as he desperately clutched the child to his chest in an attempt to block him the horrors around them. He rest his cheek against the boy’s hair, so dark it was almost blue.

“We will be alright,” he whispered to the child, rocking back and forth.

“We will be alright.”

“We will be alright.”

. . .

Even in his sleep, Erestor’s hands were clammy, clutching tightly to his charge. He was curled under what must be the worst blanket in all of Eä, scratchy and somehow both too heavy and too small. A rug — he finally realized — he was curled under a rug in some poor elf’s tent which had quickly been commandeered for a healing hut.

His head was resting on the thick sleeping pad the returning scouts had laid Glorfindel on early that morning. His arm was stretched out at an awkward angle, but the position allowed him to thread his fingers through Glorfindel’s so despite his numb limb and the sharp kink in his neck, he did not move.

A jolt of white hot terror had shot through him when the scout had recklessly driven his horse through the camp, searching for Gildor and the company’s best healer with word of an orc attack on his lips. He didn’t need to be told it was Glorfindel who was injured, he just knew.

. . .

Gildor and Harthriel the healer ran through the camp, Erestor close on their heals. He had not been invited to follow, which made his steps all the more quick and determined. Inside the tent, Glorfindel was being clutched tightly by Lindir, who was chanting clumsy apologizes to Glorfindel, Gildor, Harthriel, anyone who would listen. Erestor, not caring the slightest for manners, immediately shoved Lindir out of the way and gathered Glorfindel in his arms. Lindir now hovered over Erestor’s shoulder, apologizing to him this time.

“You are both in the way,” snapped Harthriel, her talent in healing apparently making her need for a bedside manner redundant.

“I’m not leaving,” replied Erestor, and if there was an edge to his voice, so be it. His Lord Elrond had tasked him with looking out for the returned warrior, and he would not fail at that duty twice in one day.

“It is just an arrow wound,” came Glorfindel’s weak voice from somewhere below them. “I can tend to it myself. There is no need to fuss.”

Yet even as he said this, Erestor could see that Glorfindel knew this was no simple arrow wound. His limbs were heavy with the orcish poison flowing through his veins and his speech slurred as paralysis set in.

“You can’t tend to it, Glorfindel. Orcs in this age frequently coat their weapons in poison,” Erestor explained, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. It wasn’t working.

“Poison?” whimpered Glorfindel, growing increasingly anxious despite Erestor’s clumsy efforts to the contrary.

“Cut his tunic — here, at the arm, and down along the side,” directed Harthriel to an assistant as her fingers flew between various vials of antidotes, too busy to acknowledge the tense conversation taking place next to her.

“No!” exclaimed Glorfindel, struggling to sit up. Erestor attempted to restrain him, but panic was lending strength to the wounded elf lord.

Harthriel pinned his arm as Erestor struggled to hold down his shoulders. “There is no need for fear, the healer just needs to remove the arrowhead and clean your wound, though you may need to stay away from the wine at Lindir's dinner tonight” assured Erestor, but there was no reasoning with Glorfindel in his state.

Suddenly a gasp from Harthriel caught his attention. Erestor blinked hard, fearing to open his eyes and see that the wound was beyond the healer’s abilities. What he was not expecting to see was the molted flesh that ran down the length of Glorfindel’s exposed torso. Though it looked almost healed in some places, shiny, pink and new, others were still charred black and cracked deep into the flesh.

“Have you carried these wounds since your return?” he asked in horror.

Glorfindel turned away from his concerned gaze, hiding his face against the side of Erestor’s leg. “I couldn’t let anyone see,” he replied miserably.

Erestor didn’t have time to argue as Harthriel was already jumping into action.

“Gildor, I need more hot water and clean towels,” she commanded. “Look in my satchel and find my scalpel, the cream for healing burns, and rubbing alcohol,” she directed to her assistant, then turning to Erestor, “and you, get him to drink this.”

Erestor uncorked the small vial and quickly recognized the bitter scent of a hard sleeping potion favorited by healers on the battlefield. Glorfindel buried his face further.

“Glorfindel, please,” coaxed Erestor, forcefully turning his face back toward the light. “we will talk about this more when you wake, but for now you must take this.”

He pinched Glorfindel’s nose until eventually the elf lord was forced to take a breath, allowing him to administer Harthriel’s potion. He had learned the trick after tending to Elros over many flu seasons, but found himself unable to tease his companion over the childish comparison. Glorfindel simply looked too miserable to tease.

“You will be alright,” he promised, running his fingers through the tangled mop that was Glorfindel’s hair.

“Don’t look,” stammered Glorfindel, even as sleep took him.

“Shhh, do not worry, you will be alright, and I will be here when you wake.”

. . .

When the pain in his neck could be better ignored no longer Erestor finally uncurled himself and sat up to look at the sleeping form next to him.

He had not moved much from how Erestor had positioned him when, taking advantage of the quite moment after the chaotic healers and assistants vacated the tent, he had arranged Glorfindel’s long limbs to ensure his whole person was resting on the sleeping pad and propped him on his good side using pillows Gildor had found or more likely stolen from around the campsite.

It was almost a serene picture, if not for the eyes closed in a healing sleep and the soft white bandages covering the worst of his wounds. Erestor grimaced, remembering the horrid image of unhealed burns and the sharp scent of blood and rubbing alcohol as Harthriel carefully carved away at the dead skin, cleansing old infections as she went.

Shuddering, Erestor tried to imagine Glorfindel as he might have been in Gondolin, long hair streaming behind him as he charged after Morgoth’s demon, alone with little hope of success. Of Glorfindel, tumbling from his high peak in a flurry of flames and falling stone, hair and skin burning as the beast clutched him close. Waking up on a boat with the touch of flames still lingering, once again alone.

Erestor tentatively reached out, brushing the back of his knuckles across Glorfindel’s cheek. Erestor smiled as this drew a mumbled response from his friend. Yes, Erestor supposed, there was no point in further denying it—Glorfindel was his friend.

Glorfindel stirred, eyelids fluttering as he fought off the lingering traces of sleep. His eyes came to rest where Erestor's other hand was linked with his.

“How do you feel?”

"Heavy," mumbled Glorfindel, trying and failing to open his eyes fully.

Erestor laughed, soothing Glorfindel's short hair where it fluttered around his head like dandelion fluff. "Probably a side effect of the medicine. Do you feel any pain anywhere?"

He shook his head a fraction of an inch. "I don't feel much of anything, just heavy and slow."

"Good. That means Harthriel's dosage of pain medication is correct. You need to heal, and relax, not push yourself the way you have been."

"I am relaxed," slurred Glorfindel stubbornly. "Did she say when I would be ready to travel?"

"Three weeks, if all goes well and you follow her orders to rest, and even then maybe more."

"And when do you leave?"

Erestor frowned, not understanding Glorfindel's confusion. Then again, the various potions Harthriel had given him likely left his mind fuzzy and wandering.

"In about three weeks, if we are lucky. Possibly longer," he repeated, tilting a cup of infused water to the other's lips. "Here, drink this, it will help clear your head."

Glorfindel shook his head again, brows knitting in puzzlement in a manner Erestor could almost consider sweet. When he finally replied, he speech was mumbled and wandering. "You're not... but I... my fault. The assignment... You'll stay?"

That is when it dawned on Erestor where the confusion stemmed from. "I am not going to leave you behind, Glorfindel, no matter what happened," he admonished. "Here, drink more."

"It was my fault," Glorfindel repeated once Erestor finally withdrew the cup once more.

"That is not what I hear. The way Lindir tells it, you saved his life, and the lives of the rest of the hunting party. You know, I say 'tells it,' but what I mean is 'won't shut up about it.' By the stars above, we'll never get rid of him now—he will likely follow you to the ends of the earth."

"I should have been ready for it," argued Glorfindel.

Erestor sighed in exasperation. "How? It was an ambush, Glorfindel. You should be wary, yes, but by its very definition an ambush is not typically something you are prepared for."

"I don't know how," huffed Glorfindel, thrashing as he struggled to sit up through the haze of his medication and stiffness of the bandages. "I just should have known. I should never have let this happen." 

"No no no," Erestor admonished lightly, gently coaxing Glorfindel back down onto the mattress with a firm hand placed on his good shoulder. "What did I just say? You need to rest so that you heal quickly."

Erestor carefully rearranged the blankets to offer the elf lord a sense of modesty and comfort, then began inspecting the bandages as Glorfindel steadfastly kept his head turned away, eyes carving holes into the wall of the tent.

"Look, you've gone and split one of your grafts," Erestor frowned in dismay, watching as fluid seeped through the thick bandage. Carefully, he lifted Glorfindel just enough to unwrap the bandage and began to gently wipe down the site of the wound.

"Why did you not tell Elrond? He could have healed you quickly and saved you much pain and scarring."

"I couldn't let anyone know," Glorfindel whispered miserably.

Erestor looked at him sharply. "Why? Did the Valar forbid it?"

"No," mumbled Glorfindel, "but can you imagine what whispers there would be?"

"Who cares about gossip? You've been in pain for no reason."

"How could anyone trust me to lead and protect our people when I am so scarred and misshapen?"

Erestor huffed. "Well," he replied, "For the first few hundred years of my life, I followed a man with only one hand and more scars than the two of us combined, so perhaps I am not the one to ask."

Blinking slowly at this statement, the bedridden elf stared at him curiously. "Maybe I should have told you sooner," he finally admitted.

"Damn straight you should have," retorted Erestor, though he had little malice left in him.

"What if they did this on purpose."

"They?" asked Erestor, though he had an idea as to who Glorfindel was referring to.

"The Valar," Glorfindel mumbled. "What if this is my punishment? You said it yourself; we sat in our white halls, vain and proud, while the world around us suffered. Gondolin was the perfect city, and I helped maintain that reputation at any cost, be it at the expense of those outside our walls or those within."

Erestor felt as though he had been dropped unceremoniously into an ice-cold lake. Gently, he reached down to cradle the base of Glorfindel's head, lifting it slightly so that Erestor could better look him in the eyes. Stars above, his eyes were the shade of blue sapphires could only dream of.

"Glorfindel," he replied softly, "I think we both did the best we could with the lots that were handed to us and that does not mean you deserve to suffer in this life as well. If the Valar did this on purpose, then I would fight each and every one of them." Glorfindel laughed weakly, and Erestor chuckled in turn. "You doubt me, Balrog Slayer? One day you'll learn to never underestimate my fury."

Glorfindel smiled sadly and glanced away. "During our first meeting, I was asked why I was the one to be sent back. At the time, I said I didn’t know why I was chosen, but I think I have an idea. What if I am here because they sent me away? What if I was cast out because I am broken, and cannot be fixed?"

"Glorfindel, if the Valar ripped you from the halls of healing before your time because they believe you of all elves somehow unworthy, it only confirms what I have always known; the Valar are nothing more than an overvalued flock of inept fuckwits--"

"Erestor, stop!"

"They could not connect the dots in front of them even if given the finest quill in all of Arda."

Glorfindel made a weak attempt to cover Erestor's mouth, but Erestor caught his hand and held if fast.

"Their collective incompetence serves only to make the errors of others appear lesser."

"Erestor, you can't say these things!"

"Clearly I can say those things because I just did. What are they going to do? One of their own destroyed an entire continent and attempted to enslave all the free people of Middle Earth, and they hardly lifted a finger. Even now they are happy to sit safely in their paradise while they leave their supposed messenger wounded in a foreign land thinking himself some kind of disappointment. Unless I am standing in the Ring of Doom throwing rocks at their thrones, I don't think they will notice I thing I am doing."

"But I am a failure," insisted Glorfindel miserably, "I failed my family, I failed Aredhel, I failed my kingdom."

"But you kept on going. Even after death, which is very rare I might add," Erestor smiled. "I don't care if the Valar think anything less of you, their opinions are beneath me. You are not a failure, and I will tell you that every day if that's what needs to be done to get it through your thick skull."

With a sigh, Glorfindel tentatively returned the smile.

And that was how Harthriel found them, hand in hand, one laying upon the commandeered sleeping pad, the other under a rug. A single unimpressed eyebrow rose in response as Erestor shrugged off the rug and attempted to pick out the fibers that had gotten caught in his hair.

"His graft has split," she pointed out tonelessly.

"Yes, I was about to tend to it."

"Were you?"

Erestor glared at her. "I will have you know survived through the Sudden Flame and the breaking of Beleriand. I know how to treat burns."

"Believe it or not, medicine has advanced over the past few thousand years. Now, do you plan on confining yourself to this tent, or do you think you can perhaps get out of my way and let me work?"

From where he sat, Erestor leaned back on his palms, making himself comfortable while meeting the healer's level gaze with a challenging glare.

"Fine," she spat, "help me sit the patient up so that I can asses the damage."

Glorfindel kept his eyes closed and leaned against Erestor as Harthriel carefully treated and redressed the wounds.

"Erestor said the burns will heal in three weeks?" he asked softly.

Harthriel glanced at her patient, and to her credit, there was no softness or pity in those eyes. "No, you should be well enough to manage to ride again in three weeks," she clarified. "You should have sought out a healer immediately. As it is, I have a few exercises in mind to attempt to salvage your range of motion on the damaged side, but some of the scars you will likely bear for the remainder of this life."

"Are they terribly disfiguring?" he asked, and Erestor couldn't help but roll his eyes at the pitiful tone. Perhaps vanity was something of a weakness of his after all.

"You're--" Erestor stopped himself before he said something stupidly sentimental, like 'perfect,' "perfectly adequate as you are. Don't fret."

Harthriel snorted. "I will have someone deliver your belongings to the tent. I take it you plan to stay here as well?" she asked, turning to Erestor. He nodded, confident he had already made his intentions clear enough. "Good," she continued, "he will need someone to help him with these stretches I am about to show you. Some of the exercises should be performed hourly while we are camped here, and afterward once a day for the next several months."

Erestor hardened his heart as Harthriel arranged Glorfindel in a series of positions to gently stretch the burned tissue that left the elf lord shaking and covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion.

"You are pushing him to hard," Erestor protested as Glorfindel pursed his lips to swallow another protest.

"At this stage, he is hardly moving. We are positioning his limbs and torso for him to encourage tissue length and flexibility. You will need to push his range of motion further with more advanced stretches over the coming weeks," she explained as she reapplied healing salve and bandaged the wounds tightly. "Compressing the new tissue will help with smoother scar formation, though there were some scars that were already too deeply formed for me to heal. Once the skin grafts heal, we will start soft muscle massage, but it is likely you will always experience stiffness and increased sensitivity around the worst of the older wounds."

Glorfindel nodded, but he didn't meet either of their concerned gazes.

"Some of these exercises may be uncomfortable, but you must be honest with us about the level your pain," she instructed Glorfindel.

"I can handle the pain," he replied stiffly.

Harthriel sighed in annoyance. "That is not what I am worried about. You handling your pain thus far is why your healing process will be so difficult. Get some rest, I will be back before you know it." After taking a few steps toward the entrance, she motioned for Erestor to follow her.

His stomach worked itself into increasingly more complex knots as he rose from Glorfindel's side to follow her out of the tent. Try as he might, he couldn't silence the fearful thoughts constricting around his heart like some exotic snake, intent on the kill. What if Glorfindel would never recover? What if he could have prevented this if he had just noticed his companion had been in pain, or better yet, made himself someone Glorfindel could trust with these fears sooner instead of leaving him alone in a strange land?

"Will he heal?" he asked tensely the moment the tent flap fell shut.

"Mostly, I hope," replied Harthriel evenly. "It is strange--I took you two for lovers, yet somehow you manage to miss such an egregious wound for well over a month of travel now."

Praying he hadn't turned red to the roots of his hair, Erestor sputtered, choking out a response. "We are not lovers. Not -- there is just no way -- not in the slightest. Before this journey, we had hardly spoken outside of professional necessity. I was tasked with allowing him to accompany me and looking out for him by Lord Elrond himself."

"So your concern for him is out of duty?" she asked sharply.

Erestor opened his mouth, but found he had no response. At least none he was willing to give.

"With a wound like this, the psychological damage will be just as great. He will need someone to support and care for him," Harthriel continued.

"I will," insisted Erestor firmly, "I am not going to leave him."

Harthriel gave him an odd look, but finally nodded. "Very well. I will be back in about an hour." With that, she strode forth into the camp, leaving Erestor to puzzle over her strange assumptions.

. . .

The wan spring sun was threatening to sink below the sea to the west by the time their belongings were delivered. Glorfindel was propped against Erestor's chest as the latter carefully supported his arm in an extended position while Harthriel critiqued the angle. All three looked up in surprise at the sound of soft footsteps and musical bells.

To Erestor's surprise, Lindir had delivered their belongings himself, though no doubt there was some feast somewhere he should be attending if his attire was any indication. Light traveling clothes had been discarded in favor of flowing robes in white and lilac with heavy gold embellishments and accessories. His white hair was already escaping from the pins where it was piled atop his head. Erestor's eyes narrowed when he spotted the source of bells: an intricate hair ornament of gold and emerald flowers coiled around his head from where it was secured in the side of his bun, from which dripped many golden chains adorned with laughing little bells.

"You look lovely, pen-neth," smiled Glorfindel as the younger elf stood uncertainly in the entry way. "I apologize, didn't get a chance to say happy begetting day this morning."

"This is my fault," whispered Lindir miserably.

"No," said Erestor firmly, stopping that spiral before it could begin. "This is his own fault for being so hard headed. Don't you add your guilt to this mess."

"Can you still come tonight?" he asked morosely, "There will be a fire, with music and dancing and everything."

"I don't know if he should be up and about, Lindir," Erestor frowned.

Linder turned his pitifully large, pleading eyes to Harthriel. To Erestor's abject horror, the usually impassive, hardened healer's expression softened. "We may be able to set up a spot for you by the fire for a few hours, if you feel up for it," she told Glorfindel.

"Please?" he said, gracing Harthriel with what was likely his most charming look.

Lindir beamed. "I will go gather some pillows and blankets, then meet you there!"

Erestor gaped as Harthriel helped Glorfindel to his feet. She raised her eyebrows at him, no doubt in response to the idiotic look on his face, before turning her attention back to Glorfindel.

"I should have said no," she muttered, shaking her head as she fetched a vile from her bag. "Here, you'll want to take this."

"Will it make my head fuzzy again?" asked Glorfindel.

"Yes, but it will keep you from crying out in pain as you try to walk." Glorfindel took the potion. "Get up," she motioned to Erestor, "we will need to help him across camp."

"I can walk," muttered Glorfindel irritably.

"Yes, but the new skin is still delicate, and I want to minimize the strain on it. I really should have said no, but too late now that you're up. Hold on to your colleague and I, and try to take small, light steps."

It was slow going, but eventually the trio met Lindir and his absurdly large pile of bedding at the large bonfire on the outskirts of camp. Before taking her leave, Harthriel carefully  arranged Glorfindel so that he was propped up upon the pillows in a way that wouldn't aggravate his wounds. Once it was just the three of them, Erestor obstinately curled himself into Glorfindel's good side, busying himself with adjusting the blankets around his friend in a bid to look useful.

"Erestor, stop fussing," chuckled Glorfindel, freeing his good arm from the blanket cocoon Erestor had just wrapped.

"I'm not fussing," Erestor snapped. "You heard Harthriel, she shouldn't have even agreed to this."

"I will go mad if all I see for the next three weeks are the inside of that tent," pouted Glorfindel. "Besides, I am starving."

"I can go get some food! Hold tight, I'll be back in a moment" exclaimed Lindir, bounding off in a symphony of bells.

Erestor sighed heavily. "I think I remember having that much energy when I was young, but I can't honestly be certain."

Glorfindel laughed, warm and low, and turned his head so that he could rest it against Erestor's. Perhaps he had sat a bit too close, Erestor thought as he blushed furiously at the contact. Unfortunately, there was no way to subtlety distance himself now.

"Am I interrupting?" asked a smug voice from somewhere above their blanket nest.

Erestor cursed inwardly. Of course, there was no way he could say yes and survive the evening. "Not at all. Please, join us," he replied, smile sharp as a knife.

Gildor plopped down on the ground next to him. With the amount of wine in his veins and heavy gold woven into his long doublet, Erestor had no doubt he had to sit lest he collapse soon.

"I am glad you can join us, O hero of both Gondolin and some unnamed vale of the Ered Nimrais. I've been told my Lindir may not be here to celebrate his begetting day if not for you."

"I'm not a hero," Glorfindel mumbled

"He's quite mad, you need not indulge him with a response if you don't want to," murmured Erestor soothingly, just loud enough to ensure Gildor heard. Either Glorfindel really took his words to heart or the medicine was already making him loopy, for the golden head buried itself in the crook of Erestor's neck, safe from Gildor's inebriated frivolities.

Gildor laughed heartily. "I forgot how mothering you get."

Erestor glared at him, deciding it might be time for a change of topic. "Lindir looks lovely tonight, though if you will indulge my pettiness, I must say the gems on his hair piece do not suit his coloring."

"Oh don't be obtuse," laughed Gildor. "We both know that was made for me. I don't know why you feel the need to dance around your questions."

"So you lent it to him for his birthday celebration?"

"No, I gave it to him, years ago."

Erestor frowned. "That was special."

"Yes, it is," agreed Gildor, "and I had so few family heirlooms left to pass on to him at his coming of age ceremony."

"Is he yours?" There, not dancing around his questions.

Gildor grinned. "I didn't father him, but yes, he is mine."

Erestor nodded. Knowing Gildor, it made sense in a strange, perfect way. "You intend to bring him with us." It wasn't a question.

Gildor shrugged one shoulder and Erestor wanted to snap at him to at least shrug like he meant it, but Glorfindel was settled on his shoulder and he didn't want to startle the injured elf.

"He wants to come," said Gildor simply.

Trying to pinch away the growing pain between his eyes, Erestor sighed and replied through gritted teeth. "I don't know why I need to explain this to people, but this isn't a vacation and it isn't a jaunt through the countryside. We don't know what dangers we may face."

"Do not mistake his kindness for weakness. Lindir knows how to fend for himself, and is likely as knowledgeable about the Southern Kingdoms as you are."

"He can fight," mumbled Glorfindel against his neck. Erestor patted his head, hoping to lull him back into silence.

"You can't ask me to ride off on a perilous quest to some distant land and leave him behind waiting," pleaded Gildor. "He is an adult capable of making his own choices. He has many skills that would benefit our company. It may even come in handy having a minstrel with us."

"Minstrel-in-training," grumbled Erestor. Gildor just stared at him with large, amber eyes that unfortunately held a unique place in his heart. Even Glorfindel seemed tense, waiting for a verdict. "Fine," he finally relented. "If three is a crowd, we shall let four be a party."

When Lindir returned, he had the good sense to bring a large jug of wine with him. They ate, drank, spoke some of the journey but mostly spoke of nothing in particular. Despite his most adamant protests, Lindir even managed to pull Erestor up to join the dancers around the fire. After the disastrous start to the day, somehow the evening managed to be quite enjoyable. All too soon, the last smudges of purple were fading on the horizon and Erestor decided it was time to get Glorfindel to bed.

Deep blue eyes tracked his approach through the growing twilight. Erestor stared down at the golden lord, wondering how difficult it would be to convince him it was time for bed. Glorfindel stared back at him from the throne of pillows, a slow smile spreading across his face made lazy and lopsided with the weight of the potion.

"You dance like shadow, you know," he sighed, "dark and always changing. I just wish I could hold you."

Erestor frowned, kneeling down to press the back of his hand to Glorfindel's forehead. There was no fever, so it must be Harthriel's drugs speaking half-thoughts. "I am right here, Glorfindel."

"I know," replied Glorfindel empathetically with that sad, half-smile smile, "but I can't hold you."

Erestor sighed, shaking his head. "Lets get you to bed."

Earnest, pleading eyes met his. "Will you join me?"

"Well I am not letting you walk across camp alone. Now come along, no doubt Harthriel will be at the tent soon for your stretches."

Glorfindel allowed himself to be hoisted up, leaning heavily on Erestor as they began to make their way across camp arm in arm.

. . .

A week and a half later, Harthriel, Erestor, Gildor, Lindir, and Glorfindel were gathered in the makeshift healing tent.

Harthriel shook her head in confusion. "Well, we will be able to leave tomorrow if you choose. I don't understand how you have healed so quickly."

"Perhaps it is because he grew in the light of the Trees?" mused Gildor.

"Maybe it is the work of the Valar," Lindir chipped in.

Erestor rolled his eyes at the sentiment. "Does this mean we can push his exercises back to twice a day?" he asked desperately. After Glorfindel first began showing signs of rapid healing, Harthriel had extended the periods between Glorfindel's therapy to three hours rather than one, but it had still been days since either of them had slept all through the night.

"Twice a day should suffice," Harthriel nodded.

Glorfindel released the breath he had been holding. "Oh thank the V-"

"Do not," snapped Erestor, cutting him off.

"-thank the stars," he finished, exhaustion radiating from his words.

"Lets plan on leaving two mornings from now," chuckled Gildor. "It sounds like you two could use the rest, and that will give us time to pack for the next leg of the journey. Haenaer has persuaded a herd of Llamas to accompany us as far as the Burning Hills. From there, we will need to cross the Rivers Cirill and Ringló on our own. Bloody stubborn creatures, llamas, but Haenaer has a way with animals."

"I would really rather they didn't," groaned Erestor, "there is no working with llamas."

"Don't be bitter," Gildor grinned, "just because a llama spat at you one time and you are still holding a grudge."

"I have never held a grudge in my life," replied Erestor loftily with a flick of his long hair.

Glorfindel let his head flop back against the pillows as Erestor and Gildor bickered, half asleep already.

"You truly are blessed," Harthriel told him without a hint of irony in her voice, "if you were a mortal man, it would have taken months for your wounds to reach this stage, and the permanent damage would have been much greater."

Erestor was forced to roll his eyes at her choice of words. Blessed is not a word that would escape his lips, especially after his and Glorfindel's conversation on the Valar, but he was grateful for his friend's recovery. So, in only two days' time they would be back on the road, steadily moving toward whatever new trials awaited them in Edhellond and to the East. Noting Glorfindel's weariness, Gildor and Lindir stood to take their leave. Erestor watched sharply, raising to follow his friend out of the tent on silent feet.

"Gildor," he whispered urgently, grabbing the other's shoulder before he could wander off to who knows what, "do we need to talk about what I'll do once we reach Edhellond?"

Amber eyes rose to meet his guiltily. "Are you worried?"

"Are you?"

He shook his head, curls bouncing. "It is still safer than the other route. I will handle negotiations for transportation, and the four of us will be on our way in no time."

Drawing his arms around himself for protection, Erestor shook his head uncertainly. From somewhere in the corners of his mind, a far-away voice sent ice shooting down his spine, ominous as the wind of an oncoming storm.

"So far down this dark path we have ventured that forever more we will be stained with the sins of our deeds. Only in success shall we find vindication, but until such time separated from our kin shall we be with only one another for comfort and protection." 

But there was no voice; there was no one left. He was alone. "What if it doesn't work? What if when they see me, they know?" he asked, allowing some of his anxiety to bleed through.

Gildor reached out to cup his elbow in support, frowning at the other's words. "You are being ridiculous. Just, stay toward the middle of the company and for the love of all the wine on this earth, keep your mouth shut. I will be within arm's reach the whole time."

Erestor nodded tensely. Silent, unnoticed, like a shadow. He could do that.

Though careful to mask his anxiousness from Glorfindel and the others, the weight of the task at hand was ever-present; a living entity within him, pulsing with nervous energy and ever pushing at edges of his consciousness. The longer they waited, the tighter it constricted around his lungs, a disease waiting to claim its victim. This assignment was different. Erestor could feel it in the prickling of his fingers and the tenseness of his limbs as he went about his day.

It wasn't just the dreams of his past life which resurfaced with a vengeance in the months leading to his departure or the whispers of old words best forgotten that raised the hair on the back of his neck as though the speaker were standing behind him just out of sight. It wasn't the returned hero of legends following at his heels like a lost puppy, nor was it the sudden and unexpected rekindling of an old friendship long buried deep and evaded. It also wasn't simply the way his favored trails had become blocked, leading him through old haunts and new terrain better left unexplored.

It was all these things and more swirling together in his head in a confusing tangle of past and present, all his old ghosts finally coming together. It was an ending. "Times change," Gildor had said as they poured over the maps in the quite comfort of his tent, and having lived through the end of an age, wouldn't they know? There was no avoiding it; it loomed in the distance at the end of all paths. Erestor sighed, the coil of his muscles unwinding in acceptance as he ducked back into the tent. In two days time, they would continue their slow walk toward the inevitable.

Chapter Text

OPIA: (noun)

The ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

When wild lands stretch into the distance and the earth rushes to meet the sky, in these hidden places of nature that so few will ever see with their own eye, there is a freedom to be found that eases wearisome troubles and lightens the burdens of the soul. Amidst the mountains tall and unmoving as time, it was easy to accept one's own insignificance. It was an oddly comforting sensation for Erestor, who so frequently sought to count every trouble among his own responsibilities.

When Gildor had confided that it would take five to six weeks to reach Edhellond Erestor had balked, but now, after so many days of travel, it was as though time ceased to exist. Life outside this tiny corner of the world ceased to exist. In Imladris, the Bruinen would be flooding with melting snow and fields would be turning green with the promise of early summer, and time would march on as her residents continued to play out the same petty arguments they always have and always would. The arguments and conflicts would still be there when Erestor returned, but they seemed of little consequence at the moment.

On the rocky foothills of the Ered Nimrais, moss and hearty grass still green from the recent rainy season blanketed the ground. To his left, the untamable peaks of the White Mountain speared the sky, their jagged faces too formidable for anything but snow and ice to thrive. To the right, the stony ridges of the Pinnath Gelin painted with green lichen dipped away into arid sandy dunes of vibrant red and gold that trickled down to the sea.

Each day was spent navigating the hidden paths known only to the elves and creatures of the mountains. Through the wide planes and along narrow ridges he walked, careful of the loose rocks beneath his feet and the frequent drops down into valleys deep. After many miles had passed by and the sun was far behind them, only then would the Wandering Company pause for the evening. Then Erestor would help Glorfindel down from his horse, careful not to let him strain his still-healing burns, and while the two occasionally joined the merriment around the fire more often they retreated to the comfort of their sleeping rolls together.

Over the past several weeks, Glorfindel had graduated to performing most of his therapy exercises on his own, but that did not stop Erestor from hovering nervously in case anything should go wrong. After his stretches were finished, Erestor would carefully unwrap the many compression bandages, heart lighter each time he saw the healing progress. While Erestor would massage the scars, softening the tissue beneath and transferring what little healing energy he could harness, they would talk in hushed tones about anything and everything that came to mind, quite words meant just for the two of them.

At first, Glorfindel had been startled by Erestor's rudimentary healing abilities.

"You never told me you could practice magic," he gasped in awe, melting beneath Erestor's touch.

Erestor chuckled. "I would hardly say practice. All elves are creatures of magic. Most can harness at least their own energy to some extent."

"I have never heard of such a thing," he frowned.

"Well, you wouldn't from what history I have learned," replied Erestor, settling into what he would firmly deny was his council voice. "The Valar rarely recognized elven magic. When they did, it was typically the foresight common amongst the Vanyar, though rare experts in their field such as Feanor or Maglor were likely recognized has possessing magic through their craft. It was not until long after the Noldor began relations with the Sindar and Silvan elves of Beleriand--who had never been kept by the Valar and grew into their powers on their own--did they begin to realize that all elves have an inherent magic within them. It is likely that by the time these talents were being pursued in earnest, you were already safe in your White City."

"So you think the Valar kept these talents from us?" asked Glorfindel, the trouble evident in his voice.

"I don't know," replied Erestor hesitantly, hands gently kneading at the scars along Glorfindel's back and torso, willing his own healing energy to sink into the damaged skin beneath his fingers. "They may have, or to them, our powers could have been too minimal to notice. Similar to how men look at our healing and longevity, herblore and foresight, and other every day skills and proclaim them magic, perhaps our skills were simply too mundane for the Valar, though certainly that does not mean they shouldn't be pursued."

Other times, they would speak of their journey. Glorfindel was fascinated with the coastal deserts of mid-Middle Earth, having only experienced the forests of the north. Even Erestor had to admit the landscape was unlike any he had seen, and he had traveled throughout most of Middle Earth and a good deal of Beleriand.

When the party finally crossed the River Morrhond and gazed upon the vibrant, sweeping slopes of the Burning Hills, there was little more Erestor could do but stare in awe and silently reach up to slip his hand in Glorfindel's as the pair took in the scene before them. Steep mountains dripping in golds, reds, plum, even green peaked in narrow spines that twisted and wound through the otherwise barren land. It was soothing in an odd way, how the vibrant banded colors seemed to wash over him and leave his heart at peace.

From atop his horse, Glorfindel peered down at him, studying his face intently. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," he replied breathlessly, unable to take his eyes from the scene before them, "beautiful."

Some nights, conversation would turn toward how the imposing peaks of the Ered Nimrais reminded Glorfindel of the Encircling Mountains, or how the rocky, lichen-covered bluffs of the Pinnath Gelin conjured images of Himring. On those nights, Erestor would allow himself to draw even closer to Glorfindel, until their arms were tangled and the air was warmed between them with their mingled heat. 

Of course, even five weeks is not infinite, and every step across the isolated land brought them closer to leaving it behind. All too soon there dawned a morning when Erestor woke not on the rocky ground of the desert highlands, but atop a bed of sand on the far shore of the River Ringlo. Even as far inland as they were, heavy fog rolled up from the ocean, dampening the morning as it settled at the foot of the mountains and in-between the crevasses of the dunes. Once or twice Erestor thought he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Though it was no doubt naught but a trick of the mists, he allowed himself to keep a more careful eye on Glorfindel riding next to him. It was his job, after all.

From here, they would follow the river across the sandy hills until it sunk down into the land and escaped to the sea. There, where the canyon opened up to face the bay, they would find Edhellond, The Last Homely House South of the Mountains. Only one long day's ride. There was no turning back now, only forward toward the inevitable.

As with most elvish settlements of the age, it was shielded from prying eyes by nature and ancient magics. Though many of her founders hailed from Doriath, Gildor assured them there was no spell as complex as the Girdle of Melian protecting Edhellond. Indeed, the haven had frequently hosted the Wandering Company during their travels and even offered the world-weary passage into the West.

As the day wore on, the sun eventually won its battle and scattered the lingering fog, leaving behind nothing but a blinding field of gold and white sand. To their right, the river began its steep descent into a sandstone canyon that only grew wider and more impressive once it was joined by the waters of the River Morthond. With a start, Erestor realized they must be approaching civilization as several strange elves had materialized on the fringes of their party. No one else seemed to pay them any mind and he could not say for sure how long they had been there, quietly shepherding the visitors along the canyon rim.

Erestor shrunk nearer to Glorfindel, pulling his own horse laden down with their belongings closer to his other side. His comfort, however, was short lived. Before long they were forced into a single-file line as they followed an unsuspecting ridge in the cliff face that dropped steeply into the canyon below. As subtly as he could, he let his long hair loose from its high tail, willing it to curtain him like a shadow.

Escaping beneath the canyon rim was like dropping down into another world, one which under different circumstances Erestor would have marveled at. Gone was the glaring sunlight and inhospitable land, replaced instead by cool shadows and weeping sandstone walls. Where water trickled mysteriously from the cliff face, rainbow arrays of algae and hanging gardens of lush greenery sprung straight from the stone. Below, towering clusters of palms and bamboo grew in the sparse spaces between the river bank and the canyon wall.

The deeper into the canyon they went, the more populated it became. Though they started out sparse at first, the canyon wall was now covered in colorful stone mosaics and the trail lined tall stakes of bamboo from which gold and white paper lanterns swung, lighting the way as the shadows grew thicker. Occasionally when there was a cluster of palms large enough, Erestor would notice grand telain built into the trees, adorned with billowing white curtains and intricately woven reed lattices in place of walls or roofs. More often there would be dwellings carved straight into the cliff side, either level with the trail or built high into the canyon and accessible only by tall wooden ladders. The windows and entrance ways, too, were draped in fabric and strung with lanterns.

Eventually the mouth of the canyon widened, revealing a secluded cove home to many colorful elvish boats. Large groves of palms nurtured by the fresh mountain water hugged the cliffside, dwindling away to naught but red sands where the salt water rose up to meet the land. In the opening between the canyon walls, Erestor could just see where the sun was retreating for the day, giving way to stars.

When they reached a crossroads where the party would need to either continue down the steep steps to the beach or across the wooden and hemp bridges to a large cluster of telain, Gildor turned to one of their guides, an unnervingly controlled smile on his face.

"Thank you, Calendir," he said with a polite bow. "Lindir and I shall present ourselves to Círeth and introduce our honored guest, Glorfindel of Gondolin, returned from the Halls of Mandos. Meanwhile, please allow the remainder of our party to set up camp along the beach – long and arduous has our trek been, and no doubt they are eager for rest and, more importantly, a stiff drink.”

Glorfindel startled at these words, shooting Lindir a panicked look. Erestor would have reassured him, but was fearful to draw any attention to himself. He was no one. Just another anonymous elf without a past. There was no reason to pay him any mind and before anyone noticed otherwise, he would be whisked away on a ship to the Southern Kingdoms. Unfortunately, luck did not appear to be on his side. It usually wasn't.

Calendir smiled, tilting his head as he studied their small troupe. "Gildor," he chided in a light, sing-song voice, "such formality is very unlike you. Where is your spirit? Your lust for music and wine? The Summer Solstice is just days away, I hope this serious mood of yours will have passed in time for celebrations. As it is, the minstrels have gathered in the plaza, eager to enchant you with their latest compositions. Círeth awaits your whole party there."

"But of course, your lady's hospitality is magnanimous, and no doubt what our tired bones crave. Please, lead the way," Gildor replied after a split-second hesitation, a quicksilver grin already spreading across his lips.

They could hardly deny their host's instructions and just as he promised, a rising medley of sound, somehow both spellbinding and dreadful, was already coiling up the canyon path and echoing through Erestor's very soul. The melody was indeed enchanting, just as the will-o-the-wisp was enchanting as it led you blindly to a watery doom.  Whatever instruments were favored by the minstrels of Edhellond, Erestor did not care for them at all.

The party followed the narrow stone steps down to the beach where sand as red as blood sank beneath his feet and greedy sea birds shrieked overhead. The first time Erestor had seen the sea had been at the Havens of Sirion and though it had been centuries, even now he half expected to smell blood in the air and look up to see a fleet of ships in Erenion's livery on the horizon. Erestor shuddered. He hated the ocean. Hated the violent screams of the gulls, hated the heavy stench of salt and fish, and more than anything, hated the vast planes that stretched onward over the curve of the earth, promising to swallow him whole and drag him into nothings should he step too close.

The plaza was not a true plaza, at least not in the way of Ost-in-Edhils grand plazas, Erestor thought. It was rather a spattering of elaborate pergolas draped in gauzy fabrics and sparkling finery clustered between the canyon and the sea. Fairy lights bobbed in and out of the tents, clinging to the sheer curtains and dancing in the ocean breeze. In the center of the commotion, a large driftwood fire spat amethyst embers into the otherwise black sky.

Many sharp eyes flickered in the dark firelight as the elves gathered upon the beach turned to watch their slow approach. The symphony that had greeted them at the mouth of the canyon faded away one instrument after another as their bedraggled band approached the gathering, until all that was left was the crackling fire, rumbling sea, and the gulls screaming murder above.

From across the clearing a woman rose to greet them, graceful as the swelling of the tide. In her hair were woven all types of coral and sea flowers as though she were Uinen herself, but in her eyes were held the storms of Ossë. With the lazy flick of a hand she shooed away the lingering fairy lights that clung to her as she descended from her dais and strode across the sand.

"Gildor!" she cried, breaking into a smile so sharp Erestor half-expected to see razor-edged teeth. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? We would not have expected you for years to come, though I suppose the folly is mine for expecting you to follow any sort of pattern at all."

Grinning, Gildor leaned in to bestow a dramatic kiss on the corner of her mouth. "Círeth the Radiant, my beloved, would you believe me if I said I could carry on no longer without gazing upon your beautiful face?"

Her laugh was light as the wind chimes that danced in the ocean breeze, but her answer swift and sharp. "No, not for a moment, Inglorion. Now tell it true; what led you so soon to return to my shores?"

"I would ask a boon of you and your people, if you would allow it," answered Gildor seriously. "We have set forth on an important task, and time is of the essence. If you would will it, I would ask for passage for myself and three of my followers across the bay. In return, the remainder of the company has agreed to camp here and aid in hunting, fishing, anything we can do to be of use."

"Ah, but that is a dangerous thing, is it not? A Noldor asking the simple sea elves for their ships?"

"Then I suppose it is a good thing I am not of the Noldor, and you are anything but simple," retorted Gildor, somehow maintaining his charming swagger.

Círeth cocked an eyebrow at that. "No? It seems to me that you choose to be a Prince of Nargothrond when it suits you and a lost little wood elf only when it does not."

"Can't I be both? I always assumed I was both, but then again I am just stubborn like that."

"You play a risky game, Gildor," chided Círeth with a click of her tongue. "True, our first meeting was when King Finrod decided to introduce his foundling to our court, and in years later perhaps I granted you more leniency than your peers for our shared heritage, but when I built this haven, do you remember what I asked of you? I told you that we were weary of the Noldor and their oppressive ways, and sought your word that, despite any allegiances you may feel to your cousin the High King, you would not lead his people here. This is a haven for the Sindar and Moriquendi; the peoples whose hands are free of the blood of their kin."

A chill ran through Erestor when he saw that Gildor's smile had shrank in confidence to a tight line. "Of course I remember, my lady," he replied, "just as you may remember my words to you; that all those who follow me, regardless of where their road started, care only for where their road may take them. We are elves of no one house, committed only to the wide world of Middle Earth and her free peoples."

"And yet the word on the wind is that you travel with Glorfindel of Gondolin? Remind me, was not Gondolin a kingdom of the Noldor?"

"Gondolin had no quarrels with Doriath," replied Gildor flippantly. "Besides, we should be celebrating the occasion of his return by the grace of the Valar. Surely such an unprecedented miracle signals good tidings for all."

"The Valar's good will means nothing to me, nor do your heroes of old" snapped the lady, dropping all friendly pretense. "You broke your word, Gildor. A kinslayer is a kinslayer and I will not have them in my home."

"But Glorfindel never hurt anyone," protested Lindir, clinging stubbornly to Glorfindel's arm. For once Erestor was insanely grateful for the young elf's blind devotion.

Círeth considered them for a moment before slowly walking forward to stand toe to toe with Glorfindel. The ocean followed her in, waves crashing ever more rapidly against the shore. Despite being barefoot and over a head shorter, there was no questioning who held the power.

"Is that so, oh mighty lord?" she asked softly, voice thrumming with power. "I imagine your hands are as pure as the white city you hailed from. Now, tell me why would such a perfect utopia have a designated spot for executions? Was it for show? No, we both know it was not, for that was where my king's cousin met his end, and who knows how many others. Were you the one to lead him to the edge, or did you just watch?  Perhaps I will give you the same choice you gave Eol: die here tonight, or remain caged until you die here in the future."

Ice clawed at his heart at the words. Without thinking he slipped from Harthriel's grasp, pushing through the crowd until he was at Glorfindel's side. He would have placed himself firmly between Glorfindel and the threat had the other elf not thrown out an arm to keep Erestor safely behind him. Only when Círeth's midnight-blue eyes met his did he realize the folly of his actions, though by then it was much too late. In all likelihood it was too late the moment they stepped into the canyon.

"Well, hello there little one," she grinned viciously with a chilling spark of recognition in her eye. "The years since our first meeting have not been kind to you, now have they? I cannot say that I am disappointed, though I am somewhat surprised to see you here, on my doorstep, of all places. You must not place a high value on your own life."

"He and I are bonded, we cannot be separated,"  blurted out Gildor, panic evident in his tone.

Círeth shot him a scornful glace over her shoulder. "We all know that is a load of shit. Do not waste my time with such lies."

"He-"

"What?" she snapped, hair whipping in the rising wind. The stars suddenly seemed small and cold as darkness pressed in on all sides. "Will you tell me that he, too, had no quarrel with Doriath? What of the Havens of Sirion, then? Will you try to tell me that he has never hurt anyone either, or does being an easy lay absolve one of their sins in your eyes, Gildor?"

"I am here at the bidding of Lady Galadriel," stuttered Erestor, finding his voice. "It is urgent that my party cross the bay to Umbar with all possible haste."

Círeth's eyes narrowed. "Galadriel does not command me, and if she knew what was best she would not associate with those whose hands drip with blood."

"Galadriel always knows what is best," retorted Erestor, glaring back. Cold water coiled around his ankles, pulling incessantly toward the sea.

"You are brave, little murderer, but tell me, do you feel blessed?" Círeth spat. Erestor flinched as a log of driftwood cracked over the fire, spitting angry purple sparks into the sky. "If my men were to march you to the top of the cliffs and send you over the edge, do you think Ulmo would save you as he did my little princess, or would he let Ossë drag your body beneath the waves?"

"Lady Círeth, that is enough" Lindir cut in softly.

His words, while quiet, were heavy with power. They curled around the little cluster of elves, radiating a soothing warmth wherever they settled. Erestor shot the young elf a wild glance. If he could sense the magic laced through his words, no doubt an elf of Círeth's age and might could as well. His mind was made up; if they all made it out of this, he would force Gildor to teach the child better survival instincts.

"Do not tangle yourself in grievances you do not fully understand, my songbird," Círeth hissed, eyes not leaving Erestor's face.

Lindir, however, was unwavering. "I understand more than most give me credit for," he replied steadily, "and while it may be your right as Lady of this land to demand their lives for your past hurts, it will not bring back those you have lost. You condemn them as kinslayers, yet in having them put to death when they came here peacefully seeking aid, would you not make yourself and your people kinslayers in turn?"

"They have lost the right to be called my kin when they so lightly took the lives of their own."

"Well, I am no great lord or lady of ages past, so I do not hold such high standards. To me, they are my kin. If you were to harm them, using your logic could I not demand your death in turn?"

"Your arguments are tedious and hold little threat when you stand here amongst my lands," sighed Círeth, though some of the venom seemed to be draining from her voice.

An innocent smile graced Lindir's lips as he met Círeth's gaze. "I am but a minstrel-in-training, my lady. I am of little threat regardless. I merely thought to provide another prospective for you to consider."

Círeth glanced back at Erestor and Glorfindel. Glorfindel still had his arm protectively between Erestor and the sea elves. Erestor, meanwhile, had brought a hand up to the small of Glorfindel's back. With a disgusted snort, she turned back to Lindir. "Your friends are lucky that I am so fond of you, songbird. They may have one another. May they bring each other more suffering than I could bestow."

With that, she whirled upon Gildor, who beamed back at her. "You," she spat, pointing a finger at his chest, "are on thin fucking ice."

"The best ice for skating upon," quipped Gildor cheerfully.

Círeth raised one eyebrow. "I assure you it is not."

"Perhaps, but I am oh-so-practiced," Gildor grinned.

A sigh escaped the lady's lips, along with what was likely the remainder of her patience. "Wine!" she shouted into the crowd, trusting that someone would find a glass and deliver it into her waiting hand.

"Very well," she continued, "I shall let the kinslayers live, though no aid shall they receive from Edhellond. A merchant ship from Umbar is scheduled to arrive within the week. You can plead for passage from them. You," she said, pointing at Glorfindel, "shall stay and report upon any news you have from beyond our mountains and across the sea. That one," she continued, motioning toward Erestor, "I have no use for. Remove yourself to the southern cape. If Ossë has not claimed him by the time the ship has arrived, then he may depart with you, never to return here. Do I make myself clear?"

"Abundantly so," affirmed Gildor with a small bow. "Could we gather supplies and some sort of shelter for my companion's camping trip? Something small will do, he is not very large, as you can see."

Círeth  fixed him with a withering gaze before glancing back at Erestor over her shoulder. Someone had, indeed, deposited a glass of wine in her hand. She drank deeply from the goblet as she turned to make her way back to the dais. "No," she replied silkily,  "he can burn."

Gildor cast a nervous glace at Erestor, who only shook his head minutely, eager to leave the gathering on the beach. With a final bow, he backed away, then began the long trek to the southern cape. One instrument at a time, the music began to play once more, it's haunting melody following Erestor as he left Glorfindel, Gildor, and Lindir behind.

. . .

He had walked, slowly and clumsily as his feet sunk into the blood-red sand, for what felt like most the night before finally finding reaching the far cape. From the greying sky, he likely had a few hours left before dawn. Not wanting to fall asleep and leave himself exposed to the sun and greedy gulls, he curled up around his pack for protection before finally pulling a blanket over his body, head and all. He had now doubt he looked as wretched as he felt, and that somehow seemed appropriate.

He didn't know how much time had passed, or if he had slept or only imagined sleeping. Eventually Erestor became aware of another presence on the beach with him. He hadn't heard anything over the waves, he just knew he was there. Pulling the rumpled bedding off his head, he squinted through the late afternoon sun at Glorfindel. Neither said a word. Erestor watched silently as Glorfindel floundered with the stakes of a small canopy he must have somehow sweet-talked away from the elves of Edhellond. Whatever he was trying to do to the poor structure did not appear to be going well.

“I think that is as good as it’s going to get,” Erestor called out, looking between the elegant canopies delicately fluttering in the wind at the far end of the cove and back to their own awkward jumble of stakes and fabric.

“It’s not my fault these tents are completely impractical,” snorted Glorfindel stubbornly. “Clearly they were designed for aesthetics, not functionality.”

Erestor huffed in amusement. “Ah yes, sometimes I forget you were one of the Gondolindrim, a people know for valuing functionality over beauty.”

Glorfindel glared at him a moment, before finally turning back to their sad little tent. "Laugh all you want, but at least now we have some semblance of shade so you won't burn to a crisp."

"We? You have all the shade you want. Go back and wait with Lindir and the Company. No doubt Gildor will settle the issue of the ships soon enough. Besides, you will miss the solstice celebration tonight."

Despite making next to zero improvements, Glorfindel continued to fiddle with the tent in lieu of eye contact. "The solstice isn't celebrated the same in Gondolin. It's a solemn affair; a time for reflection and remembrance. Besides, I spent the evening in the Haven, and that will have to be enough to pass for polite."

"Glorfindel," sighed Erestor, "we aren't in Gondolin. Perhaps it would be good to make new memories of this, of all days?"

"Nay, for me this is not a day meant for revelry with strangers. It should be spent with loved ones."

Erestor would have given Glorfindel a look, but it was difficult when the other elf would not meet his eyes. "Fine," he huffed, dragging his nest of blankets with him as he emerged from the wrappings and made his way over to the other elf. Even after he settled the bedding under the canopy, it still looked more like a sad heap of linens washed up from a shipwreck than the graceful pergola it was no doubt meant to be. Given the company, Erestor strongly preferred it to the settlement across the beach. "I get the shaded side," he sniffed. "I have no doubt you just grow more golden in the sunlight. Do you absorb it? Like photosynthesis? Like a flower? Will your hair get even more blonde?"

Glorfindel looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. "You're rambling, Erestor."

"I am asking valid questions."

"Speak truly, Erestor," Glorfindel prodded gently, "are you alright? After everything that has happened?"

Fiddling with the blankets provided an outlet for his anxiety, but unfortunately it did little to escape Glorfindel's question. "No," he replied tensely, "but I have not been alright in a very long time and if I am to speak truly, I think I have quite forgotten what it is like."

"Come here, Erestor," motioned Glorfindel softly, promising to break him with a single, gentle touch.

His limbs thrummed with the desire to slap the sad smile off of Glorfindel's face, but a greater part of him acknowledged that he likely warranted the other's sorrow. "Don't look at me like that," he snapped irritably. "I am not some poor, inferior wretch in need of your pity."

"Do you always resort so quickly to fighting?" sighed Glorfindel.

"Yes," Erestor replied stubbornly.

Glorfindel leveled him with a determine look at that, and though Erestor backed away a few steps he was not nearly quick enough to avoid Glorfindel seizing him by the arms and dragging him down to the blankets. Erestor fell gracelessly and quickly righted himself and wrapped his arms around his knees, protecting himself from any more of Glorfindel's kind gestures.

It was with a certain amount of exasperation that Glorfindel continued. "I could not pity you, Erestor. For one, that would require a certain emotional distance that I do not possess. For another, do you think I am doing any better than you?"

Erestor frowned at this, eyeing the golden elf next to him. Despite Erestor's outburst, it seemed that Glorfindel had still ensured that he ended up on the shaded side of the canopy, and that alone was almost enough tear down his walls. "Are you alright?" he asked, somewhat abashed.

"No," replied Glorfindel with a broken laugh. "You know, I wasn't a hero this time last year. At least, not from my perspective. The only songs sung about me were bawdy tavern tunes composed in jest by Ecthelion and Egalmoth when they were too deep in their cups. Now, my whole world has been turned upside down and I neither know what to expect nor what is expected of me." 

“When we first met, you were right to question why the Valar chose me,” Glorfindel continued, “ I wasn’t the most valiant, the most just, or the most wise. You wouldn’t know it from reading these accounts—nay these fables about my life—but most days I felt like I was hardly holding myself together while praying no one else would notice, as though I was being pulled in so many ways I would come  apart at the seams. I just wish I knew why it was that the Valar chose me. At least then I could have some semblance of assurance as to why I am here.”

"Well, I suppose we cannot know for certain, we will just have to have faith that you are meant to be here,” mused Erestor. Though he sat close enough to touch, his mind seemed leagues away, gazing into the West.

"For what it is worth, I am sorry." Glorfindel's words were so soft Erestor just about lost them to the wind.

"For what?" Erestor laughed, bemused.

"For not knowing with certainty why I was the one chosen, or if the Valar shall return any others. I would give you hope, if it were in my power." Glorfindel swallowed, before continuing haltingly. “Will you wait for him?”

"For who?" asked Erestor, knowing damn well who.

Glorfindel laughed sadly, shooting Erestor an exasperated look. “I hear that he showed valor that was rare even amongst the Noldor before his end. Having known his father, and his grandfather before him, I am sure he was also quite fair.”

Erestor sighed, and when he finally spoke there was little emotion left in his voice. “He was both fair and valiant, but more than that he was imbued with an intrinsic goodness that even for all my years made me want to learn to be better. But in spite of that, I must say no, I don’t think I shall wait for him,” he said evenly. “For one, I don’t think it would matter, amongst other reasons.”

Glorfindel nodded, falling silent after that despite midnight still being hours away, and Erestor followed suit.  It would be the kind of night that stars longed for, with the moon little more than a smooth gash carved into the darkening sky. There was a certain haunting element possessed solely by the crescent moon. Whether it heralded the intentions of a new beginning or the surrender of an ending, there was always that tantalizing promise of change just around the corner out of sight.

Urged on by a chill wind, the ocean crept slowly toward them, rolling closer with each wave as the tide came in for the night. Shivering, Erestor curled against Glorfindel. The roar of the waves gradually drowned his voice of reason and in an uncharacteristic fit of recklessness, he threw caution to the salt-soaked wind and twined both arms around Glorfindel's own. Without hesitation, Glorfindel reached out his free arm to Erestor as they melded into one another, two bodies desiring to be one.

His heart, cripple and inadequate as it surely was, swelled in response. Glorfindel was right; this was where he belonged. Here, where Erestor's head fit perfectly against the crook of his neck and his short hair tickled Erestor's nose.  Here, where they could cling to one another with none but the fading crescent moon and the vast nothingness of the ocean as witnesses.

The nightmares clawed at the corners of his mind, the ghosts of his younger self loath to be forgotten, but they would find no purchase to sink their hooks into tonight. Tonight he was whole--no fractured memories and lurking fears to exploit. It would not last. The sun would rise and the spell would be broken, but for now he allowed himself this short, sweet moment in time before reality set back in.

The ocean wind delighted in playing with his cropped hair, blowing it around his head like a halo. He was the picture of serenity: eyes closed, golden eyelashes painting long shadows across proud cheek bones while his brow was smooth and untroubled. So absorbed was he in his observations, Erestor would have failed to notice when the first light of summer broke with all the gentleness of a bittersweet lullaby had it not been for the way the gradually approaching dawn painted Glorfindel's sea-tangled locks silver then gold in turn as the sun crept steadily over the jagged mountain peaks to the East.

When it finally reached the horizon, Glorfindel began to sing and Erestor was lost. At the sound of his voice rising into the sky, something shattered within Erestor and he knew that he would never be able to put the pieces back together the same again. He was so beautiful,  it made Erestor want to scream and weep in equal parts. If he had any goodness left in him he would abandon this desire now for surely he would only bring further pain and darkness into Glorfindel's life.

"You can join, you know. Everyone is meant to sing to welcome the sun back," said Glorfindel, voice somewhat raspy from lack of use throughout the night.

Erestor shook his head, avoiding Glorfindel's gaze. "I think not. Your voice is lovely, I will likely just ruin it."

Beneath his palms he could feel Glorfindel's strong pulse, warm and so very alive. He was ensnared, unable to escape the trap he was falling into even if he wanted to. This was all wrong and could in no way be real, but for an illusion it felt so perfect. His eyes traced the line of Glorfindel's neck to his lips, lingering there until the golden lord reached out with his free hand to tip Erestor's chin until their eyes met. The gaze was at once too intimate and not nearly enough.

Glorfindel disentangled his arm, shifting slightly until they were once more side by side but this time facing one another. Erestor's skin felt paper-thin. The loss of contact had left him shaking, but when Glorfindel reached out once more, he swore that there was nothing baring Glorfindel's touch from seeping down to his very bone.

Strong hands grasped either side of his face, fingers weaving against his scalp as warm lips were pressed to his forehead. It was less a kiss and more an act of desperation, one that Erestor met in kind. When Glorfindel's body bent into his own, Erestor was already waiting. One hand tangled itself into that legendary hair as the other clung to his waist and as close as they were, Erestor desired to be closer still.

Círeth was right; he must not place a high value on his own life for surely when this ended, he would be broken for good. Whatever was growing between them could not be meant to last, but with each passing day the dark, twisting corners in his soul were unraveling until he no longer knew where to hide. Perhaps if he didn't move, didn't speak, there would be naught he could do to ruin this, as he no doubt would eventually. Wearily, he slumped against Glorfindel, body going limp. Glorfindel held him tighter, as though in doing so he could stop time and keep Erestor by his side forever, and Erestor prayed that it would.