Thank you to daw the minstrel for beta reading this chapter.

Chapter 7: Healing

“Elrohir jumped off the bridge into the river?” asked Elrond incredulously.

“He did,” answered Glorfindel softly. “I would have thrashed him if I had not been so proud of his courage and selflessness.”

“His actions were unnecessary?”

“In hindsight, yes. But had Arwen fallen out of the wagon, Elrohir would have been her only hope.  She might have been sucked beneath the debris and never found.”

Elrohir heard snatches of the conversation as he fought towards wakefulness, the words drifting through the haze that clouded his mind.  He stirred slightly, and felt a warm body pressed close to his own. He realized without opening his eyes that it was Elladan, a presence as much a part of himself as his own body.  Elladan’s hand covered his own, and he squeezed that comforting grip gratefully.

“Elrohir? Are you awake?” Elrohir felt Elladan’s breath on his cheek, the words whispered in his ear.

“Yes, but I think Glorfindel is going to throw me back in the river,” answered Elrohir with a tentative smile.

“I am sure he will wait until you are fully recovered,” replied Elladan with a low laugh. “Adar is here.”

Elrohir felt tears pool in his eyes. “I heard his voice,” he choked.

“Elrohir, what is it?” asked Elladan, concern in his voice.

Elrohir drew in as deep a breath as his injured lungs allowed, attempting to gain control of his emotions.  Before he could answer, he felt the presence of another standing near and finally opened his eyes. His father stood before him, his face unreadable. When his father did not speak, Elrohir closed his eyes again as tears ran slowly down his cheeks.

Suddenly his father was on his knees beside him, carefully lifting him into his arms. His touch was tender, and Elrohir pressed his face into his father’s tunic, the warmth and scent of his father a soothing balm to his senses.  He felt the hand that he still believed could fix anything stroke his hair. Even as he accepted his father’s comfort, he grew angry with himself that his father’s approval still meant so much to him that, even now as an adult, he could be reduced to tears by his father’s displeasure.

“Elrohir, are you in pain?” asked Elrond gently.

Elrohir was in pain, but he knew that to answer yes meant only more drugs that would numb both the discomfort and his mind. He shook his head, keeping his eyes closed.

“What is wrong, Elrohir?” asked Elrond again.

In his pain and confusion, Elrohir was unsure how to respond, but he had been a compliant child and that aspect of his personality was not going to change overnight.  “I would do it again, Adar,” he rasped out, his face still buried against his father’s chest.

There was silence for a few moments, and then sounds of movement near him and gentle laughter.  “Elfling, look at me, please,” came Glorfindel’s musical voice.

“Not an elfling,” answered Elrohir without thought as he opened his eyes. He found himself looking into the amused yet tear filled eyes of his father, and beyond him the twinkling blue eyes of Glorfindel.

“Yes, you are,” laughed Glorfindel.  “All grown up into a wonderful adult, but still my elfling.  Now listen carefully, for you heard only a little of what we said and your mind is clouded by the potions we keep pouring into you.”

Elrohir never could stay angry with Glorfindel and found himself smiling at the golden warrior who teased him while making him feel loved. He nodded.

“You made a split second decision when you saw Arwen falling into the river.  Decisions like that are always proved right or wrong based on their outcome, and hindsight fails to take into account what might have happened.  It turns out you did not need to jump into the river.  But how much worse would we all feel if Arwen had drowned because we rescued the wagon and she was not in it? Your brave, wonderful, courageous and selfless act remains all of those things, for it was your willingness to sacrifice that made it so, not its ultimate necessity. Am I clear, elfling?”

As Glorfindel spoke, his knuckles gently caressed Elrohir’s cheek.

“Yes,” answered Elrohir.

He turned his gaze back to his father, then, and the expression on his father’s face nearly took his breath away. Elrond leaned forward and kissed Elrohir on both cheeks and his forehead, and Elrohir could feel his father’s tears.  “You think I could be angry with you for what you did?” he murmured.

Elrohir smiled, a feeling of warmth spreading through him at the touch of his father’s hands. He felt like he was floating, and was reminded of the one who had held him up. “And Elladan saved my life again. He pulled me out of the water so I would not drown, just like when we were young.”

Elladan laughed. “Now you owe me twice, muindor-nín,” he teased his twin. “And Adar threw caution to the wind and came after us, just like when we were young.” He paused, thinking.  “Adar, if you and Naneth have any more children, I think you should skip the year of their thirteenth begetting day.  Or at least not allow the elfling anywhere near water.”

Everyone laughed, and Elrohir closed his eyes again as he enjoyed the sound as well as the feeling of safety that came from being in his father’s arms. “You are breathing much more easily, Elrohir. How is the pain?”

Elrohir opened his eyes again, his thoughts drifting from how wonderful it was to hear his father’s voice to amazement at how heavy his eyelids had grown in just the short while he had been awake. “The pain is lessening,” he answered.

“I am still going to give you something to dull it.” Elrond started to ease Elrohir back to his blanket, but Elrohir grasped his sleeve.

The smile that covered Elrond’s face was radiant, and it was Glorfindel who mixed the pain draught and held it so Elrohir could drink it. Elrohir slipped back into sleep content, rocked gently in his father’s arms.

* * *

Arwen was sure she was dreaming.  The sun was warm and bright, and she was snuggled comfortably in her father’s arms. She must have dozed off on the swing again, she decided.  She always liked waking up in her ada’s arms. He held her just right, not too tightly but tightly enough so she felt very safe and secure.  Her eyes slowly came into focus, and she looked up to see her father smiling down at her.

“Ada,” she murmured sleepily.

“Hello, Arwen,” answered Elrond with a smile.

She snuggled closer for a moment, sighing, but when she moved her hand it ached. Memory slowly returned to her, and she realized the last time she had seen her ada he was on the other side of the river from her.  She stared at her father, speechless for a moment, but then grabbed his tunic with her good hand.  “Ada!”

Elrond laughed and leaned forward to kiss her. “I am so glad to have you safe in my arms again,” he said as he hugged her close.

“Oh, Ada,” she said softly. “I do not want to ever leave home or be away from you and Nana again.” She closed her eyes and sighed, still held tight in her father’s embrace, her face buried in his hair.  She loved the smell of his hair.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?”

Arwen began stretching her limbs as her father relaxed his hold, then reached her uninjured hand up to touch the back of her head. She felt the matted hair at the base of her skull and ran her fingers through her long mane, drawing some strands forward so she could see them. She frowned, for her hair was dirty and lifeless, and it even smelled bad.

She pushed her good hand against her father’s thigh, trying to raise herself into a sitting position, and was grateful when he helped her sit upright and supported her.  She fingered the material of whatever it was she was wearing, and pulled it up slightly to look at her legs and feet.  Her feet were dirty.  She bit her lip, trying to hold back her tears, but they spilled down her cheeks anyway.

“Arwen, what is it? Where does it hurt?” asked Elrond, concerned.

Arwen felt her cheeks grow warm and she blushed. Her father pulled her back against his chest, her tears dampening his own tunic.

“Ada, I am filthy,” she whispered, embarrassed, then added, “and I am not wearing anything underneath this . . . whatever I am wearing.”

Elrond laughed aloud and kissed the top of her dirty head.  “You are wearing one of Glorfindel’s tunics, and it does not matter to me how dirty you are.  You are alive and you are safe in my arms.   I care about nothing else, little one.”

Arwen was silent, her lower lip still trembling as she considered this.  Her father tipped up her chin to look at her face, and his laughter stopped, replaced by a sweet smile.  “If your wounds are healing well, I think we can give you a bath.  We can heat some water and wash your hair, and you will look and feel much better. Would you like that?”

Arwen nodded and nestled back against her father’s chest.  Ada could make anything better.

* * *

Erestor slowly breathed in and leisurely counted to five, then released the air while completing the count to ten.  His fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh, and he jabbed himself hard in the flesh as he considered the long list of grievances he held against the Lord of Imladris.  Shorter jabs followed, each signifying an item on the list, and it was only when he realized that his leg was getting sore that Erestor ceased the self-abuse.  I am going to have a bruise. He stared down at his thigh for a moment, then jabbed it hard one last time.  That is his fault too!   He stared ahead at Celebrían’s back, the sting of her words still fresh.  In her mind, he was the one keeping her from her children, and that made him the enemy.

“Erestor, we will stop here for the night,” announced Athranen.  The captain spoke to Erestor, but his eyes strayed to the Lady Celebrían.   Erestor nodded, indicating his agreement, and watched as the soldiers began to dismount and lead their horses to an area sufficient for grazing.  He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply before nudging his own horse into a trot.  Several of the guards scrambled out of his way, and others were already remounting to follow him.  As he passed Celebrían, he deftly reached out to grab the bridle of her horse, then leapt on to the path when the horse obediently stopped.

“Lady Celebrían, we stop for the night,” he informed her politely.

Celebrían glared at him. She nudged her horse in the side, and the poor animal whinnied in confusion at the one telling him to go while another told him to stay. Erestor held the reins firmly in hand.

“You may stop for the night; I plan to continue,” said Celebrían finally, steel in her voice.

Erestor leaned against the horse, murmuring soothing words in its ear as he himself began counting again.

“What are you doing?” asked Celebrían, exasperated when he refused to get out of her way.

“Counting.”

“Counting what?”

“Numbers.  I have just reached twenty.”

“Why?”

“Because ten is no longer sufficient,” snapped Erestor.

Celebrían slid from her horse and grabbed the bridle, but Erestor refused to relinquish his hold. “No longer sufficient for what?” she demanded as she tugged on the leather strap.

Erestor’s eyes darkened as his grip on the bridle tightened. He forced himself to breathe evenly as he faced the irate silver elf before him. “No longer sufficient to ensure that I choose my words carefully, reminding myself that you are the Lady of Imladris and have suffered a grievous several days with regards to your children,” Erestor almost snarled in return. “We are moving with all due haste to the bridge to meet Elrond and your children, but the horses must rest, the scouts must be relieved, everyone must eat, and this includes you.”

Celebrían released the bridle and stepped back, the expression on her face changing from anger to shock to embarrassment.  She looked back down the path at the guards already stopping to set up camp, and there was obvious relief on her face that no one was watching them. She turned back to face Erestor.

“I. . .,” she began, then faltered. She turned away again, this time her gaze to the northwest where she knew her family remained.  “I am sorry, Erestor,” she said softly. “I just want to be with them.”

Erestor felt his frustration dissipate and compassion again filled his heart, as he forgave and forgot her doggedness and determination to do as she wished in spite of their counsel.  Her children are injured, he reminded himself. She cannot help that she was born to such stubborn and powerful people, or that she inherited these qualities from them.  I certainly cannot blame her because her husband made me responsible to ensure she did not follow him into certain danger either.  He touched her gently on the arm, and then escorted her back to the camp, the horse following at their heels. 

Celebrían chose a high flat rock on which to sit, her back to the camp and her gaze to the northwest. Erestor laid out a bedroll on the smooth surface, and wrapped another blanket around her shoulders.  As darkness fell and she finally lay down to rest, he moved to stand behind the rock, one watchful eye on the one he had been chosen to protect and the other on the darkness beyond her.

* * *

Elladan sat next to the fire with Arwen wrapped in a blanket and snug in his arms.  Her hair was freshly washed and drying now in the heat of the fire, again glowing with its normal sheen.   Elrond had bathed her, using care around the still healing wounds, and even had made her giggle as he pulled out still more pieces of plaster from her skin.  He had expressed his pride at how she had born the pain, but Elrond could tell the whole process had tired her. Elladan had been brushing her hair, but now she was leaning back against his chest, relaxed.  He pulled her hair from between their bodies and braided it into one thick braid that he laid over her shoulder.

Elrond watched them from across the fire, needle and thread in hand as he further altered Glorfindel’s tunic.  He kept a watchful eye on Elrohir, who still lay sleeping a few feet away.

“You should sew a flower there,” commented Glorfindel as he sat down next to Elrond.

Elrond looked up at the tall warrior, expecting to see mirth in his eyes, but found none.  Glorfindel seemed quite serious.

“It already has little golden flowers,” he answered with a smile as he pointed to the tiny embroidered flowers near the hem.

“Arwen needs brighter colored flowers,” replied Glorfindel as he studied the drowsy elfling in Elladan’s arms. “Bright blue, or pink or red.” With that he stood and began rummaging through the items that had been salvaged from the wagon and their own packs.  With a triumphant laugh he held up bright blue and red ribbons.  A few more moments of searching and he had a needle and some gaily colored threads. He sat back down next to Elrond and waited patiently until the alterations were done.

“Now it is my turn,” Glorfindel informed them as he took the garment in hand. He grinned at the confused look on Arwen’s face, then took the red ribbon and cut a length of it and began sewing it to the tunic. After a few moments work, he took up green thread, with a single strand of yellow mixed in, and completed the stem of the flower.  He shook it out and admired his handiwork.

“Glorfindel, when did you learn to do this?” asked Elrond, admiring the work.

“May I see?” asked Arwen, curiosity brightening her eyes.

Glorfindel moved to sit near Arwen, his face lighting in a smile when he saw the joy in her face.

“Glorfindel, this is beautiful! It is a perfect rose!” exclaimed Arwen. “Please, make another one?” She suddenly sat up straight and looked at her father.  “Ada!  In my bag I had a pink ribbon!  Did my bag survive?”

Elrond rose and began searching through the bag that had held his daughter’s playthings. In the bottom of the bag was her embroidery. “Arwen, all of your embroidery is here!” he called to her.

Soon Arwen was in Glorfindel’s lap, and the two were surrounded by ribbons and thread. Arwen sat mesmerized as Glorfindel showed her each step of making the ribbons and threads into a beautiful garden of flowers. “Here, I will hold the ribbon and you sew it,” encouraged Glorfindel.  Even with her left hand she was able to draw the needle in and out while Glorfindel held the ribbons and maneuvered them for her.

“I did not know Glorfindel could sew. Am I dreaming?” came Elrohir’s hoarse voice.

Elrond rose to grab a water skin, while Elladan carefully helped his twin sit and then sat behind him to support his weight.  Elrohir drank thirstily and then allowed his brother and father to tend to his needs.  The healing touch of his father lessened his pain, and he smiled gratefully at Elrond. And even though he told his father he was not hungry, he obediently ate bits of lembas that Elladan held to his lips.

“Elrohir, Glorfindel is making flowers!” called Arwen.  She smiled at her brother, remembering how he always helped her pick out colors for her embroidery.

“Glorfindel, when did you learn to do that?” asked Elrohir, his interest piqued at the garment Arwen held up for him to see.

Glorfindel smiled tenderly at his other elfling and answered, “I learned this in Valinor.”

Elrohir’s face brightened and his eyes cleared somewhat.  “Glorfindel, please continue your story. You were waking up in your new body,” he remembered.

“So I was, and an odd experience it was too,” recalled Glorfindel, momentarily stopping sewing as he thought back to that time. “The next time I recall awaking, my mind and body seemed a little more coordinated . . ..”

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

His eyes focused as his mind came into awareness, and a smile crossed his face as Glorfindel recalled that he was re-embodied. He stretched his arms and legs, moved his hands and feet, and then paused to contemplate how soft the linen coverlet over him felt.  Music could be heard, but its source was not obvious to him.  Overhead, a carving of trees and birds so detailed it appeared real caught his attention, and he gazed at it, fascinated.

“There is much to look at, much to entice the senses,” came the voice of Olórin.

Glorfindel looked about, but did not see him.  He pressed his hands down against the couch upon which he was lying and attempted to rise to a sitting position. Suddenly Olórin was standing over him, smiling. He picked up Glorfindel’s hand, and Glorfindel grasped the hand with pleasure.  Olórin slid an arm behind Glorfindel and helped him to sit.

The world seemed to spin for a moment, but gradually Glorfindel gained his bearings.  Olórin sat beside him, smiling, and he seemed to take as much joy as Glorfindel did in each new experience. After a few moments spent learning control of his body, Glorfindel turned to Olórin. “Stand?” he said and laughed at his own voice. “May I stand?” he repeated.

“You may do whatever you desire!” laughed Olórin in return.  He pushed the coverlet off Glorfindel and kept an arm near as Glorfindel swung his legs off the bed and rose. He nearly fell, but Olórin wrapped an arm about the waist of the joyous elf and steadied him.

Glorfindel immediately began to move towards the sunlight he could see streaming in from a nearby entrance. His first step was a stumble, but his feet quickly learned to work in tandem and Olórin moved in stride with him to the opening.  

“Ai!” he cried as he stepped into the golden light. He spread his arms out wide and closed his eyes as he turned his face up to Arien’s rays.  He breathed in deeply and felt a tear trickle down his cheek. The warmth was like a caress upon his skin and he reveled in the sensation. “I know I shall rejoice when I see the stars again,” he said, “but it has been long since I have felt this kind of warmth.”

He opened his eyes again, and began to take in his surroundings. He knew he was in Valmar, but he had last seen these lands when he was just a child. He had attended festivals in the city of the Valar, and he searched deep to recall the memories of those times. He turned and looked around him, and would have begun walking had Olórin not gently grasped his arm.

“Not yet, Glorfindel,” laughed Olórin. “I think before we venture out, you are in need of a few things.”

Glorfindel looked at the Maia curiously. When he did not answer, Olórin’s eyebrows raised in amusement and his gaze swept down and then back up Glorfindel.  Glorfindel looked down at himself and then back at Olórin. 

“I am not wearing any clothing,” he finally said, his brow furrowing.

“They do not come with the body,” laughed Olórin. “However, we did think to have some made.  Come with me.”

Glorfindel walked back into the antechamber with a last, wistful look at the sun that caused Olórin to laugh again, “This will not take long, my friend.”

Several boxes were stacked on a table inside, although Glorfindel had not seen them earlier. Olórin began opening and rummaging through them, drawing forth light silk undergarments. After a few comical attempts to don them, Glorfindel laughed and let Olórin help dress him.  His movements seemed to be growing more coordinated by the minute; however, the tiny fasteners were too much for his fingers.

“Here is your tunic,” said Olórin as he opened another box and pulled out a white tunic made of the softest silk. Glorfindel drew in his breath at the beauty of the garment before him.  It was long, with a finely stitched hem at the bottom and along the edges of the slit that would come up to the top of his thigh. Embroidered all along that hem were tiny golden flowers along a vine of veined green.  An occasional blue flower provided contrast.  The stitching of tone-on-tone threads was of the same vine pattern and covered much of the tunic. Along the front of the tunic on either side of the flap of the fabric covering the fasteners were more flowers - turquoise blue, mixed with golden yellow again, only this time cunningly wrought from ribbons.  Blue braid edged the collar and the end of the sleeves.

“The colors of my house,” he murmured as Olórin helped him slide his arms into the sleeves and fasten the long row of clasps down the front. The trousers followed, less ornate, but still exquisitely done. “These were made for me.”

“Yes, of course,” answered Olórin, puzzled, as he slipped shoes on to Glorfindel’s feet. “You seem surprised.”

Glorfindel did not answer as his mind raced with questions. Did someone from his house make the clothing? Did they know he was again in Aman?  Were there others, also re-embodied and waiting for him?

“No, Glorfindel,” came Olórin’s answer to the unspoken questions. “Everything has a time and a purpose.” He paused, his searching gaze considering Glorfindel for a few moments.  “Now you are dressed and may walk about Valmar.”

Glorfindel did not rise however. His brow still furrowed, his thoughts seemed to swirl around him. There was much to see and experience – textures and colors and smells and tastes. There was such joy in just being in his body again! But already a slight discord was pervading his spirit.  There were none left of the House of the Golden Flower. Those he served were either in Mandos’s Halls or still in Middle-earth. He had no purpose, except to himself.

“Come, Glorfindel. Let us walk about Valmar and visit the gardens of Lórien, where you will be staying.  It has been long since you have held a harp in your hands, and that kind of practice will help you to gain the fine control of your fingers. Vairë’s handmaidens made your clothing; we will meet them and you may see what other items of beauty they have created.  Perhaps they will even teach you!” As Olórin spoke he had pulled Glorfindel to his feet and guided him back into the sunshine. His soothing voice and plans gave purpose to Glorfindel’s steps, and his words reminded Glorfindel that he had much to master before he could again serve anyone. “In time, Manwë will wish to speak to you and then your future will be discussed.”

Glorfindel remembered those words through all of the days he stayed in Lórien with Olórin. He again played the harp, painted and even did learn at the hands of Vairë’s handmaidens, who found him a willing and apt pupil. But all the while his thoughts drifted to the mansion of Manwë and Varda. He wondered if he would stand in the Ring of Doom to hear his fate before all, or if it would be a more private meeting. Then one morning Olórin came to him.

“Eönwë, herald to Manwë, has summoned you,” he announced.  “I shall accompany you.”

Glorfindel dressed in the garb given to him that first day, and braided his hair in the style of his house. He walked between Eönwë and Olórin, who spoke as old friends, Indeed, Glorfindel reminded himself, both were servants to Manwë.  In the distance, outside of the golden gates of the city, Glorfindel could see that the thrones at the Ring of Doom were empty. Eönwë led them instead to Manwë’s mansion and into his receiving Hall.  Of all the items of grandeur and beauty in that place, none surpassed the one sitting on the throne. Even before Eönwë announced his presence, Glorfindel had fallen to his knees before Manwë, King of the Valar, and bowed his head.

“Rise, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower,” commanded Manwë.

Glorfindel rose to his feet and faced Manwë. He actually trembled, not with fear, but with awe of being in the presence of one who alone had the ear of Ilúvatar.  The face of the Vala was strong and stern, yet also wise and just. He seemed to know the depths of Glorfindel’s mind, to test the purity of his heart and the strength of his will with his powerful gaze. Glorfindel did not flinch at this invasion, but bared his heart.

“A task I set before you, Glorfindel,” said Manwë unexpectedly. “You desire to serve your king.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Glorfindel.

“Elrond, son of Eärendil, yet resides in Middle-earth, where shadow again grows. You may return to Middle-earth to protect and serve Eärendil’s son.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Glorfindel as joy filled his heart.

Eönwë approached at a nod from Manwë and presented to Glorfindel an ornate sword. Even as Glorfindel accepted the sword, he could feel power coursing through its metal. He pulled it from its scabbard and could hear it hum and feel it vibrate. Runes of protection and power were carved into the length of the metal. Stunned by the power and majesty of the sword in his hands, he suddenly realized that his attention had strayed from Manwë to the sword.  He quickly looked back at that Valar, who appeared amused.

“That sword will never fail you.  Servants of the enemy will flee when you wield it against them.”

Glorfindel swung the sword in an arc, feeling the perfect balance and grip of the hilt. He lifted it high into the air, and then slowly lowered it.  With the sword still unsheathed, he knelt and laid it at Manwë’s feet.

“Will you accept my oath of fealty in the absence of my king?” he asked.

Manwë actually smiled.  “There is one who may accept the oath on behalf of the King.”

From a side entrance, a figure entered. He stopped and bowed before Manwë, and then walked to face Glorfindel.  He seemed ethereal, and a star was bound to his brow. A great sea captain he seemed, yet the dark hair and grey eyes . . ..

“Lord Eärendil?” Glorfindel finally asked.

Eärendil smiled. “I am he,” he answered. “I would know you anywhere, Lord Glorfindel. Chief of the House of the Golden Flower, mighty captain of Gondolin, Balrog slayer. I watched you die defending us. Yet you are willing to return?”

“Aye,” answered Glorfindel. He placed the sword at Eärendil’s feet and knelt before him. Even as he swore his oath and Eärendil accepted his service on behalf of their king, Glorfindel was stunned by the sense of sadness he perceived in Eärendil.

Later, after being excused by Manwë and allowed to return to the gardens of Lorien, Glorfindel sat quietly by a reflecting pool, the sword laid across his knees.

“Eärendil accomplished a great mission, one foretold by Ulmo,” explained Olórin as he sat down next to Glorfindel. “Because of his sacrifice, the hosts of the Valar returned to Middle-earth and fought and bound Melkor. The price to Eärendil was great, however. He was not allowed to set foot ever again on the lands of his birth. His sacrifice meant leaving his young sons to whatever fate befell them. As one of the half-elven forced to choose his doom, he allowed Elwing to choose for them both and she chose that of the Firstborn. His heart is rather with Men, as his son Elros chose. He sails the skies each night, a lonely existence, but there he is happiest, for he is free.”

“And his son, Elrond, has chosen the fate of the firstborn?” asked Glorfindel, though he already knew the answer.

“He has. He and Elros were raised by Ereinion Gil-Galad, grandson to Fingolfin, and Círdan the Shipwright. Gil-Galad is as a father to Elrond, but in his life he has suffered great loss.”

“As has been the fate of all the half-elven,” replied Glorfindel, his eyes straying to the edge of the garden where Melian dwelt.

“Yes,” agreed Olórin.  “Tomorrow we shall begin to prepare you for your journey. Rest well, my friend.”

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Elrond looked in surprise at his long time friend, for Glorfindel had never told him about the experience of being re-embodied or meeting his father, or even this explanation for why he had returned. Glorfindel grinned at him and said, “You have never asked.” 

Elrond sat speechless for some minutes, grateful for a moment to think while his children were speaking to Glorfindel. This elf had left the bliss of Valinor to return to a cursed land to protect him, because he was the great grandson of King Turgon. He watched as Glorfindel laughed with Arwen and the twins, and knew the love the golden warrior felt for each of them was genuine. He thought of how this unassuming presence was always where he was needed, thought of how that sword had protected his back at Dagorlad.  Glorfindel teased him and pushed him, and most of all, loved him and loved his children.

“You really want to try this?” Glorfindel was asking Elrohir.

When Elrohir nodded, Glorfindel stood and placed a very sleepy Arwen into Elrond’s arms and then exchanged places with Elladan. Once Elrohir was settled comfortably against Glorfindel’s chest, Glorfindel threaded the needle and placed the ribbon in place, and showed Elrohir how to make a ribbon flower.

“There,” said Elrohir as he finished, a yawn escaping him at the same time.  “In Arwen’s garden, she is this tiny pink flower. I have made my flower, and an identical, although straighter, one to be Elladan.” He grinned at his twin. “El can make one for Naneth and Adar has to add his. Glorfindel, you have made many, but you must make one that is you.”

“Yes, Elrohir,” agreed Glorfindel, and Elrond watched as he gently took the tunic and supplies from Elrohir’s hand as weariness overcame his son.  Glorfindel kissed the injured elf on the forehead, and rocked him gently back into sleep.

Elrond did not try to stop the tear that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek.

* * * * *

 Author’s Note: When Glorfindel returned to Middle-earth, or why, is not known.  Christopher Tolkien in HoME Vol XII reconstructed some of his father’s writings on Glorfindel, and speculated that he knew Olórin, that he returned to fight shadow.  But, this interpretation is all speculation on my part.

My apologies for the delay between chapters.  I unfortunately have had the flu and been laid up for the last seven days.  I know I am sick when I do not even want to write!