19: Return to the Maze

Glorfindel found himself wandering Irmo’s maze. He did not know if this was reality or not but remembering his previous sojourn in the maze, he chose a path and stuck to it until he eventually found himself walking through an arch into the center. As before, Námo and Irmo were sitting under a pavilion waiting for him.

Námo smiled as Glorfindel approached and bowed to the Valar. "I see you’ve learned at least one lesson well."

"I try," Glorfindel said and there was no levity in his voice, only sincerity, and the Valar recognized it and nodded in acknowledgment.

"Good," Irmo replied. "It is all we ever ask of you. Now sit and let us talk."

Glorfindel sat and Námo handed him a goblet of wine. Taking a tentative sip, he found that it was fruity and intoxicating and the elf feared it would go to his head, dream or no. Námo shook his head. "This is not a dream, not exactly, and the wine will not affect you adversely."

"If this isn’t a dream, what is it?" Glorfindel asked as he took another sip, enjoying the wine’s delightful taste, his spirit feeling refreshed.

The Valar exchanged glances and Irmo nodded. Námo turned back to Glorfindel. "This is an alternate reality from what you know. We’ve brought you here because... well... because we can."

The Vala looked almost sheepish to Glorfindel’s eyes and he had to hide a smile. "So, you’re saying that even the Valar like to show off?"

The Fëanturi laughed. "Of course," Irmo responded. "We can be as vain as any of Eru’s Children. Elves aren’t the only ones who like showing off and mortals are even worse."

"I wouldn’t know," Glorfindel replied with a smile, taking another sip of the wine. He had only known three mortals personally and only Tuor well enough to call him a friend. He had had few if any dealings with the Edain who had fought in the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnediad when Turgon had led his army out of Gondolin. His knowledge of the Secondborn was scanty, which is to say nonexistent. Even Sador had had more dealings with them, living as he had in the mixed settlement of Elves and Men at the Havens of Sirion. And then there was Finrod...

"No, I suppose you wouldn’t," Irmo agreed.

"Why have you brought me here?"

Námo raised an eyebrow. "Do we need a reason?"

Now Glorfindel grinned in earnest. "Are we stalling, my lord?"

Námo laughed and Irmo joined him. When the laughter died down, Námo gave the golden-haired elf an appraising look. "Ask your questions, son of Gondolin. I cannot guarantee that I will answer them or, if I do, you will like what you hear."

Glorfindel nodded in acknowledgment of the warning and asked the first thing that came to his mind. "What happened to Amarië?"

Námo stared at the ellon for quite some time before he spoke. "She received judgment of a different kind than what you experienced, but it was judgment nonetheless."

Glorfindel stared into his goblet, suddenly feeling uncertain. "What will happen to her?"

"Nothing, child," Námo replied. "You need not fear for Amarië. Why are you so concerned?"

Glorfindel looked up, anger etched into his face, and suddenly he was standing, throwing the goblet down onto the table, its contents splashing all over, staining the white tablecloth red. "Finrod is my friend. Anything that involves him is my concern, including his future wife."

"Then you are arrogating for yourself more power and responsibility than you have any right to." Námo’s voice hardened and the temperature around him dropped perceptibly. Glorfindel found himself shaking, not from cold, but from the anger that still boiled within him.

"You said I was to be his friend!" he yelled, heedless of the Valar’s darkening looks. "How can I be his friend if I can’t protect him, especially from someone like Amarië?"

"His friend, yes," Námo agreed, his expression still stern and the temperature dropped even further. "Not his keeper. He doesn’t need you or anyone else to play that role. Amarië is not your concern and never has been. Do not forget your place, Glorfindel. Balrog-slayer or no, you have neither the authority nor the right to be anything other than Finrod’s friend."

It was like a slap in the face and Glorfindel felt himself going cold with shock and then hot with shame. "Th-then why am...am I here? Why am I even ne-needed?"

"Don’t you like being Finrod’s friend?" Námo asked softly and his expression became darker.

Glorfindel began feeling faint. "Yes... but..."

"But?" and the Vala’s tone was so forbidding, Glorfindel cried out in fear and fell to his knees, shaken to his very core. It was almost as if he were back within the Rithil-Anamo again and he started to stammer an apology but Námo was not through with him.

"Stand up, Glorfindel," the Lord of Mandos commanded, his tone unyielding. "Now."

Glorfindel scrambled to his feet, fear driving him to obey, though he wished with every fiber of his being to refuse the Vala’s command. He kept his eyes on the ground, his right hand clutching the arm of his chair for support.

"Look at me, Glorfindel." Námo’s tone had softened somewhat but was still colder than the snows of the Helcaraxë. Glorfindel slowly complied, but when he looked into the Vala’s eyes...

He was not aware that he was even bending over being violently ill until he felt a cold cloth on the back of his neck and the world came back into focus again. Someone held him up as the last spasms tore through him. He felt dizzy and if it were not for the hands holding him he thought he might end up lying in his own vomit. He felt himself being lifted up and found himself in Irmo’s arms, then he was being lowered to an upright position. It took several minutes for his brain to register the fact that he was sitting in Irmo’s lap. He closed his eyes, his breathing ragged as he tried to calm himself.

"Drink this," came the command and Glorfindel opened his eyes to see Námo standing over him with a goblet in his hand. The memory of the last few minutes swept over him and he thought he was going to be ill again as he attempted to scramble from Námo’s reach but Irmo’s hands held him firmly from behind and he could not break free. He gave a strangled whimper, fear washing over him as Námo watched him dispassionately.

"Steady, child," Irmo said as he held Glorfindel to him. "Hush now. It is well... Do not fear... Shhh...Take a deep breath... That’s it... Again." The Lord of Lórien’s voice was soothing and soon Glorfindel ceased to struggle and found himself calming. He stared listlessly as Námo bent over and placed the goblet to his lips.

"Drink, child," Námo said not unkindly and Glorfindel reluctantly opened his mouth and allowed the Vala to pour the liquid down his throat. It was not wine, as he had assumed, but water, sweeter than any he had ever drunk before and he felt his fëa being renewed. He took the last swallow and moaned, twisting in Irmo’s embrace so that his head was pillowed against the Vala’s chest, his knees drawn up and for a time he slept.

When he came to it was to find that nothing had changed. Irmo was still supporting him in his embrace and Námo was still standing over him, though his hand was now empty of the goblet. He looked up at the Lord of Mandos and felt... nothing, neither fear nor joy nor sorrow. It was as if he’d been cleansed of all emotions. He lay there waiting and was not aware that he did not care that he was waiting.

Námo sat in his own chair and bent over to stroke Glorfindel’s hair. The touch of the Vala’s hand sent shivers through the elf’s body, but whether they were shivers of fear or delight he could not say. He closed his eyes and sighed. Soon the Vala’s ministrations brought him back to himself and he felt connected again to the world around him.

Opening his eyes again he saw an expression of concern on Námo’s face. "I’m sorry, yonya. Your fëa fled far from my wrath and I had to search long to bring it back. How do you feel?"

Glorfindel attempted to sit up and Irmo helped him but did not let him go, for which the elf was grateful, for he still felt weak and light-headed. "It is I who should apologize, lord, for... for incurring your wrath in the first place. I am well now."

Námo smiled and Glorfindel, gave a cry, not of fear, but of joy for the forgiveness he felt in that smile. He tried to reach for the Vala and Námo pulled him onto his lap and held him close, softly singing the lullaby that had so soothed the elf when he had been in Mandos. Glorfindel never felt more loved and would have gladly lain in Námo’s arms until Arda was Renewed, but eventually the Vala stopped singing, though he continued to hold the ellon in his embrace.

"We need to have an understanding, you and I," Námo said quietly. "I will always love you, though I may be forced to correct you if you stray, as any loving parent would. But even I can never love you to the degree in which Ilúvatar holds you in his embrace. My love for you, even Manwë’s love for you, is as a pale weak thing compared to the love Ilúvatar has for you. For all of us. Never forget that."

Glorfindel did not try to answer, only nodded. Námo continued in the same soft voice.

"Finrod will always and ever be your friend and you shall always and ever be his. That is all the honor and purpose you ever need in this life. Nothing more is being asked of you at this time. Accept the role that has been given to you and try not to seek to claim other roles which you have not been given permission to assume."

Now Glorfindel dared to speak. "But..."

"Hush," Námo countered. "Have you not heard what I have said, child? Do not be swayed by false values of glory. Your friendship with Finrod is of greater worth than all the crowns of all the kingdoms of Arda. Do you know why you turned down Arafinwë’s offer to join his court in an official capacity?"

"I gave my oath to Turgon," Glorfindel answered.

"That is partly the reason." Glorfindel turned his head to look at Irmo. The Vala reached up and stroked the ellon’s hair. "The other reason is because we do not wish for you to do so at this time."

Glorfindel sat up and looked between the two Valar in confusion. "Why?"

Námo shook his head. "The reason for that must remain with us for the time being. Do not fret, child," the Vala said soothingly at the stricken look on Glorfindel’s face. "We are not manipulating you or preventing you from exercising your free will. Search your heart and you will see that it is so. We can never coerce, only inspire, and your own heart tells you that taking oath to Arafinwë at this time is not the right course for you, though you do not understand why. Trust that we, and Eru, wish nothing but the best for you in all things. Can you do that, child? Can you keep estel in your heart, whatever the outcome?"

Glorfindel thought for a moment, then sighed, leaning against Námo again. "I will try, lord."

"And that is all Ilúvatar ever asks of his Children," Námo said as he kissed the ellon on the brow. "Now, go to sleep, hinya."

****

When Glorfindel next awoke, he was back in his own bed and it was morning. He had just enough time to realize that Finrod was standing over him with a wicked grin on his face before the ellon poured a bowl of very cold water over him.

"FINROD! YOU ARE SO DEAD!"

Arafinwë and Eärwen, walking hand-in-hand as they made their way to the family dining hall, stepped nimbly aside as their firstborn son ran past them laughing followed by a dripping and very naked Glorfindel screaming maledictions in several languages.

Husband and wife stared down the hall at the retreating figures and then looked at each other. "Just like old times, isn’t it dear?" Arafinwë said, his eyes twinkling. Eärwen reached up and gave her husband a less than chaste kiss in answer and Arafinwë responded in kind. When they finally broke apart he noticed Sador leaning against the door of his suite grinning hugely.

"And what are you so smug about, hinya?"

"Glorfi’s chasing Finrod around the rose garden," the ellon said with obvious relish.

"And...?" Arafinwë prompted, knowing there had to be a punch line in there somewhere.

Sador’s grin became wider, if that were possible. "But he doesn’t know that I’m the one who supplied Finrod with the bowl."

King and Queen looked at each other and started laughing. Yes, just like old times, indeed, Arafinwë thought and bent down to kiss his wife again.

****

Dagor Nirnaeth Arnediad: The Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

Estel: Hope (in the religious sense); trust; possibly even faith; a temper of mind, steadily fixed in purpose, difficult to dissuade, and unlikely to fall into despair or abandon its purpose.