Chapter 6. All Things Now Grow Cold.

In which a bunch of grown-up elves play hide and seek, some misunderstandings are straightened out and Glorfindel has an upsetting revelation.

There was the wide court and the singing fountain before the king’s mighty tower, and the small arch -almost hidden- which led through a narrow, stone paved passage to a secluded garden with the most stunning view in all Gondolin… All was there, clear in his mind as if he were again sitting under his favourite orange tree playfully declaiming Salgant’s last ode with exaggerate feeling. If he closed his eyes, Glorfindel could almost hear the conversations that flowed freely every time they gathered in that private spot –friends again, instead of king and his captains, drinking mead and eating fruit from the trees and playing games and singing songs.

Fingolfin’s house in Tirion had had such a secret, walled orchard with a wondrous view, Glorfindel remembered clearly, and it had become Turgon and his friends’ meeting place in their youth. If it had first been Fingon’s he had never known. When planning his hidden city, Turgon had been careful to include many memories of fair Tirion upon Tuna for the comfort and enjoyment of the Exiles. For all the years that Gondolin stood tall and free, that secluded yard had become the only place where he would relax with his friends and allow himself to be simply Turgon son of Fingolfin, rather than Turgon King of Gondolin, bereft husband, son and brother.

Memories tasted differently in Middle-earth, Glorfindel thought vaguely, bending over the huge replica of Beleriand -in which Gil-galad’s friends had been busying themselves for almost a sun round now- to better observe the details. When Erestor had first asked for his help in the project he had been tempted to refuse, worried that the memories would be too hard for him to work through.

On the contrary, he had found unexpected relief in revisiting those places and events, a relief that could not be achieved in the Blessed Realm -despite the tales and songs- for amidst that blissfulness everything else seemed so distant that life in Middle-earth –not to mention death- sounded like an old tale from a strange land to a reborn.

That was my life, and that was myself, Glorfindel thought as he considered the appropriate dimensions of the orchard’s walls in regard to the tiny, delicately carved figurines that sat under the trees. I would not renounce to anything that is part of me. So engrossing was the process for him that he would get lost in thought and recollection for the greatest part of the time that he was supposed to devote to the construction of Gondolin, and now he was well behind the rest.

But tonight he was catching up, he thought, working with dedication while his companions drank wine, sprawled in comfortable armchairs, and shared well-known anecdotes. Miluinn had been an important part of Círdan’s household, Glorfindel knew, and her departure was deeply felt by all of them.

“I had not seen Círdan so moved since Tuor departed,” Hîrvegil sentenced, pouring another round of wine. “Well, he was every time Eärendil set sail,” he corrected himself, “but still Tuor…”

“Miluinn was his closest remaining relative this side of the dividing waters, there is nothing strange about him being moved,” Erestor cut harshly. “I bet as soon as she sets foot ashore she will ask audience with Olwë and will have some words with him concerning his hurried departure,” he added, forcing faint smiles from the rest and somehow lifting the mood.

“I would not be surprised,” Taranel followed his example. “Do you remember how she rebuked Olvárin when he refused to set foot in Middle-earth?”

“And how she scolded Elros when he wouldn’t greet Celeborn and Galadriel when they joined us from Nenuial?” Elrond added with a soft, wistful smile. 

“Ah, what a couple of troublesome, strutting pair of brats you two were,” Erestor groaned fondly. “We were lucky that Miluinn had such a good hand with children!”

“We were no longer children by then, not even by elven standards,” Elrond protested good-naturedly, and they all laughed.

“With grown-up children, then,” Hîrvegil corrected. “The thing is she was well-trained. I always wondered how her son was…” 

“Orodben was calm and patient as his adar,” Glorfindel chimed in, barely rising his head from the model. “But he had Miluinn’s determination and dry sense of humour. And he was a very good cook.”

“You met her in Beleriand, did you not?” Elrond asked in curiosity, as all faces turned to the golden elf lord. In all those ennin they had heard nothing beyond a few anecdotes about her lost family. “Tell us about them, Glorfindel. Miluinn used to say that anyone who had lived long enough in Middle-earth carried their fair load of loss…and so she would never speak of hers.”

“Erestor must have met them as well,” Glorfindel frowned briefly, surprised by the expectation in all faces.

“Barely,” the counsellor retorted. “She had already travelled north when I reached Eglarest. I think she only returned there once or twice before the moon first rose...”

“Well…She was married to a healer called Nestadalf and they used to live with many other grey elves around the hills on the western shore of Mithrim,” Glorfindel began resignedly. “They greeted us cautiously when we first reached the northern shore…but soon they welcomed us openly and helped us settle down. Miluinn’s son, Orodben, was a great hunter, and he knew the lands from Mithrim to Nevrast better than anyone else. He soon became Fingolfin’s chief messenger between Barad Eithel and Nevrast; that is how I got to know him well… Oh, and for a while he supplied us with a particular mix of herbs that enriched and flavoured the wine greatly, or so he claimed…but you must have heard that tale, Master Erestor,” he added with a quiet laugh. “I suppose it was a subject of widespread hilarity across Beleriand long after Nevrast was deserted and its vineyards abandoned…”

“Indeed,” Erestor nodded with a wicked smile. “But I can see that we are well behind in several places, my friends,” he admonished then, surveying with keen eye the huge model. “I’d suggest that we followed Lord Glorfindel’s example and set our minds to work. We promised Miluinn that it would be finished in time!”

“Come on, Erestor, tell us what is all that about…”

“There will be time for old tales once this is finished,” Erestor grunted.

“Let us say that the reds produced in Vinyamar fitted not Fingon’s taste, and so he took to drinking a vintage produced in Mithrim…and even sent it to his cousins, much to Turgon’s annoyance,” Glorfindel supplied obligingly. “Irked in his pride, Turgon hired Finrod’s best winemaker and sent her to Mithrim in secrecy, to investigate the key of the Sindar’s winemaking. At that time, Orodben would come to Nevrast with his saddlebags full of different dried herbs that only grew around Mithrim, which, the winemaker claimed, were the secret of that flavoured wine. For long Turgon and his vintners tried with those herbs –to no avail- and sent messengers back to the winemaker, asking her for the exact mix…But by the time we moved to Gondolin she had not returned, and so we never learnt the secret of that powerful red.”

“Perhaps she sent the recipe to Finrod instead?”  Hîrvegil pointed out amidst laughs. “Nargothrond was famed for its cellars, I have heard!” Glorfindel smiled.

“Who knows? All I have learnt of the winemaker’s fate is that she remained in Mithrim and became a good friend of Miluinn. A couple of ennin later she married Fingon and gave birth to his only son,” he added softly, enjoying the awed, surprised expressions around him and meeting briefly Erestor’s approving glance.

“And now, my lords, let us start working,” the stern counsellor warned, barely managing to hide a chuckle of his own at the memory.

Grunting in agreement Elrond, Hîrvegil and Taranel joined Erestor and Glorfindel by the huge table, still chuckling about Turgon’s wine.

“Has anyone seen Taurlong? Nargothrond looks only half-finished!” Elrond commented as he searched the pile of coloured pebbles, straws and pieces of wood to finish building the wall that had circled the settlement in Sirion. Each of them had been charged with the part of the land that they had known best.

“He remained in the city. A couple of his closest friends sailed away tonight,” Taranel informed. “Who is going to take charge of Doriath?”

“Erestor.”

“Oropher.”

Elrond and Erestor had spoken at the same time and the rest laughed.

“Come on Erestor, you heard Ereinion tonight,” the king’s secretary sighed with a friendly wink. “We better not involve Oropher in our games…”

“Glorfindel said he would take care of him… and we can always ask Maentêw. I spent barely a couple of ennin there and got to know very little of the realm…This has to be perfect,” Erestor insisted stubbornly.

“Well, it is not as if Ereinion…or any of us could tell the difference, Erestor. None of us ever set foot beyond that girdle while it stood,” Hîrvegil objected. He seemed reluctant to include the short-tempered Sindar in their project.

“It is important, still. Of course, I can always send for the Lord –or the Lady…”

“Not in time, I deem. I will go and find Oropher,” Glorfindel volunteered before Erestor decided to send him to Eregion in search of Celeborn. “I bet he is curious to learn what we are doing here…” With that he took his leave and walked away, leaving his friends to discuss –once again- whether they were aiming at chronological or rather geographical accuracy of detail.

                                                   ~*~* ~*~

"So this country is slowly bleeding away, as its people desert it? No wonder that even the stones sounded so aggrieved by the departure of the ship.”

“Not just this country, Idhren. Several of those departing were Nandor from Nennuial…and I have been told that ships set sail to the west from Edhellond, south of Onodrim Galen, as well. The sea-longing strikes without warning, it is said.”  Oropher had to smile at the expected snort of contempt from his guard.

“I cannot understand how an Elf can ever be lured by the Sea…it is unnatural…something so huge and unpredictable...”

“That is the very nature of the Lord Ulmo, I’d guess. But I am with you. I cannot feel its pull at all.”

“And why would an Elf seek contentment beyond the waters? Crossing that natural division has only brought pain and confusion to those going forth and then coming back, so they apparently end up not knowing whether they belong here or there, if the tales of your people are to be heeded…”

“It is said that they find peace once they reach the Blessed Realm...to the point of never wanting again to look upon these shores…” 

“Well, they did return once at least, didn’t they? And some even twice.” Idhren shook his head and voiced his incredulity.

His guard’s words made Oropher pause briefly. He was descended from one of the Eglain who had retreated inland in despair after reaching the Great Sea and finding that Olwë had finally set sail without them. His father had been one of those who had heeded the call, one of those eager to see the light of the trees and the faces of the Powers, one who had been forced to remain against his deepest wishes out of loyalty towards Elwë. Was that unfulfilled longing somehow embedded deep within himself, only awaiting the right moment to awake, he wondered in trepidation not for the first time? He cast then a brooding look at his guard, a Wood Elf descended from those who had rejected the Long March and had never before crossed the Misty Mountains. Could the sea-longing ever get a hold on him?

“How long do you intend to remain here?” his guard demanded in his brusque manner, jolting him out of his musings. They were climbing a winding, tree-lined road that led back to Gil-galad’s residence, after an entertaining evening with Bronadel’s family. Oropher’s mare, apparently recovered from their wild ride along the beach, followed them mildly.

“I do not know. At least until we get an answer to our message. I want to know if Gil-galad intends to do anything regarding the Númenorean’s devastation… Is there anything bothering you? ”

“Bronadel,” was the curt answer. “Did you see him tonight? I fear that he is getting too involved…he wants to go sailing! Why did you let him come? He is too young and impressionable!”

“I brought him because his father asked me to,” Oropher sighed in a low, pained voice. “He has been dreaming of the Sea and of meeting his sea-going relatives since he was an elfling…”

Idhren shook his head in disbelief. “And you agreed? Knowing that the sea-longing could awake in him and that Bronadir would lose his only son to the Sea?” The Sindar were definitely a mystery to Idhren, much as the Exiles were to himself, Oropher thought wryly.

“Bronadir thought that he would be comforted knowing that his son had actually reached the Havens safely, rather than having him disappear one day and never knowing whether he had made it to the Sea or not,” he explained. It had been a painful decision, and he suffered deeply for his best friend’s grief.

“I think I am going to drag him to those dense forests that stretch a couple of days from here until you decide that it is time to return home. He needs a good dose of tree-song to clear his mind!” Idhren sentenced menacingly, and then glared irately at Oropher’s amused snort.

“You are welcome to try…”

“Of course I will…Look out!” he added then, his voice lowered to a barely audible whisper.

Oropher tensed immediately and instinctively raised his hand to his sheathed knife.

“What is it?”

“There, under those alders behind the stone wall…”

“I can see nothing…”

“Of course you cannot. But a moment ago there were four elves sitting there.”

In their long years together Oropher had learnt to trust Idhren’s sharp senses and his natural distrust of everything, exaggerate as it might seem at times.

“So?”

“They surely intend to play a trick on us.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That we returned them the favour.”

“Agreed.”

A bend on the road offered useful cover as the two stealthy silhouettes jumped behind the stone wall that lined the way and crawled along it until they reached the cover of a thicket of alders and beeches that stretched upwards towards the pine-lined training grounds. The waxing moon joined in the game too, hiding behind an opportunely passing cloud. Running noiselessly and sheltered by the friendly trees, Oropher and Idhren reached the back of the place where Idhren had glimpsed the elves sitting before. With a brief signal he took to the branches and waited to make sure that Oropher had climbed as well. From that vantage point it was easy for them to spot at least three crouching elves, who now lay in ambush behind the stone wall.

Advancing silently from branch to branch, Idhren and Oropher fell upon them in accorded motion. The startled guards turned around to find themselves faced with unsheathed long knives.

“Look, what do we have here?” Idhren wondered, waving his knife menacingly, though at safe distance from one of the elves.

“The king’s guards, if I am not mistaken,” Oropher chuckled, recognizing one of the faces and suddenly noticing that they were all unarmed. Did they mean to shout us into submission? He wondered; then said aloud, “We have been truly lucky, Idhren, we have bested the King’s guards!”

“And I have been even luckier,” a mocking voice came from behind them. Oropher and Idhren stiffened as they heard the unmistakable sound of a long iron being unsheathed. “I have beaten The King and his guard. Now surrender your knives to me, my lords, if you please...”

They turned back slowly to find themselves before the captain of Gil-galad’s guard. “You did not think that you had caught us unawares, did you?” Taurlong added with a lopsided, smug smile.

A sudden noise from the road made them all jump and turn wildly, only to find that Oropher’s mare had obediently followed the path as instructed and had reached the appointed place in time to offer a safe escape to her lord in case it was needed. The six startled elves laughed ruefully as the mare showed her nose above the stone wall and snorted in disdain. They had barely returned to the argument of who had bested who when again a strange sound, this time a gurgling, merry laugh, interrupted them.

“King and guards!” the guttural voice of the Druedain Chieftain caught all of them by surprise, coming from above. The small creature jumped nimbly to the ground, his bow in full draw and two arrows nocked. He let escape again his contagious laugh and Taurlong finally gave in.

“Twice in the same night… I’d say that we really need some training, my friends,” he admitted to his fellow guards with a reluctant chuckle while he sheathed his sword. “Congratulations on your stealth, Lord Oropher, it seems that you have mastered the art of hiding behind trees...”

On any other night, Oropher would have left the insult pass.

But this was not that night.

On one hand, he was not sure of what Idhren would do once his king stepped away from his left foot, where he had instinctively stood even before Taurlong finished speaking.

And then there was that strange gleam on the captain’s eyes –the sadness and restlessness that Oropher had glimpsed barely concealed in the faces of many of those standing by the quay, and even later, at Bronadel’s relatives’ house; a longing and a struggle and an unnamed rage that bubbled inside them and looked for a way out. The king’s guards surely needed a workout, and he could very well do with some exercise while taking the chance to humble Gil-galad through his overconfident guards. So he decided to answer accordingly to the provocation and turned to look at his seething guard, without freeing his foot.

“It used to be a matter of discussion among the Sindar whether the Noldor had the same keen night sight of our kin,” he sighed nonchalantly, “although I always held that they would not, as it came out clearly now...”

“On the other side, it is not the first time that I see a couple of wood elves caught by surprise by a Druadan, and in your case –as I have heard- it would be twice today, my lord,” Taurlong retorted, his annoyance obviously mounting at Oropher’s insolence.

“Taurlong, I think…” one of the guards apparently feared that the situation would soon get out of control, and he was not mistaken, Oropher thought idly, seeing Idhren’s clouded face.

“Since your warriors seem in need of practice, Captain, I would very gladly offer our advice to improve your fighting skills in the darkness, if you are interested?” he suggested with exaggerate generosity.

“While you learn to remain stone still?” Taurlong shot back wickedly, pointing at the smiling Druadan. “Perhaps you can serve as practice target?”

“I might consider your proposal if you were but a little less inept with your bows…”

“Why don’t we go to the practice range?” another of Taurlong’s friends suggested pointedly, piercing them with a warning glance. Oropher nodded graciously and stepped back obligingly with a brief bow.

“After you, my lords. We trust your keen sight…”

                                           ~*~  ~*~

Glorfindel’s senses were sharper now than they had been in his previous life, or so it felt to him.

Or perhaps it was that, used to the calm, predictable life in the Blessed Realm, the onslaught of emotions, voices and sensations in Middle-earth kept him in constant, awed alert, when he was not carried away in deep contemplation.

But that night he needed not his full concentration or his sharpest senses to stumble upon what he had set out looking for, although at that moment he did not know exactly what he had found.

The clamour of mocking, vexed, encouraging voices mixed with a bubbling, contagious laughter that he knew well by then wafted playfully across the front terraces and gardens of Gil-galad’s residence, unusually empty at that time of the reasonably warm evening. Surrendering to curiosity, Glorfindel tracked the unbecoming din to its source, down in the training grounds.

When he arrived, though, the place was silent and deserted, except for a lonesome figure perched on the fence that surrounded the archery range.

“I have met Dwarves who are stealthier than you, Lord Glorfindel,” Taurlong commented peevishly, casting a warning glance at the approaching elf. 

“I could not see the need for stealth, since I was approaching a mighty racket,” he argued. “Or perhaps I dreamed of it?”

“Lord Oropher felt the need to improve our skills in night fighting...”

“That is so kind of him!”

“And Chieftain Baghan also joined in.” There was something in Taurlong’s expression that Glorfindel could not point out exactly, like a sparkling, contained mirth. “And then the Dwarf found us…”

“That is very encouraging,” Glorfindel approved eagerly. “If we are going to be forced to fight, it will be god that we learn how to do it together, like long-time allies…”

“Then Oropher discovered that we were a harder lot than what he expected,” Taurlong continued with open, malicious glee. “We trounced him as often as he did with us. It was not pretty…we ended up fighting each other all over the place,” he added with a smile that meant that it had been pretty indeed. “He thought he could rout the High King’s personal guard and found himself on a tight spot…of his own making, since he rushed in, head-first in our trap…”

“Where are they now?” Glorfindel asked in mild worry, fearing that, carried away by their enthusiasm, the Sindarin king and his opponents might have ended up with the healers.

“I do not know. We split up in two groups. The King’s guards against Oropher, Idhren, the dwarf and Chieftain Baghan…It is our turn now to chase them down,” Taurlong explained with unrestrained ferocity, pointing at the opposite edge of the archery range. Only then Glorfindel noticed the perfectly hidden figures of three elves who blended perfectly into the straight shadows of the tall pine trees. 

“I’d say that you stand a good chance against those wood people. Your guards are very good at keeping out of sight!” he nodded in appreciation. After a long pause in which the captain did not move or acknowledged his praise Glorfindel continued speaking.

“Erestor wondered where you were…”

“They are all in the Hall of Maps, I gather?”

“Indeed. There is still much work left…”

“And Erestor sent you to bring me back?”

“If you are not otherwise busy…”

“I am busy sulking,” the Captain affirmed surly. “And I do not feel like sharing memories tonight.”

Refusing to take in the wave of distress and rejection that radiated from the troubled Elf, Glorfindel patiently made his way through the dense net of conflicting emotions until he found the wide, raging depths of grief that had been stirred that night. There was anger and pain and longing, all mixed with worry and melancholy that weighed heavily on the stern captain.

“There is no guilt in sailing…or in remaining, Taurlong, just the answer to a call stronger than any other,” Glorfindel began.

“May Mandos grant me death on the battlefield before I ever desert my king,” the captain spat out hoarsely, turning challenging, pained eyes to the other elf lord.  

An owl hooted in the quiet night, breaking the tense silence that had suddenly grown between the two elves. Glorfindel turned his head towards the lines of tall trees and smiled briefly.

“As one who twice forsook the lands of his birth pursuing what I thought was my path, I believe it is the will of Iluvatar that his children follow their hearts, according to their wisdom and wherever they may lead them. It is not in our hands to cure Arda of its marring, and it is wisdom to know when we have reached the limit of our abilities.”

“Go and tell Ereinion that,” Taurlong sighed bitterly. “Tell him it is not because any fault of his that his people sail away, that the shadow grows everywhere while our numbers dwindle steadily towards safety, that we are forced to surrender forests and mountains to the enemy…or to the careless devastation of the Edain…”

“I intended to,” Glorfindel nodded eagerly. “But Erestor told me that he would remain in the city for the night…There is no failure in what he is doing, in what you are all doing, Captain. Pretending otherwise would be arrogance. There is no more that could be done with our limited strength…”

The owl hooted nervously and Taurlong shook his head towards the trees that now danced awake in a soft breeze, urging him.

“Those are considerations too deep for my taste, Glorfindel, but I appreciate your efforts. Now by your leave, I have a rash Sindarin king to lure out of hiding. That will surely help enliven my mood faster that any words of comfort...”

“Good luck, then” Glorfindel smiled at the eagerness in the captain’s glittering eyes. “Although I would not put it past Oropher to have learnt something from your previous attacks,” he warned with a chuckle.

“Advice for advice,” the captain stopped for a brief moment to consider Glorfindel’s words, and a wry smile enlightened briefly his stern features. “Perhaps you would like to go and sit in the terrace of the library rather than returning directly to the Hall of Maps,” he suggested with what to Glorfindel looked like a conniving wink that he could not understand.

“I might,” he agreed cautiously. “After all, I was sent to bring Oropher back with me, so I’d rather not incur in Erestor’s displeasure tonight...”

“Do as I tell you and in return I will enlist Oropher’s help to finish the replica,” Taurlong promised before slipping into the shadows of the night.

Shrugging as he watched the four elves fan out soundlessly into the dark, expectant forest, Glorfindel decided to follow Taurlong’s suggestion and steered his steps towards the library, at the back of the huge building.

The sea was calm as far as elven sight reached in that silvery night. There were a few passing shreds of mist, hurrying in the darkness towards early morning appointments and barely dimming the glorious light of the stars and the almost full moon. Tilion and Eärendil seemed deep in conversation, surely watching over the white ship as it took the Straight Road, Glorfindel thought as he stood in the long terrace, enthralled by the deep stillness that shrouded that night of partings.

A bored sigh coming from his right broke the spell. Glorfindel turned his attention to the stone benches that lined the walls of the library not fifteen paces from where he stood. He spotted then an elf sitting cross-legged on the farthest bench, surrounded by thick, leather-bound sheaves of parchments.

“A nice view, isn’t it?” The deep voice sounded tired but still mildly provoking. Caught by surprise and finally understanding Taurlong’s hints, Glorfindel approached the sitting elf.

“Ereinion?”

“Only kin and closest friends call me that.”

“King Gil-galad, then…”

“Gil-galad will do. Every time an Elf older than myself calls me King I am tempted to look over my shoulder, for I seriously doubt he’s addressing me…”

At the dim glow of the Fëanorian lamp Glorfindel caught the faintest trace of a self-mocking smile in the young king’s face, so he forced himself to restrain his exasperation. “I wonder if your atar knew what he was doing when he sent you to the Havens,” he grunted instead of snapping. “You have grown all of Círdan’s strange sense of humour…”

“Well, I have heard that King Turgon would not recognize a joke even if it was told twice and in Quenya, on the other hand.”

“That’s not… far from truth, indeed,” the golden haired elf admitted with a fond smile. “But he was a good king. And a good friend as well.”

Ereinion sighed again as he carefully disentangled his long legs and stretched them lazily before him, putting the heavy volume aside on top of the pile.

“I know. My father missed him deeply.”

A deep silence followed. The waves moaned in the coast, crashing idly against the cliffs in steady rhythm while Glorfindel searched furiously for a harmless subject of conversation

“I…Erestor told me that you would spend the whole night in the city…” he began slowly. “I did not expect to find you here…”

“I hope I do not disturb you,” Gil-galad answered testily. “But the library is big enough so we need not meet…”

“One would suspect that the High King’s quarters would be big enough to house a private library, so he needed not run the risk of being bothered by uninvited guests,” Glorfindel retorted, unable to stem his annoyance at the king’s belligerence.

"Mine is surely more humble and unkingly than the courts you are used to, Lord Glorfindel,” Gil-galad explained with feigned, mocking modesty. “Around here the King has no trouble doing his own research in the public library,” he said, patting the pile of parchments at his side. “And nighttime is the only time when I can be sure that I will not be distracted by Master Pengolod’s irksome remarks. But do not let me detain you,” he added quite curtly, waving distractedly towards the darkened library.

With great effort, Glorfindel managed to rein in his exasperation and forced himself to remain. There was more in the king’s scathing words and provoking manner than the grief of Miluinn’s parting, or his patent displeasure towards Pengolod and himself. Disregarding Gil-galad’s clear dismissal, he took seat by his side.

“Do you resent everything that comes from Gondolin?” he asked innocently. He heard Ereinion chuckle softly and shift his position on the bench, his stance still defensive yet not wholly rejecting Glorfindel’s presence.

“Not everything,” he said softly, turning his head to look at the reborn. “Meeting my cousin Idril was one of the greatest joys of my life,” he recalled in a warm voice. “Her family became mine and that was a mighty gift,” he added, the challenge again ringing in his deep voice mixed with longing and reawakened bittersweet memories.

Sitting there in silence, Glorfindel could perceive for the first time the carefully built walls that the young king had raised against his well-intentioned prodding. He could feel Gil-galad’s sorrow and defeat, his guilt at what he perceived as his failure at protecting his land and his people. And still there was something more powerful, a deeper suffering that pooled behind his polite, firm rejection of Glorfindel’s attempts at getting close to him. The elf lord was at a loss at guessing what could be the cause for such strong feelings.

“So I suppose that Master Pengolod treats you as one of his disciples…” he ventured, remembering the lore master’s proverbial grumpiness and harshness.

“I do not care to be reminded of my poor command of my mother tongue by one who had the fortune of being raised in a court where Quenya was spoken openly and daily,” Gil-galad admitted hoarsely after a long pause. “It was difficult for a child to understand why he had to apologize every time a word in his own tongue slipped in conversation,” he elaborated, shrugging with studied casualness that did not fool Glorfindel.

“It was very impressive tonight, down there at the quay…” he said then, trying a different approach. “Your words rang so adequate, and I think that you comforted them…”

“It is the least that I could do,” the king sighed tiredly. “They feel bad for leaving, when it is our fault that we cannot keep the shadow from growing and surrounding us. We will fight to the very end,” he remarked firmly, “but every passing ennin it becomes clearer that we are fighting a long defeat. I cannot fault them for not wanting to witness it,” he admitted softly, “yet it is still a sad event, every time a ship departs. I wish I could make it a happier occasion for everyone, that I could spare them all the grief and sorrow.”

“Not all tears are bad,” Glorfindel observed gently. “They feel sad because they answer a soul-consuming call without renouncing to their love for their land, their people and their king. Their grief is their gift to you, King Gil-galad, and their sea-longing is not of your making, as it is not your lot to free Arda of its marring...” He had intended his words to be of comfort, so he was quite surprised by the king’s heated reaction.

“Of course it is not my lot!” he shot back angrily, and in one swift movement he was standing before the elf lord, glaring down at him. “I am the son of a kinslayer, Glorfindel; do you think I am not aware of my doom? All that is expected of me is that I am ready to lay down my life fighting the Shadow as my sires did. I am well aware that I am not the one the Powers look at as the one who might heal the land…and I can also see that you were not sent here to help me,” he spat, an unbearable sorrow spilling out with this words.

“I…I do not...” Glorfindel shook his head, taken aback by the barely contained despair that rang in the young king’s words. “It was you who refused to swear me in your service, Gil-galad,” he argued. “You would never accept my pledge!”

“Let us not deceive ourselves, Glorfindel.” The king shook his head tiredly, walking away from the elf lord and taking seat again, this time on a tree stump that served as side table. He rested his head on his palms, his elbows on his thighs, and sighed dejectedly. “We both know that you were sent to protect your king’s line, I can well understand that…”

“Are you not of King Finwë’s line as well?”

“Not of the blessed one, I thought you knew that…”

“You are not under the Doom of Mandos, Gil-galad. The Valar granted forgiveness to the Noldor and opened the way west to all those who would sail there,” Glorfindel objected. He was trying hard to see beyond the hopelessness and sorrow that pervaded the king’s words and demeanour.

“And still I chose to remain here, a king in Middle-earth rather than a low ranking elf in the land of Eressëa, one among many others…” his voice sounded now worried and distant. “At times I wonder if I am not just retracing my father’s mistakes, contradicting the Valar’s decrees out of pride ad rashness…”

“Did the Valar command you to sail west?” Glorfindel asked softly. He was now sure that he had found his way into what really troubled the king, but he was treading carefully, leading him cautiously.

“Not exactly. They just advised…”

“The Valar’s advice has not always been good for the Quendi, as history teaches us. They do not know our nature, nor fully understand our fate, so they cannot always discern what is best for us. So unless you remained here out of spite and rejection, you should not feel that you have disobeyed them.”

“Now I am ready to believe that you were expelled from Valinor because you insisted on speaking thusly to the Powers,” Gil galad chuckled mirthlessly. “Nay, I simply thought it was my duty to remain here and hold the lands free until all the Quendi had sailed safely west,” he said, speaking almost to himself. “But then…”

“Then?”

“Then Annatar came and…he offered us power and dominion over the lands and growing things, and the knowledge to turn this into the fairest elven realm, beyond Valinor’s measure, so we would envy not those beyond the sea…and none would ever sail away again, blessed forever in the shores of Hither where Time would not reach us…” His voice caught in his throat and he hid his face in his hands, breathing deeply, fighting to regain his composure.

“His words spoke to my mind, Glorfindel,” he admitted softly, abashedly, looking up with a pained expression on his face. “It was as if he had looked into my soul…I fear that deep inside I long for a blessed kingdom in Middle-earth, away from the Powers, as Fëanor did…” he sighed in a choked voice.

“You resisted temptation, Ereinion,” Glorfindel began, leaning towards the worried king, trying to comfort him. “That is all that was demanded of you. Those who have walked in darkness tend towards light more eagerly. Anyway, who would condemn a king for wishing peace and blissfulness for his people?”

“You tell me,” the king sighed with a twisted, bitter smile, although he did not object to the use of his name.

“Me? What do I have to do with this?”

“It is clear to me that there is shadow and darkness in this Annatar, and still I cannot fully reject or condemn his offers, since they match my own deepest wishes,” Gil-galad shrugged, regaining his firm grip over his emotions. “So the Valar expect that I will fail before this darkness…and they fear that I will fail to protect Eärendil’s blessed line…yet again,” he added in a soft, hurt whisper. “That is why you were sent, to protect Elrond, is that not so? Even if I once swore that I would shield him with my very life…”

That was -Glorfindel felt- the true reason for Gil-galad’s rejection of his presence. But that was as well Annatar’s evil doing, he raged inside, corrupting duty into self-doubt and the call of the One into utter defeat and guilt for those who remained. Failure and shame oozed now from the king like sap from a young tree deeply wounded by a brutal axe blow.

“I would not say that I was exactly sent here, to begin with,” Glorfindel sighed, searching for a way to reassure Gil-galad while keeping the secrets he was not allowed to disclose –and those he was not yet ready to share. The king had again buried his face on his hands and did not move at Glorfindel’s words.

“I was not sent,” he repeated softly. I was just…allowed to come back. I mean,” he continued, noticing that this time Gil-galad had lifted his head in surprise. “Darkness stirring again in Middle-earth was widespread subject for conversation as new arrivals reached Eressëa. For those who never left Valinor it was impossible to understand that anyone would wish to remain in a land where shadow lurked again…”

He stopped for a moment to gather his memories. “But none who has lived in the lands of Hither can wholly forsake Middle-earth with its wild pace, its dangers but also its untamed beauty,” he continued in a soft, wistful voice. “I cannot explain how it happened…All I can say is that I was not blinded by guilt of shame or regret, and as I gained a deeper understanding of my mistakes I was filled with an unbearable desire to live again, and once I lived, I wished to feel again the breath of life mingled with death, to walk the paths that lay beyond the Mountains East of Beleriand, to redress my faults and help defend the land.”

He looked beyond the now fully interested king and sighed, lost in recollection. “Despite all its harshness and loss I used to love life in Middle-earth, Ereinion, so one day I said aloud that I would gladly return to these shores to help those lingering here resist the new shadow...” He shook his head and barely managed to contain an amused chortle, remembering his own amazement when Olórin, who had been present that day, had nodded as if he had said something sensible.

“And somehow my words reached Manwë…and I was granted my wish,” he added simply.

It had not been exactly that way. He remembered clearly his anticipation as he was summoned before Mandos, Ulmo and Manwë while Olórin supported his idea and the Valar toyed cautiously with the possible consequences and finally agreed to the experiment. He also remembered Finrod’s shame when he had tried to join in the journey and had been denied permission with the same finality with which Glorfindel had been granted it.

All that he could not tell, but it was not necessary, he knew, seeing the expectant look in Gil-galad’s face and feeling how his carefully built walls began to crumble down as hope ate at them like water at sand mortar, until the dam broke.

“So Eärendil did not send you?” he asked in a hoarse voice, lifting his eyes to the evening star that shone brightly over them that night, a half worried, half hopeful look on his face. “He was not disappointed that I would fail again to protect his son? He did not instruct you to look after Elrond?”

“We did not have much time to talk about that,” Glorfindel admitted. “Of course I told him that I would look after his son…but he asked me to look after you as well,” he added, and was pleased to see the awed, grateful light that shone in the king’s worried features. “Eärendil was barely a child when Gondolin fell, Ereinion. But he grew to know you and love you, and he looks down fondly upon you as well as upon his son, never doubt that,” he told him softly.

“I failed to protect his people and his family in Sirion…then we lost Elros to the Gift of Men…” Gil-galad recalled sadly. “I feared he would not trust me to be able to protect Elrond now that darkness rises again,” he admitted. “And I feared that you were the confirmation of that assumption,” he added softly, casting an apologetic glance at the golden elf lord, finally allowing his comforting glow to reach him.

“You are carrying out your duty as it is expected from one of the House of Finwë, Ereinion,” Glorfindel said, wishing that the young king could ever get to know the love and pride that his family and his people in Valinor took in his deeds. But he had vaguely foreseen where Gil-galad’s fate lay and so he just spared him the bittersweet longing for the warmth of a family that he would not reach in this life.

“That is all I ask for,” the king admitted with a shy half-smile, relief now brightening his fair features. “To keep my strength against darkness and falter not even if all things grow cold and dim and the world seems to fade around us…”

“That is why I came back for,” Glorfindel sighed. “I just want to lend my strength to you and to those who are fighting this new shadow… Will you swear me in, now?” he pleaded softly; meeting the king’s now calm grey gaze.

“I do not think so.” Gil-galad stood up and straightened his tunic distractedly. He met Glorfindel’s narrowed, questioning eyes and shrugged nonchalantly. “There may come a time when you feel that you must challenge my orders in pursuing what you believe is Elrond’s safety. I will not have you charged with treason to add to my wrath when that happens, Lord Glorfindel.  All I ask of you is that you swear allegiance to Elrond,” he explained seriously, retaking his place on the bench beside Glorfindel and spying the golden elf-lord’s exasperated expression with a smug smile.

“You are a prudent and generous King, Gil-galad,” Glorfindel finally managed, acknowledging the wisdom of that decision and bowing respectfully to him.

“I have had very good masters.”

“You also have your father’s talent for making bold decisions….and for gathering people around him.”

“You tell Oropher that,” Gil-galad chuckled dismissively, but Glorfindel could feel that he was quite pleased with the praise.

“Well, at times your atar just managed to unite everyone against his opinions as well…”

“I think that describes my abilities more precisely,” Gil-galad nodded with a small smile. “Now since you are not at my service, and since I will have to bear with your impossibly smug blazing, Lord Glorfindel, do you think you could give me a hand with my research, or are you otherwise engaged tonight?”

“I will be glad to be of assistance, my king…What are these?” he asked then, eyeing the leather bound parchments with curiosity. Gil-galad sighed.

“These are all the accounts that we have managed to gather about the War of Wrath. As you may have heard, we did not take part in the storming of Thangorodrim or the capture of Morgoth…” Glorfindel had heard the tale from Finarfin and Ingil, so he just nodded and listened with interest. “We were not present there, either, when Morgoth’s captains were subjected to Lord Eonwë’s judgement, but some of our scholars took the pain of questioning witnesses during the time that the Army of the West lingered by these shores…”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I am convinced that this Annatar is one of those set free by Eonwë,” Ereinion said abruptly. “Someone who might be cunning enough to trick the Herald into believing in his repentance… and perhaps of equal rank, so Eonwë could not force him to return to Valinor to submit himself to Mandos’ judgement…” Glorfindel could not hold back a shiver, fearing where the king’s cautious reasoning was leading.

“There were not many who met those conditions among the survivors, as far as I have been able to find out in these accounts, although there are not full lists of names and ranks,” Gil-galad continued, apprehension clear in his beautiful, deep voice as he pointed at the piles of parchments. “Yet I fear that we might be facing Gorthaur himself, Glorfindel,” he managed in a hoarse voice that trembled also with barely contained hatred.

“Gorthaur,” the elf lord repeated blankly. “Oh, Sauron!” Absurdly, Glorfindel found himself chuckling in relief that Finrod had not been allowed to join in the expedition. And then an immense sadness threatened to choke him as an unpleasant revelation hit him.

The Valar knew.

Or at least suspected.

“So this is where your light fades and your star falls, young one,” he suddenly knew with cold certainty, as vague visions gained clarity. He sighed sadly, studying the serious, youthful face before him and knowing that one day he would be pitched against a foe that had been beyond the power of the best of them to defeat.

“Let us hope that you are mistaken,” he managed in a falsely cheerful voice, picking up one of the volumes and beginning to follow the familiar script while he wept inside, fearing in his bones that the young king was only too right.

TBC.

For the purposes of this tale, Pengolod was born in Nevrast.

Gorthaur is Sauron’s Sindarin name