A/N Lonnath is the name I gave to the settlement at the mouths of Sirion where Elrond was captured by the Kinslayers in the days of the Silmarillion. My version of this tale is called Stolen.

Near the Garden of Elrond, a private wooded place, was the cemetery. Its monuments and tombstones punctuated the mist that had settled on the ground. Starlight aided by a waning moon dimly lit the place where Losgael sat weeping under a gnarled old willow.

Stepping carefully over old graves, Elrond sought his wife's lady-in-waiting. He knew where to find her because her brother rested under the green turf near the weeping willow she had planted there in his memory. A soft sniffle led him to the lady, who was seated on a root that was like a bench, her back to the bole of the tree. “Losgael?” he asked gently.

Losgael looked up, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. “My lord,” she replied, and rose to stand respectfully before him.

“I come as your friend, Losgael. Please sit down,” he said, and sat down himself.

It would have been rude to stay upright, so she sat down beside him. She moved a decent distance away and tucked her dress beneath her thighs. Though it was rare among Elves to become enamoured with the spouse of another, Losgael was ever conscious of the need to be seen to be aware that someone might see her with Elrond and come to the wrong conclusion. “Why have you come here, my lord?” she asked. “I did not think that anyone would have noticed my absence from the Hall of Fire until later.”

“Celebrían looked around to speak to you, and you were gone,” he replied. “Why are you so distressed?”

“I would rather not speak of it, my lord,” she replied, and let her hair to fall forward to veil her face.

“If Celebrían came here, would you speak to her?” he asked, his voice tender, as though he was comforting his sons during a thunderstorm.

“I would prefer not to speak to anyone about it,” she said, turning to face him.

Though the moonlight was dim, he could see the pain in her eyes, and he moved aside in a gesture of acceptance of her wishes. “When you want to talk about it,” he offered, “Celebrían and I are willing to listen, and to comfort you.”

“I thank you, my lord,” she said in tones that failed to convince Elrond. “Please let me compose myself, that I may serve your lady with more grace than I have now.”

Taking his cue, Elrond rose and left Losgael in peace. He made his way back to the house at a stately pace.

On the verandah, near Celebrían's chair, Glorfindel looked out over the gardens, hoping to spot Losgael. 'She might be in one of the trees,' he thought. 'Or walking among them. I might see the movement from here. Perhaps it would be better not to try to speak with her if she is upset with me, though. I do not understand what I did wrong.'

Elrond walked up behind him. He moved to his side, and said, “Whom do you seek, Glorfindel?”

“Losgael,” he replied. “She made a lovely shirt for me, and said I could repay her in a manner of my own choosing, so I wrote her a song. When I looked for her among the throng in the Hall of Fire, I could not see her. Do you think I upset her?”

“I found her weeping in the cemetery,” Elrond told him in a low, gentle voice, “but she would not tell me why. It may have had nothing to do with you or your song. Perhaps another matter had arisen in her mind. Maybe she was thinking of her brother. She was sitting near his grave.”

“Does she ever speak of her brother?” asked Glorfindel, hoping it was grief that had made Losgael leave the room, and not anything he had said or done.

“She has not spoken his name since he died,” Elrond told him, his voice filled with sorrow. “I could not save Urui, though I prayed to each of the Valar in turn, begging for his life. He was all she had left of her family.”

“She came from Sirion,” Glorfindel stated, flicking his long golden-blond hair as he turned to look his friend in the eye.

“Yes,” Elrond replied, “from Lonnath. She was young then, and was among the survivors rescued by the high king Gil-galad after the Kinslaying. Her parents were killed, but I do not know how the children escaped. She will not speak of it. The lady Galadriel told me she dwelt with her household at Ost-in-Edhil for a while, then moved to Lothlórien with Celeborn. Losgael became a handmaiden of Celebrían some time afterwards.”

“Does she speak to Celebrían about personal matters?” asked Glorfindel, concerned. Was Losgael beginning to fade? She had shown no signs of waning. Urui's life had ended after a battle with Orcs in the Misty Mountains twenty years before.

“I doubt she speaks to anyone,” Elrond replied sadly.

“So much pain to carry inside her, like a river pent up behind a beaver's dam. Weeping can bring some relief, can it not?” Glorfindel enquired, in the hope that Losgael could find comfort somewhere.

“Weeping is but a symptom of what lies beneath,” Elrond responded. “If weeping was enough, she would have found peace years ago. Alas, she suffers still. Her heart is brittle, like a sword much wielded in battle.”

“I would like to help her if I could,” Glorfindel offered.

“If the matter is what I suspect it is,” Elrond told him firmly, “you might end up making things worse. She needs to learn to let go of her pain before she can accept the friendship we have been trying to give her these many years. Her ideas of love of every kind do not match up with what really happens.”

“I think she is in love with me,” Glorfindel confided. There. He had said it.

“I think so too, and you must tread carefully, my friend. My lady loves her handmaid, and will not see her hurt in any way,” Elrond warned.

“Elrond,” said Glorfindel, as if treading on eggshells, “I do not feel the same way for her.” Losgael was a sweet lady, as sweet as the other ladies of Imladris, and no more.

“I know,” Elrond told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And she needs to know this, without being made to feel that you are rejecting her outright.”

“How can I do this?” asked Glorfindel, feeling desperate. He had no idea what to do to make the situation better.

Elrond put his other hand on Glorfindel's shoulder. “She needs to become your friend,” he said simply.

“Will she not immediately assume that I love her and want her as my bride?” Glorfindel asked, horror in his voice.

“Not if she understands what friendship is,” Elrond replied. He turned slowly around and walked away, leaving his friend to consider the meaning of his words.

Glorfindel turned back to the garden. He stared into the trees, allowing his eyes to become unfocussed, and became aware of movement out there. Far below, he saw Losgael make her way back to the house. She looked up, saw him and smiled briefly, then picked up her pace and went inside.

TBC...