A/N: Given the positive response to A Gift Fit For a Lord, I have written a sequel. Thanks to Earyende Eleniel, Calenlass Greenleaf, Virtuella and Lady Akyrial for their help and encouragement.

Losgael and other OC's are mine, please ask before using them. The rest belongs to the Tolkien estate and interested parties. The song “Long Has She Loved” is my own composition.

The rainfall had finally given way to a watery sunset when Losgael finally felt able to enter the royal wing of the Last Homely House to put the lovely shirt she had made for Glorfindel on his bed. 'Nothing bad will happen if I am seen here,' she tried to convince herself, 'tongues are already wagging as if the notion of romance is a novelty in Rivendell.'

Her efforts failed. Losgael's heart was pounding a tattoo of terror and her stomach sank down, leaving her giddy. Her slender hands trembled, and she was afraid that if they sweated, they might spoil the blue shirt she had spent so long making – no, perfecting, for the one she loved.

Yes, she was afraid, but not of something physical, a punishment or even harsh words. Losgael was terrified that Glorfindel might see her and realise that she had made the shirt for him, and if he did, he might understand her intent. If he did, how would he respond? She could deal with ridicule, but not rejection. No, in her dreams and fantasies, he held her close to his chest with his powerful arms. His stern aspect softened into an expression of loving protectiveness and his calloused right hand reached for her face, and tenderly stroked the underside of her jaw. With his left hand, he cupped the back of her head, bringing it to his broad shoulder for a gentle embrace. Kisses fell like snowflakes onto the top of her head as she reached up to twine her fingers in his long golden hair...

A deep voice cut into her reverie. “Excuse me, Losgael.”

Losgael jumped, spluttering, stung by the sound of Glorfindel's voice. A crimson blush spread across her face, right down to her neck.

“What have you got there?” he asked. Curiosity distracted him from the lady's embarrassment.

“It is a shirt made for you, my lord,” she replied with a great effort to avoid stuttering.

“May I see?” he asked, and reached for it.

“Ai!” she said warily, clutching it to her chest. Her downcast face and loose hair covered her blushes for the moment, but the worst thing had happened! If she had succeeded in her plan to sneak it into his room, he would have tried it on, liked it and then asked who had made it. She could have walked shyly up to him... no. She could have left a message for him... no. A series of clues... no. It was all wrong. Everything she had thought of worked so well in her fantasies, but here she was in front of the Elf-lord and all her schemes had come to nothing. He must think her a fool! Here she was, blushing like a child caught stealing cupcakes from the pantry and surely he knew what this was all about. She considered running away, but her traitorous feet were rooted to the floor.

“My lady?” he asked, reaching for her face. “Is all well with you?”

“I... well... here is the shirt, my lord. I meant to surprise you with it,” she said. Embarrassment smothered her wits as she handed it to him, looking through her hair as through a veil.

Glorfindel took it from her gingerly, as if it was a fragile thing. He held it by the epaulettes and let the rest of it drop so he could see the front part of it in full. The light was fading, but he turned to the windows and looked at it with a professional eye. He noted each detail and checked to see that each side was even with the other. “It is a fine piece of work,” he told her, his tone respectful.

“Thank you,” she replied, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.

“I am surprised,” he continued, “because I was not expecting such a thing. It is too lovely for everyday wear. I shall reserve it for special occasions. Thank you, Losgael.”

“It was a pleasure, my lord,” she said, and pointed her foot to one side as she made to leave.

“Losgael,” he said, folding the shirt nicely and draping it carefully over his left arm, “this really is beautiful. Is there something I can do in return?”

'Escorting me to the Harvest Ball would be ideal,' she thought, but dared not say it aloud. “I am sure you will think of something,” she replied coyly.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile, and walked away.

As she watched him, Losgael was reminded of a large tomcat prowling at night, looking for prey, and went weak at the knees.

After the twins had been put to bed for the evening, Elrond and Celebrían returned to the Hall of Fire to listen to the tales and enjoy the music and singing. The lord of Imladris had a harp of his own, and sometimes he played it while his lady sang or accompanied him on the flute. An intuitive poet, her recitals were often the highlight of a night in the Hall of Fire.

After a tale of the Elder Days from Lindir had met with a thunderous round of applause, Glorfindel stepped forward with his harp. “I have a song to sing tonight,” he said, “that I wrote but a few hours ago.”

He sat on a stool and sang in a low voice:

A lovely lady sits at work

She labours carefully

And as she sews her every stitch

In fine intricacy

She tells a tale that no-one knows

Though some think they can guess

But no-one knows the sorrow

In her well of loneliness

O long has she loved

And nobody knows

The place in her heart

Where nobody goes

Her hair is fair, the tresses long

She always leaves it free

Her eyes are green like forest leaves

Her manner maidenly

But love with thoughtless impudence

Has caught her in its thrall

And she endures the torment

Of its unrelenting call

O long has she loved

And nobody knows

The place in her heart

Where nobody goes

Her share of Elven wisdom is

A generous one indeed

Her heart is soft and kindly

When she gives to those in need

O never be to such a one

A source of any pain

For a labour that is born of love

Should never be in vain

O long has she loved

And nobody knows

The place in her heart

Where nobody goes

As Glorfindel sang the chorus for a final time, his audience joined in. As he scanned the room for Losgael, he could not see her. She had left. Glorfindel carried on, not wishing to spoil the mood in the room, but the joy of the song had gone for him. He had hoped Losgael would like it. Was it not a fit gift for her, a payment in kind for the shirt? Had he offended her?

The song could not end fast enough. He decided to seek her out and ask her if she was upset.

TBC..