Muffled funerary tolls roll out along the beaches. Even so far from the Havens the harbour bells still reach them, sounding through the wrathful crashing of the waves. Perhaps Ossë called them up himself from dark and watery depths. Glorfindel’s stomach curls at the thought.

His limbs are heavy, tired and aching, stiff with crusting blood and salt. And then there is the matter of the sand, wet and coarse and everywhere. In his hair, his boots, his skin. But these are trivial. He must find her first, put his mind to rest.

Once their folly had been realised they had retreated in the confusion; horrified, terrified and ungainly. Friend and foe had blurred, bodies fell in all directions and the sea rolled with bloody corpses. They had regrouped, as far as possible from the havens, made camp, and then stumbled to the formality of travel and warfare. Captains, lords, men he had seen to. But he had not seen her.

Roving restlessly along the shoreline he eventually saw her, standing like a pale sentinel in the sea. Water had soaked up her skirts, sweeping upwards almost to her waist. Furrows of concern mark his bloodstained brow.

“My Lady,” he rests a hand on her shoulder, she is shaking, silently weeping.

“Can you smell the smoke? They are burning them Glorfindel. The sea will not take any more of their bodies, it is full to the brim….What have we done?” her voice is hoarse and choked. 

“It was not we,” he said carefully, before he could finish she bitterly cut him off,

“Yes and they left us! I know.”

With difficulty Glorfindel tried for diplomacy, “I am sure they had their reasons… You will be able to ask once we reach them”

Clearly she is too preoccupied to hear the tightness to his voice, as her reply comes in a wild flurry, delirious and high.

“Once we reach them? And how are we to get there? Swim? Over the ice?!”

“Hush, not now, those are questions for another day” he soothes, wondering just when that day will be and who will have the answers, “You need rest.” 

Before she could resist he gatherers her into his arms, carrying her like a child. Dripping wet he deposits her outside of the tent emblazoned with her heraldry, firmly pointing her inside.

“I shall keep guard,” he says as she passes mournfully in to her waiting maids.

He stands with folded arms, listening to the bustle from within and then the frustrated tossing and turning of one searching sleep that will not come. Hesitantly and quietly he begins to sing, mumbling and off key. An old lullaby, the strangest thing to come to him now… But then there is silence from inside, at least a small sense of peace. Slowly smiling to himself he continues.