The Dance of Shadow and Flame

Written By: Kasmi Kassim
You can read the Original Here:
All Credit goes to the Original Author

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Chapter 1: A Step into the Shadow

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Glorfindel had been intrigued by the raven-haired elf the moment he laid eyes upon him. Standing at the porch of the Last Homely House, the slender elf had greeted them quietly, bowing his head as Elrond clasped his shoulder and murmured warm words. There was something about the sleek elf that vibrated with power, a black aura that radiated amidst complacent peace. And those eyes, the eyes that looked deader than alive, devoid of light; when he raised his eyes to greet the stranger that he was, the dark-haired elf had looked into his eyes, and Glorfindel had shuddered. His eyes had said nothing more to him than they did to anyone else, but Glorfindel was drawn to them, for he saw the haunting call that rested in those eyes, the deafening silence that threatened to swallow anyone who dared to look, and drown them in bottomless abyss.

Of course, the war had only just ended, and there were many weary elves of all shapes and color in this refuge. However, this elf was different.

As Glorfindel sat at the breakfast table, chatting amiably with the lord of the valley, the raven-haired elf rose to quietly excuse himself. Glorfindel’s stare upon the retreating elf’s back was answered by Elrond’s apologetic smile.

“Erestor does not like to mingle.”

For some reason, that did not surprise Glorfindel. He stood up and excused himself, and followed Erestor. But the dark-haired youth had disappeared from view.

And things continued to be so. Erestor did not like to mingle. He talked little, and smiled not at all. He would often fall into a pensive reverie, from which a lightning bolt next to his foot would not be enough to awake him.

“It used to be worse,” said Elrond, one night by the fire. The two had been discussing the dynamics of Imladris occupants.

“He was a refugee. His eyes beheld a terror that only his silent heart will know.”

Glorfindel said nothing.

They crossed paths, more than once. The silent young elf was, surprisingly, the head of Elrond’s household. He was also his trusted advisor, though he had not been in the valley as long as some others. Glorfindel had raised his eyebrows when Elrond said the young elf was the one who had seen through the treachery of those who had tried to seize the place in Elrond’s absence during the war. Erestor had acted ignorant until the last moment, and trapped them in their own schemes. And he was the one who oversaw the construction and expansion of the Last Homely House while Elrond had been away. The young elf apparently had a brilliant mind. And a brilliant tongue too, Elrond informed Glorfindel, when the latter commented on Erestor’s apparent lack of a voice box.

And Glorfindel had raised his eyebrows at that too.

Whenever they met in the halls, Erestor would make a slight bow, and walk on. As if greeting an apparition, his steps did not falter, as his body gracefully curved and slid by. And Glorfindel would stand and watch him glide away, seeing those black eyes in his mind’s eye.

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“Why do you come to me when you have questions about him?”

Elrond put down his quill, appearing exasperated. Glorfindel knew better. Ignoring the elvenlord’s apparent annoyance, he hopped onto the writing table, swinging his leg.

“You work your advisor like a slave.”

The elven lord sighed. “It is not my place to stop him when Erestor chooses to do extra work.”

The excuse was not enough. Glorfindel stared into the dark eyes of the elven lord, his unnerving gaze gnawing into him. Elrond raised his hands in defeat.

“I gave him the position because he overachieves in it. He tries to be helpful everywhere, every waking moment.”

“What, is this a self-esteem issue now?” The voice was low and disbelieving, and the warrior elf flinched when Elrond gave him a suddenly stern look.

“He had none when he came here, and it became worse after I healed him.” He stood up and walked to the window. His eyes narrowed as they looked through the glass. There were no birds in Imladris yet. “Work makes him forget. It makes him feel needed. He is not like you, Glorfindel.”

At these words, Glorfindel did not reply. He silently hopped off of the table, and was soon gone.

Left alone in the study, Elrond smiled wryly. It took tact to pretend not to know about one’s friend. But he knew that Glorfindel knew. Elrond had not befriended him in one day. He simply wished to refrain from touching a deep wound.

Sighing, he went back to the petitions he had been signing before Glorfindel had barged into his study.

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He was walking in a hallway when stopped by one of the young maidens. Her questions regarded forest patrol, but it was clear that she adored him. Every elf would come running at the softest call, fall to his feet and offer to be of help to the mighty Glorfindel. He was new, but he was already the brightest star of Imladris. Cheerful, courteous and friendly, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower was once again as beloved as the books told him to have been.

He stopped mid-sentence in his courteous replies when he saw a black figure glide by. Excusing himself from the fawning maiden, he followed the dark elf.

“Did you smile today, Erestor?”

Erestor turned at the reverberant baritone which the whole of Imladris had come to know so well. And he stared at the smiling countenance of the blond elf. This was the first conversational question the balrog slayer had thrown his way, aside from greetings and discussions regarding the affairs of the household.

So, the beloved Glorfindel had decided to extend his friendly kindness to him as well. Except that those eyes belied the easy laugh and cheerful countenance.

The golden-haired elf, the one who had returned with Elrond not too long ago. He had introduced himself as Glorfindel of Gondolin. A painful wisdom of yore lurked in those eyes, though his body and smile were those of a barely grown elf. Erestor saw the darkness that haunted the blue eyes, the eyes that held something so deep and so well hidden that it may have been nonexistent. But Erestor saw it all, for he knew what it looked like – the deeply hidden whisper of the pains and joys of a long-forgotten past.

And he knew also that Glorfindel watched him, always watched him.

He knew. And he did not enjoy the attention.

“No, my lord.”

Erestor bowed politely and continued to walk on. To his chagrin, the balrog slayer was following him.

“A day is wasted if you do not smile even once, Erestor.”

At this, the young elf turned, his black eyes burning into those of the other elf. And Glorfindel stared back. He did not flinch away. He also knew the darkness that burned in those bottomless eyes. The shadows that Erestor harbored in his heart. And his eyes were fierce, stern, deep, as they looked back. Erestor turned away.

“I thank you for your advice, my lord.”

“I am not your lord, Erestor.”

The raven-haired elf made a point of ignoring the statement and walked further on, and Glorfindel continued to follow.

“I woke up to a sound of a bird today. Usually I get up late, drowning in dreams, but today I woke up to the first bird that cried outside my window.”

“Is that so, my lord?”

Erestor’s pace quickened. He stepped out into the gardens, which were yet to be completely constructed. Glorfindel’s pace matched his.

“Many people believe the raven to be bad omen, but ironically it is the first bird to bless Imladris with its presence.”

Erestor whirled toward Glorfindel. The blue eyes met his calmly, as black fire burned into them. Pale fingers clenched at dark robes as the young elf whirled back around, and continued to deliberately walk away.

Footsteps followed him. Erestor gritted his teeth. They were weaving in and out of shrubbery that had recently been planted as a part of a massive garden project overseen by Erestor.

“I have yet to be graced with a bird’s presence so far, my lord.”

“Glorfindel.”

“What?”

“My name is Glorfindel. Not my lord.”

Erestor rolled his eyes as he entered the halls again, and rounded a corner. “And I also hold little regard for ravens, my lord Glorfindel.”

“Why? They are so beautiful.”

Erestor could have laughed. Beautiful indeed.

They were inside Erestor’s room by the time the lithe elf whirled around, knocking the taller elf against the wall, holding him in a deadly grip. His voice was a hiss.

“I do not appreciate prying eyes, and I do not need pity. Especially yours.”

Don’t you dare speak of ravens before me.

Glorfindel’s voice was even.

“I have heard of the black pearl of Eregion.”

The slender elf stiffened.

“He had escaped fire and ice, run across vast stretches of war-torn land, established a high rank among the household of the sanctuary to which he arrived as a refugee.”

Pale hands suddenly released Glorfindel, and the elf was turning away from him.

“Leave.”

Glorfindel tilted his head. He slowly stepped away from the wall, toward the narrow back of the frozen figure before him.

“I do not think mere birds deserve the fear of such an elf.”

“Leave.”

“What do you see when you cower from them, Erestor?”

“Leave!”

In a flash, Glorfindel was knocked onto his back, staring up at the elf who violently pinned him down against carpeted floor. Dark orbs trembled as they looked down upon him, a white glimmer of a haunting light. It was the first sign of life that Glorfindel had seen ever since they had met. Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed sadly, and he whispered a heartbroken sigh.

“Poor Erestor.”

Craning his neck slowly upward, Glorfindel gently pressed his lips against the forehead of the slighter elf.

Blank eyes blinked down at him. And then, the black swirl instantly swept off of his body, as if burned. The door slammed, and Glorfindel was lying on Erestor’s floor, wrists marked white, blond hair sprawled over the carpet – and his blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, haunted, silent.

Chapter 2: Call of the Raven

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Erestor had been enjoying solitude in the gardens when a familiar blob of yellow hair intruded his peace. He sat up on the grass, watching Glorfindel slide out of nearby foliage before lazily seating himself upon a rock next to Erestor. Leaning back onto his palms, Glorfindel looked up toward the sky, seemingly at ease.

Erestor followed his gaze. Perched atop a high poplar was a beady-eyed raven.

“I think that is the only one here so far,” he mused.

“We should be glad of that.” Erestor’s reply was curt.

Glorfindel let out a soft laugh. “’Tis a pity,” he reflected, “that our first gatekeeper is so unappreciated.”

“A messenger of death does not suit Imladris.” Erestor did not back down. Glorfindel was smiling.

“Well, it may be death’s companion, yes, but not its cause.” Long legs swung casually down from the rock. “Contrarily, the raven is what cleans up the mess.”

Sharp eyes rested on the tall elf. Erestor did not move. “There is no mess to clean up here,” came out the monotonous reply.

“Thankfully, no, there isn’t,” agreed Glorfindel. His eyes were looking into the distant horizon. “It is the last remaining sanctuary, after all.”

A thin smile surfaced on Erestor’s pale lips.

Sanctuary did not exist.

His voice was light as he looked back at the raven, and moved his gaze onto the grass. “I fear that blood-soaked creatures simply will not do as a keeper of any realm.”

Glorfindel brought his gaze down at last.

“But even as they see the horrors of the world, they possess the sky, and they will forever have the sky, no matter how much we, land-bound, hate them for it.” His tone was soft.

Erestor’s tone was low, strained.

“You seem quite fond of this bird.”

The emotionless voice rang out among the trees, ringing against the darkened sky. The skies were gray today. They were always gray in Imladris. Ever since the war.

“I do not think fond is the right word.”

What a pity.

Erestor’s eyes narrowed in sarcasm. But he did not voice it. He looked away.

“Erestor.”

Erestor’s ears caught a distant flap of wings. And suddenly, he became aware of Glorfindel’s position, blocking the exit from the hidden patch of grass among the bushes.

He stood, and Glorfindel also rose. Erestor was trapped.

The slender elf let out a thin breath. What game was this intruder playing? And suddenly, his heart boiled with dark malice. This elf had no right.

Blood veins protruded through pale knuckles.

“Move.”

The tone was raw, blunt. He knew, and they both knew. Courtesy was but a comical façade here. And Glorfindel stood his ground.

The raven took off into the skies. A screeching wail spread against the clouds. Erestor’s body tightened as if pulled by a rope from all sides. His breaths were shallow.

“Glorfindel.” He blinked to focus his distant gaze. The darkness in them was fading, leaving behind a trembling glimmer of light. Glorfindel was watching. He looked away, dropping his gaze.

He had lost this round.

“Let me go.” A voiceless whisper.

Glorfindel slowly shook his head. His voice rang with a touch of sadness.

“No, Erestor.”

Cold fire burned in Erestor’s veins. Defiant, he raised his eyes. And realized that he had made a mistake.

He saw.

A raven circled above them, black and graceful, as it glided under the gray skies. Just as they had circled over their heads, crying out death when blood splashed and marred the ground...

The slender elf’s eyes shut involuntarily, and he lowered his head. And the waves came crashing against his ears, the screams and wails and curses as he ran betwixt life and death. The shredded bodies stared up at him, and he could only hear his own ragged breathing as he ran, ran through fire and ice, and collapsed, weeping, at the welcoming doors of Imladris. And the raven continued its cry, tearing into his bloodied hands.

The tumultuous howls faded into a distance as warmth approached, and Erestor felt strong hands wrap around his arms. He froze as if turned to stone. Cascades of gold streamed into his vision and the warmth came nearer, but he refused to face the deep blue eyes that looked into his, as a gentle whisper was breathed upon his fevered head.

“You cannot hide forever.”

Time slowed to a standstill. And gold was wavering before his eyes, a rich field of ripened sun. And a haunting song of yore beckoned to him, beckoning with its nostalgic melody.

And then it shattered; everything was screaming and winding itself backward, and the crash exploded. And as the tall elf stood alone in the gentle breeze, the black figure was moving swiftly past him, flying into the darkened halls.

Above the stilled figure of the golden elf, the raven continued its circled flight, cleaving the gray skies with a piercing cry.

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Nothing happened after that. They continued to hold regular meetings with Elrond and without, for Glorfindel was soon overseeing all outdoor affairs of Imladris concerning security and borders, as Erestor ran the domestic and political matters. The pair had become the two highest authorities of Imladris who flanked the elvenlord, and Elrond was content to leave them at that. Of course, he was watching them. But it was of no matter to Glorfindel.

Whenever they met to discuss affairs that required the two’s overlapping attention, their talks were swift and efficient, for they were both intelligent and understood each other well. As remarkable as it was to watch the two advisors’ dazzling exchange of ideas, however, their words were short, gestures strained. Amid this exchange, they had to mingle, look at each other, talk to each other, eat together. And the tension was mounting. Something was waiting to explode.

And Elrond was watching them. And they both knew it.

“He is not ready, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel was polishing his bow in the archery field when Elrond approached him. Glorfindel did not look up as he experimentally pulled on the string.

“Nobody becomes ready.”

Elrond shook his head.

“You are being cruel to him.”

“Perhaps I am.”

The solitary raven cleaved the sky. Glorfindel pulled his bow, aiming upwards, eyes narrowed upon the target. But his fingers did not release the arrow.

He had heard. The crashes, the screams, the incoherent shouts and frantic wails – he had heard them all. He had run to the room, only to find it locked. Then Elrond had run to his side, had promptly broken down the door, and swept in, leaving Glorfindel standing in the hall. Elrond alone was allowed in through that threshold. And Glorfindel had been left outside, pacing, as screams continued – begging not to take her away, that he would take her place, just don’t take her away, lock him up if they wished, please give her back. Pleading, weeping, screaming in terror and pain – and the crashes had subdued, and Glorfindel had stood, eyes burning into the carpet, as repressed sobs broke into the silence and soaked the walls. And long after Elrond had left, and dusk had fallen, he had stood still, facing the dark door that was shut before him – and had not moved. And had not looked at Erestor when he appeared the next breakfast, silent and graceful as always, with bandages hidden under his long dark robes.

“Do you hate him, Glorfindel?”

Cool blue eyes finally left the circling raven, and came down to meet the calm gaze of the elvenlord.

“Do not patronize me, Peredhel,” drawled a low voice. “I may be in the body of a youth, but you forget the ages I have lived through.”

“You’re acting like an elfling. As if you hate him.” Elrond gazed upon him steadily.

Perhaps he did.

Glorfindel looked away, and resumed polishing his bow. He did not answer.

He did not speak to Elrond about Erestor after that. And Elrond did not mention it.

Yet he watched on as the smile faded from the warrior’s bright face. He did not sing as he polished his sword. He did not bow with a charming twinkle in his eye as he showed young maidens around the mazes of corridors. His words became short, laughter sparse. His voice no longer leaped with buoyant joy as he smiled to admiring youths. And a look unfamiliar to inhabitants of Imladris had come to rest in his eyes, a gaze that looked beyond the here and now as he silently treaded the sanctuary. A somber grayness was beginning to weigh upon his carefree gait as he moved through the gardens at dusk, an apparition embraced by ancient phantoms. And when he walked into the halls, hair wavering in a slow trail, others would watch on in hushed silence as the golden elf faded into the shadows, his slow steps leaving behind woeful whispers of the dark.

The laughing, smiling, joking Glorfindel of Imladris was disappearing. Not many dared to look into his eyes any longer, for the bright fire that had burned and entranced them had died.

And Erestor’s expressionless dark eyes were becoming more restless by the day, more terrified, more bright.

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It was not like him to be clumsy. Glorfindel sighed as he pried himself off of the gnarled bush. He reached down to untangle himself from the thorns, and the pain returned, flaring through his leg. He gritted his teeth.

Though highly uncharacteristic of him, the distraction had been inevitable, and the injury had not been unexpected. It was an anniversary, after all. And what was the point of anniversaries if they did not bring back distracting memories? He almost laughed at the thought. Ah, memories. Such a sweet word, that.

Perhaps he should not have gone out on patrol on this day. But he could not stay to face Elrond’s knowing gaze, his comforting touch. The memories were his alone; no other in Imladris could share the woeful song he carried in silence. So he had smiled upon the worried face of the elven lord, and had left with a sword on his hand and a hushed tremor in his heart. And he had galloped out far into the forest, amongst the valley, madly digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, burning away the images into the wind, engraving them deeper into his skin.

Slowly he straightened his back, and took a step toward the house. The sun had already set.

Searing pain tore at his flesh, and he pressed his lips together. Grasping a nearby tree branch, he began to take tentative steps, leaning onto trees as he crossed the garden.

Well, well, well.

He could have chuckled at the coincidence. Alone in the middle of the garden stood Erestor, young and unguarded as he stared. And he slowly, reluctantly, moved forward.

With a rueful smile, Glorfindel shook his head. He would not take advantage of the young elf’s kindness. Not tonight.

Perhaps it was more about his own pride than that of Erestor. Glorfindel was not so young that he failed to recognize his vanity.

“I am well. Just need to lie down in my room.”

Erestor hesitated. And he bowed, moving away into the shadows.

The sky was a dark shade of blue by the time Glorfindel reached the entrance of the house. He panted, clutching the doorframe, sweat outlining his brow. And then, a sleek shadow moved behind him. And the pain in his leg was lessened.

“You needn’t trouble yourself.”

He was met with silence. And Glorfindel did not try again. He was also not so young that he disregarded the pride of others.

Erestor’s eyes were focused on the dark hallway as he helped Glorfindel to his room. Glorfindel did not object when Erestor closed the door behind him and locked it. The blond warrior sank down on the bed, and looked up expectantly.

The young advisor stood before him, uncertain. A thin film of moonlight shafted in through the window. A crescent moon was rising.

Glorfindel tipped his head, gaze locked on the black abyss that stared into him. He held out his hand.

“Come closer.”

The young elf complied.

When Erestor was only a breath away, Glorfindel slowly reached up and took hold of cold hands.

Erestor tensed. But he did not move away.

Glorfindel’s eyes held a haunted light as he gazed upon the slender elf, and the pale face that floated in the darkness. The pale face, as pale as his had been. Just that there was so much blood...

His eyes scoured the elf before him. The lips that had cried the same tale that he had. The ears that held the same songs that he had. And the trickling moonlight that kissed the dark hair. A silver tear from the skies, just like that night. And the silver warrior had been beautiful, so beautiful, as he bid him farewell.

One hand rose, and rested against the soft fabric of the advisor’s robes. A hushed heartbeat.

He closed his eyes. His whisper fell away into the hush of darkness.

“Do the ravens call to you too?”

And crumbling before the fallen warrior, the black shadow bowed his head in tremulous silence.

Chapter 3: Wounds

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It had been a busy day. He had been arranging for additional quarters in preparation for more refugees that were said to be coming. It was a massive project that weighed upon him in addition to the expansion and reorganization of the Last Homely House. And at the end of the day, he had sought out respite from the din of the halls, succeeding in finding a new corner in the garden surrounded by bushes. And curled upon the grass, he had promptly fallen asleep.

It was dark when he was awakened by a gentle shake on the shoulder.

“Erestor.” The whisper was soft.

He rose, bleary eyes staring into the concerned gaze of a taller elf. And then, he was being pulled into the house.

“You work too hard, my friend.”

Golden threads of hair swirled in his vision as he blankly let himself be guided down the hall.

“Why do you never sleep in your room?”

And then there he was, standing before the dark door to his chambers. Erestor pulled out of the taller elf’s grasp, and took a step back. His eyes were clear now, alight with a ghostly glow, the white beacon of forbidden knowledge. He shook his head.

You do not understand.

He turned around and hastened away. Away from the door, and from the elf that stood before it.

Perhaps I fear that you may understand.

Erestor was, after all, brilliantly perceptive. Even about himself.

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Days passed, and no new refugees came.

“I have an ominous premonition about this,” muttered Elrond, stacking documents that needed to be signed. “You can sign those for me, by the way.”

Erestor stood by the elven lord in silence, watching Elrond pace about. The golden afternoon was casting a languorous slant of sunlight upon the valley.

“They should have been here days ago.” Elrond stopped and swiped back a stray braid, cursing as it snagged on a clasp of his collar. As he got to work untangling the braid, uttering a string of curses under his breath, Erestor watched on, torn between amusement and concern.

“Can you see nothing?”

Elrond shook his head. “It is not clear. Vilya is not functiong with full power. The dark forces are still strong, and-” he stopped, and looked at Erestor. The Chief Councilor was heading out the door. “Where are you going?”

“To send scouts,” was the quiet reply as Erestor slipped from the room.

Glorfindel was already waiting on horseback when Erestor stepped out into the courtyard. There was no one flanking him. Erestor met his eyes blankly.

“You are vain.”

Glorfindel answered with a roguish smile and a bow. “Thank you for your concern, dear Councilor.”

He spurred his horse and galloped out of the courtyard. Erestor shot a dark look toward his retreating back.

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Darkness was falling. The hush of the house was broken by neighing of horses, wailing of infants and cries of relief. Feet were heard rushing about as elves spilled into the courtyard.

Erestor slowly raised his head from his knees, realizing that the sun had set. He lowered his feet from the windowsill, and stopped when he saw a tall figure before him, facing the halo of twilight. Exactly like a statue he had seen in the gallery.

But this elf was looking down at him with a strange expression, so unlike that graceful statue with the solemn look of longing and tragic fierceness. With skin that tingled with life, he was embraced by a mist of twilight that breathed an eerie song of yore. This was the real Glorfindel.

He sometimes had trouble distinguishing. Glorfindel, and Glorfindel. Perhaps neither of them was real.

Evading the unreadable gaze, Erestor’s eyes traveled lower, and flinched at the sight of black blood oozing down the length of Glorfindel’s armor. The tranquility of the statue melted into a smile.

“I didn’t have time to take off my armor – Elrond needed help gathering the wounded. I’ll clean up the mess later.”

Ignoring the blood stains that were spreading on the dark carpet, Erestor looked back up at Glorfindel’s face. “Are you injured?”

Glorfindel shook his head. The faint vapors embracing him unfurled.

“Why did you not wake me?”

“You looked tired.” Another smile. “Fear you not, my lord. The refugees are safe, and I have seen to their lodgings and welcome in your stead. Lord Elrond has asked me to bring you to your sleeping quarters.”

Blue eyes were twinkling in the fading light. And suddenly, he was indescribably ancient, this smiling elf. The mist of twilight that coiled around his body continued to whisper in hushed silence, and he was so alien and distant that Erestor suddenly could not touch him. He looked away.

“I will be helping in the healing ward,” he muttered, and rose to his feet.

Glorfindel watched Erestor turn away from him, begin to stride down the hall.

“Erestor.”

The lithe silhouette stilled.

“You cannot keep running away.”

The air was frigid. And then, the footsteps softened into silence.

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In the darkened halls of Imladris treaded a soundless shadow, outlined by a solitary candle. The candle flickered as the elf walked, and golden fire and black shadow entangled with muted footfalls.

Long hair swirled as the figure came to a stop before the healing ward. A pale hand emerged from sleeping robes, and opened the door.

Moonlight shafted in through the windows, enveloping the House of Healing in deep blue. An orderly array of beds held elves who were injured on their flight to sanctuary before the solitary warrior of Imladris came to their rescue earlier that day.

He neared the window, where a black-robed elf sat curled upon his chair, bathed in moonlight.

Turning away from the sleeping guardian, he approached the nearest wounded elf, and bent to rest his hand upon a fevered brow. Stroking damp strands of hair, he closed his eyes and breathed a prayer. An ancient language caressed the wounded, and the whispering elf was bathed in gold, an inner light that radiated from his body. The sleeping elf murmured, and smiled. And fell into a deeper sleep of dreamless peace.

He rose, and moved onto the next elf. He bent down to stroke fevered brows and whisper a prayer; and thus he treaded among the sleeping bodies in the darkness, lit by a solitary candle in the shadows where the moon could not reach, breathing a prayer to each of the wounded and weary, an ancient tongue of peace and blessings of a faraway land, a faraway time.

“You did not tell anyone that you could heal.”

The golden glow was coldly extinguished. His body was once again dark and oblique against the dance of the candlelight.

Blue eyes met black. Time was rapidly winding itself back to the present.

“I heal little.”

“No healer can heal all.”

But the reversal of time was stilled, distorted like troubled waters; standing before the abyss that challenged him, sang to him, time was not. All was infinite, and there was no escape.

“Yes, that is true. The wounds of the heart must mend on their own.”

“Not all wounds can heal.”

Glorfindel let out a deep breath. “Then what can be done?” His voice was soft. “The dreams will continue to haunt you, no matter where you hide.”

Bare feet touched the floor as the sleek shadow righted itself. Black hair spilled fully into the moonlight.

“True.” The voice was even. “But disguising yourself will not set you free.”

Glorfindel’s body tensed.

Erestor’s voice was softer this time. “Are the songs you sing really of the White City? Are those stories of joy and valor your own, Glorfindel of Gondolin?”

Glorfindel did not answer. Erestor let out a mirthless laugh.

“It still burns, does it not?” He stared directly into the eyes of the shadowed elf. “You are not any freer than I.”

It burned, those songs, those tales of yore. Despite the placating tone, the innocence of the question – the pain was raw, and there was no salve. And Erestor knew it. Erestor’s presence alone hurt. Just as Glorfindel’s presence hurt him.

The warrior’s vibrant laugh, his twinkling smile, were poor cover for the wild fire that ate away the soul within. He brought back the flames, the crumbling walls – and Erestor did not know how to fight them.

Fighting, he could do. Erestor was no novice when it came to war; he could battle orc, troll, goblin, man, elf – but he did not know how to fight something that attacked only in his dreams. How could he fight the cry of the ravens? How could he repel the screams, the sobs that broke his dark nights? How could he erase the mangled bodies, the hollow eyes that stared at him through the blood?

He could not win this battle. And so he ran away. He had no choice but to run away.

Met with silence, he let out a small sigh. “What can be done?” he echoed, a tint of sarcasm bleeding into his voice.

Bathed in silent moonlight, he looked away into the window, into the darkness illuminated by the arc of white.

The moon was so bright. So bright.

Erestor closed his eyes.

“Tell me, child of Valinor.” His voice was soft, weary. “Can you ever heal completely?”

Give me an answer, if you have one. Save me, if you can. Challenge me, if you dare. For you and I will destroy each other.

Glorfindel remained silent.

Erestor felt his heart grow duller, and pressed it with a cold hand. Had he sought answers? No, he knew Glorfindel held no salvation for him. His demons were his own. And this warrior had walked into his territory and had thrown questions, sought to distort his tranquil reality – and the ripples were becoming too violent to suppress. There was no escape from those eyes; they haunted him, those emotions that lay themselves bare with brutal frankness. Passing him in the halls, seeing him in the armory, he would always turn to him with a smile, and his eyes would change into that sea of unveiled nightmares. And when those eyes looked into his, Erestor always awoke with a muted scream, unknown terror clenching his heart. And with a trembling breath and a desperate prayer, his nights would be soaked in mournful longing of a long-lost melody, fevered wishes Erestor himself could not understand.

For the first time since his survival, he was beginning to pray. To wish, to fear.

This had to stop.

With a soft rustle, he stood. He took barely a step when Glorfindel spoke.

“Do you suffer still, Eregion’s child?” His voice was void of emotion. The candle threw a distorted shadow against the wall. Erestor did not meet eyes again.

“Fight your own demons. Do not seek to gain solace by touching mine.”

In the silence that followed, he was gliding past the golden warrior when Glorfindel spoke.

“Forgive me.”

Two shadows mingled. And standing in the threshold of darkness and light, Erestor laughed softly.

“Dear Vanya, what is there to forgive?”

As Erestor stepped into the shadows where the blue of the moon could not reach, his heart trembled to hear a silent cry from behind, a deafening wave of palpable grief that washed over his body like a sea of tears.

And from that night forward, Glorfindel’s nightmares began.

Chapter 4: Demons of the Night

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It was a piercing cry.

Elrond knew the voice well. But when he burst in the unlit room, he did not see a youth thrashing in fevered dreams. The silence was colder than the darkness.

Glorfindel sat upon his bed, still as a statue, white under the gleaming moon. As if tears had exhausted life, and grief had wrenched out the heart and seeped out the blood from a once-breathing being. Turned to an eternal, tearless stone. Elrond kneeled before him.

“Glorfindel,” he called softly. The warmth of his lantern invaded the fringes of the darkness.

Glorfindel raised his eyes. They flickered, hollow and gleaming, an already-ended battle of hope and despair.

Elrond gently grasped his hands. “You must tell me about your dreams.”

Light began to reach into frigid blue eyes. A slow smile spread across a weary face. As if an age-old stone had slowly warmed back to life by the gentle dance of the lantern light – and restored to its pulsating tears and grief. Glorfindel shook his head.

“I need no healer,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. “I am a healer.”

“No one can heal himself.” Elrond squeezed his hand. “That is why we become healers.”

Silence stretched woefully. Glorfindel stared at the darkness beyond Elrond’s shoulder. The candle from the lantern was dancing, and his eyes were bright and terrible. Elrond squeezed his hand once again, dreading the light in his eyes that had already seen death and beyond.

“Good night, Elrond.” A distant smile. So far beyond the reach of the elven lord, so far beyond the reach of his years. Elrond bit back a despondent breath.

Elrond could build a sanctuary. He could heal the wounded. But he was helpless before the wise, emptied look of hopelessness that cleansed this smile, the beauty of the defeated. And so he despaired. Stood, vowing for another day. Another way.

The balrog slayer lay down again, turning away from the elvenlord. Stubborn shoulders set, untouchable, trembling with things unsaid.

Perhaps there were things that could not be said.

Elrond slowly straightened his back. The silence of the room suddenly seemed deafening. It was overwhelming, this despair.

“Is there no one that can heal you, dear Glorfindel?” he whispered.

Silence.

Elrond slowly made his way to the door. As he stepped out of the dark threshold, he looked back at the bed once again. The cold shoulders were stiff and silent. And in the final hush of the night, they tumbled down to one woeful answer.

“They are all dead.”

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Erestor made no comment as he watched Glorfindel of Imladris shrink away. The bright laughter faded, and the golden glow was snuffed. Glorfindel spoke little. He did not seem to see Erestor. Perhaps he had never seen Erestor. The Chief Councilor knew this had been the truth from the very beginning. But now, he did not know if the golden elf saw anything at all.

In this life, that was.

Erestor was overseeing the construction of the west gardens when he saw Glorfindel return from the day’s patrol. It was later than usual, and he was alone. Erestor raised his head. Glorfindel met his gaze. His eyes were dusty, weather-worn. He smiled wearily.

“They returned ahead of me. Fear not, dear Councilor. The guardsmen are safe.”

Erestor frowned. Glorfindel looked as if to move on, and faltered. His eyes were set on the latest construction of paths among of the bushes. He looked at Erestor, and smiled. It was light, this fleeting smile. Weary.

“Continuing your escape, I see.”

Erestor narrowed his eyes. It had been many days since the incident. And the first words Glorfindel spoke to him after that, aside from business, were riddles again. Riddles that existed only between the two.

Resentment rose. Erestor’s black eyes flashed, before dulling again.

“You assume much, Lord Glorfindel.”

Warning.

He had twisted and warped everything in him. And now, he was even beginning to touch his nightmares. But that was one territory where Erestor could not back down. He could touch everything else. But not this one.

“’Tis naught but a habit, Lord Glorfindel. I would not speak of it.”

“Building shelters and havens will not relieve you of your dreams.”

A thin smile. This elf knew exactly what he spoke of. Erestor looked up. There were no ravens today. And yet he felt haunted.

“What do you suggest I do?” The whisper was defiant.

Silence rested between them. The last of the workers were leaving. The evening breeze was cool against his hair. Erestor closed his eyes.

“What can I do to drive my demons away?” he whispered.

Tell me. Look at me in the eye. I am no longer afraid of you.

When his black orbs stared straight into blue ones, Glorfindel shuddered involuntarily, and looked away. His eyes immediately shot back, a hint of apprehension in those young and ancient orbs of blue, but it was too late. Erestor’s eyes were narrowed, contemptuous.

“Hypocritical coward.”

You cannot help me.

Erestor whirled around, and disappeared into the house.

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“Do you have nightmares too?”

Elrond stopped what he was doing, and looked up at Glorfindel. The young warrior perched himself up on top of the elvenlord’s writing table, and put his open palm down upon the papers that had previously been claiming the lord’s attention. He leaned forward, staring intently into the dark orbs.

“How do you drive nightmares away?”

Elrond rose, and walked slowly around the table to the other side. Glorfindel watched warily.

“If you’re not going to give me any help here, Elrond, you might as well tell me why you called me in the middle of the night. The reports-”

“The reports can wait. Can I not invite a friend for a friendly chat?” Elrond smiled as he approached the hearth.

Glorfindel snorted. “I don’t believe you. Conniving Peredhil.”

Chuckling softly, Elrond began to kindle the hearth. Glorfindel watched, silent. Flames sparked to life, kindling the screams in his heart. And Elrond knew. He knew that Elrond knew.

“You fear Erestor.”

He tensed as the elvenlord patiently fed the fire. The room brightened into a warm hue of gold.

“You fear the shadows that haunt him, the darkness you see when you look into him.”

Elrond straightened his back, and walked toward the corner of his room. “Glorfindel of Imladris, I cannot comprehend what your heart desires.”

“Do you say Erestor does?” The balrog slayer’s tone was almost a snarl. Elrond tilted his head in a placating manner.

“Perhaps he knows instinctively, Glorfindel. Just as you do.”

From a corner by the fireplace, he gently guided out a large apparatus covered with thick brown leather, positioning it before the fire.

“You hate him because he proves to you over and again that he is not whom you see in him, and because his eyes lay bare your lies.”

He lifted the leather cover, revealing a gleaming harp. He carefully positioned himself before it, and plucked a string experimentally. A lingering note vibrated in the air as the two remained silent.

“I know not whom you see in Erestor, Glorfindel.” He looked up. The strings trembled under his loving caress. “But everything this being holds, everything and everyone he represents and binds together, cannot be where you seek them to be.”

Elrond’s hands began to move gently over the strings. And where they touched, a mournful tune began to sing.

“I hate you.”

Glorfindel slowly sank down into Elrond’s abandoned chair, hugging his knees.

“Perhaps.”

The golden-haired youth leaned his chin upon his knees, staring at the fire, as the music caressed the air. And he did not move as the harp sang quietly, lovingly, and the fire burned itself away throughout the darkness of the night.

“I hate you.”

The fire continued to burn.

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“You were screaming.”

Erestor crossed his arms. His dark eyes glittered ominously in the dark of the night. Seated upon his bed, Glorfindel stared up at him incredulously. Erestor was still dressed in what he was wearing during the day. Which meant he probably fell asleep somewhere outside his room again. And probably – though it disturbed him to think it – slept curled upon the floor in the hallway, which explained the possibility of his presence here at this time.

Letting out a weary sigh, the blond elf ran a hand through loose strands of hair.

“’Twas naught but a dream.” A smooth, easy statement. Well trained.

Erestor did not budge from his position before the bed. “You were screaming.”

The moonlight streamed in through the window, brightening a small arc of space between them. It had waxed. Now a heavy crescent moon, it leaned flatly in the dark night sky, illuminating the silence, while yet shrouded by the shadow.

Wearily, Glorfindel leaned back on his palms upon the bed. His gaze defiantly met Erestor’s.

“I do not see why you should come,” he replied, casting a glance outside his window. His eyes narrowed upon the moon.

“What makes you say so, my lord?” The dark-haired elf yet stood before him, his eyes burning into the darkness. Glorfindel tilted his head.

“You are not fond of me.”

The dark shadow moved forward. Glorfindel swallowed. Erestor cocked his head discreetly, a sinister gleam in his eyes.

“Am I not, my lord?”

“Erestor...”

Before Glorfindel could react to the proximity, the lithe body swiftly moved forward, a streak of white as he moved through the moonlight. Breath was knocked out of Glorfindel as he found himself pinned onto the bed, pressed against the sheets. The blond elf gasped. Hovering over him was a wavering ocean of infinite darkness, and a vicious white gleam that threatened to tear him apart.

“Does the shadow hold sway over you as well?” The voice was a sensual whisper. A sweet promise of demise. Glorfindel shuddered.

“Do the ravens tear at you already?” A vicious snarl.

“My demons are naught of your concern.” Glorfindel hardened his voice.

A soft chuckle. It was an edge of a blade. The pressure on his wrists tightened.

“Ah, but that is not fair, my dear Lord Glorfindel.” The voice caressed his ear softly. “You invade my dreams as you wish, and yet you cast away the mirror I bring before you.”

Glorfindel gritted his teeth. He pushed against the slender elf hovering over him, but was held down with surprising tenacity. Soon the silence was filled with gasps as the two forms struggled on the bed, thrashing and grabbing, and waves of gold and raven swirled in the dark.

“You are my greatest demon.”

Glorfindel’s fervent whisper suddenly loosened the hold on his wrists. Instantly gaining an upper hand, the blond warrior rolled over and pinned the slender elf onto the bed, staring into the black eyes that suddenly seemed blank. As Glorfindel looked into his eyes, the darkness gave way, and a hollow gleam slowly set in. Erestor looked up, almost confused, fearful. The black abyss was filled with trembling glimmers.

Glorfindel slowly hung his head.

“Your eyes haunt my dreams stronger than any fire I have burned in...” the whisper trailed into the dark, and Erestor’s breaths were silent, frozen.

A soft gasp slid from the dark-haired elf’s lips as vicious fingers suddenly dug into his shoulders with vehemence. A low, fevered snarl spread against his skin.

“I have been keeping them at bay, Erestor. Until you came along and looked at me, I was able to believe that I was free of the nightmares!” A violent shake of the unresisting body. Erestor’s eyes remained on the ceiling, vacant, trembling.

A soundless cry broke forth from Glorfindel’s throat. Reincarnated youth, legendary balrog slayer, untamed warrior – he loosened his hold, slumping onto the body below his own, defeated. Gold tresses fanned out against the bed, mingling with motionless dark threads, and he slowly buried his head into the darkness beyond the slender elf’s neck. His body was enveloped in silent tremors.

“What have you done to me?”

As the hot whisper shattered against the night, silent arms slowly rose to enfold the broken body that trembled into the darkness. And in the haunting dark, the black eyes continued to look up at the ceiling, unmoving, eternal.

Chapter 5: Irredeemable

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“Therefore, in simple terms, activity is increasing in the west.”

Elrond creased his brows. Glorfindel drew a sweeping arc across the map and pointed south. “And they are making a loop down this way.”

“Clever for their brain capacity,” remarked Erestor drily. Elrond nodded as other advisors began to murmur among themselves. He shifted his gaze to Glorfindel, who stood by the map and watched the advisors with a distant eye. He looked haggard. As orc activity increased, the seneschal’s working hours did as well. His guards looked relatively fresh after day-long trips, but he looked tired, golden hair dusty and weather-worn. Elrond called the advisors together for a solution.

“We say take a shortcut down and meet them,” said one advisor, motioning to himself and two others. Other advisors from the side shook their heads.

“There is no guarantee that they will be of threat to us. Especially if they are going down south. Besides, the shortcuts are treacherous.”

“Vilya can protect-”

“Vilya is not functioning at its fullest!”

“Do you say we sit back and wait for them to attack us?”

“We are a hidden sanctuary! We cannot advertise unwanted war!”

“This is clearly-”

Elrond raised his hand. The squabble died down, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Elrond turned to Erestor, who had remained silent throughout the debate. “What say you, Lord Erestor?”

Erestor’s eyes flickered toward the captain of the guard. Glorfindel met his gaze calmly.

“Go after them,” said Erestor. Silence hung. Elrond cleared his throat.

“No side-tracking, no ambushing, but plain tracking?”

“Yes,” said Erestor simply, and scanned the map. “If the orcs are smart enough to make this kind of diversion, they are smart enough to expect an ambush. What they will not expect,” he said, drawing a trail mimicking Glorfindel’s earlier one, “is an attack from behind.”

Elrond nodded. The other advisors murmured among themselves, obviously impressed. Erestor looked intently at Glorfindel. Elrond followed his gaze.

“What say you, Lord Glorfindel? Think you that your guards can track them down straight?”

“No, my lord.” Glorfindel smiled.

The murmurs halted. All eyes riveted on the golden elf. The blond youth whirled around, pointing at the map.

“This is a good three days’ travel, my lord. My guards are weary and few in number, and after such extensive travel, they cannot manage a good battle. Many of them are already injured from the past fortnight.”

All eyes turned to Erestor. He continued to stare at Glorfindel, unfazed.

“However,” continued Glorfindel, “this feat is possible if we separate them – and this can be done without the efforts of my guards.” He looked at Erestor. Erestor nodded.

“Vilya,” he said simply.

Glorfindel nodded. “Yes, if we catch up with them here-” he drew a circle at an overpass, “-the orcs can be easily defeated, and by this I mean-” he pointed toward a stream that crossed the overpass, “-water.”

Elrond’s eyes sparked. “Yes, Vilya is strong enough to summon water,” he said brightly. “And if we can send out a scout to see their progress, I can flood them at the precise location and divide them. Splendid!”

Glorfindel glanced at Erestor. Erestor glanced back. No more words were said.

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Elrond glared at the golden-haired elf as he sauntered into the study, and proceeded to perch himself atop of the elvenlord’s writing table. Elrond waved a parchment in his hands.

“What is this?”

“A report, my lord,” answered the blond youth, swinging his leg. Elrond scanned the parchment once again before dropping it down onto the table.

“Glorfindel, are you abusing your power to play games?” he tapped his fingers against the surface wood. “You should have given this to me before the council meeting.”

The youth shrugged. “I thought you had appointed me seneschal due to my experience?” he looked around the room distractedly. Elrond huffed, and pulled on a braid of his hair, doing little to conceal the fact that he would rather be pulling on the strands of a certain blond elf at the moment. Glorfindel watched on, expression unreadable.

“Glorfindel, of course I trust you,” said Elrond patiently, “but we were all alarmed into thinking this was war.” When Glorfindel did not budge, he sighed, exasperated. “You did not tell us they were so outnumbered.”

Unfazed, Glorfindel leaned close to Elrond. Blue met gray, and gazes locked.

“Even one orc can take out a pillar to a castle,” he said, voice low and sinister. “And the castle will crumble.”

Elrond looked up without blinking. “We do not speak of orcs, do we, Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel slowly drew back, and shifted his gaze to the window. His eyes reflected the pale gray light of day, dancing, fleeting.

Elrond rose. His eyes challenged the golden-haired elf, and Glorfindel slowly looked back, his face a tumbling array of emotion, shifting like troubled waters. Silence stretched.

At last, Glorfindel sighed, breaking the silence. He held up his hands. “What do you want, Peredhil? You want me to kill orcs or do you want me to suck my thumb while someone else does it?”

Elrond raised a brow. “You’re not the only one who can fight off orcs.”

“Yes, Elrond, vain as I am, I know.” Glorfindel blew on a stray strand of hair across his face.

“I do not speak of vanity.” Elrond moved closer. Glorfindel’s shoulders stiffened as dark eyes bore into him. “I speak of your fatigue. Your excessive training. After hours. In the moonlight.” He drew back, watching Glorfindel’s eyes flicker. “And you refusing to be healed just because you have Vanyarian blood – that is vanity.”

Glorfindel remained silent. The gray of the day was whirling in his eyes, a terrible white light. It was stretching, crashing like the nightmares that plagued the youth every night and made him more haggard, more hollow. Elrond wanted to sigh.

“Whose forgiveness do you seek?” he whispered.

Glorfindel flinched. Swirling daylight crashed, and hard blue eyes turned away. He swung his legs off of the table. Hopping off, he whirled around, and bowed curtly. “Good day, my lord. My guards will be out shortly.”

Elrond’s voice was calm behind his back. “I will be leaving for Lothlorien soon.”

The air stilled. Glorfindel turned, looking surprised. He looked searchingly into Elrond’s eyes. And then, he nodded.

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The orcs were panicking. They were separated by a strange onslaught of floodwater that appeared out of nowhere, and now two groups were separated by more than water – they were forced to climb inland, toward the mountainous terrain. Behind each slope crouched a band of elven warriors, waiting for the captain’s signal.

Glorfindel grimly counted the number of the enemy as he pulled his bow. As he had feared, the orcs had followed the trail of the latest influx of refugees. He would have to clear up the path before Elrond’s entourage left for Lorien, and keep it clean. The orcs were not aware of the whereabouts of the Last Homely House, of course; Vilya, weak as it still was, held up enough power to keep the refuge hidden. But as refugees heard of an elven sanctuary, orcs and trolls gathered as well, and there was a slaughtering to be made. The hidden valley could not afford to be found by unwanted eyes.

The concern that plagued the councilors of Imladris was that there were many refugees to be protected, and not enough warriors to protect them. Imladris population was unbalanced; it had an overwhelming number of scribes, smiths, artisans, cooks – those who had led peaceful lives before the war. Warriors were rare and few. Most had perished in the great war, or fell while protecting the trail of refugees.

Just like Glorfindel.

Elrond provided Glorfindel with all the resources he asked for. But contrary to the wishes of a worried advisory board, Glorfindel kept the population of the infantry at a minimum, and refused to take in more recruits. And while the legend of Gondolin stood at a stalemate with the entire advisory board of Imladris, Elrond had turned troubled eyes toward Erestor, and the chief councilor had remained silent. And Elrond had conceded.

Perhaps it was vanity. Or perhaps it was punishment. Glorfindel no longer knew.

He raised his signal. War cries ensued. Glorfindel let his arrows fly, watching with detached calm as orcs began to scamper about, confused by the battle cries.

There was no need for close combat. There was no need even to rise to their feet. The orcs fell in confusion and fear, entangled in horrific cries – and even before they could fall in bloody heaps, the raging river returned, swallowing up the traces of battle. And as the dark creatures fell, the waters calmed, and gently, gently – the tide lapped against the forest floor, washing away the blood, soothing the land of its scars. And soon, there was nothing but tufts of grass and dirt, as if there had never been battle.

Glorfindel watched in a daze as his guards shouted victory calls. The battle ended as quickly as it began. His battle tactics and Elrond’s magic were unmatched. He smiled wryly. It was too easy.

Too easy.

He looked around the forest. The guards were already preparing to leave. Their feet crunched on fallen leaves; the foliage here was forever crisp, burgundy and rich red. Blood was not permitted to stay. Foul creatures were washed clean from the land. The river sang peacefully, bearing no resemblance to the angry tide that had just swallowed body after body.

The peace would last. Glorfindel knew that as long as Imladris had Vilya and Glorfindel, it would never see battles worse than this. It was not vanity, he knew. It was a deep-intuited knowledge, a prophecy whispered to him from the heart. There would be no need for more troops. Glorfindel of Gondolin would be guardian of Imladris, and the Last Homely House would remain a hidden refuge. There would be no bloodshed, no treachery, no war. Only peace.

Glorfindel looked down at his young hands, untainted with blood. There were no more princesses to protect, no more kings to follow. No more deaths to mourn. No more friends to lose. Though the idyllic peace was deceptively similar to the one of the White City, the wars that ravaged his dreams were long past. No matter how hard he swung his sword, an unbridgeable gap of time separated this peaceful land from his home. He would never go through treks in the bitter cold again, warm his hands in frail fire as companions huddled close with frozen breaths and weary smiles. He would never sing again by the sparkling fountain and play pranks on fellow captains of the court. He would never argue in court to free himself of conspiracy, march to certain death at the battlefront, following the distant song of his companion who would come out alive to tap him gently on the shoulder with a weary smile. Never watch his home burn, fight in ragged desperation, climb to meet a breath of fire and welcome death, for all was over and he had nothing more to lose, nothing more to fear. He would no longer need to fight as he once did – nor be able to redeem himself. Would never be able to seek forgiveness.

This was Imladris. The war was over.

The knowledge washed over him like a cold, breaking wave; and standing alone at the quiet forest, he wanted to weep with loss.

Chapter 6: The Whereabouts of Peace

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“That advisor of yours has a sleeping problem.”

Elrond looked up from his table, and raised an eyebrow at the balrog slayer who had walked in without so much as a knock. And Glorfindel stood before him, hair still wavering from his brisk steps, hands on his hips. Elrond put down the scrolls in his hands and stood up.

“I can think of at least three drastically different responses to that statement,” he replied, moving around his table and guiding the golden-haired elf toward the middle of the room by his arm.

Glorfindel did not seem impressed.

“My guards almost trampled him this morning when they were taking out their horses for the routine. He was sleeping in front of the stables, Elrond.”

Elrond approached the fire and began to kindle it.

Glorfindel paced. “He sleeps in every place within the borders of Imladris – no, Elrond, you need not bother – except in his room.”

Elrond turned away from the hearth and raised an eyebrow again. Glorfindel was all but scowling at him.

“Well, Glorfindel, what do you suggest I do? Tie him to his bed?”

Glorfindel growled. “You know that is not the problem.”

With a sigh, Elrond returned to where he had been, and perched himself on top of his desk, swinging a leg under his long robes. He could see why the youth enjoyed this posture so. He began to finger a plait of hair as he motioned for his companion to continue. The balrog slayer crossed his arms.

“Orc activity decimated in the west, my lord, and awaiting reply from a contact down south.”

“Which one?”

“A Ranger.”

“I see.” Elrond looked thoughtfully out the window. He would be leaving soon. “So what is this about an advisor of mine?” He turned back to Glorfindel. The blond elf looked at him expectantly. Elrond held up his hands. “Why is it a problem if he finds peace in other places?”

Glorfindel did not answer. Elrond lowered himself from the table and began to walk toward the motionless warrior. “Do you fear that Imladris will eventually be too small for him?”

The blue-eyed elf stiffened. Elrond seemed to pay no heed to his sudden silence as he idly began to circle him, hands comfortably behind his back.

“If he keeps moving from one place to another, fleeing his nightmares, he will eventually use up all hidden places in this valley...and then he will have nowhere else to go. Is that what you are saying?”

Glorfindel brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Yes.”

With an innocent face, Elrond turned and began to pace around the warrior in the opposite direction. “So tell me, Lord Glorfindel,” he mused. “Is your fear that he will forever be a refugee, never to be free of his past?” He stopped, and tilted his head. “Or is it that he may have to one day leave this place, and never return?”

Glorfindel looked as if he had been slapped.

With a quiet sigh, Elrond moved to stand before the youth, and leveled his gaze. He placed an affectionate hand on stiffened shoulders.

“I was his first friend, and I remain the only friend still.” He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes shimmering in a faint smile. “Perhaps you can change that.”

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The halls were empty. A large population of Imladris was preparing to leave the following day. Many smiths, who had originally escaped from Eregion, would accompany Elrond to Lorien, as well as others who wished to live in the Golden Woods. And in turn, Elrond would return with Lorien refugees who wished to start anew in Imladris, especially scholars.

It seemed that the entire house was drained of its inhabitants already. Erestor smiled ruefully. He alone walked the halls in the fading daylight. His silent steps halted when a distant laughter rang out in the halls.

A young maiden. Erestor walked on. And he stopped.

A clear, rich baritone. Glorfindel.

Gently, gently, his voice flowed, light with vibrant laughter, rolling with tales untold. It spread into the gray air. Erestor turned the corner, watching.

He was chatting amiably with a maiden in the hallway, under the great tapestry of Gondolin. On the forefront stood many magnificent elves, and he was pointing them out, ever patient, ever humorous. Sending the maiden into awed reverence and unrestrained giggles. Though he carried a white ceramic ewer in his hands, evidently on his way somewhere, he stood in the middle of the hallway to indulge a maiden’s curiosity about a long-lost past. As he spoke, he glowed with golden charm, a shard of beauty unmatched.

“Lord Ecthelion was a bachelor, then?” squealed the maiden. Glorfindel laughed.

“Aye, my lady, he was. He and I were the most available bachelors in the city. But he had it worse.”

“Oh, do tell, Lord Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel did not see the sleek black figure leaning against the wall. But he did feel the cool moisture of his presence, the dark abyss. A familiar comfort, this forbidden territory. His smile did not waver.

“Being a social elf, I was experienced in deflecting many a hint. But Ecthelion, righteous and valiant soul that he was, was deathly mortified of courtship.” He chuckled. “Ai, the look on his face, poor soul. How he would hide whenever he saw a band of ladies.”

The maiden’s laughter ricocheted off the walls. She whirled in delight.

“Lord Erestor!” she exclaimed. “Come listen to Lord Glorfindel’s-”

Her sentence was cut by a crash. Glorfindel blinked dazedly down at his feet, standing still among the broken white shards of the ceramic. A black flash slid swiftly into view. He stared down at elf crouching by his feet.

“Don’t move,” warned Erestor, deft fingers flying among the jagged pieces. He tossed his hair back impatiently, and swept up his sleeves. And continued to gather the pieces. White arms, pale as doves, blurred in his sightline. Glorfindel slowly bent his knees, crouching before the slender elf. He reached out for the fragments, but Erestor’s hand caught his wrist and pushed it away.

“Don’t touch it,” he warned. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Glorfindel took no heed.

Erestor started when Glorfindel pulled back his hand, a smooth trickle of red sliding onto the carpet. Erestor grabbed the wrist and inspected it. The blood was brilliant crimson, almost bawdy against the pure white of the porcelain. Erestor bit his lip. Glorfindel chuckled mirthlessly. The maiden fidgeted.

Without a word, Erestor withdrew his hand, and turned up an edge of his sleeve. Glorfindel pulled back, but Erestor’s hand gripped him tight, and gently wiped the stream of blood from the blond elf’s skin. Glorfindel gazed down at the red that slid against the shattered ewer. And blood was beginning to seep and spread on the dark-haired elf’s sleeve.

He sighed.

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Erestor stepped into his room, and halted in surprise. On his empty bed sat the golden-haired elf, looking up intently.

“I thought you had abandoned this room for good.”

The faint smile gracing the warrior’s lips died as Erestor slowly approached.

“You can have it.”

The leaves were falling outside. Swirling into a world of gray.

“And you will soon abandon your new room.”

“You can take that too.”

The air was quiet. Evening would be coming soon. But not yet.

Glorfindel looked long at Erestor.

“No matter where you run, the nightmares will follow you.”

Erestor did not move any further. Glorfindel remained still. Waiting.

“Why are you here?” A whisper. Glorfindel turned to look out the window.

“’Tis a gray day.”

Erestor’s black eyes followed Glorfindel’s gaze. Autumn was ending. The clouds were ever shadowing the lands.

“Elrond asked me to accompany him to Lorien.”

Erestor held his breath. Glorfindel’s fingers traced an invisible trail on the smooth linen. “Artanis calls.”

Come with me to Lorien, Elrond had said, looking into his eyes. And his eyes were kind. Be among your kinsmen. Rest your weary soul, and heal.

He knew. He knew of Glorfindel’s hollow heart as he swung his sword, his forlorn gaze as he rode out to battle. His directionless steps that haunted the peaceful valley. And he wanted him home.

And the resurrected warrior had gazed back, silent. And his gaze was as dark, as infinitely bottomless, as Erestor’s had been when they first met.

The raven-haired elf stood before him now, eyes trembling with light.

“You will leave tomorrow, then.” His voice was stilled.

Glorfindel shook his head. Gentle waves of gold tapped against his waist. “I am not going.” He looked out the window. “I am Glorfindel of Imladris now – and here I shall stay.”

Gray daylight darkened. The clouds were moving.

Erestor looked down. His pale hands protruded from the depths of endless darkness, the ever-present black robes he wore. He slowly raised his eyes.

“Glorfindel of Imladris,” he whispered, “do you believe that?”

Dark blue eyes turned back to meet his gaze. And Erestor smiled fleetingly, and whispered. Ever gentle.

“Why did you kill yourself?”

Dark eyes hardened into a glitter. Sweeping up the gray stillness in the air, Glorfindel rose from the bed, as if burned – and in a golden swirl, he passed by Erestor, and began to pace about the room. Watching, Erestor slowly seated himself on the bed where the warrior had just been. Heated breaths filled the room, and silence tensed.

Glorfindel stopped, and turned sharply back at Erestor. Blue eyes looked searching into black, seeking answers in the bottomless abyss. Drowning. Erestor lowered his eyes.

“Perhaps we are both being punished.” He smiled woefully. “Perhaps we are punishing ourselves.”

Perhaps that is why you came back to life, and why I did not fade.

“I hate you.”

Erestor looked long at Glorfindel, standing before him, lost, weary. And smiled.

“Liar.”

A cry of a raven pierced the sky.

As if drawn to a dream, Glorfindel slowly moved back toward Erestor, until he was standing before him, staring down at the black phantom. Erestor held out a hand, and the warrior sank down to the floor before him, placed his hands upon Erestor’s knees. Pale hands gently pushed back threads of golden hair, and dark eyes smiled again. The smile Glorfindel knew from ages ago – the smile he had seen before death consumed him, before the balrog even appeared. The day when Glorfindel of the Golden Flower was shown a dreadful truth, a truth he had refused to believe.

Erestor slowly stroked thin strands of hair, warm and soft, pulsing with life.

“What do you seek of me, innocent warrior?”

But the truth was buried, long dead. Until another one came along and unearthed it. And with it the death of everything Glorfindel knew and loved. Glorfindel rested his head on the knees to which he clung. Golden hair sheathed black robes. Clutching the darkness, the whisper was broken.

“Give me peace.”

Erestor raised his eyes to the ceiling, the smiling lips parting for a sad whisper.

“You ask too much.”

Another cry tore through the skies. Glorfindel clutched harder. Erestor did not plug his ears. He slowly pulled Glorfindel closer, wrapping his arms around the golden hair, burying his face in the warmth of the crown of his head.

“You ask too much of me.”

And thus he remained, unmoving, as the two stayed silent, entwined in light and dark, as the raven continued its mournful cry under the gray skies.

Chapter 7: Too Late

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It was a dark day. Elves stood about the courtyard, anxious to leave and fearful for their safety. There were dark tidings. Elrond had creased his brows and held his horse at bay.

Glorfindel made the last rounds about the stables before going back to check on the guards. He had released more than half of them to escort the entourage to Lorien. He appointed one of them, a famous warrior of Telerin descent, to be the captain of the guards. He had no rank or order among his guards otherwise, for warriors among Imladris had no systemized army structure. There were the guardians, and there were some powerful warriors of old, and then there was Lord Glorfindel.

“The people do not fear,” Elrond said, at last giving his signal to depart. As elves mounted their horses and goodbyes were said, Glorfindel stood by the elven lord’s horse. “They trust their safety so soon after the war. And the burden upon your shoulders grows heavy.” He turned back to Glorfindel, after adjusting a strap on his quiver of arrows. “The dark forces are still strong.”

“I am enough,” Glorfindel said. And Elrond know this to be true. He looked into the youth’s eyes.

“It is not Imladris which worries me.”

Glorfindel smiled and petted Elrond’s steed. “Safe journeys, Elrond.”

Elrond smiled ruefully. Glorfindel called to the guards. The entourage began to move out, surrounded on all sides by watchful warriors. Elrond cast a glance at the head of the line of advisors who stood in the courtyard. Erestor stood, eyes dark and unreadable.

Elrond had announced that he would scour the lands of Eregion one last time on his way back. Those who had no knowledge of the whereabouts of loved ones asked him to search for the main palace, look for someone with a red scarf, someone who goes by a certain nickname. And Elrond had turned to Erestor, and invited the councilor along.

Erestor had refused.

“There are no more survivors,” he said flatly. Somehow Glorfindel knew Erestor would know better than anyone. Erestor dismissed the idea, and Elrond spoke no further of it. He only promised the scour the ruins one last time, just to make sure. Erestor did not reply.

Elrond left for Lothlorien with a large band of elves on that cold autumn morning. Erestor watched his retreating back and whirled away as soon as he was out of sight. And Glorfindel watched in silence.

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Erestor rubbed his eyes. He had spent the night awake, reading scroll after scroll. Judging by the upcoming shift in Imladris demography, there were many adjustments to be made. Yawning, he scanned the latest proposal regarding the installment of new sewing quarters in the east wing and stamped a seal of approval.

Stretching languidly, he rose to his feet. He needed a nap, but there was much to be done. He grabbed a handful of unread scrolls and left the writing table. Perhaps a walk in the sun would clear his head.

The autumn sun was crisp and golden. The garden was peaceful; though the lord of the valley was absent, there were no anxieties among the inhabitants. The council was an unconquerable fortress led by Lord Erestor, and they had Lord Glorfindel.

Erestor halted.

In the middle of the courtyard was Glorfindel. Ever dressed in his light green tunic, his sword at his side, he held an elfling in his arms, smiling as he spoke with the giggling child. Golden hair spilled onto the grass in a sway of gold and green, and rich laughter reverberated in the peaceful afternoon sun. He was a page out of the children’s books, an image from the fairy tales – an everlasting, non-breathing, fragile peace of dream. He was idyllic scenery; around him, air did not hum, time did not exist.

Coward.

The tremors in his heart did not quell, hard as he tried. It was a lie, all of it.

Glorfindel raised his eyes, those beautiful, dishonest eyes. Erestor bit his lip.

“Would you care to join us, Lord Erestor?” His voice was low, melodic. He was trying, testing. Perhaps afraid. Erestor could no longer read him. The screams in his head were so heavy. He wanted to fall. And drag this glorious hypocrite down with him.

The child perked up. “Lord Erestor!” he called, bouncing on Glorfindel’s lap. “Come, come! Lord Glorfindel’s telling a story!”

Erestor raised strained eyes toward the two. The world was spinning. He stepped forward, and leaves flew in a dizzying dance before his eyes. He shook his head. Glorfindel was watching him, a golden visage in the tranquil sun. In another place, another time. Holding still those fragile lies he bound together. Erestor’s heart burned.

“What story are we to hear?”

He could hear Glorfindel’s smile. Ever polite. “’Twas a simple recounting of the wars we had.”

“Yes, of course,” breathed Erestor. “Wars make great pastimes, don’t they.”

The sunlight dulled. The world began to slowly collect around him. And Glorfindel was watching him, unreadable.

“After it is said and done, every great tragedy makes a great tale,” he said smoothly. Erestor smiled.

“Told by the greatest storyteller, I am sure.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Thank you, dear Councilor.” His eyes were hard. The world solidified.

Erestor met his gaze, unrelenting. Glorfindel looked down at the elfling in his arms.

“I believe it is time for your lessons, little one. I will continue tomorrow.”

The elfling pouted in disappointment. Glorfindel smiled and stroked his hair, and the small face slowly lit up again. Hopping off of the warrior’s lap, the elfling bobbed his head at the two elvenlords, and scuttled toward the house. Erestor watched distantly. He was now within the bounds of this reborn youth, a part of his page of lies. And the tranquility was still held together, the golden visage still beautiful before his eyes. Glorfindel looked up at Erestor, unmoving. The sunlight was cold.

“What do you seek of me?”

Erestor did not know.

Glorfindel slowly rose to his feet. Moving with grace as his ever-present sword slid on the grass, he straightened his back and looked down at Erestor. Deep blue was whirling, a tide of majestic currents beneath the surface. Erestor could not read them – they were too powerful, too great. Overwhelmingly laid bare.

“It is true, yes, shamefully so, that I threw myself down the abyss.” His voice was low, measured. “But foolish as I still am, I am trying my best to live.”

“As am I.” Erestor gritted his teeth. His voice was thin. “And honestly, for that matter.”

Glorfindel chuckled mirthlessly. “Honesty,” he said, opening his arms with a sweeping gesture. “Honesty is overrated, dear Councilor. When has honesty helped you when-” he stopped. He shook his head, raking back strands of hair. Erestor crossed his arms.

“When I was in the court of Eregion?”

“Forgive me,” murmured Glorfindel, looking away. “I am weary.”

Erestor’s eyes glittered bright. “Nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“Erestor-”

“Honesty must have helped you greatly when you were in the court of Turgon.”

Glorfindel’s face hardened. “Do you wish to speak of my previous life, Lord Erestor?”

Erestor’s voice became light, animated. “Dear Valar, no. Not without the approval of Lord Glorfindel, the sole voice of Gondolin.” He laughed.

Glorfindel was silent. Leaves whirled around them, a dance of death. Erestor smiled.

“Only those who do not tell the truth fear the truth.” Venomous eyes glowed. He turned away, and began to walk toward the house. “But fear you not, Lord Glorfindel. I shall not taint your loved ones – they surely held the same noble qualities you possess.”

A trembling breath tumbled about his feet, and Erestor smiled to himself grimly. It was not fair, he knew. And he was dragging himself down the pit. There was no escape.

The sunlight diminished, and the tranquility was broken. The lies have been shattered, and no one was the happier for it.

Brisk steps slowed. Glorfindel did not call, nor move after him. He stood where he was, silent. Instead of the white-hot anger he welcomed, there was only pain, a tearing stab through his heart – it was hot, this pulsating agony. Throbbing, bleeding. When it would run dry and stop pulsing altogether, he would not know. Erestor slowed to a stop.

“Glorfindel…” he turned back around.

The resurrected lord stood there, young and old and beautiful and scarred. He saw no one through him, or beyond him – he was watching him, Erestor. And his deep blue eyes were sparkling with brittle scars.

Erestor bit his lip.

“I-”

“Lord Erestor!”

They both turned. The Advisor of Literatures ran through the gardens, waving a flapping scroll in his hand. He began shouting before he even came near.

“Danger, my lords! Attack at the borders-” he panted and came to a halt as Erestor snatched the scroll from his hand and scanned. His face paled. He looked over the scroll once more, checking the date.

“When was this brought to us?”

“Yesterday, my lord,” panted the advisor, “I had put it on your desk but it was still there when I went to ask you about it this morning.”

Erestor’s jaw clenched. He must have missed it this morning when he was scooping up the scrolls. He glanced up at Glorfindel, who stood now transformed; his eyes were calm, body alert. He understood perfectly.

“What of Lord Elrond’s entourage?”

“They escaped,” said Erestor, clutching the parchment. “The warriors you sent with them repelled the attack, but they were too far out to return to the valley. They went ahead toward Lorien.”

“And now the enemy marches hither,” murmured Glorfindel. “How far in?”

“Near the river,” gulped the Advisor of Literatures. When Glorfindel began to stride toward the stables, his eyes widened. “My lord, no!” he cried. “There is an army of them! They seek to lay siege!”

“And I will answer them,” answered Glorfindel, not looking back. Erestor reached out, and faltered. But Glorfindel stopped, turned around. Waited.

“It’s too late,” Erestor whispered. “They come prepared for war. You must not ride alone.”

Glorfindel smiled. Erestor saw that in his eyes again – that deep movement of majestic undercurrents, a powerful wave that moved beneath those eyes. A fierce call for life, a battle for hope. And he was beautiful.

“I have seen too late, dear Councilor,” he said softly, “and even then it was not too late.”

And he whirled, and was already exiting the courtyard. “Hold the guards, my lords. The House of Elrond will stand with or without Glorfindel.”

And with that, he was gone.

Erestor stood pensively still, white knuckles clenching a wrinkled parchment, as the neighing of a horse and a fierce cry rang solitarily against the sky, and the advisor at his side had left to warn the others – and yet he stood alone in the garden, his black robes tapping gently against his feet as grass whispered around his ankles.

The sun had disappeared.

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It had been long since he last galloped to battle alone, knowing he may not return. Since he last raised a sword, faced death surrounding him – and it was welcome, this knowledge of death. For there was no uncertainty, and all was clear as the wind whipped his hair and the trees sang with life and he could hear the great song coursing in his veins, a heightened thrill of life and joy before the face of death. The border between life and death where all things become clear, and there is only one thing or another. And even that, the Valar had blurred. Meddling beings, those Valar.

He smiled ruefully. He was beginning to sound like that hotheaded young Oropherion.

But there were things that could only be known, only be shared, with the coming of certain things. And among them was Death. How he had cried and begged the Valar. How he had cursed them. But it was not to be. He had searched everywhere – but he could not find him.

Perhaps this time, the Valar would take pity.

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“My lord.”

The silence was timid. Erestor continued to stare out the window, back turned against all the advisors. Black eyes tremble with white ice.

The Advisor of the Literatures cleared his throat.

“The troops await your command.”

Thick silence blanketed the study. Erestor’s table was upturned, documents strewn about. His hair wavered in a tangle of black as the darkened day breathed cold winds into the window.

“Bid them hold.”

The advisors started. The Advisor of Policies stepped close.

“Left like this, even Lord Glorfindel cannot win.”

“Bid them hold. These are Lord Glorfindel’s orders.” The Chief Councilor did not move. The advisors sighed, restless. Neighing of horses could be heard outside. Warriors were encircling the Last Homely House, spears raised. Hooves pounded the ground.

“Lord Erestor, surely you know you are the voice of the house?”

Erestor turned. The advisors started. Their Chief Councilor’s eyes, the bottomless, silent depths, were tremulous with light, terrible and bright, pulsing with life. Biting down the flesh of lips, the raven-haired elf repeated, his whisper suppressed: “Bid them hold.”

“What will you do, then?” another advisor blurted. “Wait until he is found dead?”

Erestor’s eyes flickered in his direction. “The reason we are still standing is Lord Glorfindel,” he snarled. “And we will honor his wish.”

The advisors fell into silence.

“But,” breathed the dark-haired councilor, “as troops guard the house, a search party has been dispatched.”

The silence cracked. Advisors looked at one another with relief.

A raven cleaved the sky. Erestor swirled around, and glanced at the bird. He reached out and swung the window shut.

“For two hours we wait,” he said, locking the glass, “and if the party does not return with him then, troops shall progressively widen their ring about the house, and double as a rescue watch. I shall lead them.”

The relief froze into silence.

“Lord Erestor, no,” said an advisor, emphatically. “We cannot have you fall as well.”

The young councilor looked around the semicircle of advisors about him, his dark eyes swallowing the silence. He was suddenly once again the young dark elf before Lord Glorfindel’s arrival – his lithe body seemed to shrink, crystallizing into a mass of darkness, reverberant with bottomless power. His voice was lowered, slick with promises untold.

“Lord Glorfindel shall not fall.”

With cool dark air following his trail, he swept up the grayness of the room as he passed the advisors. He reached the door. Another advisor called out.

“Proceed with caution, my lord.” It was a hopeless warning. “You are our Chief Councilor.”

Erestor paused. The air around him seemed so gray. So gray.

“And I shall take responsibility for my failures.”

And he was gone.

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Twilight.

Erestor was strapping a bow onto his back when neighs of horses sounded from afar, and cries were heard. Elves spilled onto the courtyard, and troops narrowed their ring about the house. The search party had returned.

Muffled cries suddenly exploded. Wail, shouts, groans. His heart dropped cold.

The House of Elrond will stand with or without Glorfindel.

Erestor ran among the others.

I am Glorfindel of Imladris now – and here I shall stay.

He gritted his teeth. Liar.

Maidens sobbed, children whimpered. Elves ran about, and soldiers were dismounting – healer, shouting for a healer. Carrying a limp body amongst them.

Don’t you dare die on me.

The last of daylight seeped away through his whipping hair. The world was darkening. Gray.

And on a stretcher, a tumbling mass of bloody gold.

Grief rocked the valley. Erestor stood frozen. Healers shouted for others to back away, and the stretcher disappeared toward the healing ward. And among the frenzied people, flocking and running, he caught a glimpse of the stretcher as it moved away. As clear as he had seen the raven that day - among a dripping mass of red, a pale hand hung limp.

The world lurched.

Erestor staggered against an advisor who caught his arm. The world was a dizzying whirl of gray – and among it all, the only speck of color was that brilliant red and gold, and even that was gone. He could not breathe.

Frenzied shouts began to die away, and anxious footsteps began to scatter about, at a loss. Terror grew as the Chief Councilor stood deathly still; panic spread like wildfire. And even as councilors began to disperse the people, and the cries were hushed to a fearful murmur, the black-haired elf stood still in the courtyard, eyes vacant, as a raven circled the sky.

Chapter 8: Shades of Winter

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The hall was quiet.

Elves glanced at three empty chairs at the head of the table. Silverware clattered softly; food was slow to disappear. The whispers in the kitchen were shadowed with gloom; foreboding rose easily in the hearts of those who had seen much. There was no news of the lord of the valley, and the chief advisor was continuously absent at meals. And Lord Glorfindel, their Lord Glorfindel – he did not waken.

Elves eyed one another as they rose, one by one. There was no vibrant laughter, no temperate smile, no watchful eye. Their presences had been great – and they were all gone.

Holding their breaths, the elves began to clear out of the dining hall.

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The great oak doors loomed, dark and forbidding, as one would expect at the Halls of Mandos. Pale hands gingerly pushed them open, faltering as the doors moved with majestic grace. He stood, tentative, as the threshold revealed the room.

Daylight basked the chamber, clouded yet pale. All within its reach was washed white; and in the light was the motionless elf, laid to rest in a healing chamber that was too large for one patient, a chamber made for those who would lie for a long time – those who did not wake. Those who were fading.

With each faltering step, the elf came into fuller view – streaming hair reflected the white of day, long lashes no longer trembled with joys and sorrows; the chiseled body no longer stirred. He slumbered on, as he did in tales – tales where he would sleep until awakened by the sweetest of whispers. And in this tale, he did not wake.

He was gone. Had returned to where he came from, those legends, those fairy tales. And he was unreachable.

Erestor sank to his knees.

“Have we done this to you?” The whisper was hoarse.

Perhaps they had erred in praying for this savior. To pray for this hope had been to demand sacrifices that spanned an entire Age – for he belonged in another place, another time. And he had fought to smile among them – and was now weary.

Perhaps this time, it would be the kind thing to do, to let him sleep. To release him to his eternal lands.

And yet – yet.

He slowly reached for a hand. It was brittle with visible veins, transparent – as if life had been sucked dry, through tears and blood and ravaged cries.

It was so white, this blinding light.

He slowly stroked the limp hand.

“I will not apologize,” he whispered, “until you come back to demand it.”

Closing his eyes, he slowly kissed weather-worn knuckles.

“Love us again, gentle Vanya,” he whispered. “Return once more to this groaning land.”

The golden warrior gave no answer.

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There was much to be done, but no one seemed able. Squabbles rose, trouble brewed, and unhappiness loomed. Elrond’s council was busy, Erestor busiest of them all; he worked without sleep, often found sleeping crouched somewhere in the garden – in close vicinity to Glorfindel’s chamber. And that was where the Councilor of Housing and Comfort found Erestor one evening.

“Lord Glorfindel had decimated the attackers,” he said, reading from his scrolls. “But the troops are unable to decode the Rangers’ strategies. They are foreign to all of us, and border policies–” he pressed his temples. “And the complaints about housing are mounting. Some are threatening to move out into the gardens.”

Then let them, Erestor was tempted to say, as he mulled over the report. The fear in the valley was spinning out of control.

“Send the policy matters to me, my lord,” he answered, looking at a distant shrub, “and bid the soldiers hold. We’ll send another delegate to the Rangers, as our priority is not orc decimation but Lord Elrond’s safe return.” He gazed back at the older councilor. “And speak with the troublemakers in your wing directly.”

“They do not listen,” said the councilor. “I cannot force them.”

Dark eyes bore into his, and the older councilor blinked. Those orbs were as black and magnetizing as they always had been, and yet – they were less fierce, more deep. As if he were standing at a respectful distance away, proximate as they were.

“Force them, my lord,” he said quietly, “or I will.”

He had done this before. During the war, when the elvenlord was absent and the house was overrun with mutiny – he had ruled with an iron hand, and he could do it again.

The older bowed, and left the younger elf alone in the whispers of dusk.

Erestor watched the advisor disappear. Weariness tumbled down; he had always been the hawk-eyed watcher, pulling the strings from behind. Commanding at forefront – no, that was best left up to the Lord of the Golden Flower, be it war, politics, or household matters, for before anyone had realized it, he had stepped into the role in a stride, shoulder to shoulder with Erestor. Now, alone once more, the burden seemed gargantuan.

He pressed his temples. He suddenly felt lost, an elfling. These tides of troubles left no room to breathe.

He raised his eyes toward the darkening sky. He wished Elrond were here.

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The oak doors always opened to new footsteps. Healers and visitors came and went; they wept, pleaded, whispered – touching his hand, stroking his hair, keeping vigil by his side. Every elf in Imladris grieved for the fall of their beloved Glorfindel. Children slipped out of lessons, scuttled to his bedside, told stories as he would tell them. They would lean over his body, shake an arm or a knee with all their might. And day by day, gifts grew.

Gentle lilacs, pure lilies, fragrant herbs. Brilliant roses and sweet daisies. And gifts from the children, their most prized possessions – trinkets, dolls, chains of flowers, their favorite toys, and paintings, raw and colorful with themselves holding Glorfindel’s hand, smiling in a happy Imladris. And they grew each day, as every footstep, every whisper, every gift became a prayer, joined in t heir unison chant toward the Valar – to release him, to send him back once more.

And encircled by gifts and sweet flowers, the golden lord breathed slowly – and in the idyllic peace that ever shone upon his chamber, he lay deathly still, seeing naught of this world, and did not waken.

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It was when quarrels had escalated momentously that an elleth sought out the Chief Councilor.

“The Councilor of Housing and Comfort could not find me new quarters,” she said, approaching him in the gardens. “I would rather sleep here.”

“Constructions are still underway,” he answered, looking at the sky. At the end of his sightline was a circling raven. “If you wish, you may temporarily move into the other wing.”

“But I will have to relocate soon after those of Lorien arrive,” she rejoined. “And I heard there might be more shifting when this one is deemed a success.”

Erestor nodded. “Until the matter is settled, then, you may have my room.”

The elleth stared. The Black Pearl of Eregion, who single-handed ran the House of Elrond, was offering his private quarters. Perhaps the newfound rumors in the kitchen were right; there was something soft about this darkness.

She peered up cautiously. “What of you, then, my lord?”

“I will speak with the party that has been giving you trouble.”

The maiden made a despondent face. “But the Councilor of Housing and Comfort has already done so – and yet they harass me in secret.”

The Chief Councilor looked solemnly into her eyes. They were almost intimidating, those bottomless black depths – and yet the brutal honesty in them was kind. “I will see to it,” he said. “And if you do not see a change within a day, you shall take my quarters.”

The councilor was looking away, somewhere distant. As she bowed and took leave, she saw the councilor look up to the skies once more.

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The clouds were shifting. Winter was coming.

Dark gray enveloped the halls, and a lithe black figure haunted them day and night, sleepless. His black robes wavered by, and those who saw him walk in haunted silence would whisper among themselves, whisper of a looming fate of their last sanctuary. The Black Pearl of Eregion was ever in mourning.

He no longer entered Glorfindel’s healing chamber.

Instead he roamed the gardens outside of his window, looking upward, eyes lost and searching. And when a raven cried, he would touch his heart, hold his breath, feeling it burn.

He no longer called to the Vanya to awaken. He could no longer face him.

Instead he haunted the lands, just as the raven haunted the sky, and he would raise his eyes to the skies, and keep the cry of the raven at bay, out of the reach of the sleeping warrior.

Be gone.

The silent cry would ring wretchedly, terribly, as life and death fought, and life continued to be plagued with death.

And on such cold winter evening, Elrond returned.

Chapter 9: Under the Golden Sun

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The city sparkled under the golden sun. A soft breeze nudged his skin as it slid by; a faint scent of spring perfumed the air. Somewhere distant, a silver tune drifted his way, sweet and tender.

He followed.

As he walked, white stones paved the way beneath his feet, disappearing into a river of white under the sun. And all around, the bustle of people could be heard – have you heard of the young lord’s daughter, that’s too many eggs, one more roll of silk please, fish, fish for sale – as people moved about, merchants shouting in the marketplace, maidens giggling in street corners as young troops walked by, minstrels sitting in the sun and caressing their harps, and children ran about, laughing and shrieking – and there were gleaming scabbards, snow-white laundry baskets, sweet-smelling trays of bread –

Everyday chores, a busy bustle. Peace.

And under the strides that matched the humming of his peaceful heart, the shimmering white stones led, block by polished block, to the center of the square.

He raised his eyes.

The great fountain spread before him. As zephyr winds whispered, golden sparkles bounced dizzily about the waters. The source of the melody leaned against the rim of the fountain, eyes downcast as he played a flute – and behind him, bound in warrior plaits, dark hair trickled in a silver stream, dancing like mirrors in the wind.

The breeze calmed. The waters quieted, held in a timeless peace, as did his steps – and his heart was hushed to silence. And trembled, a million strands of light.

The figure raised his eyes, lowered his flute. Silver-lined eyes moved to meet his, and dazzling rays in those crystalline depths spread into a smile. He held out his hand.

“Walk with me, Glorfindel.”

A tremulous smile tumbled forth, as his gaze met those crystal eyes – an eternal silver moon reflected in those endless, gentle waters.

And from a stilled breath, a whisper left his lips, a trembling prayer.

“Ecthelion.”

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Erestor followed Elrond to his study. Elves stood outside, afraid to ask.

“I have seen to housing of the newly arrived,” he said, hands clutching at his black robes. “Further assignments will be discussed tonight with the other councilors.”

“Well done,” said Elrond wearily. “We were able to find a safe threshold due to your placement of the troops.”

“It was Lord Glorfindel’s blueprint.”

Elrond raised his eyes.

Erestor stepped near. “Why does he yet sleep?”

A short sigh. “He does not wish to awaken.”

Finally, a dream that did not wake him with tears and cries. A sweet, beautiful dream – a dream that could never be, a dream that was long past when the warrior woke alone in a future time.

He wished to dream on. He belonged in that world, after all.

Elrond closed his eyes.

No one could condemn him his choice. Glorfindel of Imladris did not exist.

“Elrond.”

He looked up, faced the trembling light in Erestor’s eyes. “You have not been visiting him.” It was not a question.

Erestor lowered his eyes. “It was my fault.”

Elrond rose from his seat. Erestor held his breath as he was pulled into a slow embrace, and finally gave way to the groans of his soul. And entwined in hushed comfort, they stood still in the gray of day.

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A flock of birds circled the sky, a dapple of white against azure blue. Tresses of gold and silver tapped gently in the wind.

They walked side by side by the rim of the great fountain. Their eyes were upon the same distant horizon, their gaits identical, as they always had been. Glorfindel gazed at the endless waters, listening as his companion hummed.

“Do you remember?” he murmured. “You used to sing during the Crossing.”

Ecthelion glanced his way. Glorfindel lowered his eyes, a brittle smile. “I thought maybe, if you kept singing, you could thaw the unforgiving ice.”

A gentle laughter. Ecthelion peered into Glorfindel’s eyes, threads of silver hair spilling forth.

“Perhaps someday,” he said. “So what of that song, Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel sighed. “Almost finished. It’s difficult to harmonize with the harp.”

“Still not done?”

Glorfindel cast a sour look. “I’m not the one who wanted to turn our childhood playsong into a ballad.”

“But you wanted ideas for a duet.” Ecthelion shrugged. “What’s wrong with the song?”

“Aside from the fact that it’s a rhyme about bunnies learning to hop?” Glorfindel spread his arms. “Nothing at all.”

Ecthelion burst into a peal of laughter, a silver chime. “Do you also remember the story that goes with the song?”

“Ah, your bewitching tales.” Glorfindel looked up toward the circling birds. “You should have seen my mother’s face every time I came home late.” He chuckled. “Ai, I was such a deviant elfling.”

“Yes, yes you were.” Ecthelion reached down to hold a limp hand. The blue skies were ever gentle upon his eyes. “And I loved you for it.”

Rippling blue eyes turned. Glorfindel watched him, taking in the chiseled face that he knew so well. The tenor-baritone voice that lilted with such soft clarity, a tingling tremolo of the silver dawn. Dark hair shifted in the sun, playing its enchanting tricks, dark blue one moment and translucent silver the next.

Glorfindel let out a shaky breath.

“Ecthelion.”

I missed you. He breathed in.

The birds came crashing down, a flapping flock of white. And in the gust that encircled them, gold and silver hair danced, and faces were hidden – and Glorfindel clutched his companion’s hand tight, afraid to let go.

Ecthelion smiled. And how tender it was, this smile.

“Brave Glorfindel,” he murmured, a hushed whisper. He reached up, and gently caressed Glorfindel’s face. “How lonely you must have been…”

And amid the dizzying dance of feathers, all the white stone pillars in his heart crumbled down, and Glorfindel bowed his head.

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Healers held their breaths. Advisors exchanged glances. The elvenlord raised his eyes.

Silence followed. And then, understanding.

Stifled sobs broke. There were no comforting embraces, for comfort could not be found.

Elves left the room, and the great doors opened to find a more elves standing in pensive silence. And slowly, sorrow spread among them, as soft wails rose and the house was shadowed in grief.

Erestor remained. His eyes were fixed upon Elrond.

“Bring him back.”

Elrond’s face contorted.

“He does not wish it, Erestor.” The words cracked heavily, heavily – and Erestor was falling, tumbling down. He fell to his knees, clutching the warrior’s hand.

“Rise, Vanya!” he hissed. “Do not be so weak! Return once more and look me in the eye!”

Elrond bit his lip. Erestor’s hand clutched the warrior elf’s robes where the heart had stilled its faint whisper.

“Do not run from me!” The snarl ripped into the muffled wails outside the door. “Return and fight!”

Elrond reached out, gently wrapped his hand around that of Erestor. The young elf’s shoulders trembled. Elrond closed his eyes.

The Valar were cruel in their jokes.

Chapter 10: Over the Diamond Waters

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“It seems like yesterday, our walk around the fountain,” mused Ecthelion.

“I believe it was to watch the festivities,” was Glorfindel’s gloomy reply. Ecthelion laughed.

“It ended in tragedy, yes, but the city did have its last happy day.”

The noise of the market drifted with the wind.

With a contented sigh, Ecthelion gazed upward. “Ai, Glorfindel, our home was so peaceful,” he murmured.

Glorfindel nodded. And the peace was all the more beautiful, because it would be broken. The market stands they had broken during the hunt festival, the drinking halls where Glorfindel had answered to Salgant’s insult to Ecthelion, the armory where Ecthelion broke his leg. All of them would be swept up in flames, all their memories – and the innocent shouts from the market and squabbles from the court would be all forgotten. Buried, in roaring flames and the drumming of death. He would never see the sparkling white city again.

“I hope you see well,” Ecthelion’s gaze swept across the city, “and remember.” He smiled faintly. “How beautiful things once were-” he squeezed Glorfindel’s hand, “-how happy we were.”

Glorfindel stopped in his tracks.

“No, Ecthelion,” he whispered, swinging to face his companion. “Let me stay.”

The hubbub of the people was at its peak.

“You have a new home now,” Ecthelion said gently. Glorfindel shook his head, a wild scream in his eyes.

“Glorfindel…”

“No, Ecthelion, no.” Dark blue eyes zoomed in close, trembling. “I could not find you,” he breathed, “I searched everywhere, even in Mandos’ Halls – why did you not follow? Why did you stay?” He enclosed his hand over Ecthelion’s. “No, don’t make me leave you again. Please.”

A golden head bowed mournfully upon intertwined hands. And hidden in curtains of yellow threads, his breaths were hot, broken.

“Was it very hot, the balrog?” the golden-haired elf breathed, “and cold – how cold it must have been, falling into the water. How you must have gasped for air – it was frightening, wasn’t it? After so many of our brothers falling through the Ice – drowning – drowned by your armor. Oh, Ecthelion.” Muffled sobs seeped from tangled gold and silver. “It should have been me.”

White birds flew quietly above them.

Ecthelion looked into his face. A slow hand reached out, and tipped up the other elf’s chin.

“Ai, Glorfindel…” sliver eyes looked into his, a gentle shimmer of dancing waters. “It was not your fault.”

And under the circling birds, the golden warrior broke into a mournful cry.

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All wanted to gaze upon the fair warrior’s face one last time. They wished to lay flowers by his feet, honor his courage. But none were able, for the Chief Councilor did not budge from the chamber. He sat by the motionless warrior, his hand still upon the silent heart, whispering – fiercely, desperately.

The elvenlord watched in despair.

Erestor blinked. He frowned, stared down. Elrond started.

Hurrying next to Erestor, he moved the pale hand out of the way.

And stilled.

Erestor’s eyes cleared. Elrond pressed his hand down.

Faintly but surely, the Vanya’s heart had returned to its whispering beat.

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“I heard it’s a beautiful place,” said Ecthelion.

They stood where they had first begun their walk. Glorfindel nodded.

“But nothing rivals Gondolin.”

Ecthelion laughed. “Stubborn as always. You will grow to love your new home.”

“I don’t want to.”

Ecthelion sighed. Glorfindel bit his lip.

At last something was broken, and the hard blue shield gave way to purging waves of emotion. A thick gloss welled up in his eyes.

“Ecthelion,” he whispered, “I never wished to be reborn.”

Ecthelion tipped up his chin, and Glorfindel stubbornly closed his eyes, a broken sigh. Ecthelion reached out and tenderly wiped wet lashes.

“You weren’t scared when you faced the demon,” he said, a gentle murmur. Glorfindel shook his head. Ecthelion smiled.

“I was scared, Glorfindel.” He stroked back wet tangles of yellow hair. “And I was sad – because I knew I would never see you again.”

Glorfindel had felt it, the piercing grief. And he had staggered against the walls of the caves, falling behind the refugees, for he could not breathe. And he had cried, cried to the horizons where the balrog loomed. Ecthelion had fallen. Brave Ecthelion, who raised his frozen voice for a song amidst the Ice to comfort the weary; noble Ecthelion, who stood between Glorfindel and the vile tongue of the court; gentle Ecthelion, who sang with him till dawn and watched the sun break over the blessed city – his dear, beloved Ecthelion; and Ecthelion had fallen.

They had known, for it was their fate as guardians of the city – to die in battle, to live against their will – and when the Lord of the Fountain promised to follow, the Lord of the Golden Flower had left the city to protect the refugees, and they had both known it was not to be. For Ecthelion had not budged from his last stand, bargaining every minute of Glorfindel’s life with his own. And as the city crumbled, licked by the raging flames, he had breathed his last to take the enemy with him, had thrown himself into that tumbling sea of tears. Drowned, in his beloved fountain where they had met so many a time – drowned, in the depths of his sorrow, the sparkling waters of his lament for the end of his journey, for little Glorfindel would be left to walk it alone.

And the flames in Glorfindel’s eyes were already extinguished when he leaped up to face the balrog, the song in his veins silent as he looked down to watch the demon drag him down by the hair Ecthelion had loved so well. Into raging fire, his inferno of sin.

And he was still being punished for it.

Ecthelion squeezed his shoulders. “I believe the Valar are kind.” Glorfindel glanced resentfully. Ecthelion smiled. “They must have been touched by how bravely I fought to buy you time – and revived you despite your foolish efforts to kill yourself.”

“They are punishing me,” Glorfindel said dully. “I am cursed to walk the land once again, carrying the weight of my sin.” He smiled, mirthless. “And no one is here with me.”

The birds cried overhead.

Slowly, Ecthelion pulled Glorfindel close, held him tight. “Glorfindel,” he whispered into warm hair, “I thank them with all my soul – that they have sent you to me, one last time.”

The waters lapped, glimmering gold.

Glorfindel opened his mouth as if to speak, and then hesitated, lost. His eyes welled up with a sea of sorrow. For he was noble Glorfindel, and he knew his fate.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voiceless. “I’m so sorry.”

The birds were gathering about them. Feathers floated in the air, gentle flecks of white among crystal waters.

Ecthelion stroked Glorfindel's hair idly. “Kind is your heart and heavy is your burden,” he said, slowly. The winds swept up his voice, a jingling star. “But willingly you returned to Middle-Earth to protect it, and there more great deeds will be done.”

The wind grew stronger. He brushed dark hair out of Glorfindel’s eyes.

“Late is the hour that I come,” he whispered. A gust blasted full force, a chill breeze of spring. Gold and silver tangled in a wild dance. “But I come to bid you farewell.”

Glorfindel stood still, silent.

“Go now, brother.” Echthelion smiled into silver-glazed eyes. “After the dusts of Arda mold in your steps, we shall meet again in the land of eternal joy.”

The wind swept up their hair, a whirl of white feathers.

Ecthelion smiled, just as he had smiled that night, a streak of silver tears before leaping into the flames – and he was beautiful, beautiful.

“Let go, Glorfindel,” he whispered. “Let our City sleep in songs.” His translucent gaze caressed the other elf. “Be again the happy Glorfindel I loved so.”

“I can’t,” whispered Glorfindel.

The sounds of the bustling city scattered into tender winds. Birds began to raise their wings, prepare for flight.

Ecthelion pulled him into a slow embrace.

“Dear, gentle Glorfindel,” he whispered, a tumbling breath into golden threads - “you need tell my story no more.”

The birds took off into the skies. And in the uplifting rush of winds, the two stood still, entangled in gold and silver, as the silver haired elf slowly leaned to place a kiss upon the golden one’s forehead.

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Erestor was guarding the door when Elrond let out a whisper.

“Glorfindel!”

Erestor started, hastened to Elrond’s side – and stopped.

Glorfindel lay staring at the ceiling, eyes unseeing, and yet seeing so much, those tumbling seas of sorrow. And he continued to lie still, as silent tears fell, a soundless river that bathed him in this new life.

And when Elrond called him, shook him urgently, he slowly moved his gaze, and at length the look of recognition surfaced – and then, as realization settled, it was drowned by the depths of utter loss. He slowly turned his back upon them.

And the two dark-haired elves stood still, wordless, for they knew they could not step into his world, nor partake in his age-old grief, as a fallen warrior mourned in solitude for a past forever lost, a future that could never be.

Erestor looked away toward the window. The ravens were gone.

Chapter 11: Tear of the Ocean

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The valley was regaining its luster. Troops were organized, and new inhabitants were finding their places in the household. The council was busy, for the Chief Councilor had fallen ill. Ever since Lord Glorfindel came back from the gates of Mandos.

“He is fatigued,” said Elrond, when a pale Glorfindel was sitting up in bed one morning and thought to ask about him. “You need not worry. Rest and heal.”

But Glorfindel knew healing would be long in coming.

“Do you dream still, Glorfindel?” Elrond asked one morning, tending to Glorfindel. The blond elf looked up wearily. Ever since his return, he was perpetually pale, weary. Surrounded by gifts of whispering visitors who dared not disturb him, he sat motionless in bed, bathed in the white of day.

“Yes,” he whispered. And he said no more.

Elrond did not ask further. He no longer knew how to talk to him.

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The public bath of Imladris was modeled after those of Gondolin, but they were a thing of the past; few elves of this age ever thought to use it. Erestor was among those few.

He watched the setting sun. The golden light broke against the kaleidoscopic walls; scattered rays danced in fractured mirrors across aquamarine waters.

For days he had been absent at duty. Elrond had proclaimed him sick at heart. But they both knew it was a lie.

Erestor lowered his hands, watched the water glimmer over them.

The door creaked. He started.

Glorfindel stood at the threshold, looking at him in mild surprise. Wrapped in a thin white robe, he looked pale, drained. He hesitated, but did not turn to leave; he slowly stepped toward the bath. Nearing the edge of the marble floor, he crouched down next to Erestor’s robes. Long hair slid carelessly into the water.

“My room is cold.”

Erestor rolled his eyes. “Get in the water then. It is warm.” He made ready to rise.

Glorfindel tilted his head. “If I go in, you will run away.”

Erestor tensed. But he did not rise, for the water was his sanctuary. Glorfindel could not touch him here; he did not belong in here. To his pool of tears, his sea of memory.

So he remained as Glorfindel crouched at the edge, and they were at a stalemate. Poised on land and water, watching each other, one starting where the other began.

Glorfindel’s eyes moved. Erestor’s gaze followed.

The scars.

He stepped back. They took long to fade. They were too deep. And they still burned.

“How did you get those scars?”

Erestor did not know what to say. So he said nothing.

Here stood the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, and the Black Pearl of Eregion; haunted by the shadows of the night and the inferno of day, they had faded into legend, forgotten into memory. And they now stood before each other, naked and broken; there was no escape.

With a shaky breath, he steeled himself, and waded forward.

“I have tormented you long enough, Glorfindel of Imladris. Be on your way. I shall no more haunt your dreams.”

He had announced his quittance. The game was over.

But the golden-haired elf shook his head. Continued to watch him.

For the path to truth had just begun. And he would tread it to the end, even if it led to the bottomless abyss.

Glorfindel’s eyes followed the lithe elf as he stopped beside him, fumbling with the robes on the marble floor. Erestor faltered as a gentle hand reached out to stay his movement.

Bare feet dipped into the water as Glorfindel hung his legs over the pool. Slowly taking the stiffened head into his hands, he rested his chin on the crown of the head.

We are both so very young, you and I.

Narrowed blue eyes stared into the glass wall, the fragmented prisms of the golden light.

“We have both seen shadow and flame, and we have both been slain by what we lived through.” The whisper scattered against the parting rays. “But let us not waste our second chances dwelling in fear.”

You are broken, as am I. And you are the darkness, and I am light. You crouch in the shadow, as I burn in eternal flame. And we are the same.

Erestor slowly pulled away.

With a soft splash, Glorfindel stepped down into the pool. Golden strands bloomed in dancing waters.

The sun was changing its hue. A brilliant amber light, shedding the last of its warmth.

Erestor slowly reached up, parted the river of black across his body.

“This was when I was an elfling.” His voice was submerged. He traced a wide horizontal scar under the ribs. “A shovel – from my mother.”

Sunlight shifted.

“She had seen through the dark lords’ trickery, so they came after us before she could warn the court. She fled with her three children, but they were too close behind.”

He could still hear it, the hoof beats. And the panting of his mother’s breaths as she pulled him by the hand, through the mazes of the house – and the moan of despair, as she ran into the dead end of the stables.

He closed his eyes.

“She killed her children before killing herself.”

The vision was imprinted in blood; the splash of crimson on the wall where the infant brother had been hurled. His baby sister turning blue as his mother strangled her, as small Erestor reached despite the shovel protruding from his gaping stomach. And his mother, his gentle, beautiful mother, pounding her head into the wall, again, again, again, until there was nothing but a slithering red mass upon darkened wood.

He trained his eyes upon dark blue. He felt strangely distant, a dry island in the midst of the ocean of tears.

“This was in pre-adolescence.” He slowly fingered an array of short scars that peppered his abdomen. “A kitchen knife – my father had gone mad. Which was why we were left in peace, my mad father and his three mutilated children. He stabbed me sixteen, no, seventeen times, I think.”

The waters lapped against the scars.

“I crawled out of the house with my entrails hanging. The healers said – well. But I survived.”

Glorfindel was still. Just like the statues in the gallery, but he was breathing, alive, as his hair swirled gently about him, swaying with the ceaseless waters. Amber strands of light struck him from the side, and his glassy eyes were an ancient bronze, the fierce and beautiful glory of the dying of the light.

If only his father had had that kind of light.

“I went home to find my father eating my brother.” Erestor’s voice was flat. “When he saw me at the door, he momentarily regained his sanity – I think – and ran out.”

He could still hear the thump as the body hit the bottom of the backside cliff.

The waters danced around them, a lapping sea of amber light.

“This was in early adolescence. Eregion was falling.” Erestor traced a long diagonal scar spanning his left shoulder to the right side. “My aunt freed us – my younger sister and I – from our captivity. But she fell behind.” He blinked. “I don’t remember how I got the sword wound – I think it went through her.”

Shadows slanted on the dark side of the waters.

“I escaped with my sister,” Erestor whispered. “By then, all refugees had left the city.”

The waters moved in unsteady glimmers.

“But she cried every night with hunger – I crawled off in search of food. And when I returned with nothing, I found that hunger had driven her back to the city where our former enslavers had dwelled.” He slowly raised his hands, wearily ran them down his face. “It had burned to soot.”

And the ravens were screeching, forever screeching.

“Her body was already bloody meat by the time I found it under the ravens. Ravens were all that was left of the city – swarming in the skies.”

He closed his eyes. A hesitant smile broke. He shook his head.

“I don’t know why I told you that one,” he whispered.

With a weary sigh, he opened his eyes. Glorfindel stood still before him, and his eyes were fractured mirrors. Embraced in the lapping waters, as if he had always belonged here, in this heart of his sanctuary, his womb of tears.

Erestor lowered his hands onto unsteady waves. “The rest of the scars are invisible now.”

He stepped away, backing toward the edge of the round pool. And he smiled, this black pearl of Eregion. Shining under a sheen of tears, he smiled.

“You see, Glorfindel,” he whispered, gently. “Not all wounds can heal.”

The waters turned, shattering droplets of ancient bronze. And Glorfindel came near, breaking the glimmering waves, and gently wiped away his tears – and Erestor stood weary, listening to the moaning of his heart.

At last, he looked away. He was done.

Slowly he turned his back on the taller elf, and grasped the level floor. Before he could leap out of the water, strong arms encircled his shoulders, and he was drawn back with a splash.

“Erestor…” the whisper was a lilting song, full of sorrow.

Erestor stood frozen still, as the body behind his own pulled him closer, closer. Then he uncoiled, leaned back with a tired sigh. Gaze lingering upon the last of the scattered rays, he reached up, wearily stroked a golden head buried in his shoulder.

“Don’t cry, Glorfindel,” he whispered, hushed, silent. “Don’t cry.”

After he had spoken his first words since then – putting his arms gently around the shaking elf, Elrond had called him by his long-forgotten name, the Black Pearl of Eregion. The tainted, darkened shadow of what had once lived, glowed, dreamed. And he had called him beautiful. And Erestor had cried, cried into his arms, and Elrond had wiped his tears away, and whispered that every pearl was begotten of a million tears.

And beneath them both, gold and black swirled gently in the wavering waters, locked in an eternal dance.