Come Not Back
By Ithiliel Silverquill

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. It has been written merely for pleasure and entertainment, and no profit is being made from its creation. The author of this story does not claim to own any copyrighted material. She is merely an obsessed fangirl.

Author's Note: This story takes place some time after First Impressions, and introduces a few things that will become more important in that story's sequel. However, this story can stand on its own, and you don't have to have read FI in order to understand this one. I am still working on the sequel to First Impressions, and this little tale was written to help tide you over until that story is ready to post. I hope you enjoy it!

Many thanks to Erestor for her unfailing encouragement and beta services!

"Four things come not back: the spoken word, the sped arrow, time passed, and the neglected opportunity." –Omar Idn Al-Halif


Chapter One: Spoken Word

Thwack.

The arrow buried itself deeply in the tree, piercing bark and wood. It stood out from the trunk as the other arrows did from trees nearby. Five paces away, the target stood untouched.

Glorfindel closed his eyes and counted to ten in Quenya. They had been practicing all afternoon and young Sirgannel had yet to hit the target with his arrows. He was quite adept at hitting trees, walls, and the only impossible-to-reach areas on the training field, but he seemed to be completely incapable of hitting the target.

The young Elf sighed audibly and went out to fetch his arrows again. He was as tired of the activity as Glorfindel was, and twice as frustrated that he could not hit the target.

Glorfindel opened his eyes and looked back out over the field. He had not asked Sirgannel to complete a difficult exercise. Everyone else his age had already moved on to more complicated targets, but he remained behind.

Perhaps the young one was just not cut out to be an archer, Glorfindel reflected as he watched the Elf collect the scattered arrows. All of Sirgannel's instructors had encouraged him to be a minstrel like his older brother Lindir, but Sirgannel would not hear of it. He was determined to excel in an area that Lindir was not already accomplished in, and so he was training to be a warrior. Glorfindel had to admit that he had seen less talented trainees become able warriors, and Sirgannel certainly had the courage and tenacity of a soldier, but he lacked the inborn skill that most of his classmates possessed and as a result had to work twice as hard. Glorfindel felt sorry for him, and so he had taken his free afternoon to help the young warrior improve his archery. Unfortunately, it wasn't going very well.

Sirgannel returned to the firing line, his quiver only half-full of arrows. Some were still out of his reach. He looked up at Glorfindel, weariness and frustration in his gray eyes. "Shall I start again, Captain Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel pasted on his patient-teacher smile. How Erestor managed to tutor Elflings for two hours a day and retain his sanity, he had no idea."Start again, Sirgannel."

Clenching his jaw, the adolescent Elf reached back for an arrow, set it to the bowstring, aimed as carefully as he could, and then let it fly. It cut through the air like a knife, singing past the wall and the first copse of trees, coming closer and closer to the target until—

Thwack.

It buried itself in yet another tree, ten paces behind the target.

Glorfindel took a deep breath. He would not lose his temper. He would not lose his temper. He was a grown Elf, a captain, a person that young Sirgannel looked up to and trusted to guide him with wisdom and patience. Wisdom and patience, wisdom and patience... patience, patience, patience...

He looked over at Sirgannel. He could practically see steam coming from the other Elf's ears. The boy was trying, Glorfindel reminded himself harshly. Yes, it was hot and miserable outside. Yes, the sound of other young Elves laughing and frolicking in the slow-moving shallows of the Bruinen could be heard from a distance. Yes, they had been at this for three hours straight. Yes, Sirgannel was undoubtedly frustrated, disheartened, embarrassed, exhausted, and sick and tired of doing the same fruitless exercise over and over again. But the boy was still trying doggedly, and for that Glorfindel had to admire him. And not lose his temper.

Biting his lip, Sirgannel tossed back a loose strand of dark hair, drew another arrow, and released it. It flew as well, slicing through the hot summer air, nearing the target—this time, it might hit the target!—

Skwaaaaak!

A crow that had been sitting in a tree nearby fell suddenly, a red-feathered projectile in its throat. It tumbled and careened through the branches that the arrow had miraculously dodged, then came to rest with a dead thunk only two inches in front of the target.

Sirgannel took a deep, calming breath, then looked up at Glorfindel with a slightly forced smile of hope. "Does that count as progress, Captain Glorfindel? Moving targets are a higher-level exercise, and— "

"Felling an innocent bird that merely sought comfort in the shade does not count as progress, Sirgannel."

The Elf flushed and lowered his head with shame.

Glorfindel sighed. Now he was snapping at the poor boy. "Forgive me, that was too harsh. We are finished for the day. Gather those two arrows and put your weapons in the armory, then you may go home."

Sirgannel's head snapped up, a startled and desperate expression on his face. "But Captain Glorfindel, I'm sure that I can hit the target if I just keep trying! Give me one more chance, please!"

Glorfindel raised a hand, silencing the young archer's protests. "Enough. We are finished for the day. Go put your things away. You are dismissed."

Sirgannel bowed his head, shoulders sagging with discouragement. "Yes, Captain." He turned and walked off to get the arrows.

Glorfindel left the practice field and headed for the main building. He needed a break. He needed to sit down with a cold glass of water—or miruvor, maybe that would do it—and calm down. If he worked or stayed outside any longer, his temper was going to get the best of him.

He took a deep breath as he rounded the path and neared the main door. Calm. Peace. There was no need to get so worked up. The lesson was over. All he had to do was take a break, then he could meet the day patrol and finish up the Orc report. Then he had the evening to himself.

He concentrated on relaxing as he entered the cool, breezy main hall and walked toward the kitchen. Maybe he could talk Erestor into a break. After all, the chief advisor was probably only writing or something. He could afford to stop his work for a while.

Glorfindel chuckled dryly to himself. Oh, if only he had as easy a job as Erestor had. To live without having to worry about Orc attacks, trainees, or patrols must be absolutely blissful. No wonder Erestor always looked so serene.

Suddenly, a door swung open right in front of Glorfindel. He was barely able to stop in time to keep himself from running into the dark polished wood. "Excuse me!" he said, slightly offended. Usually, people exiting the council chamber either used the other door, or opened this door slowly so as not to be a hazard.

The Elf responsible stepped out from behind the door, then closed it with a slightly too forceful thrust. He glanced at Glorfindel, then lifted one dark eyebrow. "You are excused," he said. "I did not expect to see you back so early, Glorfindel."

"Hello to you too, Erestor," said Glorfindel irritably. "Who put salt in your tea?"

"I take my tea unsalted, thank you," responded Erestor darkly. "Those—advisors are plucking on my very last nerve." He took a deep breath, then let it out, as if trying to get his annoyance under control. "What brings you here?"

"This hallway takes me from the main door to the kitchen, where I had hoped to get a glass of cold water. I've been outside for the last three hours helping one of the archery students, and finally I decided to call it a day."

Erestor sighed and shook his head. "I wish I could fire a few arrows and call it a day," he said grimly. "This morning, the Elflings decided to turn their Quenya lesson into an unintelligible cacophony of questions and syllables and whines, and then I led a council and listened to grown advisors bicker like ill-mannered children about trade agreements. It took every last bit of my self-control not to gather up the record books and throw them at the nearest one!"

"'Fire a few arrows and call it a day'?" asked Glorfindel incredulously. "Is that really what you think I do all day long? I spent the day working with trainees, teaching them weaponry so they can someday defend Imladris! I would much rather sit around and talk with people, but I don't have the luxury!"

Erestor's eyes flashed. "I do not just 'sit around and talk with people'! I work just as hard as you do, but I do it without a hundred warriors at my beck and call!"

"Are you trying to say that I have it easy, fighting and training and going on patrol? Do you think I have fun going out to protect our borders and drive back Orcs that would love to kill me? If you really think that my work is easier than yours, then you are laughably mistaken!"

"And if you think that your work is harder than mine, then you obviously have no comprehension as to what kind of effort goes into the things that I am required to accomplish! If I thought that I could get away with running around with a sword and calling that my duty, then I would snatch up that opportunity in a heartbeat. But as it stands, my work is here, dealing with people and papers and problems that take a lot more thought and care than riding around the borders all day!"

Glorfindel lost the remaining shreds of his composure. "Enough!" he shouted, with enough force to make Erestor take a hasty step back. "I am sick and tired of hearing you whine and complain about all the problems with your work! All you do is tutor and translate and discuss things with the rest of Elrond's advisors. If you actually did something worthwhile that contributed to the safety of Middle-earth, then you might have a complaint worth listening to! If you really want to know what it means to do a hard day's work in Imladris, you should climb out of your silly little scholarly bubble and get your hands dirty doing something useful! I do not fight and ride and train and sweat so that I can come in and listen to you whining about inconveniences that you encounter while you skulk around the house like a coward!"

Absolute silence met Glorfindel's tirade. Erestor stood completely still, rigid with shock, his face frozen in an unblinking expression of utter disbelief. His eyes were as cold and unreadable as ice. He took one deep breath, but it shook in his throat as if he was too worked up to even breathe properly. His eyes were as cold and unreadable as ice.Finally, he turned and hurried away, pushing through a group of passing trainees in the hallway, not even mumbling a courtesy.

Glorfindel ducked into a nearby empty room to avoid the trainees, and then leaned back against the door, as startled as if someone had thrown that glass of cold water in his face. What had just happened? Had he really just fought with Erestor? Not a minor spat or even an argument—that was a fight.

A cold, sick feeling of horror pooled at the bottom of his stomach as his own words replayed themselves in his mind. Whining... silly little scholarly bubble... skulk around the house... coward...

Glorfindel's mind reeled. He hadn't just said those things. He couldn't have! Erestor was his friend. How could he have said such cruel, spiteful things to his friend? How could he have been so out of control that he had taken all his frustration out on Erestor?

Erestor's face, stunned and angry, flashed before his mind's eye. The Noldo had said nothing in response. He had clenched his jaw as if willing himself not to speak. How would he have responded? What was there to say in reply to something so hurtful from someone he called his friend?

It took all of Glorfindel's inner strength to refrain from beating his head and fists against the door. Anger at his own lack of self-control, remorse for his horrible words, and fear of what his verbal explosion had done rose in his throat like bile, choking him.

What had he done?