Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or the Silmarillion or the characters therein. All belong to the genius of J. R. R. Tolkien. All I own are Gloredhel and the plot of this specific story.

550 S.A.
Valinor

Gloredhel trailed her fingers slowly, back and forth, back and forth, through the clear waters of Lake Lórellin in Irmo's Gardens in Valinor. Everything in the carefully tended garden should have brought her peace. Nightingales and other song birds flited all around and sang sweetly. Beautiful flowers of all types gave out sweet smelling fragrances and were lovely to look upon. If one wished for rest, there were groves of cypress trees, pines, cedars, and yews under which one could rest in the cool shade and upon the soft grass. If one wished for company, many elves came to the Gardens for peace; Maiar and the Spirits who served Irmo and Este also passed to and fro. Yet, as Gloredhel sat by Lake Lórellin in the shadow of a tall cedar and trailed her fingers through the waters or gazed out to the little island where Este slept, her heart was filled with disquiet.

Suddenly, a light hand touched her shoulder, and Gloredhel, shaken from her thoughts, started in surprise. She looked up and to the side, following the hand back to its owner.

"Forgive me," the figure said, "I did not mean to frighten you." The figure who addressed her appeared as like unto an elf lord. Tall and fair he was with silvery-grey hair, blueish eyes that twinkled like stars, and long-flowing robes. Yet, there was something more, some hint of power about him, which said that he was not an elf, though he appeared to be one, but rather a Maia.

The lady gave a slight smile in greeting, "I was lost in my thoughts and did not hear your approach, Olórin."

Olórin took a seat beside her on the soft grass. He let silence resettle over the glade for a few minutes before he spoke again. "You are troubled, lady. Why?" His voice was kind and gentle, yet probing. "These past weeks you have been untouched by cares and joyful at being reborn, yet now, when you were brought the news that you could return to Tirion, to your family, on the morrow, you are troubled, and Finrod also."

Gloredhel turned her gaze to her cousin Finrod, stretched out on the grass, a stone's throw or two away. To most, he looked to be asleep, lying still on the grass for several hours now with an arm covering his face and his hair like a golden cloud around his head. Yet, the rise and fall of his chest was not slow and smooth, like one asleep. He, too, faced the same disquiet she did, yet in different ways and for different reasons. He, too, for the moment could find no peace.

"Gloredhel?" Olórin prompted her when the silence stretched on for several more minutes.

Finally, Gloredhel tore her attention from her cousin and back to the Maia sitting next to her. "I am afraid," she said in a low voice.

"Of what, lady?" Olórin asked. "There is peace in these lands. No creatures of the dark will assail you here, nor any other foe."

She replied, "Long has the House of Finwe been sundered, one from another, by dissension and death. Over a thousand years it has been since we departed, and now we, Finrod and I, are the first to return of all of our House. What reception will we have? Will my uncle, Aran Finarfin, be glad to see us after how we parted from him so long ago?"

"You fear that because of your disobedience that your uncle will not welcome you home?"

"Yes."

"It was not from willful disregard of the Doom of Mandos that you departed these shores," said Olórin, "nor from a wish for personal gain. You were torn by your filial duty to your parents. You had no hand in any of the Kinslayings. You lived an exemplary life and died a sacrificial death. You have now atoned for your wrongs and have been granted a new body and life again. Yet, still you are afraid?"

"For my disobedience, I have atoned," said Gloredhel in low tones, as she drew her knees to her chest, "but I rejected my uncle's pleas for me to stay. We were the last of our House to speak with him. He had entreated and reasoned with each of his children in turn, trying to make them see reason and not depart. They all refused him. I know he was angry with us all, for not seeing reason, for not choosing better, but by the time he came to my twin and I, all I could see in his features was grief."

Y.T. 1496
Wastes of Araman, northern Valinor

The final, angry words of Artanis to her father seemed to still ring on in the air even after she had departed to rejoin her brothers. Finarfin had called his children before him one by one in a last attempt to convince them to forsake their departure from Valinor and return with him to Tirion. Yet, all had chosen to continue on. Now only, the golden twins, as some called them, the children of Finwe's younger daughter Írimë, were the last still to speak with him.

It was several minutes before Finarfin could bring himself to speak again. "And so I come to you at last, sister-son and sister-daughter. Will you at least listen to my council and not persist in this folly?"

Glorfindel spoke, as often he did, for both himself and his sister and answered, "Speak, uncle, and we will listen for your words are full of wisdom."

"You have heard all the words that I have spoken without effect to my children. You have heard the doom of Mandos with your own ears. Has our family not lost enough? Our king is dead. Our house is sundered betwixt itself. We have not even left the confines of Valinor, and already this host has committed the greatest of evils in the slaying of our own kin. More ruin and woe will fall upon all who continue. If you are still of the same mind you both were yestereve to continue on with the host, please reconsider, I beg of you. No good will come of this venture."

Neither Glorfindel nor his twin sister Gloredhel could deny his words. They turned slightly towards each other and spoke silently to each other through looks and through the bond they shared as twins.

"I cannot deny your words, uncle," Glorfindel finally said after the twins had finished speaking with each other, "you speak with wisdom, and your words ring with truth. Yet …, even so, … my sister and I are determined to continue with the host."

"Why?" Finarfin asked, his voice a mixture of anger and grief, "if you leave, I fear only death will return you to us."

This time it was Gloredhel who answered, "Atar and Amil both march with the host, with Uncle Fingolfin, and Turgon goes with his ataras well. We cannot leave our parents alone, not now. It would not be right to abandon them when they are likely to face such terrible danger. We cannot leave Cousin Turgon either. It would just not be right."

"Alas, my dearest sister-daughter," said Finarfin, "your sense of duty at any other time would be commendable, but here, but here, ah, my child, it will lead to ruin."

"So be it, then," the twins spoke as one.

"Is there no thing that I can say that will dissuade you?"

"Nothing, uncle," Gloredhel had lapsed back into silence, and Glorfindel spoke again for the them both, "Forgive us."

"It is not my forgiveness that you should ask," Finarfin spoke, his voice growing stern.

Gloredhel started to cry softly. Her brother wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rubbed his hand up and down her arm soothingly.

"I cannot give you my blessing," said Finarfin, his face grave and sad and his eyes haunted with grief, "for you both go against the will of the Valar. The course our family has gone down will only lead to death and destruction and ruin."

He paused for a few moments, when his voice broke with grief, and then continued. "Yet, go wherever you fare with my love, and perhaps one day, with the blessing of the Valar and the One, we will meet again" Here he fell silent and drew his nephew and then his niece to him in turn, kissed their brows, and embraced them tightly.

Sadly, the twins, both weeping, turned and departed without looking back. What they felt was their duty to their family and to Turgon constrained them to leave Valinor. Yet, their uncle's wise council and kind words tore at their hearts and had nearly made them change their minds. If they looked back, they might have lost their nerve, and so they trudged on back across the wastes till they reached their tents in the camp of Fingolfin's host.

By the time Gloredhel had finished her short tale, she was in tears. Farther up the shore, Finrod, who had been roused from his thoughts of his parents by his cousin's sad tale, rose and started down the shore to where Gloredhel and Olórin sat. Finrod took a seat beside them on the grass and wiped away Gloredhel's tears with the corner of his sleeve and then wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"If father has cause to be wroth with either of us, it is I that deserve it, not you. He kissed you goodbye with kind words. I had no kind words for my own father, and we parted in anger. Long have I rued my actions."

"Lord Finarfin loved you both then, despite your actions, and he loves you still. Often I have seen him from afar upon the Tower of Avallónë as he looks east. He waits for his kin to return. You both fear a stroke that will never fall." Olórin's tone was gentle yet chiding, as a teacher corrects a beloved and faithful student who has gone astray.

Gloredhel seemed encouraged by Olórin's words, but Finrod's face was still grave, and in his eyes there was doubt. "Thank you for your council, Olórin," she said, "we will think on your words."

Olórin rose, "Farewell until we meet again."

Before he could turn to leave, Gloredhel grabbed his trailing sleeve. "Will my brother come soon?" She asked.

"In time. He faced many cares during the last years of his life, and his death was not easy. When he is healed in soul, he will join you, never fear."

Gloredhel gave a wan smile and thanked him. After a final word of goodbye, Olórin left them upon the shore.

When the morrow came, Finrod and Gloredhel rose with sun. One of the spirits who served in the Garden brought them food, simple but wholesome fare. By the time the two had eaten and drunk and had washed their faces and hands in the lake, the sun was well into the sky. Another of the spirits led them to the edge of the forest surrounding Lorien. There, grazing on the sweet grass, were two waiting stallions, one a dapple grey and the other black.

To the east of the Gardens, the two elves could see the Pelori, the massive mountain range that guarded Valinor from dark forces. South-west was Valmar and the Ring of Doom. Far away to the south were the forests and hunting grounds of Orome. South-east was Tirion, the home of the Noldor in Valinor and the seat of the High King of the Noldor. All these things Gloredhel and Finrod could see as they stood in the shadows of the trees.

"Let's go home," said Gloredhel after a few minutes of gazing south across the plains, drinking in the site of her homeland that she had not seen in over a thousand years.

"Yes, let us," replied Finrod after a moment, as his face flickered back and forth between joyous and apprehensive. He whistled, and the horses trotted over. "Which would you like, cousin? The black or the grey?"

"The grey. He reminds me of Rochallor."

Finrod titled his head slightly and examined the horse again. "I see a slight resemblance," he said, as he gave Gloredhel a leg up and then mounted his own horse.

The horses were well trained, and though they bore no tack, they responded immediately to the slightest touches or commands. Finrod urged his horse into a trot with Gloredhel following at his side. And so, the final stage of their journey home began.

The journey across the great plain took several hours. Yet, soon enough, the high walls of Tirion rose before them. Finrod led the way toward one of the less used gates. Neither wished to be recognized by the inhabitants of the city before they could meet their family again. Tirion was larger now than it had been long ago when Finrod and Gloredhel had departed, but it looked in large measure the same. As they made their way through familiar streets and past sites they recognized, they began to talk of pleasant memories as they guided their horses past shops and homes and around small groups of elves.

The crowds, small to begin with, grew less and less as Finrod and Gloredhel traveled further into the city towards the center where was the massive House of Finwe, where most of the family had dwelt in days past and hopefully would again one day, and the Tower of Ingwe. By the time they were a stone's throw away from the road that led up the hill to their home, the street was quiet, and there were no other elves around.

Finrod stopped his horse at the base of the hill. Gloredhel pulled up beside him. "I hope Olórin was correct in what he said," Finrod spoke softly to his cousin.

"Olórin is wise and far-seeing. He would not lead us astray," replied Gloredhel. She slid from her horse and motioned for Finrod to do the same. When he had done so, she slid her hand into his and then started to walk up the path. The horses trailed behind even with no rein to lead them by.

A few minutes' walk brought them to the stone archway, wide enough for three to ride abrest, that lead to the large courtyard that stood in front of Finwe's House. As they entered the courtyard, the two stopped again and looked around, drinking in the sites of their childhood home. There were the stables where the many horses of the family were kept. There was the path that led around to the gardens where the siblings and cousins and half-cousins had played together and climbed trees together. It took all their might to focus on the good memories and not on the bad.

Soon a young elf, whose dark hair marked him as one of the Noldor, emerged from the stables and, seeing that there were visitors, moved towards them. Finrod and Gloredhel waited to see if they would be recognized, but the younger elf must have been born after the Hosts departed for he gave no sign that he recognized their faces or noticed a similarity between them and his King.

He stopped before them and bowed deeply, a proper bow to those of much greater age and unknown rank. "May I take your horses, my lord, my lady?"

"Thank you, penneth," Gloredhel replied, only to late realizing that she had used a Sindarin form of address instead of Quenya.

The boy clucked to the horses and led them away toward the stables. Gloredhel and Finrod walked across the courtyard and up a short flight of steps that led to the great carved doors of the House. At Finrod's knock, a servant opened the doors and bid them enter.

The elf who came forward to greet them was unfamiliar but wore the ring of the steward of the house. "Greetings, strangers. I am Idhrenor, steward of this House and servant to the High King. How may I aid you?"

Finrod released his cousin's hand and took a half-step forward, "We have come to see the King if he is here."

Idhrenor did not seem surprised by Finrod's request. Even in the days of Finwe before the dark days had come, all were allowed to come and make requests of the king in person if circumstances allowed. "May I have a name to announce to the King?"

"Names we could give," said Gloredhel, "but it has been long since we dwelt in these lands, and we no longer go by the names we did then." Her answer was a dodge but was at the same time the truth. Both Finrod and Gloredhel had not gone by their Quenya names in over a thousand years; they had assumed the closest form possible of their names in Sindarin and had gone by such names ever since.

Idhrenor frowned slightly but did not dispute their words. "I will go and speak with the king. However, Aran Finarfin is a busy man: he might not be able to meet with you for some time. There are chairs," he said, motioning towards the edge of the hall, "if you would like to have a seat."

With these words, Idhrenor departed. Finrod and Gloredhel moved to the edge of the hall and took a seat, if only to keep themselves from impatient pacing.

"Whatever the Steward says," Gloredhel spoke quietly in Sindarin, "I do not think we will have long to wait. My words were carefully chosen. I believe they will raise enough suspicion in uncle's mind that his visitors are two of our family's wanderers returned so that he will soon be with us. He is wise: he will suspect what is not said."

Her words soon came true. Less than ten minutes after Idhrenor had departed, the swish of a cloak could be heard upon a distant staircase. The footsteps of an elf could not be heard unless he wished to be heard; usually, if one would hear his approach, it would be the clanking of armor, the swish-swish of a cloak, or something similar that gave his position away. Gloredhel could almost picture her uncle's approach in his mind: out of the study, take a right, down the long hall, down the stairs one level, up the long hall towards the entrance of the House.

Finrod had risen during their wait and had his back to the long hall down which Finarfin would come, so Gloredhel was the first to see him: he looked exactly like she remembered him from memories of ages past and dreams of home. Dark boots, he wore, and a dark blue robe, bound with an ornate belt of silver. Only a simple golden circlet on his head proclaimed his status as the High King over all the Noldor that remained in or had returned to Valinor.

Finarfin stopped at the edge of the entrance hall. For a moment, with his son's back to him and only the edge of his niece visible, he did not seem to recognize either of him. Then Gloredhel rose from her seat and moved around her cousin into full view, even as Finrod turned slowly around, his face carefully blank of all emotion. Now Finarfin recognized them. Of that there was no doubt! His face was full of shock, and he gasped aloud.

For a moment, no one moved, and no word was spoken. And then, Finrod spoke first, his voice almost breaking with emotion, "Atar!" His fear and doubts as to his reception seemed to have melted away at the actual sight of his father again.

"Yonya!"

Father and son started to move at the same point and met at the center of the hall. Finarfin caught his long lost son in an embrace. Finrod wrapped his arms around his father in return. Gloredhel could see her cousin's shoulders starting to shake before she turned away to give the two a little privacy. She could hear the murmur of voices as they spoke again for the first time in over a millennia.

Only a few minutes later, her uncle called her name, "Gloredhel."

She looked towards them. Finrod had moved back out of his father's embrace, and Finarfin had turned his attention to greeting his beloved niece. When Finarfin opened his arms, extending a mute invitation, Gloredhel flew into his arms.

"Uncle. O, Uncle," she cried.

Her uncle wrapped her in a tight embrace, which she eagerly returned. One arm he wrapped tight around her back. With the other hand, he tucked her head underneath his chin and then rested his own head atop hers.

"Welcome home, my child, welcome home."

Amil = mother (Quenya)
Aran = king (Quenya)
Atar = father (Quenya)
Yonya = my son (Quenya)

Credits for vocab go to AND . .