Chapter Three
He lay on the wide bed Círdan had assigned to him, staring up at the ceiling. Wooden beams stretched above him, the bare room illuminated by the moon outside. Every room in the Ship House echoed with the faint whispering of the river underneath and the sea crashing onto the quay.
Lhûn, not Sirion flowed beneath them, coming from an unfamiliar land he had heard of only in myth. Beleriand, the whole land he had lived in was gone, not just his city. The enormity of that crashed down on him with every wave, swallowing him and drowning him a thousand times over. Círdan had spoken for hours, getting graver as he went. It was a sorry tale to be sure and his words chased each other around Glorfindel's head, accompanied by vivid images his imagination supplied. Idril had sailed, her son Eärendil's life was a hero's tale and now his son was lore master in Imladris. The name rang out in his ears. In Imladris he dwells. The son of Eärendil the Mariner, Glorfindel supposed it made sense that he should be sent to help someone of that lineage. Idril's grandson, his own cousin to some degree. It ripped at his chest that he could not see he beautiful little cousin again. He tried not to go down the long list of people Círdan had answered with a sigh when their names were mentioned. Galadriel was now ruler of a fiefdom under a Gil-Galad and Glorfindel wondered how he would be received there after the manner of their parting.
After weeks on board ship, the stillness of his new surroundings and the gently rushing of the Lhûn beneath him lulled him against his will into sleep. He walked along a street, the buildings faint and cloaked in mist. Eventually he reached a fountain, devoid of water. There was a shout and he turned too quickly, falling backwards.
Glorfindel bolted upright, the sheets tangled around him and drenched in sweat. He rubbed his neck as he felt his spine split again. It was vivid, too vivid and he had to force his lungs to suck in air to stop the shaking. The briefest moment before his death stretched out in his dreams, every sensation elongating itself. It did not need to be any more intense, he just remembered the actual impact being shorter. The fall had lasted an eternity.
There was no prospect of him going back to sleep after that. He slipped out of the Ship House, meaning to see Asfaloth if he could find the stables in the foreign grey city. With no sense of direction he ended up following the first street away from the sea that he came across. He wandered through the empty streets, making his eyes point out every difference to Gondolin to prevent himself from sinking back into the nightmares of his home. He smiled at a blond elf sitting on the window ledge of a house, his legs hanging down into the large bushes beneath.
"Are you lost, my lord?" For a moment Glorfindel scrutinised his face and found no familiar features.
"I am looking for the stables." The elf hopped down over the low wall and into the street.
"This way, my lord." There was an anxious air about him as he showed Glorfindel along the street. "Do you mean to leave us already?"
"Already?" The elf blushed, staring at his feet.
"It was your ship that arrived yesterday with no hands aboard, was it not?"
"Is it not a busy harbour then?" Apart from the initial guard that had seen him in and determined he was no threat, Glorfindel assumed that no one else would see his coming as anything extraordinary.
"We do not receive many western visitors. Ships from Númenor come often, your ship, my lord, is unlike any that has ever entered this harbour." The elf looked away again and Glorfindel realised he was going to have to find a way to stop him blushing soon before the poor creature was permanently red.
"What is your name?"
"Galdor, my lord." Galdor opened the door to the stables to reveal half a hundred horses lined up in their stalls.
"Glorfindel, I have no House now." He found Asfaloth's stall easily, the white horse came over and started nuzzling his shoulder at once.
"Any lord of the west needs no people or lands to be called thusly." Galdor went red again, almost audibly cursing himself at having said too much. Glorfindel smiled at him before turning to Asfaloth. He had not come to stay in Mithlond, he had another destination. One where hopefully someone would speak in a tongue he could follow more easily.
"Do you know Imladris, Galdor?" he asked as he heard the elf step away.
"The hidden valley is east of here. It is two weeks' ride at least. Círdan will show you a map. Do you mean to speak with Lord Elrond? The King keeps his court to the south with Lady Galadriel, news travels fast and they will know of your coming. Glorfindel of Gondolin was of Turgon's kin, perhaps you knew the Lady, my lord?" Galdor continued to speak at a thousand miles an hour for a few moments more, Glorfindel was lost with the accent.
"Would you know one who would be my guide?" A hidden valley. The thought pained him.
"Certainly, my lord. Unless Círdan has plans otherwise, I would show you the road myself- if that is to your liking."
"Hannon le, Galdor." At least he would not spend the hours on the road in silence.
Come morning Círdan had agreed that Galdor would lead him to Imladris, the young elf appeared overjoyed at his lord's decision.
"There are others who speak the tongue of the Noldor, Mithlond is Sindar but Lindon is ruled by Gil-Galad and many of his people are here."
"He seems pleased, I do not want to- inconvenience another." Círdan smiled at that and let them prepare to leave.
Glorfindel walked Asfaloth to the crest of the hill, Galdor and his bay in front of them.
"And now, my friend, we shall see whether riding is a skill I must also relearn." He mounted carefully but Asfaloth was still. Nervously he sat upright and they began to follow Galdor's bay down the road.