Fields of Gold 2015
Chapter VII: The Winds Awaken, the Leaves Whirl 'Round
No one had been at Bronwë's small cottage, and so Glorfindel had wandered down the to the beach. He walked for a while, and stopped when he came to the small stand of trees that grew almost right up to the waves. Here he saw for himself the sickened pines. Something about the area reminded him of the sickrooms in Imladris used for treating the most ill of patients, most often Rangers. There was the same miasma of an almost perceptible scent, and a sense of misery. Something else was there, at the edges of the forest. Glorfindel reached out with hand and senses to lightly touch the invisible barrier. It was not very strong, but it was the same type of barrier the foresters in Imladris used to monitor the valley. If breached, it alerted them. Glorfindel had likened it to a spider's web for the foresters always claimed the alert felt like a tingling vibration.
Glorfindel let his eyes unfocus, and could see the fine weaving that created the barrier. Three anchors held it, and he went to each anchor, strengthening it with his own will, until the barrier was glowing far brighter than before. Satisfied it would remain strong while those who held the barrier were away from Mithlond, he let the weaving disappear from his vision.
Leaving the sickened area, he turned back and walked for a while before sitting. Gazing westward, his thoughts went to what he had seen while in the twilight of nearly dying. His family and childhood home had not been a surprise. Glorfindel had not spent enough time with them after his re-embodiment before duty had taken him to Middle-earth, so it was no surprise to see his mother and father. Nor had he been surprised to see Elrond. The task to watch over the peredhel through the remaining Ages was his, and even though he shared the duty with Erestor at times, when it came down to it, Glorfindel knew the task had been given to him alone. It dominated his second life.
Until now. Now he had people telling him to think of himself and to look beyond what duty would demand of him.
He had not seen Bronwë in his visions. Did it mean there was no future for him in that direction? She had helped him when he had first returned to Middle-earth. Helped him re-learn the simplest things like speech, manners and caught him up on all that had happened whilst he was in Mandos. They were friends.
Friends. Why then did the word have such a hollow ring? Picking up a piece of wizened drift wood, Glorfindel traced the whorls and holes. The bond between healer and patient had to be a close one if the injured person was to be fully healed. He had trusted her utterly, telling her things in the dark of night when neither could sleep that he had never shared with anyone. Not even Lalwendë.
But Bronwë had been betrothed to another, and so, once released from her care, he had distanced himself from her. Deliberately seeking the company of others to while the time away, and bent his attention to his reason for being returned: Elrond and the Elves of Lindon and Mithlond. He had cleaved to duty, and closed the door of his heart.
Perhaps he had thought it just was not meant to be, that he was one of those with the strange fate of being alone. Certainly his betrothal in Aman to Lalwendë had ended...badly. She had gone against her family's wishes and followed him onto the ice, into exile, facing the Doom of the Noldor with her head held proudly.
It hadn't lasted. The ice killed so much, and not all of what it froze was Eldar. The cold had bled any love she had felt for him, leaving her bitter and angry at being unable to return home. Lalwendë had blamed him with her last breath as she lay dying in the streets of Gondolin. Blamed him for his brother and sister's death, for her death, for all that had come upon them.
Had it been bravery that had set him against that Balrog, or desperation to prove her wrong? Glorfindel sighed and tossed the driftwood into the waves. Námo had asked him that countless times, waiting patiently, endlessly compassionate but utterly implacable on receiving an honest answer.
The answer had broken him, broken his pride, his bravado. Broken him down to the barest, most base being. He had never loved Lalwendë, not as she deserved to be loved, selflessly, entirely. Young, vain and oh so proud, Glorfindel had been content with their betrothal. Lalwendë, beautiful, proud, Lal, had wanted more.
And he hadn't been enough.
Lifting his head, letting the wind off the sea catch his hair and lift it like a silken golden banner, Glorfindel stared west as if his gaze alone could pierce all the way to Aman. He had gone to Lalwendë's parents before leaving Aman again. Gone and apologized to them, begged forgiveness and left...
Free.
A snort. Only to come back to Middle-earth without a scrap of clothing or memory. Oh, the Valar were not without humor. They had sent him back, truly reborn, to a new start.
He had held to his word, his duty.
What of his heart? Glorfindel couldn't lie to his own heart. It had known what...whom it wanted from the start. After Aldamir had died, and Bronwë had chosen to remain in Middle-earth, after enough time had passed, he could have pursued her. He wasn't a fool. Bronwë had no court face, no ability to hide her emotions, and he had seen the slow awakening of her love for him.
And still, he said nothing. Had never let her see that he loved her in return, but had guarded his heart and been a steady, constant friend. Was he waiting for her to speak first? Glorfindel knew she wouldn't. She put duty before all else, and his duty, the duty he had shown her was paramount to him, would always come before herself in Bronwë's mind.
It didn't make him proud to realize. Did he really think she would be as faithless as Lalwendë? Bronwë had abided by his will, offered friendship and what love he would allow.
Why? There were others she could have bound herself to and been happy with.
Glorfindel shook his head. "Because she loves you, you fool." Hadn't he seen how faithful Elrond had been, with eyes for no other but Celebrían from the moment he had seen her in Lindon all those years before? Healers rarely lied, to themselves or others. They dealt to closely to those they tended, and left little room to hide. They never put their concerns first. They were loyal, fiercely loyal to those they loved.
"Idiot." Standing, Glorfindel dusted his leggings and turned his back to the sea. Home wasn't in the West. Not yet. His heart had long ago given itself.
It was time to follow his heart and end his restless wandering.
In the end, Glorfindel hadn't found Bronwë until the next morning, when she, Faelon and Thalion were saddling their horses, and preparing to leave.
"Just the three of you?" Ignoring the snort from Faelon, Glorfindel walked to the head of Bronwë's horse, took the reins and made himself an immovable object. "No."
The incredulous look became a frown. "I don't believe we need your permission, Glorfindel." Bronwë ignored the way her companions sidled away from her, leaving her to take on Glorfindel. They had few chances to interact with him in the years he had been in Mithlond or during visits, and were very happy to let her lead the verbal assault against a legendary warrior. "We're going to Lothlórien, not Mirkwood. There are no spiders. Just mallyrn. I doubt they'll harm us."
"You will be crossing Eriador and going over Caradhras, through the very pass where Celebrían was waylaid." Glorfindel shook his head, expression set as he met her gaze. Adamant. He would not budge from this. Nothing could bring Elrond's wife back, take away her torment, but by all that was precious, he would not see it happen again. "You are not going alone."
His unyielding attitude gave Bronwë pause, and her scowl became a frown as she sensed the eddy of emotions churning in him. Glorfindel could be annoyingly overprotective at times, but she saw the logic in his argument. "Fine." Relief flashed through his eyes and she sighed. "May we leave now, or must we wait for you to get provisions?"
Faelon huffed at the sudden capitulation and leaned forward to comment, knowing Glorfindel didn't understand Silvan. "Maybe he's only worried about you going to the Golden Woods and never returning, Bronwë. There will be many handsome Silvan Elves there."
Glorfindel arched an eyebrow, curious as to what caused the sudden bloom of pink across Bronwë's face as she turned and offered a sweet smile at her friends. "That's good to know, Faelon. Perhaps you'll find one who meets your fancy, hmm?"
"I have another suggestion." Curious at the by-play between the three, the Silvan language was rarely spoken, Glorfindel rubbed the flat of her gelding's face. "Elrond might have knowledge of this problem. He does have a rather extensive library of all kinds of lore." Bronwë met his gaze, and he held up his hands, before passing her the reins to her horse. "I don't seek to stop you, Bronwë. But I have no doubt he would welcome a visit from you."
She had deliberately not gone to Imladris, he knew, not wanting to intrude upon the family's grieving. He knew her well enough to know she would want to see that her old mentor and friend was doing better.
There was more debate between the three Silvan Elves, and much eye-rolling by Faelon before the matter was settled. "Imladris, first then." Bronwë looked away, smiling at the disgusted tone of her friend's voice.
"I'm provisioned already, and I'm sure we can, between all of us, hunt game." Patting Nimbrethil's neck, Glorfindel gathered his reins and swung up in his saddle.
"If you're settled?" Círdan came forward with a twinkle in his eyes. "Bronwë, would you give these to Elrond?" He handed her a packet, wrapped in oilskin.
"Of course." She took it and carefully tucked it into her saddlebag. All three Silvan Elves carried a pack as well as a bow and quiver, tied behind their saddles. Her eyebrow rose as five of the city guard rode up and arranged themselves behind the group.
"Stay with Glorfindel and the guard, you three." Círdan reached out to tuck a stray braid behind Bronwë's ear and nodded. "No argument. I'm sending these guards with you. They can return when you reach Imladris." He grunted as she lunged forward to hug him tightly, and returned the hug briefly before setting her back. "You'll be fine. Up with you, now." As the group mounted their steeds, he offered a gruff smile and raised his hand. "Stars light your path, but keep your eyes open as well."
Thalion nudged his mount forward. "I believe we know the way out of the city. Perhaps even as far as the Shire."
Faelon's roguish grin was twin to his fellow Silvan's. "After that, of course, we'll be utterly lost." He blinked long gold eyelashes at Bronwë. "Perhaps you could stop and ask some of the hobbits the way?"
"Oh, I don't know, Faelon..." Riding near enough to bump his leg with her own, Bronwë batted her eyelashes at him. "You're far prettier, and they always get confused whether we're male or female. Seeing that we're all dressed alike, perhaps you'd best do the asking?"
"I am not prettier."
Thalion snickered silently, only the shaking of his shoulders betraying him as he rode ahead of them.
"That Ranger certainly thought you were." Bronwë smiled at her friend as he scowled. "It must be all that silver-gold hair..." With a wink, she nudged her gelding into a trot to catch up with Thalion.
"That Ranger was pished and seeing double!" Faelon huffed, pulling the hood of his cloak up to cover his hair.
"He was not as pished as the Wandering Group, and none of them tried to woo you to their beds."
"Can't blame him, Faelon." Thalion snickered. "Consider how long those humans are out in the wilds, all by themselves..."
The blond Silvan muttered something that made the other two laugh merrily, and nudged his mount to gallop ahead of them.
Glorfindel shook his head. It was going to be an interesting journey, of that he had no doubts at all.
Darkness of night held no secrets from sharp elven ears and eyes. Even with a waning moon there was still starlight - more than enough for beings who had awakened beneath starlight alone, and loved it since. A sense of evil, gleaming eyes, snarls and the stench of unwashed bodies warned them almost at the same time their horses caught the scent.
Bronwë automatically calmed her mount as he snorted and backed several steps, but her hands were shaking as the snarls grew louder, and she almost desperately wanted to give in to the horse's instinctive desire to flee the danger.
Orcs. She'd not seen orcs face-to-face since she was a child, and then only from under the cover of her Adar's cloak. He'd taught her to use a bow. She had a bow, across her back. The rational half of her brain was railing at her to react, to pull and string the bow. To use it. The other half was remembering the mutilated bodies of farmers brought in to the Grey Havens, either dying or near death, victims of orc assaults.
Frozen in indecision, she sat like a sack of stones as her horse pranced sideways, tossing his head in agitation.
Kneeing Nimbrethil in front of Bronwë's gelding, Glorfindel caught hold of her arm. "Up a tree, now!" Expecting an argument, he dismounted, pulling her from the horse to turn her towards the nearest tree. Bronwë stared at him, and he reached over her shoulder, yanking the bow from its sheath and placing it in her hands. "Up the tree, Bronwë. Kill them if they come near. Go!"
A gentle push and she nodded before disappearing up the tree, blending into the foliage.
The other two Silvans had also gone to the trees, and had their bows out, both barely visible where they crouched in the branches. Glorfindel gathered the guards with a glance, and swept his sword out, bringing it up in one fluid motion. A grim smile edged his lips as he stalked in the direction of the grunts and pounding of feet. There were no doubts here, no second guesses. Here there was only the familiar weight of the weapon in his hand, the sense of sureness in his movements.
Perhaps the orcs had thought to take easy prey tonight, and feast on elven flesh. To have their fun - to torment and listen to the screams for mercy.
A calmness settled in the blue eyes of the warrior as he lifted his head, gazing towards the enemy with a calm certainty. They would not get past Glorfindel. Tonight, these orcs would die. The same, calm sureness fell over the guard as they stood in a line and waited for the rush of their foes, dual knives and swords glinting silver in the moonlight.
The enemy was a mass of grey forms, surging through the forest with a guttural snarl that broke into a full-throated cry as they spotted the elves. Battered swords raised, they charged forward, confident in easily taking such a small number of their hated foes. The orcs in the front of the charge staggered, falling as green-fletched arrows found exposed throats. More arrows flew from the trees, striking through yellow orc eyes, and the Silvans claimed first blood.
Then the elves fighting on the ground were overrun, standing like rocks in a river of orc bodies who tried to overwhelm them. Trying to cut them down. Steel rang on steel, filling the night with the sounds of battle. The grunts and growls lessening as sharp elven swords flashed almost too fast to follow.
Glorfindel fought in silence, a grimace the only betrayal of how he felt as he twisted and slashed, body moving in a deadly dance where time slowed. Battle trance of steel and sinuous movement, senses sharpened to hear every grunt, feel every shift. Muscles already moving arms to block motion sharp elven eyes had anticipated.
Arrows flew past the elves, striking with unerring precision in necks, eyes, any vulnerable spot the archers found. It became a contest of sorts, seeing if he could get to the orc before an arrow beat him to the target. At times the arrows came so close they stirred his hair with the wind of their passing. The archers took out their fair share of the enemy, leaving the rest to those on the ground.
One last whirl, a slice...and it was over.
Glorfindel looked around, sword tightly gripped in his hand, expecting one of the orcs on the ground to leap up and slice at him. A glance across the clearing showed him four of the Guards were uninjured. Another sat on the ground, cradling his arm, and Glorfindel picked his way through the body-littered ground to reach him. "How badly are you wounded, Valandil?" He knelt next to the elf, gently gripping his shoulder.
Blood soaked the arm of the guard's tunic, seeping slowly from between his fingers as he held the deep gash with his hand. "It's deep, milord," he confessed with a grimace. Struggling to rise, the elf was held in place by the hand at his shoulder. "I won't let it slow us down. Just bandage it and I'll -"
"Sit where you are." Seeing Valandil was embarrassed at having been wounded, Glorfindel looked around. Where was...ah. "Hold the pressure on that wound and don't move." Arching an eyebrow, receiving a nod in response, he rose to his feet.
Leaning against the tree she'd just climbed down, Bronwë wrinkled her nose at the bodies of fallen orcs scattered all across the clearing. Wide grey eyes rose to meet his gaze as Glorfindel approached.
He held her gaze, letting her see he was fine, though black orc blood splattered his arms and torso, running down his sword to drip on the ground. Vanyar blue eyes glittered with the fire of battle still, and she sighed at seeing it.
Glorfindel was a warrior, at his best when allowed to use instincts and natural skills in protecting. She understood. Healers fought as well - entirely different battles, but just as fiercely.
"Valandil took a sword wound." Stepping aside, pausing to wipe his sword on a fallen orc's tunic, Glorfindel sheathed the sword.
"Where...ah." Already moving as she spotted the elf on the ground, Bronwë took two steps and turned back. "Can you get the bundle in my saddle pack? One is clothing, the other is herbs and such." She pushed the bow over her shoulder at his nod, and hurried over to kneel next to Valandil.
Ignoring the puddles of black blood and the sightless, staring bodies of the orcs all around.
Glorfindel spotted Nimbrethil and whistled to the stallion. Though the chestnut could be an entirely difficult nuisance at times, he was one of the best battle-trained horses the elf had ridden in many years. The stallion had good instincts that had saved both of them more than once. Snorting, the stallion trotted towards the golden haired elf, the three Silvan mounts following.
Seeing black splatters of orcish matter on the stallion's hooves and forelegs, Glorfindel chuckled as the horse shoved his face into his elf's chest. Rubbing the blaze on the horse's forehead, he held out a hand to Bronwë's gelding. The horse came to him, grateful for the reassuring pats and words as the elf pulled the saddlebag from his withers. "We won't stay long, and then you'll all get a nice rubdown." One last pat for the horses and Glorfindel walked back over to find Bronwë frowning at the tough material of Valandil's tunic which was refusing to be ripped.
"Saddle bag." He shrugged at her look as she took it from him. Digging into a female's saddlebag was not something he routinely did - he'd seen some of the fripperies Arwen packed and had no intentions of rummaging through Bronwë's.
Not that he wasn't curious. A field of dead orcs, the watchful attention of his guard on them, was hardly the time or place for indulging in such things, however.
"Who weaves this cloth? Your metal smiths?" Pursing a lip, Bronwë caught sight of the dagger sheathed in Glorfindel's boot and pulled it smoothly, flashing a triumphant smile at him as he arched his eyebrow. Cutting the cloth of the tunic away she absently passed the dagger back to its owner, attention already on the exposed wound. "Let's just see how deep this is."
Valandil winced as she gently probed the wound.
"Feeling weak? Dizzy?" Bronwë dug through the pack, pulling out several pouches and a roll of cloth she set on the edge of the pack, careful not to let it get dirty.
"No." He hissed as she sprinkled something from one of the pouches over the open wound.
"This is temporary, mind you. That should help stop the bleeding for now." Picking up the roll of clean cloth, she used it to bind the wound. "I know it is tight, but until I can do a true healing I'm afraid you'll have to endure it." She pulled a wider band of cloth and used it to fashion a temporary sling. "Try not to move it too much yet." She gathered the pouches, carefully storing them in the saddlebag, and rose to her feet.
Glorfindel helped Valandil stand. "Let's move out of here." The other guards had rounded up the horses, as the Silvans salvaged all of their arrows they could. "There's a stream not far ahead. We'll camp there, and post watch."
None of them argued. The dead orcs were stinking already and the stench of blood was almost overwhelming. The horses were not the only ones happy to leave the clearing, and the battle, behind them.
They rode until they reached a low rise of black rocks, formed in a half-circle. Here they camped, unsaddling the horses, and wiping them down, before turning them loose to graze. The elven-bred horses would act as sentries as well, and were intelligent enough to remain near their riders.
Glorfindel argued against a fire, but had finally relented, agreeing to a small, concealed fire as Bronwë insisted. She had doused it as soon as water was heated, then set about making a paste that she spread on Valandil's wound. Rebinding the arm, she had remained at his side until he slipped into sleep, monitoring his condition.
"Was it poisoned?"
"I think not." Grimacing at the black blood on her leggings, she plucked at the material which continued to stick to her legs. "We'll need to watch to be certain."
Two guards stood watch and he had seen Faelon and Thalion with the horses. Another slept near Valandil, vacantly staring up at the night sky, already in elven dreams. Noting the last two guards returning from upstream, hair wet, Glorfindel offered a wry smile. "I cannot let you go alone, but I've no doubt you wish to bathe?"
The look he received was so heart-felt, he chuckled and gestured for her to proceed him. "I promise to turn my back and not peek."
"So gallant." Bronwë grabbed her saddlebag as they passed it, and after a short walk, was soon wading into the icy cold of the snow-fed water. Such things didn't truly trouble elves, but she hurriedly washed hair, clothing and self, before wringing out her hair and dressing in clean, dry clothing.
Taking up the stump Glorfindel vacated with a grin, she worked on combing out her hair, keeping her back to the stream as he had. A quiet gasp and a muttered comment on the temperature of the water caused a chuckle. "Cold, isn't it?"
"You have a vast talent for understatement," Glorfindel answered in a droll tone. Ducking under to wet and wash his hair, he remained in the water only long enough to cleanse the stench of orc blood from himself before dressing quickly.
Using long years of elven stealthiness, he crept up behind the elf contentedly combing her hair and set icy fingers on the back of her neck.
Bronwë yelped, jumping up to turn, and scowled as he chuckled. A reluctant smile curved her lips as she brought a finger up to poke him in the chest. "Remember that you started this."
Catching her hand, Glorfindel's grin widened. "I'll remember. Just as I'll recall I'm the one who insisted upon going with you and bringing the guards."
"You just dearly love to glory in it when you're right, don't you?" Her tone was light as she turned away. "You were right though." Bronwë looked down, letting the waist-length fall of brown hair hide her expression. "It would have been Faelon and Thalion fighting alone against those orcs..." A snort of self-derision, and she shook her head. "I...I wasn't much help."
It was a hard admission to make. Bronwë had lived alone, though sheltered in a haven, for many years, and had a streak of independence that made it hard to admit to needing anything at times. She was used to helping others as a healer, not asking for help.
What would have happened, had he not insisted upon accompanying them, was painfully clear. Why then, was it so hard to admit his presence was comforting? The protectiveness, though it annoyed her endlessly at times, was reassuring.
"Hmm..." He stepped closer, pursing a lip at seeing her so pensive. There had been fewer arrows in the quiver when she came down the tree than he remembered. She must have managed to get at least a few shots off. Still, killing was not something he was inclined to see her grow familiar with. No healer was ever truly comfortable with killing. Defense, though...that was another matter altogether. "And who felt the need to remind me that some wolves are just wolves and could be convinced to look elsewhere for prey?"
"Faelon."
Glorfindel snorted. "'Twas not Faelon who fouled my shot."
"No." Bronwë smiled, squeezing his hand, and held up the comb. "Here. Your hair is dripping." Even grey gaze calling his mind back to their conversation in Círdan's rooms after he'd almost died.
Which he acknowledged, meeting her gaze steadily before releasing her hand to take the comb. They began walking back to the camp and he looked towards the silver-topped shadow of the Misty Mountains, distant in the inky blackness of the night sky. Now or never. "Bronwë, wait."
She stopped and turned with a questioning look.
"I'm sorry for being such a lout the other day." Water dripped down his back and neck, recalling the sea water and how quickly a lovely swim had turned deadly. "I was an idiot about the whole thing."
Bronwë sighed. "Most people who almost die aren't at their most cheerful while healing."
"I never am."
"No." A hint of a smile curved her lips. "You're a rotten patient."
He nodded, and turned the comb in his hands. Simple wood, not silver. Nothing fancy.
"Glorfindel." He looked up as she stepped closer and touched his arm. "Are you all right?"
Meeting the grey gaze, he held it longer than normal, trying to find the words for what he wanted to say. A wry smile quirked his mouth. This wasn't really the time or place. "You did well against those orcs today."
"I froze." Turning away with a grimace, Bronwë began walking again. "I've lived in a safe city for too long."
Falling in next to her, Glorfindel snorted. "I know something of that."
"Four hundred years?"
"Give or take a few." Gondolin had been a beautiful prison.
"Yet you came out to fight in the Nirnaeth."
"And that turned out so well." He grimaced and pushed away memories. "You travelled through Beleriand safely before it sank."
"I don't remember all of that." She'd been hurt in the sack of Avernion and lost a stretch of time that only picked up again in Lindon.
Both of them had a past, had things that haunted them at times, kept them awake. It was part of what he loved about her - she didn't expect a flawless hero. Probably wouldn't want him if he was. "You aren't forgetting much from what I've heard."
That drew a choked laugh. He wouldn't know, having spent those years in the Halls of Mandos. "Some of it is best forgotten." A few silent steps and she stopped again. "We need to find more than just the answer to the mold that is attacking the trees. If Círdan doesn't know what ails the sea and animals, then..."
"Elrond might have some answers, but if not, we will continue to Lothlórien." There were Silvan Elves there, he knew, older than probably Celeborn or Galadriel. Avari, who had wandered the dark, lonely stretches of Middle-earth after leaving Cuiviénen, long before the rising of the sun and moon and knew many secrets.
Or so it was said. Glorfindel snorted and smiled as Bronwë arched an eyebrow. "I was just thinking that it's probable my cousin has tried to pry all the secrets out of the Silvan elders."
A grin quirked her mouth and she pondered that. "You do realize most Silvan Elves can be a bit...distrustful of outsiders?"
"I've seen first-hand how quickly Thranduil's marchwardens draw a bow first and ask questions second." He softened the bite of his words with a smile. "Yet in Lothlórien they allow Galadriel not only to live among them but trust her to protect them."
Bronwë shot a sideways look before turning to face him. "She is your cousin, but I cannot forget what you called her when you first returned to Middle-earth."
"Kin-slayer." Said softly, Glorfindel sighed. "My mind was not yet my own, and my memories were a jumble."
"I have never been entirely comfortable around her." Bronwë had few dealings with Galadriel while she and Celeborn had lived in Lindon, but they were memorable.
"And yet Haldir of Lorien would lay down his life for his Lady of Light."
Now she turned to face him. "Called so for her great wisdom and beauty, is that not so?"
"She is not entirely without machinations." Glorfindel snorted, mouth relaxing into a smile as he threaded Bronwë's arm through his as they walked. "But she has done much to redeem herself from the darker days of our past."
"That is all we can ask of anyone." Quietly spoken, the tone a bit somber.
Glorfindel set a hand over hers and squeezed, reminded of all she had forgiven. Telerin kin lost at Alqualondë, family lost in Doriath's second kin-slayings, but he'd yet to hear Bronwë speak ill of the Noldor. Certainly she'd had a thing or two to say against individual Noldor, but never the entire kindred.
The past, she had often reminded him, was behind them, never to be recaptured. To carry it into the future was to burden oneself unnecessarily...and ended only in hurt.
And they said the Nandor had lesser wisdom. Wisdom from sitting at the feet of the Valar, certainly they had not that, but they had gained knowledge by surviving. Adapting. Listening to Iluvátar's creation, and learning its song.
Glorfindel found it was a wonderful counterpoint to the long-accepted wisdom of his own Vanyar kin, rather in keeping with his own, often whimsical views.
It was good to shake up the complacent once in a while, just to be certain they were still listening.
TBC Thank you for reading!
