Waking was a far-away dream, sitting an impossibility. He could not walk. He could not run. So he flew. I am a starling, he thought. High above the world.

"Little starling?" He heard his mother's voice, choked and sad.

It's raining in the sky, he answered in his mind, feeling wetness fall on his cheeks. The sky is grey. The clouds are wet and heavy.

Rain danced on a fountain, slow and steady, slivers of silver. But the rain was gentle and the air warm.

Unchained from the bonds of earth, he was free.

Rain danced on a fountain. Ripples spread out from the basin, in never-ending circles. By the pedestal of the fountain, thickets of flowers grew, and raindrops splashed into the chalices of roses. He swooped so low his wings clipped them.

Their hidden thorns reached out and pulled him down. Briars wrapped around him. Their spines tore through his feathers.

He was bound to the earth again, staring up through the thicket. Rain trickled into his eyes. The sky was crying with him.

He had lost his wings.

A rose-stalk bent down under the weight of the rain, emptying its cup of tears onto his face. From the vermillion depths of the velvet-soft flower, he saw two brilliant green gems. He reached up his hand to find a comfort, feeling the silky strands of amber petals under his fingers.

Suddenly the rose was gone, and he was alone in the sky, a great, grey expanse, so lonely and cold.

Below him, birch trees danced, strange contorted shapes. Pink blossoms and blighted branches whispered below him as he soared.

The silver sheen of his wings reflected the sun, like a polished steel shield. They were burning. He could smell smoke.

He landed hard. His Fingers splayed out, clutching the branches of a mallorn sapling. The golden leaves whispered and rustled. He opened his mouth to cry for pain, but the voice that came was sweet, brave and courageous. The voice of unfathomable love like any mother.

"Celebrían."

"They call me, Elrohir." he said to the tree.

"I will call you starling."

Then seasons passed through the tree. It grew and blossomed. But in the high summer of its life, a blight came and withered the leaves and golden flowers. Sap turned bitter. Fires licked at the branches, straining higher and higher, and the bark turned black and withered to ash.

Embers landed on his skin and he burned. The fire turned to him now.

As the flames burned his cloak, they whirled and spun and twisted into wings.

He soared heavens made white with the fire of his wings. It was searing heat, it blistered in his blood.

Fire licked at his wings, but they did not char. Instead, they shone with a snowy radiance, pushing him up, up towards a maelstrom of brilliance. Up...and he was pulled into it. Skeins of light swirled round and round. He was beaten by the wind, tossed to and fro.

Then it dropped him. Wingless, screaming, he plummeted to the waiting earth below.

And he woke up.

There was darkness in the tent, but he smelled horses and heard their stampings, and the low hum of voices.

His arm felt like lead, but he moved it slowly to his stomach, where he vaguely remembered a wound. A wound. It was as meaningful as a yesterday song. His mind was blurred, dull: all his wits dimmed and distorted.

Finally, he decided to sit. It was such a simple act he was certain he could achieve it, but he could hardly lift his head. A lurch of pain and disbelief pulsed through him. He was weaker than a newborn babe.

He considered crying out, then, for he could hear the soft Sindarin and knew he was among friends, but he only achieved a hoarse croak.

Nonetheless, the tent flap opened. He saw his mother. She looked at him in silence, and then dropped to her knees and kissed his forehead. "Welcome back, Elrohir."

"Where did I go?" he rasped.

"Lie back," she whispered, smoothing hair from his face. "You took a journey to the Halls of the Dead, my starling, and I was afraid you would enter very soon."

The thought jolted him, and a sour taste was in his mouth. "Death?"

"Yes," Celebrían answered. "Yes, you were very near to it."

He pushed the thought from him, closing his eyes as if by doing so he could banish the fear. "Elladan?"

"He is here. Or was, a half hour ago. He and Tawarian went grouse-hunting."

"Birds." He paused, letting his mind work. It seemed wrapped in a fog of pain and confusion, it moved so slowly. "So all is well? After the trolls…..I remember thinking it seemed too easy, with the sun. There was more than them."

"There was. But it is gone." She held the dinted edge of a bowl to his lips. "Drink."

He did so eagerly. The water was cool and unbelievably refreshing. His voice sounded more like his own when he spoke next. "Thank you. What of Arwen? Did she come with you?"

Celebrían laughed. "Of course she did. Do you want to see her?"

"I would rather rest," he mumbled. "Would you send Elladan to me…when he comes back? I need to talk to him."

She arched a dark eyebrow. "I never planned on doing otherwise. Go to sleep, starling."

The words ringing in his ears, Elrohir closed his eyes and disappeared on the wings of a dark and dreamless sleep.

When he next woke, it was to the sound of the tent flap rustling. He opened his eyes and saw Elladan.

"Good evening, brother."

Any enmity fled like ghosts at dawn. Elladan sat down beside him. "Well, Master Sluggard, I hope you had a fine time lying abed," he said, but his voice was husky with unshed tears.

Elrohir tried to wave his arm, but the exertion proved too much. "I did indeed. Did you fetch me any supper?"

"A bowl of grouse broth will be coming shortly. Tawarian shot this one though, not I."

"Of course. Her arrow go through the eye. Yours have an unfortunate tendency to spoil the bird and go through the body."

Elladan tried to laugh manfully, but the laughter changed to tears, and he buried his head in his hands. "I am so sorry, 'Ro. I am so sorry."

Elrohir knew dimly that he was not speaking of grouse, but his memories were hazy. "Why are you sorry?" he inquired. "Because you are a poor marksman?"

His brother choked. Elrohir reached out his hand with painful slowness and gripped his brother's shoulder. His fingers were so weak, they slid over the leather cuirass. "Elladan," he said quietly. "I don't remember your offense…..not really. I remember that something occurred between us, but it doesn't matter. I don't remember it, I don't want to remember it and I will not. It's gone. Gone forever. Ashes on the wind. And I'll forgive you if you forgive me."

"I will."

Elrohir smiled. "Well then, where's the broth?"

And they both knew they were forgiven.

~.~

"All hail the Lord Elrond!" The murmurs ran through the camp like fire through wood. Celebrían, catching wind of them, bolted from the campfire, leaving her meal behind.

Elrond, accompanied by a guard and a young Elf-woman Celebrían recognized as Helnor's new wed wife, slowed his horse from a gallop to a canter.

In another moment, she found herself tight in his embrace. "Elrohir?"

"He is awake, and eating as of now," she murmured into his chest, the breath nearly crushed from her lungs.

He seemed to realize this and took a step back, flushing a little in the firelight. She winked at him and took his hand. "Come with me."

The tents that housed the wounded was pitched somewhat apart from the others, to afford them peace and privacy. Glorfindel and Amdirion were standing by one of these. "He has lasted past the dawn," said Glorfindel hopefully.

"Yes, he has." Amdirion pushed back hair from his weary face. "But she has not. Mandos took her from us an hour ago."

Glorfindel's eyes widened. "She is….gone?" he whispered in a choked voice. "But she was improving. I saw it."

"It was the last gasp before the plunge, Captain. I was with as she passed. The Laiquendi will bury her tonight, according to their traditions."

Glorfindel bowed his head in grief. "We are blessed," he said at last, "that no more were taken from us."

"We are."

Although the pair had made no noise as they approached, Glorfindel's head snapped up with a warrior instinct honed to uncanniness. "Greetings, Lord Elrond."

"Captain Glorfindel. I came to see my son."

A smile lifted the sadness on Glorfindel's face. "I am glad to say he is doing well. Elladan is with him now."

As he passed, Elrond asked, "What was the name of the Laiquendë warrior?"

Amdirion supplied him with it. "Dimethor."

"We will be at the funeral," answered Celebrían quietly.

Death dimmed the crimson sunset, and cast long shadows. The Laiquendi of Imladris were tightly-knit, distrustful of others not their race, for the sins of the Ñoldor had not been forgotten or mitigated by years. Although they lived under the rule of the Peredhel, who bore Noldo blood, they forgave him when he reckoned his lineage to Thingol Greycloak instead of Finwë Ñoldóran. Still, they kept themselves segregated and kept their rites their own. Elrond had spoken earlier to Avadion, and the Green-Elf chief had replied courteously that they valued Elrond 's consideration and that all would be allowed to show their respect, only the Laiquendi would participate in the burial rites.

The Laiquendi warriors were gathered around the open grave. As the mother of Dimethor was not present, the nearest of kin would hold the tree, and if there were none, the chieftain of the tribe would. Dimethor's kin was not present, and so Avadion held in his hands a small sapling, soil still clinging to its roots. All other warriors held flowers in their hands, not plucked, but instead carefully uprooted.

A grave had already been dug. Now, two bearers came forward, lifted the body from the bier of branches, and reverently laid her in the grave, and then melded into Laiquendi crowd as soon as they had done so.

The Laiquendi refused to use metal in their rites: their weapons were laid aside, and each, in turn, knelt by the grave and took handfuls of the loose earth to cover the body, murmuring soft farewells. When the grave was filled, at last, Avadion stepped forward, and a great shout of mourning was raised.

He spoke then. "My brothers, my sisters, we fight and we die, that is our lot in life. But there is no grief in that! Brave and strong, we slay the foe, and no better end we can know! Dimethor was brave, and her spirit will find a housing among the War-Halls of Màkar and Meàssë, where they fight through the day and feast through the night."

He knelt, and planted the sapling, mounding the earth about it. When at last it stood upright, the Green Elves began to sing. They filed past the grave as they did, each kneeling and replanting their flower. It was the tradition of the Wood-Elves to cover the resting places of the ones they lost to battle with flowers that would bloom again, to honor the everlasting beauty of the spirits of their departed, but with their fragile blossoms show the frailty of flesh.

When the last Laiquendë had planted his blossom, they stepped away, and Dimethor's grave was a blaze of gold and scarlet flowers amidst green turves.

Drums beat in the night, a wild rhythm that thudded in the marrow. Dances began, madly whirling circles that interlocked around the grave. Songs were struck up. These were no solemn dirges for the fallen, but a strong clear shout that celebrated life, a victory cry.

In honor of Dimethor's death as a fighter, warrior dances began. Their weapons were picked up again. Knives and torches were juggled to and fro, dances enacted battles that raged frighteningly close to real.

Wild, primal, fearsome, the rites of the Forest-Children were hard for Glorfindel, raised among the Caliquendi to fathom. But his blood pulsed strong and sure in answer to the soaring warrior song, and he lost himself to the eldritch sound of the flute, the ancient words that were rich and deep. The drums pulsed a rhythm too fast for pain or doubt. It was a beat of triumph.

He wondered at their acceptance of death. Their mourning was short, they dwelt on joy instead of sorrow. But, he realized, death was more of a reality in their life then in his. Since the Cuiviénen, they dwelt on the cusp of danger, despising walls and magic girdles. The Hand of Mandos was among them so frequently that if they observed long mourning periods, they would be locked in a neverending chain of grief. Instead, they chose to find joy and hope in the darkest of times, and rebuild their hearts.

More dangerous and less wise, perhaps, but not in all things. Although the Caliquendi might boast of light and understanding, the rough-spun, practical wisdom of the Moriquendi was needful in this time.

Glorfindel knew that the dance would continue through the night, and he watched the stars shining on the melee, and wondered if they would rather be enmeshed in this primal dance than in all the solemn lamentations of the Ñoldor.

The drums becoming fainter and fainter as he studied the constellations.

There was Menelmacar, the Swordsman in the Sky, and Remmirath, the starry net Varda wove to catch the light of Ilúvatar that fell from her hands. Soronúmë, the constellation she traced in the sky with the dews of Telperion.

Blazing brightly, was a lone star: Alcarinquë, the Glorious.

But the constellation he loved most was Wilwarin. Long ago, in the enchanted twilight, he and his mother had sat near the Two Trees. One gleamed with silver, for each of its many blooms gave forth a light only dimly remembered in that of the moon. The other held clusters of flowers overflowing with warmth and light greater than that of fire. Dew fell as rain from their branches, as she told him the story of the Butterfly.

It ran thus. Once, long ago, before the Elves awoke at the Cuiviénen, there was a butterfly. She was a creature of surpassing beauty, with jeweled wings that were blue as a summer sky. Her task was appointed by Yavanna, that she would flutter from flower to flower. Inside their chalice of petals, a soft yellow powder was guarded. The butterfly would take only a little, and give it to the next flower, so they might multiply. The flowers gave her sweet nectar in gratitude.

At night, the butterfly slept on the shoulder of Yavanna. Her gilded wings glittered in the starlight so that those who saw her from far away thought she was a brooch that Aulë had gifted his bride with.

But at last, the butterfly felt weary and wished to sleep for a long time. Then Yavanna grew saddened over her butterfly and determined to make a request to Tintallë, the Star-Kindler. Carrying the softly slumbering butterfly in her hands, she journeyed to Ilmarin. There Varda, who knew the butterfly, grew sad as well. Then she gently clasped her fingers over Yavanna's hands, and together they began to sing.

Yavanna sang her autumn song of sweet rest and sleep.

Varda sang her song of lifting up stars to the sky.

And then, the butterfly drifted from their hands, high up among the starry hosts, and Varda placed her in great honor among the heavens.

When the Elves awoke, it is said that Yavanna commanded their eyes to go first to her butterfly, which they called Wilwarin when they discovered speech. They saw her, and a love of things that grow and live was born in their hearts.

And there she sleeps, until Arda is reborn. Then, she will wake, and fly down from the sky. She will sip the nectar of the Two Trees, and be Yavanna's constant companion.

That is how Wilwarin came to be.

"Oh, Válar!" He heard Arwen's exclamation above the drums. Her grey eyes were wide with amazement. "Oh, Válar."

Glorfindel followed her gaze. He knew that when visits were made to King Thranduil's halls, Arwen was held spellbound by the deep-forest dances. She was like that now, one hand tugging on her black hair as her eyes breathlessly followed the near-impossible feats of the Laiquendi.

He smiled at how her exclamation mirrored Elrohir's. They were alike in many ways and easily impressed by things they considered beautiful.

The moon westered. Newborn dawn appeared with hands of flowers, and the dances ceased. Mist in the morning, the Laiquendi disappeared, flitting away in silence.

The spell was broken. Celebrían and Elrond were not to be seen. Glorfindel frowned, looking around Arwen. Elrohir was asleep, leaning against his brother's shoulder. His wound had overcome him even in the face of the dancing drums.

A fog was rising off the dales, the early morning air was cool and damp. Glorfindel stood up from the fern-cloaked log that had served as a seat, and stood up, determining to search for his liege Lord and Lady.

¹ In Ñoldor tradition (ie. Fingolfin) cairns were raised over the dead, but I felt Silvan and Sindar tradition would be more related to nature, although their ideas of an afterlife are similar to those of the Vikings.