Author's Notes: In honor of the season, we have here a slew of Glorfindel free-writes. Shut-up, my muse had feelings, apparently. ;)
"measured by many branches"
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Ice
He had not know that it was possible to be this cold.
The Helcaraxë was bitterly cold before his ill advised trip through the frozen waters underneath the shelf they walked upon. Now, it was all but unbearable as his teeth chattered, and his skin paled to an alarming shade of blue. The healers were worried about whether or not he would keep his fingers and toes, and though the worst was past, he still had trouble bending his limbs properly. His hair froze together in a clump of dull gold after he clawed his way from the water, and had to be cut away lest the cold about his neck do him more harm than his vanity was worth. He was trying not to think about that. Not yet, anyway.
And yet, he knew that he would do it again – a hundred times over, if he had to. For, one moment Elenwë and Itarillë had been walking next to him, and then they were falling, falling, and he had reached until his hand had caught the child's in a desperate hold, and he had swam desperately for the surface. He had given all of his warmth to the shivering thing in his hold once they broke the water - even to the point of doing a serious harm to himself, and now . . .
Now, he was dry and relatively warm, and yet he still could not fight the chill from his bones, the cold from his spirit. He was heart-sick and soul-sore for the loss of his friend, and . . .
"You are not smiling," Itarillë said sleepily from beside him. Turukáno had been inconsolable when they had failed to save Elenwë, feeling his wife's death deep in his spirit, and now he was with his father and sister. Glorfindel had taken the girl for the night, so she would not have to see and feel her father's grief. He had not wanted to let her out of his sight for some inexplicable fear, deep inside . . .
"You are always smiling," Itarillë continued on a whisper. Though her face was red and her eyes were raw from her tears, she reached out a single, chubby finger to touch the corner of his mouth, as if by doing so she could return his smile to its place. The only child amongst their host, the Ice had touched her the least physically, but now . . . her spirit . . .
"I shall try to smile for you, little one," Glorfindel muttered, holding her closer. The Ice had taken away physical boundaries from everyone. All in their camp had become long used to sharing the heat of their bodies, both for the warmth of flesh and the comfort of spirits. Now, Itarillë burrowed closer to him, and he ran a soothing hand through her hair as the winds moaned a sad song beyond their tent. On the other side of Itarillë, Ecthelion had been quiet throughout the whole encounter, but he rubbed absently at the child's back as he eased her into a healing sleep, where she would rest without dreams.
"She will heal," Ecthelion muttered as her breathing deepened and evened out. "The soul of this one is strong."
"She should not have to be so strong of spirit," Glorfindel found his words thick in his throat. "Not when so young."
Ecthelion did not respond to that, but his silvery eyes turned shadowed in reply. A heartbeat passed. "You do always have a smile," Ecthelion said simply. "It warms others more than you know."
"There is no warmth here," Glorfindel said after a moment. He was too weary for words spoken closely together. "At least, not where I can find."
"Even so," Ecthelion rolled his shoulders.
Glorfindel did not respond, and yet, when Itarillë shifted, restless in her sleep, the other man started to hum softly in the back of his throat - a hymn to Laurelin, now gone, whispering of light and warmth. Voices could not rise in song on the Helcaraxë, but Ecthelion found his warmth, and gave what verses he could.
Glorfindel simply closed his eyes, and listened.
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Ski
It was, in his mind, a perfectly acceptable idea.
His friend, however, was quick to disagree. And yet, seeing as how Ecthelion differed with him on a great many things, Glorfindel had not yet decided whether or not he would heed his words or cast them aside.
As he pondered this quandary in his mind, he curiously placed his shield on the ground, kneeling before the hardened steel and squinting down the mountainside, wondering . . .
"You are going to get yourself killed," Ecthelion pointed out dryly.
"Nonsense," Glorfindel waved a hand. "You and I are fated to find our ends in grand and laudable ways. This -"
" - trying to appease your boredom with guard-duty by acting with the mind of a simpleton?" Ecthelion supplied helpfully. "You merely had to say so; I have paperwork aplenty if you wished to keep busy."
Glorfindel made a face. "And yet . . ."
Ecthelion sighed, the motion just barely disturbing the pale stone of his features. He was entirely too silver on the mountainside, Glorfindel thought, his helm and armor glittering in the sunlight, catching on the tip of the spear he held . . .
Ah!
"My friend," he praised warmly. "You have given me quite the idea."
He toed the shield aside, and stood upon it, rather than knelt. He stuck his own spear into the ground then, steadying himself . . .
Ecthelion was hardly impressed. "Eru help Mandos find patience when he gathers your soul," he said, ever encouraging. "Although I do believe that you would be the one spirit to successfully annoy Lord Námo into casting you back early. You would cause too much of a splash in the Halls, I fear."
Glorfindel snorted out a laugh. It was hard not to, with the cold mountain air and the fresh fallen snow; the untouched slope just taunting him . . .
He gathered himself, ready to push off, when -
" - here," Ecthelion said, resigned to his course. Glorfindel looked, and saw that his friend offered him his own spear. "So that you may balance yourself with both hands."
Glorfindel could not help but smile wider, knowing how much that would irk the other. "My friend," he let his smile grow as he took the spear. "You do care."
"Do not let any know," Ecthelion replied wryly. "And do try to avoid the pointed ends should you come upon a fall. Manwë only knows what the songs would say then."
But his words were already lost to the wind as the mountain roared in his ears.
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Sled
"And what is this I see?"
"This, is not what it looks like."
"If by this," Glorfindel said easily, walking forward to toe at the thin metal disk that his friend was arranging on the ground, "you mean: 'a sure way to find oneself in to Mandos' Halls', then I think that this is exactly what it looks like."
Ecthelion scowled. "This, is a sled," he pointed out primly, "And it has been designed by Maeglin himself for just such a venture. One shall be sitting, not standing. And certainly not standing with weapons in hand to steer with."
Glorfindel waited for one moment, and then two. He smiled, knowing."And the child asked you to do so, did he not?"
Ecthelion's far face flushed, and Glorfindel smiled widely, knowing that he had caught him. In their impossibly still city, new unions were rare and children even rarer still. Eärendil was a blessing to their people; his laughter brightening the mountains and heartening the souls of all who heard it. His curiosity and wide eyes for the newness of the world stirred the fondness of their immortal race, who, at times, slipped into age long habits and routines without even realizing they did so. The family he served, and thought of as his own, blossomed with the addition of the boy. Idril fairly glowed in the role of both wife and mother, and Turgon their Lord had not been as happy with a grandchild to spoil as he had since the last his wife had lived.
His stern friend had taken to the child more than most, and the little prince was fascinated in kind - following the old warrior's footsteps down to the way he walked and talked, always begging for songs and stories and carved wooden toys.
Glorfindel breathed in deep, and found the cold stretching his lungs. It had been long since he had felt so content in his own skin, he thought. He felt rooted in that moment, bound as he was to the land beneath his feet as he had never felt in Aman across the sea. He exhaled, and found that Ecthelion was watching him, a thoughtful look on his face. He wondered if his friend could feel it too.
"As our resident sledding expert," Ecthelion said in a grave tone, "I would welcome any advice you would have to offer."
"My friend," Glorfindel clapped the other on the back. "You only had to ask."
CXI. Avalanche
He had always known that his life would end this way.
It was not to him to fade away with the end of the world and the great ages of time. He would not fall to so simple an end from an enemy on the battlefield - a stray arrow or a lucky twist of an Orc-blade. No . . . he would die greatly, and he would die in flames.
The mountains were cold this time of year. The snow drifts were up to the thighs of most as they scrambled to flee from the ruin of the city behind them. The black smoke of burning Gondolin reached the heavens like the shadow of night, and soot fell on the mountain passes like snow, as foul and wrong as Morgoth's horde of filth behind them.
And, before them . . .
"You do not have to do this," he heard Idril plead. Her hand was white-knuckled on the plates of his armor. Had he not worn it, her touch would have left bruises. "Please."
Such a fear was carved onto her face, a face so much like dear Elenwë's, he thought. Tears clung to her eyes, for her father's death . . . Maeglin's betrayal . . . for Ecthelion, dead in the Square of the King as he faced the Lord of Balrogs himself, they each taking the other life for life . . .
At Idril, Glorfindel only smiled. He took the few seconds he had left to wipe a tear away as he had those long centuries ago, passing a hand through her hair as he tucked it behind her ear in one fond gesture of farewell.
"Dear Itarillë," he said. "Always, this has been the ending I have wished for myself. I do this without grief in my heart; without a single regret."
He let his smile hold. He could feel his fëa as it rose to his skin, no longer content as it was to be constrained by the cage of his flesh. In that moment, he knew that light poured from him like something living. He could see it reflected in the eyes of those he would die protecting. He could feel it blaze like an inferno, greater than even the demon of flame who awaited him beyond – bellowing out his challenge to the mountain itself.
Idril held his hand to her face for a moment, then two, and then he turned from her.
"Run, Itarillë," he said as he approached his end. "Run, and do not look back."
He felt his fëa as it rose higher, as it filled the air around him like a flame. His smile was one of challenge now as he faced the creature awaiting him. He thought of Turgon as he twisted his sword in his hands; the King he loved, whom he would soon meet in the Halls of Mandos. He thought next of dear Idril and the boy-child Tuor held in his arms. Tuor was a strong man, and he would lead his people well. His Lord's family would live through them - live, and he . . .
The Balrog struck his whip of flame. His demon wings struck against the ground like thunder, blocking out the sunlight above. His foul mouth was an evil line of amusement, as if his audacity in challenging him was something to laugh over. But it did not matter. For in that moment, Glorfindel was great enough to match him. In that moment, Glorfindel was not of flesh and bone, but rather light . . .
Together, he knew, they would bring down the mountainside.
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Frost
A year had passed since his release from the Halls, and yet, Glorfindel still felt a coldness of spirit that was simply not right in this land of peace and plenty. Aman was just as he remembered it being . . . but he . . . he had changed. He had changed, while the home he had once left far behind him stayed ever the same.
"Am I the only one who feels this way?" Glorfindel asked his friend, just having struggled to put his thoughts into words.
Ecthelion had been released from Mandos near the same time as he, and he had spent his time since then building a small cottage off of the road between Tirion and Alqualondë, where he could be close to both of his peoples. Now, he was teaching roses to bloom up trellises on the side of his small house, patiently trimming and coaxing as he went.
For he had forever to do so.
Glorfindel sat, and let the garden soil trail through his fingers as he picked it up and let it fall again.
"I do not know," Ecthelion answered simply. "I suppose there are some who feel as you do, and yet . . . this burns in you like a live flame. I could feel it like frost about your soul, even before you spoke of it to me."
"And you . . ." Glorfindel asked, reaching for something he could not name. "Do you feel . . ." He could not finish his thought. His tongue could not form the words.
"I?" Ecthelion asked. "If I had a choice . . ." he sighed, a long and weary sound that had no place in hallowed Aman. "I fought against shadow. I died doing so. Now the years have moved on, and our fight belongs to others now. If I were given the choice . . . I believe that I would stay here, with my gardens."
Glorfindel sighed though his nose, wiping his hands clean as he did so. He tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee, thinking . . .
He had met Eärendil the day before last – and what a shock that had been, to see Idril's child as a man grown. He had a pretty Sindarin bride now – Elwing the White, the granddaughter of Lúthien Fairest-born, of all people – and two full grown sons of his own back in Middle-earth. He wore the Silmaril of Lúthien about his brow now, warming every room he entered with a holy light, and yet . . .
And yet, Eärendil seemed to suffer from the same restlessness of spirit that he did, Glorfindel thought, his heart clenching oddly. Eärendil mourned, and Glorfindel . . .
"I would give anything to go back, even though I know that it is selfish to think such things . . ."
" . . . the world needed me, and so I answered the call of my people. If I had not done what I had, the Dark Lord himself would still reign in the uttermost north, and yet . . . I would be lying if I said that it was merely duty which shaped my deeds . . . for the sea called to me, and I could not . . . I was not strong enough to . . ."
" . . . I chose my duty over my family . . . Should such bonds have been more sacred than mere duty? I do not know half of the time, and it is an argument that runs my mind in circles at night . . ."
" . . . I left them there, and Elwing did too . . . left them to the Fëanorians and their cruel mercies . . ."
" . . . and yet, my sons were loved in their care. My sons called Kinslayers 'father', and I only 'Gil-estel' – an untouchable star in the night sky . . . And yet . . . the Sons of Fëanor have always taken family most seriously, I should not have been as surprised as I was . . ."
" . . . surprised, and grateful . . ."
" . . . my youngest son chose the fate of Men, and passed on in mortal-death less than five years ago . . . I never had a chance to know my son, and now, I never will . . ."
" . . . and the other . . ."
" . . . I sail over Lindon every night, looking down . . . and yet I cannot touch, I cannot offer comfort . . . there is so much I cannot do . . ."
" . . . the world calls me 'hope', but I . . . I would give anything to go back, even if but for a moment . . ."
" . . . I would give anything."
Anything.
"My answer pains you," Ecthelion said gently, breaking him from his thoughts.
"Never that," Glorfindel said, rising to his feet. He felt anchored in his skin then, a war he had long been waging in his mind now coming to an end. He knew what he wanted. Now, he had only to figure out how to make his wishes a reality. He had to . . .
"I wish you well on your journey," Ecthelion said, seeing where he consciously made the choice his spirit had long since decided. "Truly, you are a light to this marred world."
For a moment, Glorfindel found it hard to breathe. He could feel the thin layer of ice about his spirit melting, as spring breaking from the winter, and yet . . .
"I wish not to . . ." he started, not sure how to phrase his words.
"Leave me behind?" Ecthelion raised a dark brow. "It is true, you shall send your soul to Mandos again on some foolhardy stunt without me to hold you back. And yet, I am sure you will be just fine."
Glorfindel snorted. "Admit it, I have always kept your life from dull monotony."
"It is true," Ecthelion did not bother denying it. "And yet . . . I have forever to wait for your return. I shall enjoy the quiet while you are gone."
Glorfindel felt his heart rise, full in his chest. He turned to embrace the other man, not ashamed at the tears when they came. "My friend," he said truly. "I will miss you."
"And I you," Ecthelion gave a gentle smile. "And yet, for now I will stay . . . and wait for the roses to bloom."
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Melt
So far, the unforeseen difficulties with his return to Middle-earth came not from any outside impetus, but rather, from the descendant of his Lord himself.
Oh, Elrond was polite enough, but that was precisely the problem. Elrond was polite to all, but truly friendly to none. He was respected by all, but close to no one in particular. He was a noted scholar, a decorated warrior, a brilliant tactician - a healer without compare . . . but Glorfindel still knew nothing about the particulars of his character. His likes, his dislikes, his innermost thoughts? All remained a mystery. Glorfindel was truly perplexed – stumped, even, and he did not like feeling so.
Not even five years since the death of Elros, Eärendil had said, and Glorfindel could see where the fractures of that loss still broke through the young soul before him.
A healer to all but himself, Glorfindel thought grimly. Though he wished not to say it, Elwing and Eärendil had damaged their sons more than they could have known with their leaving in such a way . . . And then, afterward, Maglor and Maedhros' abandonment of the twins to Gil-galad's care – even when done in the children's best interest - stung more than Glorfindel thought that Elrond even consciously knew. Galadriel had tried to tell him, in part, when he had first arrived in Lindon – Círdan and Gil-galad too – but Glorfindel had not truly understood what they were trying to tell him until he truly threw himself into trying to get to know the last Peredhil.
But, he was determined. That determination had gotten him far before, and he intended for it to carry him far again.
The first snow of the season had come to Lindon. Overnight, the snow had blanketing everything from the city to the harbor to the sand dunes which stretched to the sea shore beyond. The ice reached even to the waves, freezing the rolling waters close to the shore while the warmth and movement of the ocean further out refused to be touched. It was, Glorfindel thought, one of the more picturesque scenes he had seen in his long life so far.
And now . . .
"I have been told that it is unhealthy, my fascination with the snow," he stretched his best smile onto his face, and kept it there. "Once, a friend tried to explain that my love of the winter is a coping mechanism for my days spent on the Ice, but I say that it is a simple appreciation of nature."
Next to him, Elrond raised a brow – showing a polite interest, as always. "Unhealthy?" he tilted his head. "I do not believe I would call it so, in either instance."
Glorfindel shrugged. "You shall just have to form your own opinions by the end of the day."
Wariness now joined the polite interest. Glorfindel shook away the odd feeling he had that he was fighting a battle of blows, rather than friendly exchange of words. He had an irrational moment where he wished that Idril was there with him. She always knew what to say with troubled souls, and she would know . . .
But no.
"Yes," he answered the unspoken. "I do not wish to spend my first snowfall back in Middle-earth alone, and thus, you shall be required to cater to the eccentric whims of a guest and accompany me."
Cornered, Elrond had no choice but to follow him, and now, here they were, standing at the top of the snow covered dunes, with sleds in hand. Out of all the things that Maeglin had given to Gondolin, Glorfindel was glad to see that his design had survived through the centuries – elsewise, they would have had to use the lids from the barrels on the docks – or their shields, though that hadn't gone so very well the first time he had tried . . .
His thoughts were distracting him. He set them aside, nearly giddy as he positioned his sled on the slope, ready to -
"I must confess that I do not quite see the point."
Glorfindel fought the urge to sigh. "The point," he said gently, "is to have fun. You do so for the simple enjoyment of doing so. One cannot simply find ones pleasure in books, after all."
Elrond's look dipped, just slightly, "I do not - " he started to protest, but Glorfindel interrupted.
" - do you have one silly lay about singing trolls, or a fanciful tale of adventure in those dusty old tomes you pour through?" Glorfindel waited. "No. I thought as much. A scholar's activities – a healer's gift - both do much to give one a sense of self. They strengthen the spirit, but they will do nothing to a mind already burdened down and weary. Do you see the difference?"
"I think, I see what you try to say," Elrond said slowly. He looked down at the sled on the snow, and then the hill itself. His gaze was still dubious.
Glorfindel counted to ten. "I did this with your father, years ago," Glorfindel tried to take another route. "He was very young then, but it was something he remembered, even in Aman. I am . . . it pains me that I was not there to do so with you."
A moment passed. He knew that he had caught the other off guard when Elrond opened his mouth and then closed it, as if unsure of what to say. "Sometimes," he said slowly. "Life does not go the way we would wish for it to."
And Glorfindel had had it. With a speed born of centuries upon more battlefields than he could count, he reached out, and pushed the other over. Elrond landed on the sled with a surprised look on his face that Glorfindel would remember for years to come, and then he kicked the sled down the hill. The Peredhel's reflexes kicked in, and he righted himself as the sled picked up speed, and with a shout of his own, Glorfindel followed him down the dune. The sea and the horizon beyond blurred together as he sent up a shower of snow in his path, laughing madly for the sheer joy of doing so.
By the time he landed, Elrond was already on his feet and righting himself. Though he tried to give off the air of one much put upon, a smile clung to the corner of his mouth. Glorfindel gave his own smile widely in reply.
"There!" he exclaimed. "You do know how to smile. You know, you look like Turgon when you do so," Glorfindel added after a moment. He shivered at the uncanny resemblance, feeling as if he looked upon a ghost.
"Turgon," Elrond said the name softly, thoughtfully. It hurt, Glorfindel thought, the way he said the names of family as if they were merely figures from a tale. Characters from the histories he studied. "My great-grandfather," Elrond said again, as if trying to make the name something real to him. "Turgon."
He looked back up the hill. Slowly, he relaxed his hands from where they had made fists at his side. Elrond met his gaze, and then held it. "Could you . . ." he asked slowly. "Could you tell me more?"
Gone in his voice was the bland politeness of court. Glorfindel listened, and thought he could hear Elrond there, for the first.
He reached down, and picked up his sled, oddly touched. He felt triumph fill his lungs.
"It would be my honor," Glorfindel answered warmly. "Tell me, what would you want to know first?"
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Snowball
The further and further north they went in the mountains, the colder it became. But with Sauron's unholy forces pushing in on them from the south, and the combined host of Elrond's army from Lindon and the remnants of Celeborn's men from Eregion just barely limping along . . . they needed a place where they could regroup for the winter. A place where they could regain their strength and plan their reply to the Dark Maia in full.
So far, they had been following the cries of the Eagles overhead, listening for their caws and trusting that the voice of Manwë was guiding them. In the shadows of the crags, Glorfindel could feel a familiar light cling to his skin, brightening the dreary winter-land around them.
At his side, he was joined by a scout named Erestor. As a son of Fëanorian supporters – even Fëanorians who had not participated in the Kinslayings, Erestor had found life in Lindon to be stiffling and had joined the exodus to Eregion those long years ago. A scholar and a minstrel over a craftsman, he had carefully chronicled the days of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and had been the messenger sent to Lindon when news of Annatar's true nature was revealed.
Erestor knew these mountains much better than Glorfindel did, and so, Elrond had sent the two of them on ahead to find a place in the mountains to hide. They looked for a place of rest, and peace . . .
And, until that place was found, Glorfindel was enjoying getting to know his companion in full. With his dark hair and pale skin – and prickly character to boot, he reminded him almost painfully of Ecthelion. The resemblance alone was enough to earn his almost immediate affection, but Erestor, on the other hand . . .
Well, Glorfindel reasoned, he was used to fighting long battles with closely introverted individuals. This would be no different.
Right now, he was whistling as they picked through the mountain path, every note causing his companion to turn more and more tense with annoyance.
"Every Orc in the mountain will hear us with you causing such a ruckus," Erestor said in a dry tone.
"Nonsense," Glorfindel replied, gesturing up at the Eagles circling overhead. "No dark thing will dare go near them. We are quite safe beneath the shadow of Manwë."
"You would say so," Erestor said wryly, but without much venom. Glorfindel imagined it was because he had stopped whistling in order to speak. "Did an Eagle not carry you back after your duel with the Balrog?" he asked, his voice turning with curiosity.
Glorfindel rolled his shoulders. "So I am told, I was not quite . . . there myself at the time," his smile was more of a grimace, and Erestor had the decency to flush, realizing what memories his words must have brought back. Glorfindel waved a hand, not wishing for the nearly-friendly conversation between them to turn south again. "It is my one wish for this life – to fly with one of the Eagles, while still alive and able to remember doing so."
Erestor raised a brow, but there was not quite the same amount of annoyance there as there would have been before.
"Come now," Glorfindel said to the look. "Do you not have any impossible dreams?"
"Right now," Erestor said, "My dearest dream is to be somewhere warm, and safe."
How very . . . uninspired.
Glorfindel raised a brow as Erestor went by him on the path, feeling his bones itch with the urge for movement. Feeling his mouth turn, Glorfindel reached down to gather a ball of snow in his hands, suddenly inspired. Packing the snow together, he then threw, and felt satisfaction burst within him when the snow shattered across the other's back in an explosion of white.
Erestor stiffened, turning behind him with a look of red anger upon his face. "Was that you?" he asked - rather stupidly, Glorfindel thought. For there was no one else on the path.
Glorfindel tried hard not to blink. "It was the Eagles," he said as convincingly as he could, and just like that, the ire broke from Erestor. His face contorted oddly, as if he were trying not to smile. Glorfindel waited for it, but -
Overhead, an Eagle called. There was an urgency to the tone, and they knew . . .
"There," Glorfindel said. "There is a parting in the rock."
They ran forward, careful of the ice over the steep cliffs. The Eagles were lower now, flying in urgent circles as their golden brown wings reflected the sunlight. They called, and there -
A valley of falling water came into view, perfectly hidden in the mountains. Waterfalls played and rivers sung, each paying homage to the beauty of the mountains and the great sky above, and -
Glorfindel felt his heart catch at the beauty in the valley. There was magic here, flowing from water and stone and branch. For a moment, he could not breathe.
"Some place warm and safe," he clapped Erestor on the back. "I do believe that you have found your wish, my friend."
.
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Snowman
Near the front gate of the valley, a small child waited.
All in the household would pass the balconies that would let them glance in on the little girl and her steady vigil, smiling fondly in amusement as they looked down. Many stopped to make sure that Arwen was comfortable, bringing blankets and refreshing her mug of hot tea to ward against the chill in the air. Celebrían had tried to talk her daughter into waiting inside, but Arwen would hear nothing of it – and finally, after drawing a promise that inside she would go once the sun started to set, Arwen settled back in. Her young eyes were set solemnly on the gap in the pass – where her brothers would appear at any moment, returning home for the winter from where they had ridden out with the Dúnedain earlier in the summer.
Glorfindel watched the child with a fondness in his heart that he had not felt since Idril was that age, running about underfoot and trailing giggles in her wake. The girl moved with a grace beyond her years, and already her eyes were old and wise. But Arwen was still a child, with a child's needs, and so he came down with one of his thickest cloaks, and placed it over her small shoulders before she could protest.
"It is okay to be cold," he said easily, his breath frosting on the air between them. "I get cold quite easily myself," he leaned in close to say so, as if he were telling a secret of great importance.
Arwen's grey eyes widened, just slightly about the edges. "But I thought that you loved the snow?" she said, puzzling through the two seemingly contradictory pieces of information in her mind.
"Indeed, I do love the snow," Glorfindel said. "It does not mean that I am immune to the cold."
"Ah," Arwen said simply, her head tilted as she processed what she had learned – a motion that was so very Elrond that Glorfindel had to tuck his smile aside.
He sat down next to her on the bench – which had been cleared of snow, even though the white powder fairly clung to everything else. Her eyes had turned faithfully back to the pass, ever waiting. Her small shoulders were tense, her happy mouth unsmiling.
"I worry about them as well," Glorfindel said softly. "I do not like it when they go past where I can see - and this is the first time that they have ridden from the valley when not underneath my protection."
Arwen blinked, and looked over at him. "They ride with the sons of Men now," she said, setting her jaw. Her eyes flashed for a moment – a child's alignment of her missing her brothers given to the only thing she could think to assign blame.
"Indeed, the Dúnedain are valiant and worthy men all. Your brothers will learn much from their ways," Glorfindel chided gently. "And the Dúnedain are very distant kin of yours, as well. Do well to remember that."
Arwen took a moment, considering his words, before she nodded her head. Her look was still grim on her face as she stared at the pass.
Glorfindel waited a moment, and then two. "I miss them too, little one."
Arwen sucked in a breath. Her lower lip wobbled, as if she wished to cry, but was trying not to. "I miss then dearly," she said, reaching over to pat his hand as if she were the one offering him comfort, and he felt warmth grow in his heart for the child, touched as he was. "It is better missing them together," she finally decided.
"They will not be long," Glorfindel soothed. "The snows came early this year, and that can make traveling in the mountains tricky. They were merely delayed."
"Yes . . . delayed," Arwen said, her voice shaped like relief, and Glorfindel grinned.
Looking around the open square of stone – where visitors were normally received, he felt a thought come upon him at the untouched planes of white snow, thinking . . .
When he got up, he started to form a snowball in his hand, and then he rolled the ball on the ground, making it bigger. Arwen looked at him curiously as he did so, her head tilted to the side again.
"Glorfindel, what are you doing?" she asked.
"I am building a snowman," Glorfindel said. "And you are going to help. We can set them up as sentinels, and they can help us keep watch. How does that sound?"
Arwen looked torn between keeping her eyes on the pass, and joining in on the admittedly more exciting prospect of snowman building.
"I suppose I could help you," she said carefully. "For a little while, at least."
"A very little while," Glorfindel promised, passing his half formed ball of snow to Arwen to finish, while he started on the 'midsection' of the snowman. When their construction took them well into the afternoon – they both grinning and covered in snow – Arwen did not even notice her brothers' returning until they picked her up and spun her about, and her laughter again filled the valley.
.
.
Snowfall
It was snowing the day the Fellowship left Imladris.
Glorfindel watched them depart with a weight on his heart, a disquiet in his bones. The land was filled with shadow again, stretched darker and deeper than it had even in the days of Morgoth and his unholy evil. And now, they were sending those dearest and brightest of their kinds to fight that shadow . . .
He made fists of his hands at his side, restless in his own skin. The urge to do more, to be more, clawed at his bones. And yet, he had to remind himself that the days of his kind were coming to an end. This fight belonged to Men in its heaviest of ways. And so, it was Men who would bring the Dark One to his knees. Men . . . and the gentle souled halfling who carried Sauron's greatest weapon about his neck.
Would that he could carry this burden for Frodo, he thought – would that any of them could. And yet, it was Frodo's to carry, and he was left here waiting.
Waiting . . . and watching the life he had come to hold dear unravel around him. Most of the valley prepared to leave. His people would turn towards the Havens and travel West, even if Sauron was defeated. Most would follow their Lord from the valley – for if the Ring was destroyed, the lesser Rings would die as well, and Elrond's fëa was fractured and torn from using Vilya for so many years. He and the Golden Lady both would need the West for healing, for repairing their souls, and they would leave these lands far behind.
And yet, many would stay. Many would stay with their Lord's daughter, stay until the Evenstar passed from the circles of the world, and darkness truly fell upon the lands.
Glorfindel . . . he would stay. He would see Arwen's choice through to the end before returning to the lands of his birth. He had promised her father in all but words that he would do so, and now . . .
Now, Erestor was carefully cataloging the contents of the library, deciding what would go with Arwen to Gondor, and what would cross the sea to Aman. He had a long scroll out in the gardens – he needing the fresh and natural air, even though the snow fell upon the parchment and muddled his words.
"There is so much to do," Erestor muttered. "No matter how the days to come play out, there is much to plan, much to arrange." His fingers were white knuckled about the scroll. He too glanced where the company had departed.
In his heart . . . in his heart, Glorfindel knew that Frodo would succeed. He knew that Aragorn would reclaim his birthright, that he and Arwen would wed . . . he knew this the same as he had known that the Witch-king would not fall by the hands of any man, all of those years ago. He was no seer, he had not the touch of the Sight, but he had the light of the Valar in his soul, and he knew.
Erestor's thoughts followed much the same, he thought, for he was looking over the gardens with a tired, old look in his eyes. He fiddled with the quill in his hand before setting both aside, suddenly weary.
"Do you ever . . ." he started carefully. "Do you ever regret your choice?" he asked simply. "You could have had a life of your own in Aman, a family even. Now, to return to where darkness so clearly falls . . . over and over again. Do you ever wish you had chosen differently?"
Glorfindel looked, and honestly considered his answer before he gave it. In Aman, he could have married, he could have had children of his own, and yet, he looked . . . He looked, and saw the balcony where Celebrían had asked him for Elrond's hand all of those centuries ago – skewering tradition as she addressed the only 'family' Elrond had this side of the ocean. He looked, and saw the room where he had paced nervously throughout the births of all three children, worry in his throat, even though they were not born of his blood. He looked, and saw where he had taught Elladan and Elrohir the bow, where he had sat in these same gardens and helped Arwen learn the High-tongue, as it was spoken in far Aman . . . He saw, and he remembered . . .
If he had brought even a fraction of light to this darkened world . . . if he had made the light just that much brighter for Turgon's line . . .
Then yes . . .
. . . yes.
"I regret nothing," he said simply. "And my family is here. All of my family," he said, looking at Erestor – dear Erestor, who had grown closer to him than any brother of flesh and bone. Erestor, who would go across the ocean with Elrond, and too would be one more soul whom Glorfindel would have to miss and wait for.
But, not for much longer, he thought.
When he got to his feet, and turned from the other, he was surprised when he felt a cold ball of snow hit him right between the shoulderblades. He turned behind him, a smile blooming on his face for the other's audacity - for not once in all of their centuries together had Erestor done so. Now, a small smile cracked the corners of his grim facade. His dark eyes were heavy with feeling.
"There is that smile," Erestor said. "Take care, my friend, to see that it never falls from its place – for it brings light to more than you know."
.
.
Tradition
Rare was it when snow fell in Minas Tirith, for Gondor was far to the south, and warm nearly the whole year through. And so, it was when journeying north with Arwen's ever growing family to visit her brothers in Imladris, that her children saw snow for the first time in the foothills of the Misty Mountains.
Eldarion was all giggles and unrestrained smiles while he went stomping through the snow as fast as his feet could carry him. He was tall for his ten summers, tripping over his own coltish legs more often than not, but he had determination enough to carry him on, and even falling in the snow brought nothing but more laughter from him.
Younger Amdiriel was slower to follow her brother, instead standing very close to her mother's side and just looking at the snow, as if by doing so, she could force the strange white powder to fade from the strength of her gaze. She was a miniature replica of her mother, with her straight black hair and solemn grey eyes – even the stubborn set to her shoulders was Arwen, and it warmed Glorfindel's heart to see. Arwen herself was glowing with the presence of her family and the cold of the wild both. She would be a mother again soon, he knew, though the new life of her daughter was just flickering in her womb. She had been newly pregnant when they left the White City, and instead of delaying their trip, she had instead decided to bear her next daughter in the home of her childhood, and then return home to Gondor when the babe was strong enough to travel.
Amdiriel took after her mother's people, and was empathetic to the point of the uncanny. She leaned against her mother's side, the tiny point of her ear nearly pressed to her mother's stomach in her wish to constantly be near to the little soul developing within. Eldarion understood the concept of another sister only in the broadest of terms, he being – as Amdiriel put it so eloquently – more Troll-brained than anything else. But he understood that something special was happening, and that his family was to grow again, and for that the boy was all smiles and joy.
Where the hills became steep enough for sledding, Aragorn was the one to take the lead in instructing his children on the unparalleled joy of the winter's activities. Both fatherhood and kingship had settled well on Aragorn's shoulders – as everything he had once clawed for in life now his to enjoy in peace and prosperity. Glorfindel was proud of the man Estel had become – so far from the eager little boy they had once called Hope, running barefoot through the halls of Elrond. His family had done much to take the grim lines from his face, and while still solemn, there was a smile on Aragorn's face more often than not – especially when in the company of his family and none other.
"Now," Aragorn was explaining in a solemn voice – even Amdiriel braving the snow to listen reverently at her father's side. "This is a most honored and sacred of traditions amongst your mother's people. Since the noon-time of the First Age, when the Elves of Gondolin looked for sport in the cold mountain ways, they have known this art, and perfected it throughout the centuries. You must pay the utmost attention, children, and when the day comes, pass this on, so it may never be forgotten."
Eldarion was nodding gravely, taking in everything his father said as Aragorn pushed him down the hill, and then the little boy was laughing as the wind caught in his hair and the snow burst up in waves of white to cover him. His shrieks of delight startled the birds from the trees, but they too called as if in laughter, catching on the mirth of the family below.
Little Amdiriel did not look at all like the sledding was something she wished to do, but rather than return to Arwen's side, she turned to him, and said most seriously. "Lord Glorfindel, if you would not mind accompanying me, I do believe I should be less afraid if we were to go together."
He scooped the little girl up, and walked to the sled, slowing his step when her fingers were white about the fur lining of his cloak.
"Little one," he said warmly, "It would be my honor."
While Amdiriel's cries turned from fear to laughter on their way down the hill, she was still weak at the knees when they walked back up the slope. Laughing, she fell down in the snow and daintily proclaimed, "A most glorious of traditions it is, but if you would not mind, I would rather build a snowman instead."
.
.
Holiday
Somehow, when he was not looking, time had passed him by.
He felt old in his bones, stretched and worn thin – as if his skin was parchment, covering up the ever-heat of his soul. He was one of the last ones of his kind left on these shores. The Elves of the West had long since returned home, and the children of the forest faded more and more to spirits and legends. Someday, they would be nothing but stories to the sons of Men. Stories and songs.
And he . . .
It was time for him to return home.
Aragorn had laid down his life in death with the last days of autumn. His had been a long life, duly blessed, but it was still a mortal's life, with a mortal's allotment of time, and now he breathed no more. Arwen's grief was great at her husband's passing, but it was as Elrond had foretold all those days ago. Her spirit was still of many years, elven down to her bones, and her grief and pain would have to forcibly push the last breath from her body. There would be no ease of passing for her, no comfort until she found the veils of mortal death, and until then . . . He would follow her, and when her last breath left, he would return West from whence he came, and bow before his Lord, declaring his duty long served and done.
Celeborn and the twins already followed her, and Glorfindel could linger no more. He had to go, he had to follow . . . he had promised her father. He swore an oath to Turgon long ago . . .
"So it is true. You too are leaving us."
Glorfindel looked to the doors of his rooms, to see Tinúviel standing right within. The daughter of Amdiriel's daughter, she appeared older than her sixteen years would seem; older and wiser both. But her grief was great for the loss of her family, and her eyes were red and raw.
So many generations, Glorfindel thought . . . how quickly the sons of Men moved through time, and while he considered himself blessed to have known and loved so many of Aragorn's line, he was also tired . . . so very tired. He did not know how he would be able to watch Amdiriel die. And then her children . . . and her children's children. He was strong enough for many things, but not for that.
And so, he would not stay until then. He would keep to his memory how they were now, until, someday . . .
"Child, you know why I must go," he said gently.
She shook her head, her black hair a halo about her face. "No, I do not," she said simply. "Aragorn lies in death, but his son does not. Eldarion needs you . . . mother needs you . . . I need you. You cannot yet go."
"Eldarion is a strong man, and he will be a strong king," Glorfindel said gently. "He needs nothing from me. And I will miss you as much as you shall me. Believe me when I say that I will keep your memory with me throughout all of my days."
"And that is just the point," Tinúviel said. "You go where we cannot follow. You go West where we can never go . . . Where we will never see you again." Her voice broke at the end, a dry sound of grief.
He placed down the pack he had been putting together, and opened his arms to her. She answered wordlessly, burrowing into his embrace and resting her head against his chest. Her tears warmed the fabric of his tunic. He felt the light of his fëa waver at her pain, and he wondered it he could hold on a little bit longer against the sea-longing deep within him. He wondered . . . but no.
"It is said," Glorfindel whispered gently, "That not even the Wise know where the sons of Men go after death. That only Eru himself knows, and Mandos too. And yet, there are whispers, that beyond the circles of time . . . at the breaking of the world, when it is forged anew, that those of all kindreds will meet again. That there will be a reunion, greater than any other. A gift from the One to his children who have lived so long beneath shadow and darkness."
"That is nothing but silly whispers," Tinúviel said in a small voice. "A child's tale, told to make those with fewer years more at ease with their allotment of time."
"And yet," Glorfindel countered gently. "I do not think so. I have died once before; I now live again. Anything is possible, and I . . . I have forever to wait. Forever to wait and remember you - remember all of you."
"All of us?" she whispered brokenly.
"All of you," he said, closing his own eyes against his grief. "No matter how long it takes, I will remember you and keep that memory dear."
"And you . . . you truly believe that?" she asked. Her voice was a small, hopeful thing. "You truly believe that there is a hope . . . beyond time . . . beyond this world's end?"
He drew away just enough to tilt her chin up. He looked, and let her see the light of Aman in his eyes – a memory of the Trees themselves in their days of glory. He knew he carried the light of his spirit on his skin – a final offering of his tired and battered soul to the grieving mortal girl before him. "Yes, child, I do. With all of my heart."
He watched her as she swallowed; as she grasped upon his strength and made it her own. "Then," she said, and her voice was stronger when she spoke. "I shall treat this as a holiday. You go away for a short time, but we shall see you again."
"Sooner than you would think," he forced a smile to his face – one last time, for this daughter of his Lord's blood. "Sooner than a blinking."
"Until then," Tinúviel turned into his embrace, and he returned it. He memorized the shape of her form, the texture of her hair.
"Indeed, dear one," Glorfindel agreed, and his voice was as a promise. "Until then."
. . . until then.
Itarillë: Idril
Turukáno: Turgon
Amdiriel & Tinúviel: Both are names I gave; Amdiriel means 'daughter of hope', and Tinúviel is a throw-back to Lúthien.
Glorfindel x2: Yes! I subscribe to the theory that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell are one and the same. He is the perfect embodiment of the Lancelot-ideal this way, and I love this version of his character to pieces.
Names in Quenya: I did not bother translating Glorfindel and Ecthelion's names in the first drabble for fear of butchering the Quenya, but that probably helped reader understanding anyway - so, no harm, no foul. ;)