Author's notes:

I am now officially synchronized between AO3 and . For some reason I was much lazier about uploading to , but this chapter is going up at the same time on both sites! What that means for readers is that my update time will now be just as bad as it has always been on AO3, so... you're welcome?

"somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me

or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though I have closed myself as fingers

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose"

- e. e. cummings

Summer, 2880 SA, Imladris

The valley was aflutter with preparations for the week of midsummer festivities. Normally Aearis would have relished the whirring activity, but Elrond had been reluctant even to commission a song from her, concerned that Runhilde's death might paralyze his favored apprentice with grief. But, by a concerted regimen of unfailingly enforced good humor, she finally succeeded allaying his worries.

"You are a marvel, my dearest cousin," he remarked to her one night in the Hall of Fire. "Such forbearance in one so young… would that I had been so wise at your age. You bear your grief with such dignity, such composure."

Guilt nearly strangled Aearis as she restrained herself from casting a glance at Bereneth, who sat beside her, face still and blank, gaze fixed unseeing on the performing minstrels. The lie that Aearis had begun to cover her friend's secret now burned them both like a brand on their chests-Bereneth was forced to bear her heartbreak in silence while Aearis found herself called upon to perform it.

The girls spent many hours together that summer, but they spoke little. The question of the heavy letter hung between them, razor-sharp and divisive. Aearis had never asked Bereneth what the letter contained, but she imagined it to lay out in vicious clarity all her wrongs and missteps, all Runhilde's resentment and hatred of her. If she had been as wise and clear-sighted as Elrond supposed her to be, it might have occurred to her that the last letter Runhilde ever wrote to her beloved had more important feelings to express. But Aearis was young then, and perhaps her self-involvement might be forgiven on that count.

In the midst of that sweet, hot summer of celebration and camaraderie, Aearis's world felt bitter and cold, and terribly lonely. Her mother was often away-presumably conducting some manner of military business for Elrond, though as usual Gimlith said little and revealed even less. Kind Cestedir's mind was fully occupied with counseling Bereneth through her loss, for him alone she trusted with the full force of her sadness. Though Aearis could not begrudge them their private world, she could hardly help but resent the exclusion.

She might have minded less if Glorfindel were more readily available, but for several weeks her golden champion had been troublingly elusive and often preoccupied even when he was present. Privately she wondered if she had flirted with him just a little too much, forced him to put barriers where previously there were none. But surely he knew that she would never presume to form any serious designs on him? The thought was absurd to her-a half-elven half-bastard setting her sights on the herald of Manwe. The idea was laughable, even if the mirth was slightly tinged with sourness.

One day in the laboratory, she mustered the nerve to inquire after Glorfindel's wellbeing to Elrond, who smiled his sad, lovely smile and smoothed her hair affectionately. Valier, how she hated when he did that.

"I suspect that it is nothing that any of us can soothe for him, sweet child." Child? Really? Did she look like a child? Much less a sweet one. She swallowed her irritation and prompted him to explain further. "You know, I suppose, of Lord Glorfindel's history. Of the city of Gondolin and…"

Aearis listened with half an ear as Elrond reviewed, in far too much detail, the history of Gondolin and its houses. Was he always this bloody didactic? She focused instead on the beauty of his silver eyes, the delicate strength of his jaw, the slight pout of his lower lip… She perked up only when he came to the matter of the fall of the hidden city. "It was the first night of summer you see, when all of Gondolin united for the festival of the Gates of Summer, the most beloved of their ceremonies. And on that most sacred of nights, Morgoth moved against the Hidden City and tore it asunder. I suspect that Glorfindel's sleep has been troubled of late, haunted by the dawn that never came."

Aearis lapsed into thought for a while, returning to the highly reactive concoction that she had created in a glass bottle. So preoccupied was she that Elrond was forced to catch her hand before she absently added fire root. A foolish way to die that would have been. The contact of his elegant hand wrapped around her wrist sent the customary shiver through her body, but, perhaps due to her present distraction, the effect was rather less than usual.

"The Gates of Summer…" she mused aloud. Glorfindel's final sunrise. "Perhaps we ought to mark it somehow. To restore joy to the memory of what was lost."

Elrond smiled again, but he shook his head even as he gently wrested the potion from her fingers.

"A pretty idea, Aearis. But remember, Tarnin Austa was held on the first day of summer, which passed weeks ago now. And indeed, I cannot see how celebrating the day of Gondolin's fall would do anything but agitate his grief."

Aearis ceded the point demurely and dropped the subject, but at the back of her mind, the seed of the idea remained, forming quietly.

As if to further exasperate Aearis's discomfort, a week before the start of the Midsummer Festival, a delegation of extraordinary beauty and distinction rode into the Vale of Bruinen. At the head rode a lady, black-haired and pale as clouds, clad in elaborately beaded silver silk. On her brow blazed a sapphire circlet, and in her eyes shone the night sky. She was Lady Rhossorieth Ingloriel, right hand of King Gil-Galad himself, and rumor of her arrival spread through the valley like wildfire.

Rhossorieth's arrival marked a sudden shift in the Imladris air. From the moment she set foot in the valley, she was rarely parted from Lord Elrond, who welcomed her with joy that Aearis found rather excessive. Glorfindel greeted her as an old friend, and even Aearis's grumpy mother seemed taken with her. Bereneth was quickly enlisted to act as her personal guard, escorting Lady Rhossorieth from engagement to engagement, and was thus entirely inaccessible.

Aearis, despite her frequent reminders to herself that she was, in fact, a fully-grown and self-sufficient adult, was vexed. She could not even secure Lindir to practice and critique the songs that she composed for the festivities-for he was frantically occupied with preparations for Midsummer, rushing too and fro with all the composure of a mad squirrel, hanging floral wreaths on posts, arches, trees, and, occasionally, people. Though she aided him as much as she could, Aearis had little skill or patience for ceremony or decoration, and she found that any action she took was quickly reversed by more able hands.

So, left to her own devices, she took to the library. At first her searches were rather fruitless, for Elrond's principles of organization were… abstract, to say the least. But she was saved by sharp-nosed Noenor, still caught in a haggard, deliriously happy daze of new fatherhood. In between rapturous accounts of his newborn son's every sneeze, he put himself entirely at her disposal. If her need had been less, she might have found his hysterical gratitude off-putting. But his assistance was invaluable, and between the two of them, Aearis was soon satisfied that she had amassed every available volume containing even a passing mention of Gondolin. Then, with the vigor of a woman with absolutely nothing else to do, she set to work.

The arrival of the party from Lindon set Glorfindel's already-beleaguered mind spinning at a nearly fatal velocity. The sudden appearance of Gil-Galad's most valued advisor must indicate something major, some looming catastrophe, and Glorfindel braced for it even as he greeted his old friend with warm smiles and words of welcome. Rhossorieth, utterly inscrutable as ever, toured the perimeter defenses with her usual impassive smile. Only after two days of silent appraisal of everything from the armory to the bath house did she offer an opinion.

"Your realm has grown greatly," she remarked to Elrond. "I congratulate you. 'Tis a joy to hear the voices of children again. Evidently your people feel secure and protected, to bring you such a blessing."

Elrond blushed deeply at the compliment. Though Celebrian had long ago captured his heart, he was not blind to Rhossorieth's magisterial beauty. Few were.

But Glorfindel was less moved by her words, for he sought the meaning behind her praise. It was said that when Rhossorieth and Galadriel took counsel together, more was said in two words exchanged between the women than the greatest library could contain.

"Glorfindel merits most of the credit for that, my lady," he replied, casting his eyes downward like a shy elfling. "The walls he has built and the defenses he has designed are as strong as they are subtle." Rhossorieth's smile was eloquent.

"Lord Glorfindel's work is, as ever, flawless. How fortunate that he has been allowed to remain here for so long an interlude to assist you in fortifying your beautiful village."

Elrond was too perceptive to miss the implication of her words, and Glorfindel's heart broke at the crestfallen look in those wide gray eyes.

"Yes," he replied, the sadness in his voice only thinly veiled with courtesy and gratitude, "His Majesty King Gil-Galad has been generous indeed to grant us the privilege of Glorfindel's presence."

Rhossorieth gave him a sharp smile and returned to her examination of the irrigation system in the crop fields.

"You shall soon need to grow more food if your population continues to swell, for trade is much reduced in these evil times. The mountain streams could be better harnessed if you build underground canals. Erestor can furnish you with schematics to assist you in the design and construction."

Elrond nodded and gestured to Noenor, who scurried off to find Rhossorieth's chief counsellor. The conversation moved on from there, and Glorfindel struggled to attend as he pondered her meaning. Finally, the party disbanded for the evening, and Glorfindel took Rhossorieth aside. Or did she take him aside? It was impossible to tell.

"Rhossorieth," he started.

"Glorfindel," she replied, raising a quizzical brow. She was the picture of puzzled attentiveness.

"Why have you come?" he asked, though he knew from experience that a direct question was as likely to trap her as a fishing net to trap a gust of wind. To his absolute shock, her answer was perfectly blunt.

"To bring you back to Lindon, obviously." She noted his surprise at the direct answer with dry amusement and waited patiently for his response. When none came, she supplied it for him. "Perhaps I have grown tactless in my venerable old age. But we are such friends, Glorfindel-surely the need for delicacy is long past for us."

Glorfindel nodded slowly, weighing her words carefully before responding.

"Indeed, there can be no call for dissimulation between old friends," he said. Rhossorieth's expression did not change, but he saw her deep blue eyes harden slightly. She knew very well that she would not like what he said next. "So I will return your candor in kind: I cannot leave Imladris."

She leaned forward with cold interest, searching him with her penetrating gaze.

"Oh?" Her voice was chillingly calm. "And why is that?"

"I have unfinished business here," he said, and was encouraged to hear that his voice was strong. "I am needed."

"You are not." Her gaze was growing harder by the second. He met it and remained silent, determined to give her nothing to argue against if he could help it. They stayed frozen for a moment, locked in a silent clash of wills. But her curiosity forced her to buckle first. "Why do you cling to this place? You came here for a wedding nearly twenty years ago. What did you find that captured you so?"

Just then, as Glorfindel was formulating a noncommittal reply, a figure approached them and shattered his calm like a flower pot sailing through a glass window. It was the kind of magnificently terrible timing that Aearis had honed to perfection. She appeared beside them as if summoned like some fell spirit.

In the light of the setting sun, she caught the light as vividly as a wildflower, dressed in poppy red with her hair escaping its loose ties to curl haphazardly about her face.

He had managed, by dint of his extraordinary soldier's instincts, to keep mostly clear of her for the last several weeks, and the separation had been simultaneously excruciating and soothing. In truth, he had not been hard pressed to avoid her, for Aearis had been curiously absent for several days out of each week, and no one seemed inclined to reveal the nature of her frequent disappearances. An unpleasant voice in his mind had taken to supposing that she must have taken up with one of her swains, who would sweep her away to some private corner of the forest. So it was with some perverse mingling of ecstasy and agony that he greeted her now, at this absolute worst of moments, as she knocked the breath from his lungs by her mere presence.

"Aearis," he breathed, once he could muster the mental faculties necessary for speech. "I… Hello."

"Hello," she replied, glancing between him and Rhossorieth with inquisitive eyes.

"Hello," said Rhossorieth, and Glorfindel saw to his horror that her eyes were fixed on Aearis, cataloguing every detail. He could only suppose that if Rhossorieth and Galadriel could fill a library with two words, Aearis and Rhossorieth might actually rip Arda apart at the seams with a single glance. He braced himself as the women appraised each other, feeling oddly irrelevant.

Aearis curtseyed deeply, but with deliberate clumsiness. She appeared to have deduced that in the presence of a lady like Rhossorieth, it was wise to seem as unthreatening as possible. Rhossorieth noted the curtsey, and the intentional lack of grace, with evident appreciation, and returned the gesture with a perfect, shallow dip of her own.

"You are the bard Aearis, are you not?" If the neglect of her title chafed at Aearis, she showed no sign of it. "What a privilege to meet you in person. I have so adored your lovely little mariner's lays in the Hall of Fire."

Aearis smiled in return, all starry-eyed delight.

"You do me too much honor, my lady," she murmured, her eyes still cast downwards. Glorfindel noted with a kind of hysterical amusement how she exaggerated her accent to lend a coarse edge to her modest words. "It is the highest distinction that I could imagine that my silly songs reach the ears of such a one as you."

Rhossorieth's smile grew, revealing a row of perfect, gleaming white teeth.

"The highest distinction?" said she in that voice of cool silk. "Surely not. The very highest distinction must be to perform to the King."

Glorfindel's heart plummeted. Well, that was one way to get him to return to Lindon. At the sight of his reaction to the girl's arrival, Rhossorieth had immediately and correctly deduced exactly what kept him in Imladris. He watched with a sense of dread as Aearis's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

"Play to His Majesty, my lady? I am sure I have never dreamed of so high an honor." The discomfort in her voice sounded like pleasing humility, but Glorfindel was certain that Aearis was remembering the court of Lothlorien and living under the yoke of a great elven ruler.

"You are too modest, my dear," purred Rhossorieth. "You would adorn the King's court with your talents, I am certain. And there are many resources at Mithlond that you might find much to your advantage. Why, the minstrels and healers could instruct your skills in ways that Imladris can never hope to match-meaning no disrespect to Lord Elrond, of course."

"I have no doubt that Mithlond is an exceptional center of wisdom, Lady Rhossorieth," replied Aearis. The conversation was clearly getting away from her, with no courteous way to end it.

"And, of course, I imagine that you would quite like to live near the sea again." More than anything else Rhossorieth had said, this last point had a clear effect on Aearis. At the mention of the sea, her expressive eyes misted over instantly, and she could do nothing to conceal her longing. Sensing her advantage, Rhossorieth pressed on. "Lord Glorfindel will soon be returning to Lindon. Would it not be pleasant to travel together?"

The impact of the last statement jerked Aearis's body visibly. She did not spare him a look, but instead held Rhossorieth's incisive stare with almost insubordinate steadiness.

"Certainly, Lord Glorfindel is a marvelous companion on the road. He knows so very many traveling songs." She paused for a moment, then curtseyed deeply once again, this time with perfect grace. "You do me great honor, Lady Rhossorieth, with your suggestions. I assure you that I shall give them all due consideration."

There was an element of finality in her voice, and Rhossorieth was shrewd enough not to push further at present. It would be sufficient to allow Aearis to reflect privately upon what was said, to allow the offer to work its magic upon her ambition and vanity. So she returned the curtsey, slightly lower than at first meeting, and swept away with the appropriate greeting, leaving Glorfindel and Aearis in loaded silence. He could not see her eyes, for she had cast them downwards,

"Aearis," he began at last, "I-"

"I miss you," she interrupted. Just as well, for he had little idea what he might have said.

"You… miss me?" He blinked at her, feeling very conscious of his own lack of eloquence.

She grinned and raised her hand to display a covered wicker basket. He shot it a suspicious look.

"Is that some manner of horrid beast that you have captured for medical purposes?" he asked, vividly recalling the Great Spider Incident of 2878. Her grin became wickeder.

"Oh, how I wish it were. Do you know that Elrond has explicitly banned venomous snakes from the healing halls now? Such a lack of imagination. No, not quite as exciting as that, but still not at all bad. With a flourish, she unveiled the basket to reveal an ambitious array of meats, cheeses, mushrooms, and desserts. "Dornor in the kitchens owed me a favor, so I thought we might have a bit of a picnic."

Glorfindel examined the content of the basket carefully, keeping a ready eye out for errant "medicinal scorpions." He was touched to note that not only were there no apparent dangerous insects concealed within, but Aearis had secured his favorite honeysuckle wine and strawberry pastries for the occasion.

When he had finished his inspection, he looked up to meet Aearis's eyes, utterly weakened in his resolve to keep his distance. But instead of dancing blues and greens, he found himself staring into a fierce, hungry yellow gaze. A guttural growl rumbled, seeming to spring from the core of the world itself, rising to shudder through his bones.

"Dinalagos," Aearis said in a sharp, commanding tone from somewhere behind the great, snarling maw, "get down! What have I said about threatening my prospects? Be nice to the handsome ones!"

The great brute whimpered in apology and sank down to lie at her feet. Glorfindel eyed the creature warily, and it returned his appraising look with no less skepticism.

"I see Gimlith got her… dog." He pronounced the last word with deliberate doubt. "How delightful."

"He is to be my chaperone today," she replied, ignoring the clear mistrust between her two companions. "In case I try to eat too many boiled sweets or something, I suppose. Conveniently, he also doubles as a serviceable mount. Climb on!"

The beast rose to its feet once more-its eyes were nearly level with Glorfindel's. Slowly, it bowed deeply to allow them to clamber onto its back, Aearis in front. Glorfindel followed her lead, too disoriented to resist. Beneath the shaggy coat, the creature's body rippled with muscle, though well-padded with a layer of fat for which Aearis, no doubt, could claim full credit. As soon as Glorfindel was well-situated on its back, his arms wrapped tightly around Aearis's slender waist, the hound began to run.

They tore through the forest like a silent hurricane, the beast carrying them between the trees unerringly and with terrifying speed. When they came to the foot of the mountains, Glorfindel allowed his muscles to relax, more than ready to dismount, though the feeling of Aearis's heartbeat against his ribs was a sweet, brutal torture. But far from stopping, the creature leapt forward and bounded up over the crags in the rock face, sure-footed as a leopard, carrying them up the sheer cliffs with seemingly limitless energy. For one distracted moment, Glorfindel thought of the sweet wine and delicate pastries, now surely dashed against the rocks beneath. But for the most part, his mind was occupied by the wind whipping his face and stinging his eyes, the tendrils of dark hair flying back to entwine him in a tangled embrace, and the warmth where his arms were clutching Aearis for dear life.

What a way to die.

But, finally, they emerged from the steep climb and rested at last upon a gently sloping plateau, where a series of minor creeks carved the surface of the earth and cascaded off the edge to create a series of tiered waterfalls. The sun's last light was still insistently hot, but the air was wet with spray, and it caught the light in shifting rainbows. Stubborn trees and grasses had sunk their roots into cracks in the stone and painted the plateau a thousand shades of green. Aearis leaned back against Glorfindel's torso and sighed contentedly. An impish breeze picked up a curl of her hair and tickled his nose with it, but he would not have brushed it away for anything in the world.

"Perfect, no?" her voice was little more than a sigh. Then she winced, and Glorfindel realized that he had tightened his grip on her waist a little too much. He let her go instantly, and she leapt from the dog's back and produced the basket, still perfectly covered and contained, from beneath her cloak. From it, she pulled what appeared to be a whole chicken, which she tossed to her hound, and smiled fondly at the horrific spectacle as the beast crunched the meal, bones and all, in its massive maw.

Glorfindel dismounted gingerly, wary of disturbing the macabre feast. There were far too many questions to ask at present, so he settled for the most puzzling of them.

"How did you manage to keep hold of the food?" He could not keep the wonder out of his voice. She smiled proudly and tugged at the ropes that kept the cover in place over the basket. The elaborate knots unravelled instantly under her touch.

"No matter how many centuries I spend in the realms of elves, my friend, I will always be a Numenorean at heart. And when a Numenorean ties a knot, it damn well stays tied until otherwise instructed."

Glorfindel made certain to keep any hint of the effect of her words off his face.

Always a Numenorean at heart.

The chill that had set in weeks ago outside Gimlith's cabin, which had been temporarily blown away by the exhilaration, returned to gnaw at his bones once again.

But he smiled at her as they sat down to their meal, congratulating her heartily on her clever mariner's tricks. The cool, iridescent air and the song of the rushing water, coupled with the heady potency of the honeysuckle wine, quickly lulled them into a pleasant state of near-delirium. Aearis recounted several tales of the exploits of the Marine Guard at Andustar that had Glorfindel howling with laughter.

"Poor Aglaran," she said, shaking her head with a rueful smile. "He would not venture out onto the sea for months after that. In the end, mother had to force me to show him how I created the illusion of a sea serpent out of mirrors."

"I supposed I should count myself lucky that we do not live by the shore," Glorfindel mused. "It seems that the brine has a way of enhancing your already wicked ways."

Aearis smiled, a little sadly. Silence descended upon them as both their minds were pulled to Rhossorieth's proposals.

"Aearis-" he started. He wanted to tell her not to go to Lindon. That he would abandon his fealty to Gil-Galad in an instant if it meant that they could stay together in this wonderful valley forever. That he would gladly die with her name on his lips to keep her happy and free.

But she held up a hand, and he stopped speaking instantly.

"The sun is starting to set," she said. He raised a brow in mute question. "It was brought to my attention," she explained, "that Tarnin Austa passed unmarked this year." At the mention of the festival of Gondolin, his heart performed a painful series of maneuvers. He started to speak again, but she forestalled him. "I know that celebration brought great pain once, but perhaps we could make it a day of hope again." She looked so nervous and vulnerable, terrified that he would be offended or worse. He smiled at her with the full warmth and gratitude that he felt for her, and saw her relax visibly as she returned the smile and leapt to her feet. Gladly he took her proffered hand and rose to follow her. She led him away from the cliff, to a great, branching oak beside one of the stronger streams.

"I did a bit of research," she said, speaking quickly and nervously, "about the midnight ritual, and gathered as many of the materials as I could find, but you shall have to help me with the particulars." At the base of the oak was a large, bulging pack, and from it she quickly produced striking stones, tiny silver lanterns with windows of many-faceted crystal, and several hundred small candles. She looked up from her work to fix him with a serious look. "Do not tell Lindir that I borrowed his lanterns. He is already about one gentle breeze away from snapping."

The sky was bloody red now, the sun halfway gone. What to say, before he could speak no more?* Aearis was sucking on a quill while squinting over a scroll in the dying light, unheeding of the black ink that now coated her lips.

"You have made me happier than I ever thought I could be." The words left his mouth before he had thought to form them. She glanced up at him absently and smiled with black teeth.

"Do please wait to make such a statement. I may very well butcher the whole ritual."

He wanted to correct her, tell her that his statement would be true even if she proceeded to slaughter a cow and bathe in its blood, but just then the sun vanished from view and Aearis pressed a finger to her inky lips. In silence, they set to stringing the lamps onto the boughs of the great oak and lighting them, until they were veiled in the glimmer of the silver and the dancing prismatic light from the carefully-crafted crystal. Then Aearis set to arranging the candles on the ground in an elaborate maze with the tree at the center.

Night fell in earnest, moonless and starry, and a warm wind stirred the chimes that hung from the lanterns until the air sang. They began each at opposite sides of the outer perimeter of the maze. Proceeding slowly, lighting each candle as they went, they walked the winding paths towards each other.

Glorfindel did not dare look at her as he moved, but he was sharply, urgently aware of her at every moment, and he could have sworn that the wind chimes were singing her name, over and over, like a command. The fragrant wind tormented his sensitive skin with its small hands. He was entirely unfurled, laid perfectly, terrifyingly open.

Then they met in the middle, where only the last candle remained dark. They knelt and struck their stones together to ignite the final spark.

As they rose together, his heart was thundering fast and painful in his chest, and it took him a moment to realize that it was not only Aearis's proximity that was causing the panic. Not for centuries had he revisited the excruciating details of the last night of Gondolin. He was not one for dwelling, and he found that a hefty dose of oltinen, a draught of dreamless sleep, did wonders to silence nightmares. But now, as he looked out over the sea of candles, he remembered.

510 FA

The central courtyard of Gondolin, where the flowering fountain sang its perpetual song of peace and protection, was entirely given over to the candle maze. Laurefindil stood at the perimeter of the maze, feeling itchily impatient and devoting most of his effort to avoiding the hopeful gazes of the unattached ladies on either side of him. He flinched involuntarily as he felt a small, sharp impact at his temple, and turned to scowl half-heartedly at the source of the projectile: a grinning Ecthelion, who sat smugly among the spectators with lovely Alarce. Clever bastard, to get betrothed right before he could be compelled to walk the candle maze once again.

Ecthelion waggled his eyebrows at him and jerked his head indiscreetly towards Ambalie, who stood not far away, fiddling absently with her striking stones. Alarce dug an elbow into her beloved's ribs and cast Laurefindil an apologetic look, but she could not quite suppress her laughter.

The candle maze was, without doubt, the most irritating mass-matchmaking endeavor ever conceived, and he placed the blame squarely on Salgant's shoulders. Oh, the ceremony itself was beautiful, of course. But the cost of frantically fending off whichever lady the maze led him to for the remainder of the summer was troublesome, to say the least.

Across the fountain, Laurefindil could just make out Maeglin, standing straight-backed and glowingly pale in the candle light, rubbing his hands together in his usual nervous way. The candle maze always set him sweating, but he looked particularly perturbed this year. Laurefindil could only imagine that the pressure to marry that King Turgon always put on his adored nephew had grown rather stronger of late. Laurefindil could not bring himself to like the twitchy, irascible Maeglin, even despite the strong resemblance he bore to his wonderful mother. Still, tonight he found himself pitying the young man, who stole frequent, furtive glances at Idril where she sat whispering to her handsome husband Tuor. Little Earendil, all golden hair and freckled insolence, slumped beside his mother, idly tying elaborate knots in a piece of twine looped around his hands. Idril fell silent with an unrepentant shrug when Turgon sent her a look of kingly disapprobation, but resumed her whispered conversation as soon as he turned away.

And then there was Ambalie. Oh, Ambalie. How lovely she was, with her round, kind face, her twinkling birdsong voice, her bright golden hair. Ecthelion had long ago selected her as a proper and fitting wife for Laurefindil, citing as his principal reasons her gentleness and her unfailing patience.

"You know you need that, my lovely," he would chide. And, as usual, he was perfectly correct. Ambalie would make him happy and peaceful. Soothe his brow and tend his wounds with never a harsh word for his recklessness, his carelessness, his restless spirit. But the only woman he had ever imagined himself able to love had slipped away from him long ago, and he had never again met her equal.

So, when darkness descended, Laurefindil began his slow advance through the field of candles, kneeling dutifully to light each one. Thousands of pinpricks of jewel-colored light danced over the courtyard, and above them the stars and the silver lanterns glimmered together as a single, radiant firmament. No minstrels played, but the night was bright with the music of the wind, the crickets, and the fountain. Laurefindil spared a look around, and appreciated despite himself the flickering sea of golden fire that stretched out around him. As he knelt at the next candle, another pair of hands, delicate and trembling slightly, entered his view.

He looked up to see Ambalie smiling bashfully at him. Her eyes were questioning, asking permission to share the lighting of the last candle with him. He was touched by her diffident affection. It was well known how dearly she loved him, for she wore her tender heart always on her sleeve. But even now, when, by the traditions of the festival, he was hers to monopolize for the remainder of the night, she proceeded tentatively, with concern only for his happiness. He resolved that, if he could not love her as he ought, he would at least give her this silent night of total devotion. Until dawn, he would be hers.

He returned her smile, and moved his hands to clasp hers. Together, they struck the final spark. The brilliance of her smile could know no equal-not the sea of candles, not the glittering fountain, not even the starry sky, and he reveled in it. Who was to say? Perhaps he would surprise himself with her. Love could come with time, and time they had.

Something soft as a feather, fine as dust, landed on his nose, tickling him abominably. He frowned and raised his hand to wipe it away, not removing his eyes from Ambalie's face. It smudged strangely under his fingers. When he glanced down, he saw a smear of black on his hand. He looked back at Ambalie, and saw that her bright hair was crowned with ash. It was falling fast, catching in their eyelashes and drying their lips. A shadow fell over his heart, and he rose slowly, knowing that when he looked up, all peace would be lost to him.

He took a deep, calming breath, interlaced his fingers with Ambalie's-her trembling hand steadied when he wrapped it in his own-and turned his eyes to the sky. The glare of the silver lamps obscured much of what lay beyond, and he blinked furiously as the falling ash clouded his eyes. Then a fell, frigid wind swept through the courtyard from above, extinguishing the maze of candles in a wave of darkness, and Laurefindil finally realized what he saw. Or, rather, what he did not see. There was a hole in the night sky, a patch of absolute, starless blackness, growing in size every second. He reached for his sword, but remembered, cursing Salgant bitterly, that he had not been allowed to bring it to the ritual. The crowd remained perfectly silent, every eye transfixed on the expanding shadow. Then horrible realization struck, and a single voice rang out, shattering that pristine, echoing silence.

"Dragon!"

The city erupted.

2880 SA

It was not a voice that returned him to the present, but a hand, small and cool, laid against his cheek so softly that it might have been a dream. It spoke to him as clearly as if she had called his name, and he snapped back instantly. Aearis regarded him intently, her thumb tracing absently over his cheek. He raised his own hand to capture hers, bring it to his lips and kiss it reverently, and found that it tasted of salt. With no little consternation, he discovered that he was crying. Thick, hot tears that drenched his face and ran down Aearis's arm. He made to pull away, but she shook her head and pulled his face down to rest his brow against hers. They stood there for he knew not how long as he soaked both their faces in brine and shook them with silent, racking sobs.

Finally, his tears were exhausted, and he fell against her with all his weight. She bore it, pulling him in until their hearts were pressed together, and their chaotic rhythms aligned. Then, the song of the night reached him again, and he found that they were dancing, their feet weaving between the little flickering flames. They carried each other through the maze of flame, their movements sending ripples out over the candles so that the golden expanse danced with them.

Slowly, the sea of fire fell away as each candle burned to extinction and sputtered out, and they stood among the silver stars. He straightened himself out gradually, remaining as close to her as he could. She led him to the oak, and they climbed into the crook in the branching trunk, which cradled them tenderly as they curled up together.

Time passed deliciously slowly and excruciatingly fast. For a time she tried to play on a small silver flute, but every time she tried, tears choked her. Eventually he wrested it gently from her limp fingers, and he slowly sounded out an old lullaby half-remembered from another life as she nestled against him and tickled his chin with her dark hair.

Now, in the enveloping protection of the silent night, with her at his side, it was safe to cast his mind back to what was. He walked the streets of Gondolin with her at his side, showed her the flowering fountain, the three spires of Turgon's palace. He took her to hide with him in the secret gardens of his manor, where thousands of songbirds wove their voices together in elaborate harmonies. She mocked him gently with Idril and Ecthelion, danced through the cobbled streets with bare feet, climbed the walls of his house and rapped at his window while he tried to work. He wove together a wreath of golden flowers to set in her dark curls, and their children complained loudly when he swept her up and kissed her.

Her hand roused him again when she raised it lazily to tug on a strand of his hair, and his arm tightened around her waist. She gestured towards the east, where the first rosy glow was creeping over the horizon. Slowly, unwillingly, he lowered the flute from his lips and focused all his effort to fix the sensation of holding her forever in his mind. A new sort of panic set in as the first ray of gold fell over their plateau, but she met his eyes with her stormy gaze and pressed her hand to the hollow between his ribs, and he was calmed. So they watched the sun emerge, and the warmth spread through him until he felt almost drunk on tranquility. Beside him, she began to sing softly. The words were for the sun, in a language she did not fully understand. But the song was for him, and he loved her for it. Tentatively, he joined his voice with hers, remembering the words slowly, like the faces of old friends.

"The sun is risen," she whispered when the song drew to a close. "And all is well." He held her close, closer than his own skin, and breathed her like air.

Midsummer Week passed in a whirl of color and merriment, and furnished more than enough gossip to keep all the denizens of Imladris quite sated through the winter. Each night of festivities was lovelier and more extravagant than the last, and Lady Rhossorieth declared the whole affair a marvel worthy of King Gil-Galad himself. At this most generous of praise, Lindir fainted dead away with pleasure and long-suspended exhaustion, but Aearis determined that he would, most likely, revive with nothing worse than bruises.

Between Glorfindel and Aearis, few words were exchanged during the festival. They danced together several times, but no more than what was proper. But through the seven lively nights, each remained constantly aware of the position of the other without ever glancing around to find them. She knew, though she could not describe, that the feelings that they had shared freely in the perfect silence beneath the great oak ran deeper than blood and longer than time. There was no word that she knew, in any language, that could adequately capture what he was to her. All she knew was that there were now only two states that seemed to matter: being with him, and being away from him.

The former was too much sensation to endure for long, for it was as if all her skin and flesh and muscle and bone had been peeled away layer by layer to expose whatever it was that was left of her to the blazing, blinding light of him. She could scarcely glance into his endless eyes without drowning. If she had been better-if she had been Bereneth, said one of the unkinder voices in her mind-she might have borne it with more courage. But as it was, the burning, suffocating brightness of him scalded and frightened her.

If his presence was too wonderful to bear, his absence was a sort of empty misery. How had she never noticed how dark the world was when he was away? On the brightest of days, when he was gone the world was lit only by guttering candles. But the shadows were, after all, where she had always felt safest. And in comparison to total naked vulnerability in broad daylight, she welcomed the chilly abyss.

But she could not avoid him entirely, and indeed she could not quite bring herself to want to. And in general when they did meet, they spoke of minor matters in light, casual voices. Yet still that distracting intimacy persisted in every minor gesture, every glance, every expression. But eventually, as summer drew to a close, the silence between them was broken.

"Lady Rhossorieth is quite keen that you should go to Lindon," he began one day, when they found themselves walking together to supper. His sidelong look was keen, and she shifted uncomfortably beside him.

"She is kindness itself," she hedged cautiously, unwilling to answer his unspoken question. "I am certainly undeserving of such attention."

"That could not be further from the truth," said he, and she flinched at the sudden heat in his voice. "You… you would be a rare and extraordinary gift if she were to deliver you into Gil-Galad's hands." The dark resonance of his pronouncement stopped her short, and she turned towards him despite herself.

"You speak as though she were a huntress and I her prey," she observed, hoping to pass it for a jest. "Is it common to view matters of court through such a… scintillating lens?"

He regarded her somberly for a moment, and before she could react he had whisked her away from the garden path, into a secluded alcove draped with clinging rose vines. When she made to speak in protest-or whatever she had been about to say-he held up a finger to hover a hair's breadth from her lips.

"You are less prey than bait, Aearis." He spoke quickly, in a low, fervent voice. "For while she would indeed be pleased to find another subject to swell Gil-Galad's power, it is for my sake that she courts you with such determination. For she knows that only your presence could ensure my return to Mithlond." If he noticed how Aearis started at this last admission, spoken so calmly and plainly, he made no indication of it and pressed on. "As such she will employ every tool in her considerable arsenal to secure you, and I beg you to keep your wits about you. Rhossorieth is an excellent woman, and honorable in her own way, but her fealty lies only with Gil-Galad. Your interests are not hers."

The plain, unconcealed statement of so long-unspoken a fact shocked Aearis to her core, and the weight of it felt like a shackle.

"My presence," she repeated in a murmur, wishing him to retract his careless confession with all her heart. "My lord-"

"Please, Azruari," he cried in despair, and the sound of her true name said in such anguish pierced her to her core, "do not shy from what you know to be true. Not when it would be so willfully stupid to deny it. You know beyond a shadow of a doubt how I feel, what I want, and that I feel and want with no hope of reciprocation. Do not torment me by forcing me to leave unspoken what can be plainly seen."

She fixed her eyes on one of the blooms upon the climbing vine and said nothing, for the weight of his beautiful heart constricted her breath and left her mute.

"I ask nothing," he continued in an even voice. "Nothing, save that you make this decision only for you, and with your eyes wide open. Your life will change if you go to Lindon, and it will never return to what it was. Promise me that you will protect yourself, and I will rest easy."

"I cannot make any such promise," she replied, "while your life and honor hangs in the balance. Selfish I may be, but I cannot be the means of your destruction." He opened his mouth to argue, but she raised a hand and he was struck dumb instantly. "I see that I have long allowed my childhood whim to torment us both. Too long. I named you my champion once, and gave you a token to seal it. Do you have that token?"

Wordlessly, but with eloquently pleading eyes, he untied the first three fastenings of his doublet and drew from beneath his shirt a silk bandanna of brilliant scarlet. For a moment it looked as though he were bleeding from the heart, and the expression of hopeless agony that twisted his wonderful face seemed to confirm it. He held it out to her, and slowly she closed her fingers around it. They stood there, haloed by thorns and joined only by the tangled red fabric. She met his eyes squarely, and summoned every cold night, every bitter dream, every disappointed hope, to steel her heart against him.

"Laurefindil, my champion," she felt the vice of her command settle over him with the invocation of his name, "I have only one more request to make of you. That you shall go to Lindon and fulfill your duty to King Gil-Galad no matter where my fate may take me. Will you promise me this?"

One might have thought that she had driven Echiar between his ribs at the tremor that shocked his body. She watched as impassively as her screaming heart allowed her, but he soon regained his composure enough to answer.

"I do," said he, in a clear and ringing voice. She felt the truth of it in her bones.

"Then, with the exception of this last duty, I release you from my service," she said. His hand slackened and dropped, leaving the red bandanna dripping from her hands.

Then he bowed deeply to her, a cold and courtly bow that placed them immediately at great distance, and he was gone.

"or if your wish be to close me, I and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;"

-e. e. cummings

More author's notes:

A little bit of background of Tarnin Austa, the start-of-summer festival of Gondolin: Most of the detail about the festival was removed in later versions of the canon, but from what I can piece together, all the citizens of Gondolin assembled on the night before summer started. The rituals completed are not specified, but Tolkien did write that no one was permitted to speak all of that night, and when the dawn came they broke their silence to great the daybreak with ancient song. I've clearly taken a lot of liberties, but I hope that this depiction of the festival feels... elvish enough.

On another note, with the introduction of Rhossorieth I feel that I've officially tipped into "way too many damn OCs to expect anyone to keep them straight" territory, so I'm working on putting together some sort of guide, hopefully with modest visual aids. My only excuse for the army of original characters is that I really can't find enough mentions of powerful female characters in the second age, so I didn't really see much that I could do short of inventing some or letting history be entirely run by male characters. Rhossorieth's name means (roughly) "Lady crowned in whispers," but don't expect too much from my bastardized Sindarin naming.