Hello unsuspecting reader,

Here's yet another Glorfindel fic.

This story is a collaborative effort with the awesome Tobiramamara. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride!

The twin story to this is: 'Amarth - Rising' by Tobiramamara.

I. Fornost - Allies old and new

TA 1975

A weakened sun westered red beyond the hidden vale. Dying light fell on the white walls and many-layered roofs of a settlement, sheltered at the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Late autumn birdsong rose in the air above the icy waters of the river Bruinen, reaching through the windows of a currently empty Hall of Fire.

Empty, but for one presence. He was clad for travel and currently gazing at the changing hues in the skies. Anyone watching could not have guessed this was one heading to a ceremonial welcome. But he cared little for appearances lately, though Glorfindel of Gondolin had known vanity once. Now he was reluctant in the face of deference and respect freely offered by most of those encountered in his path. He had no need of either, nor did he welcome the gaping looks and lingering stares from those unaccustomed to him. But even those affected him little though he knew the signs by now; no matter the stern way he treated his men during training or the perceived aloofness of his manner in command. Much of this well-meant but overbearing honor was owed to his deeds, past and present; to the way he listened and sought to aid any in need, at times offering strange but workable solutions to even stranger predicaments.

Moments like this were sparse. Fragments of solitude, to reflect and to think. The Elf-lord had long denounced the Ñoldorin propensity for crafted brilliance in favor of a plain, near austere lifestyle. Now he stood cloaked and garbed for scouting - a plain surcoat and trousers, tall dark boots. His hair trapped the last rays peeking through the chamber as he turned from the window; his eyebrows furrowed as other thoughts emerged and mingled together.

Círdan of the Havens had sent word from Lindon recently, and now Imladris was in the midst of preparations to support yet another war. As often happened with memories and scars, Glorfindel was taken back to another time, and a different battle; the very same foe. Many were lost, more than they could spare. He knew this well for, after all, he had been there. But time churned on, and another Age had begun since. He looked to his feet, and saw his boots stained crimson to his ankles, sinking in the mires of Mordor.

He blinked. It was gone. Yes, the very same enemy. Now, the realm of Angmar dogged the Northern lands of Arnor, its ruler leading errands for one other. A puppet master, yet concealed from them. It was only the year prior by the reckoning of Men that Fornost, the capital of the last free kingdom in the North, fell to the armies of the one many called the Witch-king. Deemed the main affliction, so to speak, of the peoples dwelling in Arnor, he was tireless - and most worryingly, a master strategist who knew war. But now Men finally sought to regain dominion of the Northern kingdoms and their ancestral lands. A great host had been dispatched from Gondor, led by the driven prince Eärnur, to honor an old alliance. Glorfindel shook his head as he stood close to the simmering hearth. A double-edged sword, honor - a conclusion drawn from his hardest trial in the First Age of the world, when he paid for his choice with his life. And for all the healing slumber at the feet of Mandos, there were rare moments when the fires and the abyss still beckoned. The Elf habitually brought a hand to his neck just as the brief, burning sensation of a whip subsided.

A sigh. Perhaps I am getting too old for this. He smiled to himself, catching the pride in his thought. Deep down, he did not feel old at all, and if nothing else, he still had his mission. The Powers guided him yet, when the need was great. Though truth be told, the Valar had become rather quiet of late. Glorfindel shook the doubt away. It did not matter. The House of Elrond Half-elven was home, and he would serve until his goal in Endor was reached.

"My lord," a voice broke into his drifting notions. Golden light fell on black hair and a sharp, grey stare. He was of similar height to Glorfindel, also garbed for departure. "We have received word, they are near."

"Thank you, Elladan. Your brother?" the Elf-lord asked as he neared the newcomer, and they fell in step together.

The black-haired one scoffed. "Probably outside already, you know how he is."

Elrohir relished excitement as much as his twin brother avoided it. Glorfindel smiled at a sudden memory of them, small and thin, falling over each other, nearly lost in the frothing waters of the river. Fortunately, Glorfindel had been there, and while Elrohir was beaming at being rescued from their dangerous feat by the great Balrog slayer himself, his brother was deathly pale and seemed glad it was over. Glorfindel had watched them grow into warriors, had been there every step of the way. It could certainly be said he had a hand in raising them. There were few Glorfindel would trust more in matters of military planning and support, and the current endeavor was no exception. The two Elves had reached the courtyard where others waited or were preparing their mounts.

A mirror image of the one called Elladan greeted the two arrivals and joined them. "How many did you say they were bringing into the fold?" he asked, nodding in greeting to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel did not answer right away, but reached for his steed, patting its nose gently. "The missive spoke of eight hundred strong," he said offhandedly, fingers sifting through the silken mane.

Elrohir whistled musically, his shapely dark eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "More generous than one would ever expect of His Majesty," he groused drily.

"Elrohir," Glorfindel turned from Sírdal, his horse, and leveled the younger Elf with a tired frown. "While I appreciate your candor, let us try to keep the thread of our strategic alliance with the Woodland Realm from snapping. That effort includes not sowing interpretable notions about their king."

"You need not chastise," Elrohir gave a crooked grin, unbothered as yet as he deftly swung astride his mount. He knew when Glorfindel truly meant his warnings. "I am merely voicing what everyone else here is thinking. I wonder that he spared as many, but the greater surprise is that he sent any support at all."

It did not surprise Glorfindel. The twin sons of Elrond had not been born yet when in the late Second Age, he had seen another battle go awry. And lost in the mayhem was the silver-haired prince of Greenwood the Great, as his kingdom was called at the time, having recently lost his father Oropher for recklessness and disjointed planning. Glorfindel still saw Thranduil, young and battle-worn, unable to mourn with a crown thrust into his hands, leading a cold retreat. His renewed hatred for the Shadow had never been a hidden notion. He did not waver then; he did not waver now. Yes, deep within Glorfindel thought he knew why Thranduil had again chosen not to stand aside, though he very well could have. At any moment they expected the detachment of Silvan enforcements from Eryn Galen to reach them. This was good, Glorfindel thought, as it meant a timely start to the strategic alignment and planning needed before journeying to war-torn Arnor.

"You two, ride with me," Glorfindel addressed both brothers before mounting his steed, and the few others followed suit closely behind.

Over the restless river they sped, across the narrow stone bridge, their grey and white horses one with their riders. Their cloaks fluttered behind them, and strands of their hair strayed waywardly. They rode for nearly an hour before falling into a trot onto the forest road. Then, his hearing attuned to their surroundings, Glorfindel raised his arm, urging the group to a halt.

There was a flash of grey and green, and a figure dropped gracefully from the trees before the warrior's mount. "My lord," the scout reported in salute, "They are one league from our position."

So they were.

Glorfindel nodded, dismissing the scout who then easily returned to the high boughs.

They felt the hard ground shaking even from this distance under the brunt of feet and hooves. The troops were near. Glorfindel absently looked to the skies, bruised in shaded hues of purple. The Imladris party waited, quiet and still on the road cutting through the forest. Cold air breathed into the trees, layering the ground before them with crisp leaves.

There was a cloud of dust, rising higher and higher, and they discerned the movement and cadence of horses. And then came into view the first line of their allies.

"I was not told they revel in grand entrances," Elladan muttered jestingly beside Glorfindel.

The warrior leveled the son of Elrond Half-elven with a curt stare before hedging Sírdal forward, straight towards the approaching company.

The awaited soldiers of the Woodland Realm were clad in greens and browns, and fine chain mail of a copper sheen showed from beneath their light attire. Several dark and auburn heads could be discerned in the dim light. They moved in unison, with no flourish.

"No plate armor, no helms," Elrohir commented impartially, having reached Glorfindel in the meantime.

"Their way is different," the older Elf supplied, another brief image of the Last Alliance coming to mind. It was the silver head of Oropher King, drowning in enemies. The Silvans fought lightly, he remembered, unencumbered by the weight of heavy battle gear where most of their tactics and weapons required stealth and speed. But, again, this would be open war. Mistakes had been made, ones they would all do well to remember. In a rare spell of detached curiosity, Glorfindel wondered if Thranduil himself would come, though there had been no mention of this intent in the missives.

Elrohir sighed. "Not as different as to prevent collaboration, one would hope," he said as the others drew closer.

"I said different, not unruly," Glorfindel retorted.

Longbows adorned their backs as rows of archers neared in harmony, their slight, speedy horses fluid in their gait. The Elf-lord narrowed his gaze, discerning one who rode at the front of the company, whom Glorfindel recognized and remembered. His lip quirked upward.

The newcomer raised a hand, and the rows behind him ceased in their tracks. He urged his chestnut mount forward at a canter towards the waiting warriors of Imladris. The uncanny resemblance to the Elvenking took Glorfindel back to the plains of Dagorlad, and the leader advancing had the distinct bearing of royalty. It was plain to witness, more so by one who had seen kingdoms rise and fall.

The Silvan rode before them, stopping easily at a small distance. He had a hard grey stare, and long, straight hair of sable framed his sharp face. He wore the same garb and effects as his men, and nothing in his garments spoke of his status. He wore the bracers of an archer, and a quiver full of dark arrow shafts was fastened to his person. He was like the rest of them, one with them. The elves of Eryn Galen were known for their preference in adhering to the old ways and customs held before the Sun and Moon, and much about their ways was yet strange to the Ñoldor. The newcomer gazed briefly behind him, where the regular cadence of hooves and marching feet had long ceased. He then deftly dismounted, and the Imladris warriors followed suit.

When they stood facing each other, Glorfindel looked upon the very image of Thranduil King, yet could not help but notice the traits that were different. His features were well defined, though the shape of his jaw was not his father's. Another striking detail posed the strange shapes swirling along the skin of his neck, peaking just above the collar of his tunic. Skin markings? Absently Glorfindel tried recalling the reasoning behind these, thinking back on Silvan customs he knew from his visits many years past. It eluded him.

The newcomer glanced at the three Imladris warriors. His eyes cut to Glorfindel briefly before moving in assessment to the black-haired twins, standing tall with their dark cloaks draped over their lithe figures.

"Well met, Legolas of Eryn Galen," Glorfindel spoke first, offering a slight incline of his head, his hand to his heart in welcome.

"Hail, Lord Glorfindel, and sons of Elrond Half-elven," the young prince returned the gesture, a fist to his chest. The same blue-black patterns snaked from beneath his bracer along the back of his right hand. His gaze was blank, but then, perhaps owed to a distinct memory, the prince smiled. It was rather honest, but also rather cold.

Glorfindel stared at the Elf he had last seen many years ago. There had been a time when relations between Imladris and Thranduil were less strained, the Woodland king less reclusive. And Glorfindel himself had wandered the hidden paths of the Greenwood many, many times as an emissary. Prince Legolas was quite young when the Elf-lord had seen him first, having not yet reached maturity. This sight was a different one altogether. Glorfindel thought, with some regret, that the features he was seeing had been less burdened then. He returned the smile.

"Be welcomed, you and yours, on behalf of our father," Elladan added then, his hair tumbling down his shoulder as he bowed his head.

Legolas of Eryn Galen acknowledged this with a nod, and his youthful face was void of emotion when he spoke, save for the changing light in his eyes. "And worry not," he added, seeing the Imladris Elves staring strangely behind him, "Our numbers will be rounded soon. I bring four hundred of our people, and the rest is not far behind."

"Should we wait for the others, then?..." Glorfindel asked, having not expected this turn.

The prince shook his head. "I will dispatch a scout to guide them once we reach Imladris. If all is well, my lords, I believe we can move forward."

No more words were needed, and since none objected to efficiency, they were agreed. Glorfindel watched the prince turn away and saw a soldier near him. Her hair was braided in the manner of the Silvan folk, and her eyes were of warm amber as she listened to the prince relaying orders in a low, steady tone. Glorfindel thought in passing that he knew that warmth, but decided it was not his place to dwell on it. They exchanged a few words, speaking in what Glorfindel presumed was the Silvan dialect. When his subordinate left with her orders, the prince mounted his horse and nodded to Glorfindel, who gave the start in setting for the hidden vale.

The day had gone dark, and a cold twilight fell on the lands by the time they reached their destination. There was an orderly commotion as the main household stood in wait and acted upon arrival, moving speedily to stable the horses and guide the additional warriors to their assigned quarters. The settlement of Imladris boasted enough space to host great numbers, and additional lodgings existed a ways distance from the main house. Another remnant of a different war.

"Our father will see you whenever you are ready," Elrohir addressed the prince as they returned from the newly occupied lodgings of their Silvan allies.

Legolas was about to reply when a horn resounded through the valley. He turned his head, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"New arrivals," Glorfindel supplied, recognizing the sound, and his booted feet took him back to the gates of the great courtyard.

"It must be them," the prince offered, joining the Elf-lord with his measured stride.

The nights in the vale were windy and colder now, and the world was on the brink of firith, the season of Fading. Glorfindel narrowed his eyes upon the advancing rider, cloaked and hooded and coming towards them as swift as the loud waters beneath. And behind him was another array of green and bronze, moving in the same orderly cadence as the others. These marched on foot and were armed with blades, and the polished limbs of great war bows gleamed across their backs.

The Elves watched the incoming rider stop before them, dismounting with such grace and fluidity Glorfindel could not deny a flicker of approval.

The new arrival came before Legolas, saluting militarily. "A straight road if I ever saw one, compared to the trying paths of our eaves," a voice chimed into the night. A female voice.

And then, the stranger reached and drew down the hood from their head, and Glorfindel was left gazing into stubborn eyes the color of clean ice. Her dark hair was set in a single plait, and her cloak fell straight over her lean frame. She stood upright, one hand resting leisurely on the hilt of the long sword at her hip. Like all the others, she had a quiver and a longbow on her person.

Time seemed stubbornly slow, and it felt strange to Glorfindel. The fingers of his sword hand twitched at his side as he stood gaping at the newcomer in a rather unlordly manner. It was the skies, howling with faraway thunder beyond the valley, that shook him back into himself. Glorfindel strained to his full height.

"Hail, captain," the prince was speaking, and when he turned to Glorfindel, his face appeared brighter. "I do not presume this of the others, but perhaps you might remember my sister?"

Glorfindel nodded shortly with a strained smile, meeting the stranger's eyes again. Were it not for them, he would not have known her at all. He noted her rigid posture and was again reminded of the steely ways of her father. "I do. Well met, princess Morwen." When they had last seen each other, she barely reached up to his waist. With some amount of unease, Glorfindel noted the same dark patterns he had seen on the prince, adorning the left side of her neck. Curious.

She was tall and tense, but still shorter by a head than her brother. And now her jaw stiffened as she regarded the warrior, her gaze flitting from his eyes to his hair of burnished gold, then over the rest of him. "Captain Morwen, at your service, my lord," came the brisk correction. She spoke tightly, the deferential nod towards Glorfindel in rather colorful opposition to the way she glared at him.

The Elf-lord kept his features blank, wondering when the world had changed. Well, this streak of pride was new. He did not recall it on her. What he did recall was a spindly little child with lively eyes, terribly shy at first, but ultimately too eager and curious for her own good. A small voice, plenty of questions, and hands eagerly tugging at him on a bright summer day. Yes, he thought, the world had changed much.

"What my sister means to say," offered Legolas then rather sharply, eyeing his sibling with a light frown, "Is that she acts as captain in our army, and this detachment, in particular, reporting to me."

Glorfindel kept a straight face, but his insides went cold. He briefly thought of Thranduil, and his usual forgiving manner flared with distaste. None of it showed as he looked to Legolas. "I see." He tried to. He turned back to the Elf maiden, forcing the customary welcome past his lips. "Be welcome, captain." He emphasized the title, attempting to right a slight he had not intended. One that both unsettled and amused him.

A curt nod was his response before her eyes flitted to the black-haired twins coming to greet her, and more words were exchanged. "Our men?" the one called Morwen then inquired of her brother, once all regards were spent.

Her voice was clipped and short, and to Glorfindel, who found it a chore to avert his attention from the child he once knew, she seemed too stiff, too wound around herself. "The first group has been settled in. Soon there is to be supper, our kitchens throughout the settlement have prepared for a few days ahead," the Elf-lord offered. Perhaps she only felt out of her element.

The Silvan looked back at him, as though astonished he was there. Her confusion fed his own. "You have forgotten," she singsonged, though it came dull and dour, as if the sounds themselves were unwilling. "Our kin does not dine so late, and not during times of war," the captain muttered, averting her eyes.

"Morwen." It was the prince who spoke, but his voice had an edge again. "Guests heed their host. I am sure we can be pliable."

Though carefully woven, the warning was there. The other seemed only barely cowed by this, however. Glorfindel had the odd sense he should be somewhere else, but for all his diplomatic skill found no proper excuse to invoke. What he found was a brief first impression. Yet young, yet rash. One tucked at the back of his mind, and one he hoped would change. Else there was much to work with, and they had not the time.

"We should speak of these things, brother," the captain countered then, her voice softer.

"And we will, later," the other Elf said flatly. His gaze cut to hers, and his sister fell silent.

When she turned from the prince, her brows were knit together, and there was a slight flush on her face. Glorfindel then saw a tall archer with hair of rich auburn advancing towards her. The daughter of Thranduil had hasty words with him in Silvan, and a deep kind of devotion could be seen in his eyes as the soldier listened for his orders.

"Well, as we are all here-..." Elladan breached into the moment upon his arrival from the stables.

"-shall we go meet with our father?" his brother Elrohir finished for him, as happened when one idea flowed through two minds.

Prince Legolas looked strangely relieved for the interruption. "I will come with you now, not to keep him waiting further." Then, having another thought, he turned and addressed Glorfindel. "To save time, please guide the captain and the rest of our people to our assigned dwelling spaces, my lord?"

The commander of Imladris and the princess of Eryn Galen both looked at him with varying amounts of masked wariness. It was the Elf-lord who spoke. "Of course." His eyes cut briefly to her dark lashes and the ice beneath them. "Captain, if you will follow me."

A/N:

1. [I'll say this again!] This story is a collaborative effort with the awesome Tobiramamara. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride! The twin story to this is: 'Amarth - Rising' by Tobiramamara.

2. While some names in this story are invented, most Quenya and Sindarin proper names/words/phrases are drawn from canon and/or online dictionaries.

"Amarth" S. - Fate

"Morwen" S. - Dark Maiden

"Sírdal" S. - River Foot

"Endor" Q. - Middle-earth

"Firith" S. - The Fading - one of the six seasons observed in common by the Elves (see: Reckoning of Rivendell)

3. AU elements abound, but I'll try to call out deviations from canon where relevant. For example: Mirkwood sending help to join the battle of Fornost is AU, but a prerequisite allowing some of these characters to meet.

4. This will be a twisted AU take on flawless Glorfindel. But ain't perfection better scarred?

5. The war Glorfindel muses on is The War of the Last Alliance at the end of the Second Age, when the Ring was cut from Sauron's hand. It was in that battle that Oropher fell, then king of Mirkwood, Thranduil's father.

6. Cover art by Zdzisław Beksiński

7. And last but not least... DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended, obviously.