Strangers and Sojourners

The River Camp, autumn, Third Age 2980

The last stake pounded into the ground, Glorfindel stood and looked at the tent.

Utilitarian, it had a main room and a small alcove off that in which to put a bed. It would keep them dry and warm and safe from the elements.

It was a far cry from the cozy cottage they had shared for so long in Imladris, under the sheltering limbs of the Willow that had come to know and love them. She had wept for that willow tree the first night, after Ki had finally settled, passed out really, between them, and he had held them both and mourned with her. But for Brenioniel it was the loss of a dear friend, far more than a tree and he always tried to understand that.

If Asfaloth had not escaped before the fire consumed the stables, and then the valley. Yes, he could understand.

They were alive and together and their families and friends were also alive.

It was good.

But he couldn't help smiling at the memory of their first night as husband and wife, and how he had swept her up, laughing, the flower crown on her hair sliding sideways and she had wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her across the threshold of their home.

Their home. How he had thrilled to the sound of that.

For a time they had lived there, in Mithlond, while Elrond sorted through all of the details of the loss of their king, and the little cottage near enough to hear the sea, under the tall pines had been idyllic. Waking to see his wife (his wife!) sleeping next to him had amazed him for weeks. Maybe longer.

He remembered how odd everything had been upon returning to Middle-earth, seeing so much that had changed, so much that was gone. Of course the land had changed, he had known that beforehand, but it hadn't become real until standing on the shore and looking out at the sea. Sea that once had been land. His home.

Contrary to what many elves had thought about him, he truly had not missed Gondolin. He missed the people, great stars, yes. But slowly he had started to fit in to Gil-galad's Court, had found a friend more like a brother in Elrond, and carved out a spot for himself.

Brenioniel. He'd met her there, in the Grey Havens, one of the Shipwright's folk. They had friends in common; Elrond, Círdan, a handful of others. Enough so they saw one another at various functions. She had been a midwife, a healer on the periphery of the lives of his friends. Stars knew there was no shortage of beautiful women in court, and no small number of them had tried to catch his attention, and more.

Not Bren. She had been friendly and kind, but nothing more.

When had he first looked at her and realized something had changed? That she had become dear to him and that he wanted more? She had been oblivious, busy caring with patients. They had, over the years, built a solid friendship and he had steeled himself to patience, careful to not overstep boundaries.

Then the war had changed everything. Yet again. Changed them all.

And he did finally marry his Bren. At times, it had been a freaking nightmare trying to navigate the vagaries of that relationship and not wound her sensitivities. He had. It was inevitable. Both strong-willed people used to living on their own so long, there were bound to be conflicts.

It was no wonder the elders in Aman had said it was best to marry young. Fewer opinionated wills to deal with. They had made it work, day by day, week by week, sometimes through raised voices or tears, but always, always with love. After waiting so long to be together….sometimes he still felt the wonder that it was real.

And it had only gotten better.

Laurelandë. Great stars above. How could he have ever known that his heart could feel such ….wonder, such love for such a demanding, noisy, messy thing as his baby daughter? Oh, it had not been easy getting her into their arms. Bren had been sick for the first part of her pregnancy and his normally sweet and soft-spoken wife had turned into a raging, weeping, tornado of emotion and sickness.

He had never wanted to go through that again. She had been so ill. So unnaturally sick and miserable. No. No. It had been a long, long, long time before he was willing to even consider doing it again and only because….

Well. He loved her and she desperately wanted another child.

Kiernan had not been as difficult for his mother until the end and then she had nearly given him a heart attack with her sober quiet, and her white face and the blood. He still had nightmares of seeing her standing there, blood running down her legs, pooling around her feet, and him bellowing for Elrond, Orniel, Elrohir, Elladan. Someone, anyone stop the bleeding for the love of all that was sacred!

Thank Eru for talented hands that had saved his wife and newborn son. He would never forget.

Never.

She would probably want another someday, but he didn't know if he could cope with that. A child, yes, of course. Always. He adored babies. Doted on his children.

But he needed his wife. And he would not put her life in danger, no matter how much she wanted what could possibly harm her.

"Adar!"

There was his sunshine, his ray of endless questions and curiosity. Glorfindel swung his son up in his arms and loudly kissed his cheek, earning a laugh and arms around his neck. "You smell like soap."

"I was helping Naneth in the clinic."

"Oh?" He met his wife's gaze and saw her eyes crinkle in a smile. "What did you do?"

Kiernan chattered like a magpie while Bren joined them and wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned in as they walked.

Yes, it was a tent and it was a cold, miserably wet day that promised ice overnight.

But he had his family, his friends, his life.

It was more than enough.