lrond took a step back in shock. Laurefindil, he said Laurefindil. As in the legend now called Glorfindel! He didn't know what to think. Said elf had been slain by a Balrog centuries before, back when all elves spoke Quenya, the age of legends. He himself was a legend, the elf who stood against a Balrog and lost his life to slay a beast and save his people. Could this naked elf washed upon the shores of the Brunin really be the legend?
Nevertheless, it seems that Elrond's curiosity had to wait. He was obviously exhausted and his unconsciousness worried Elrond. If he had been sent back by the Valar then it would certainly be a first. He quickly pulled his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around the unconscious elf. He then lifted the limp form into his arms and mounted his horse with only a slight amount of difficulty. Centuries of practice as a healer had caused such skill to become a regular requirement. As he sat on his faithful steed he found his eyes too often drawn from the path and towards the face of his charge. The elf certainly looked every inch the being of legend. A wild mane of impossibly golden hair framed a pale face with high cheekbones, a wise looking brow, and sharp jawline. His shoulders were broad and countenance tall, even his hands were large and appeared strong. There was no denying that this elf was a formidable warrior.
The ride back to Imaldris took considerably longer than Elrond's wild excursion out, however it was not long before he found the gates to his beloved home nearing. A small party of elves was gathered at the front with a rather flustered looking Erestor speaking with rapid hand motions to the leader of said guards.
"My Lord," Erestor called in a voice of half exasperation and half relief. "You left in such a hurry without a word I was concerned that something-" the dark haired Elf paused upon seeing the form in his Lord's arms. "Who is that?"
"I am unsure..." Elrond hesitated slightly before deeming it wise for his counselor to bear the same knowledge as he. "He claimed his name was Laurefindil though."
"As in the Balrog Slayer of Gondolin?" Erestor questioned. Now that he was certain that his Lord was safe, the flustered sheen to his eyes waned and the stoic mask of a controlled advisor slipped into place once more.
"I cannot be certain, but my intuition tells me that the Valar have something to do with this," Elrond spoke in his usual firm tone. "For now we will take him to the healing house and wait until he awakens."
Erestor nodded and dismissed the guards to return to their duties. He then moved to turn and walk ahead to the healing houses ignorer to inform them of their new patient. However, he paused slightly and looked back at the still elf still resting in Lord Elrond's embrace. There certainly was something different about him, and aura that was not of Middle Earth.
"If he is indeed Valar sent," Erestor spoke quietly with a contemplative tone. "Then is mustn't be without reason. May Eru help us."
Elrond merely nodded as Erestor turned once more to walk ahead, knowing that Lord Elrond would not let the patient out of his grasp until he was certain that the elf would receive the proper care. Erestor's words however, echoed in Elrond's mind as he walked with his charge. What would cause the Valar to send back a hero from his rest? Is our need to be truly so great?
It had been a little over a week since the strange new elf arrived and Imaldris was still buzzing with the news. The golden haired elf truly was the legendary Glorfindel of Gondolin. He had awoken after a few hours rest in the healing halls and after a moment of confusion caused by the fog of weariness, he was able to explain his tale. Yes, the Valar did send him back to Middle Earth, he knew not entirely why. The only exception to this was that he felt a strange connection to Lord Elrond, the son of Earendil, a close friend. The young Lord had proven himself to be a wise and capable figure, well versed in both the beauty and tragedy of the world. He sat for many hours with Glorfindel, the name he now chose to go by as many already spoke to him so, and learned of all that had transpired in Middle Earth since his passing. He mourned that his beloved city had not rebuilt and wept over the kinslayings that came after him. However, he found hope in the promise of a brighter future, of this gem of a city tucked away in the valleys.
As for language, the Sindarin now commonly spoken amoung the elves was simple enough for him to pick up as it did indeed seem like a simpler version of his usual Quenya, if a little less musical to his ears. Luckily the transition was smoothed by most members of Lord Elrond's household speaking Quenya and able to mix the vocabularies enough for him to understand. Nevertheless, Glorfindel was a quick study and soon found himself speaking with a marginal level of fluidity.
The few days since his waking had been busy indeed. The reborn elf son found himself pledging his loyalty to Lord Elrond and being almost immediately promoted to Captain of the Guard. He had a vivacious air around him, a love of life that was nearly infections. His eyes were constantly twinkling in merriment and he was quick to laugh. It was not uncommon to find him out on the practice fields, his deadly sword glittering in the sun as he sparred with a line of ellons and ellas alike, all eager for a chance to cross blades with the famed warrior. He always won these matches, but always did so with grace, never failing to offer a hand to assist in standing and quite often a few tips for next time.
By all measures, he appeared to take his re-embodiment well and quickly slid into the hearts of many. Even those who he knew not, though he was quick to learn faces and names (a well practiced skill he learned when previously lord of his house), he was always offered a quick smile or a deferential nod. It seemed that he had spent the previous several centuries coming to terms with the life he had lost. He knew that the vast majority of those he loved must have been long since dead and that the world would change without him. This acceptance must have made the transition smoother.
By all measures he seemed content with his new life in Imaldris, with his new duties of training the guards and securing the safety of the house; as alongside his merriment and zeal for life, he was ever vigilant of his duties and quickly was seen as one capable of a severe glare to rival Elrond's. Nonetheless, the elves of Imaldris loved him and he appeared to love them.
This however was why it seemed so strange for Elrond to find said elf brooding silently in an abandoned corridor, his gaze turned towards a tapestry on the wall. Elrond silent walked until he stood behind Glorfindel and looked over his shoulder at what drew the elf's gaze. It was a depiction of Gondolin on the day that it fell. The fires of the burning city blazed brightly whilst smoke billowed into the air. On the far right, elves of all ages, many young, were fleeing with fear plastered across their faces and holding in their hands any manger belonging that they could carry.
What truly drew the eye however, was the center; for the centerpiece of the grand tapestry was the Lord Glorfindel himself, golden hair fanning around his head, eyes burning brightly, shoulders squared defiantly back as his sword was raised in a glittering point of deadly precision to face off against the hulking beast of a Balrog whose black eyes burned with evil. The tapestry was truly a work of art. The elves who designed it had painfully stitched real mithril thread to form Glrofindel's sword and shining breastplate, even outlined his eyes with a hint of its sheen so that even in the darkened corridor the image seemed to sparkle with life.
For many moment Elrond stood and patiently waited, for he knew that Glrofindel was aware of his presence. The golden haired elf remained silent until he realized that the Lord of Imaldris would hear his words no matter what.
"The image is wrong," he spoke quietly.
Elrond was startled. He had imagined that the warrior would be mourning the day it depicted, perhaps feeling guilt or loneliness at being the only one reborn.
"How so?" he injured, curiosity now significantly raised.
"I was not alone that day. I could not have slain the Balrog alone."
"I have never read any such account," Elrond spoke slowly, mind racing at this new information.
"It did not occur at the cliff's edge, it was after we fell," Glorfindel spoke as if in a trance. "The blow I delivered to him was not mortal, when we landed he recovered sooner than me and attacked, he split me open and I was certain to travel to Mandos' halls." He paused and rubbed an arm slowly across his stomach as if he could still feel the wound. "The Balrog should have finished me then, but she appeared as if from nowhere. She distracted the beast, drew it away so I could slay it. Of course, it was already to late for me... but she held me. This mortal girl held me close and spoke to me, telling me that my people were safe, that I had succeeded and that they would survive by my hand." His eyes grew distant as he spoke. "I do not even know her name."
"I don't think anyone ever knew," Elrond spoke after processing Glorfindel's words. "I wasn't even aware of any mortals in Gondolin."
"She was unlike any mortal I have ever met," he smiled sadly. "She was young, barely out of the cusp of childhood with hair as dark as yours my Lord. However... she bore wings."
"Wings?" Elrond echoed. "Perhaps you were mistaken mellon nin. There has never been such a thing as a mortal child with wings. Mayhaps it was a trick of the smoke, the blood still rushing through your veins."
"Nay, I am certain of it," he spoke with the solid resolution of one who had though of such things thoroughly many times over. "I saw them raise above her head as she distracted the beast and I felt them brush against my skin as she cradled me close. They were like the wings of a grand bird." He paused once more as he contemplated whether or not he should continue. In the end, his desire to confide in another won out as he finally admitted, "and I have seen them many times since in my dreams. Every night I dream of that fateful day, of her eyes gazing into mine as I die."
Lord Elrond stood quietly in contemplation. This news was shocking of course, but he had just recently become the host and apparently lord of a re-born, Valar sent warrior of old. It would take more than this to truly rattle him.
"Then we will have the tapestry amended. Our best seamstress will add this brave soul in right away and the true story of that fateful day will be spread out," he spoke with a smile, the Lore Master in him bleeding through as he was determined to honor this unsung hero. "If she was indeed Edan as you have described, then she is surly dead by now. Nonetheless, her legacy will not be forgotten."
It seemed as if the Perehdel's words soothed Glorfindel's troubled soul as the smile once again returned to his face. He turned to his Lord and bowed graciously. Before joining him for that afternoon's tea. Later that day he had much more to attend to: training with his guards, tending to his weapons, and dreaded paperwork that he seemed just unable to avoid. He was back to his cheerful and good natured self in no time.
However, deep in the back of his mind that young girl still remained, her tear stained face a haunting image that on occasion distracted him during the day and so often drew him in at night. He would not forget that face, and he would always remember her as the one who saved his people, the one who held him as he passed. Her image would never leave him as long as he lived.