Gwirith, Year 1424 of the Third Age
The Haredhil's swift return was not to be so, and twenty years had become enfolded into the dark passages of time since the eve that they had left Rivendell, their kinsman following a short two days after. The Witch-king of Angmar had invaded the Northern kingdoms since then; further evidence of the growing threat that the Khandian Elves had spoken of. And yet, much of Imladris had all but ceased to pay their quandaries of the Haredhil any mind any longer. Two decades with nary a word, though not a terribly great length of silence for the Eldar, was still very much longer than had been anticipated. In the growing stress of unrest - for the Orcs and wargs now prowled much closer to the haven than they once had - there was little time and strength of people to be spared, and to send a party to Caras Hargil to ascertain the cause of the South-elves' delay - or to ascertain whether there were any South-elves who yet lived there - would have been folly.
That, and there were none who knew the actual location of the city. Lord Elrond would not risk the lives of those he led for a simple messenger's mission. The road was too dangerous, and regrettably, there were other, more pressing matters that needed to be tended to. None seemed overly concerned about the South-elves' absence. In truth, it seemed almost welcome at first, before relief faded into apathy.
There had been quite a few arched eyebrows on the subject upon the return of Gildor and Golradir - the other half of the wisdom that made up the Elrond's advisors - from the Grey Havens, where they had journeyed to seek council with Lord Círdan. Even Lindir, who was forever humming to himself and had grown steadily more enchanted with the art of crafting songs and music with each passing year, had composed a satirical lay of the arid realm the South-elves wished to escape from. Erestor had confessed to Glorfindel that he was more fond of Lindir the guard than Lindir the minstrel. Glorfindel had promptly shared his fine voice to the ballad upon his friend's admission:
Do Haredhil there find their fright
Of all the dangers they would flee
There is but one at which they weep
I warn thee, friend, of wicked winds
Of scalding sands with loathsome whims
Though Man and Orc are gladly slain
There is one foe they cannot tame
In shade of night or light of day
It creeps along, it finds its way
Flung sharp against bodies and into brown faces
The true curse of Khand: sand in odd, awkward places
Whatever lingering infatuation he had for the Haredhil maiden, he had decided firmly against it being anything like love. Love, as Erestor understood it - as best as he could understand it - happened when another further brightened one's best traits, and dimmed their worst. The opposite rang true of what Gwelwen, and the thought of her, did to him. The invasion of another realm by wicked shadows should not have pleased him in any way, even if that way was merely the relief of having yet another responsibility to weight down his mind, and distract him from more personal dwellings. He should not have looked forward to such horrible things, and his own selfishness, though secreted away from all others, disgusted him, and inwardly he was ashamed of both his thoughts and his actions.
He was lying to his lord, his friends, even to himself the majority of the time, and he had thanked Ilúvatar more than once that the former two seemed to have remained relatively unaware of his doing so. For three months following their conversation in the corridor after Erestor had questioned Luimenel, Glorfindel had somehow managed to both walk on eggshells while around him and enquire of his well-being with all the subtlety of a charging bull, simultaneously. It had taken a great deal more smiling and insouciance than he was used to in order to convince the golden-haired Elf-lord that his fleeting curiosity of the South-elven lady had been simply that, though Glorfindel still occasionally glanced sidelong at him whenever the Haredhil happened to be mentioned in passing.
A part of him wanted to confide in his friend, but his pride would not allow it. Through his refined tongue he always managed to convince himself of the minuteness of his plight - there were more important things than a trivial infatuation with a female he scarcely knew. He could not afford to become distracted by foolish, pointless pining, and felt that the fact that he was spoke only ill of his character.
Besides, he could not be certain he would ever see her again. Though in his heart he felt that she yet lived, there was still much that could happen in twenty years' time, especially in the barbaric realm of Khand.
It was to those desolate lands that his mind again strayed this evening, as he watched the flames of dusk bleed into the growing twilight overhead from his place on the roof of the great library of Imladris. This was his favourite place for thought, and when he was not busy with political affairs he could often be found here - providing one knew of his attachment to the spot. The grand view it gave of the valley as well as the nature of the building itself rarely failed to comfort him, and ease away whatever worries resided within his mind. Here, he was quite literally sitting atop a tremendous wealth of knowledge and wisdom, beauty and life, and his keen eyes relished the glorious sight of an Arda of the Firstborn. He enjoyed to liken the tranquility he felt here to what the Ainur and Ilúvatar Himself must have felt upon their creation of these lands: such joy and pride, and a majesty unlike anything that had come before it.
A short distance away, the vocal waters of the Bruinen shone as liquid gold, slowly paling as Anor sank gently into slumber. The trees bade the lightgiver good-night, bowing slightly in a soft breeze, and Erestor was wont to do the same with a small nod of his head.
Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms about his legs and wondered of a Khandian twilight. Did Varda's stars shun that region, as they shunned Mordor? An image formed in his head of the shadowed halls of Caras Hargil, their oppressive blackness relieved only by hot, dry torchlight. The desert froze in the night, he knew, as severely as it burnt during the day. What was it like, he wondered, to live in so harsh a land wrought of fire and ice, and wreathed in darkness? How searing was the flame, and how biting the cold? Were the Elves that resided there true products of the extremities of their environment, or a strangely temperate mixture of both ends of the spectrum? Which was she, who ignited fire within him with her glacial touch, whose image was seared into his mind, and sent a chill along his spine?
A wisp of white danced on the periphery of his vision, and Erestor cocked his head to better glimpse the object in question. Three Elves - Calenmîr, Elothinel, and Malannel - were stringing up the first of many banners that were to be hung within the next six weeks. Though every season was welcomed with a day of feasting and play in Imladris, this particular year's celebrations would all be especially grand, as they marked the final seasons' passing in a third yén - an event which only occured once every four-hundred thirty-two years. The Adel Ethuil, it was called - the Last Spring - and the festivities to be held in its honour fell upon the final six days of Lothron. Yet another vexation Erestor was glad for.
The celebration did have an underlying purpose apart from a farewell to springtime; already the rulers of the great Elven realms of Lothlórien, Mirkwood and Mithlond, along with their closest kin, had begun their journeys to Imladris. Ties would be strengthened, and old grudges laid to rest - at least for a little while. "A small gap in time," Lord Elrond had said of it, "in which only light resides, and all minds are eased of what shadows may plague them."
All who made a home of Rivendell, and even a handful of those who did not, would have a part to play in the grand event.
The wind began to pick up. Erestor tucked a softly whipping braid behind his ear, and felt the silent approach of another, which he pretended to ignore even as Glorfindel settled gracefully down next to him. Though the movement was punctuated with a sigh, the golden-haired Elf did not speak for many moments, reluctant to shatter the quiet peace when beneath them the halls of the House of Elrond were beginning to feel the frenzy of preparation for the upcoming festival.
"What is it that burdens your mind this eve?" he said at last, folding his legs beneath himself as he followed Erestor's gaze to some random point on the horizon.
The darker Elf gave a little hum that could have been a sound of amusement, or one of thoughtfulness. "There is nothing," he casually replied. "I only bid Anor farewell until the morn."
"For three hours?" Glorfindel arched one dubious eyebrow.
"Yes," Erestor answered shortly, "and tomorrow it may be five hours, and the following day one hour. I see not how it matters."
"It makes obvious your fib; in that does it matter."
"I do not 'fib'." Erestor wrinkled his nose in distaste at the word.
"Then your deceit is greater, and you lie outright," Glorfindel persisted, and the other Elf exhaled an exasperated growl, and fell back to lay against the tiles of the roof.
"We have had this argument countless times before. Pray tell me when you will at last desist and accept that I am well?"
"When that is true, I will desist."
"You squawk like a mother hen."
"And you whine like a mule. Ai Erestor, you know I do know you well; your thoughts are oftentimes hidden from the world, and I respect your silence, for when you do speak your words are always considered with great care, and they are all the wiser for that; but I will not allow you to wallow alone in your troubles, and I would expect the same perserverance from you if I were the one downhearted."
"You would not receive it," Erestor muttered, glaring up at the darkening heavens. "I would not treat you as an insecure Elfling incapable of sorting through your own personal quandaries, and would leave you to reflect in peace."
"Ah, so you admit to being beset by personal quandaries? All is in fact not well?" Glorfindel twisted around to look triumphantly at his fellow advisor, an exultant smirk on his fair face. Erestor huffed once and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "You are not the only one with a clever tongue, my friend," his tow-headed companion remarked.
"Glorfindel, please, leave me be. The burdens I bear I have born for many a year now; they will not lessen, but nor will they weigh any heavier upon me than they already do. Take comfort in that, and be satisfied."
Glorfindel made no move to do as Erestor requested, but neither did he speak for some time. Why must he be so endlessly serious? he wondered with an inward sigh. Erestor was even worse than Lord Elrond in that respect, though Elrond had a wife, a family to ground him and keep him in good humour. Glorfindel himself, having once tasted death, possessed a sheer love of life that prevented him from allowing whatever distresses happened along his way to cause his mind excessive ills.
Erestor had always been uncommonly grave for an Elf, and though he had suffered his share of tragedy and loss, it was certainly no greater amount than that of others'. It was the way in which his mind worked through whatever was troubling him, no matter how large or how small the matter, that caused him to withdraw into his thoughts and stubbornly reside there, despite the hands that sought to retrieve him from that shell.
Though a brave and capable fighter when it was required of him, Erestor was above all things an intellectual, and while that trait had served him best in war and in council, Glorfindel could not help but feel that it was at times detrimental to the younger Elf's well being. It occasionally seemed to Glorfindel that Erestor was made solely of eyes, able to take in every inch of his surroundings, able to see situations from every possible viewpoint, both physically and mentally, and able to analyse them all to determine the best course of action for the greater good - or most fruitful victory - of everyone involved. He had once been named the Eyes of Gil-galad during battle - one of the High King's finest scouts and strategists - and he now served Elrond in a similar capacity.
But Erestor's keen sight and wisdom were not infallible. So much did he see that he could sometimes twist his mind into knots of confusion - and Glorfindel knew that to Erestor, confusion was one of the greatest turmoils. The black-haired Elf's ruminations ran deep, true to his Noldorin heritage, and now and then they ran too deep; too dark. Second to confusion was memory - yet another double-edged blade to all who had ever known grief, the Eldar most of all - and Erestor's was sharp, accurate, and very vivid. Glorfindel knew this, as he had heard his friend recount journeys in exquisite detail - usually due to someone else "telling the story wrong." A tale told by Erestor in the warmth of the Hall of Fire was a rare treat, for only then did it seem that the Elf's sombre demeanour would drift gradually away, leaving in its wake a rich expressiveness that was akin to witnessing the petals of a flower that bloomed but once in a century unfold.
Once in a century was not enough to satisfy Glorfindel. "A burden shared is a burden halved," he had once been told. It was common logic, and surely Erestor could never fault something as treasured as that. His very occupation was based upon it, after all. But when he said this to his friend, Erestor merely responded in turn: "And a secret shared loses half its worth."
"Since when is unhappiness a secret to cherish?" Glorfindel demanded, quickly becoming frustrated. "What perverse mindset is this that has stolen away your mother wit?"
"It is tall, yellow of hair, and speaks far too much for its own good. Ai Glorfindel, if I promise to, in due course, make known to you what ails me, will you now leave my mind to its rest?" Erestor pleaded, at last meeting the other Elf's eyes with an importunate glance. Glorfindel stared at him for a long while, searching his face for sincerity before finally yielding with a brief nod.
"I will speak no more of the matter - for now - but I cannot leave you at rest. The evening meal nears, and unless it is your wish to continue this conversation with a concerned someone other than myself, I suggest you avoid absence."
"With the house as frenzied as it is, who other than yourself would notice it?" Still, Erestor rose and brushed the dust from his robes, while Glorfindel made no attempt to make himself more presentable.
Inhaling deeply, the lighter Elf pulled himself up to stand on the tips of his toes, and stretched his arms toward the sky. "Hmm," he sighed contentedly, then slowly relaxed. "There is a spice to the air tonight. The winds are restless."
"A sign of good or ill?"
"I know not. Mayhap neither; mayhap it is simply ethuil." He paused for a moment, a strange light flashing behind his eyes, and frowned as if only just recalling something important he should have paid mind to a great deal of time ago. "My hair is not 'yellow'."
A small laughed escaped Erestor's mouth before he could think to contain it. "No, it is not, I apologise."
"Thank you."
"It is more...robust...than simple yellow. Like the colour of an egg yolk, or a firith squash."
Glorfindel glowered pettishly. "At least my hair does not resemble the blood of an Orc when wet."
"Nay," Erestor agreed, the cutting of mirth into his formerly unplayful mood bringing a smirk to his lips; "it merely resembles urine."
Blue eyes widened in shock, though their jovial sparkle remained. "You are a vulgar beast, Erestor of Imladris, and I no longer wish to dine with you tonight! Good evening to you!" With a dismissive nod, Glorfindel sped up his pace and turned sharply round the nearest corner, disappearing from view.
Erestor only shook his head, and paused to glance leisurely out of the closest window. For some moments he stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, admiring once more the scenery of the hidden vale whilst inwardly he counted the seconds until--
"Erestor," Glorfindel sighed heavily, "do make haste. I am hungry."
With a small smile, the darker Elf turned and followed his friend to where the spiced scent of food mingled with the spiced scent of the mild spring twilight. Glorfindel was right - the night itched with a strange sort of impatience - one that Erestor could not quite place, but that he nevertheless knew he had felt before. The air prickled against his skin as if it carried fine grains of sand, and the wind sang softly, sadly as a wandering wraith, through the nooks and crevices of the Last Homely House.
Gwirith - "April"
Calenmîr - "green jewel"
Elothinel - "Elf of the evening star"
Malannel - "golden harp"
Lothron - "May"
yén - an Elvish "year"; equal to 144 human years. Every three Yéni (years) was a "leap year", shortened by three days. Of course, maths has always been my worst subject, and I highly doubt such an event actually fell on TA 1424. Used here it's an unrepentantly shallow plot device. ;)
ethuil - "(late) spring"
firith - "(late) autumn"
Thank you, of course, to all those who have read and reviewed. As an aspiring author, all forms of feedback are (needless to say) very much appreciated. :) Unfortunately, I'm going to have to put both this and my other story on hold for a few weeks due to the annoyance that is real life. I'll be on the road and then moving into a new place, the former of which will afford me much time to write on paper, and the latter of which won't allow me to type anything up for a bit. But on the bright side, I'll hopefully have plenty to upload upon my reconnection to the electronic world! *crosses fingers*
To Arabella Thorne: Absence does...something...though whether or not "fonder" is the word would, I suppose, depend on the character's point of view. ;) Many more threads to unravel and tie up to come; I hope your intrigue holds fast!
Píp: Glorfindel's reaction...hmm...we'll just have to wait and see, I suppose. I have everything plotted out, but the more I write, the more little twists it begins to take away from the original plan. But he definitely won't be the most comfortable Elf in Rivendell. *grins* Of Gwelwen, thank you! I'm doing my best to make her a well-rounded character while keeping her "second" to Erestor. Things are going to be more in-depth from now on.
and to morchaint: Not a Mary Sue so far? Well, woohoo! ;) I don't think I'll ever trust my own judgement enough to say whether she is or she isn't, as definitions of Suedom are oft times skewed and hey, I'm the author, I'm biased. I'm glad you're enjoying her (and the story itself), but of course feel free to give me a kick in the pants whenever something doesn't sit right with either. Thank you much. :)