G A Mercy: I am pleased to announce the third installment of this smallest of stories. I originally had it finished and ready to post much sooner than this, but looking back on it I decided that it needed a good deal of revamping. *smiles guiltily* My apologies for taking so long, but I realized that I actually wanted to go about writing this story in a different manner.

tenshiamanda: Glorifindel is incredibly lucky, isn't he? I mean, I could have killed him off in that storm…only then I would not have much of a story, now would I? *grins and winks* (Glorfindel: *mutters something about being certain that Mercy still has plenty of torture in store for him to self*) Thank you for your review!

: *smiles* Well, I'm certainly glad that you are enjoying my story, and I'm working hard to produce more as often as possible, schoolwork allowing. Thank you for your review!

Surreal: It is definitely gratifying to hear that my OC's are well liked, I am trying not to let them steal the story spotlight and the task is becoming rather difficult as I continue in my efforts to develop their personalities. As to slash in my story, I have no idea what Tolkien would think about seeing some of the slash pairings out there, but I am certainly willing to admit that he most probably was not looking at Frodo and Sam's relationship the way that some of us are. *grins* And I also believe that I can safely say that he was not thinking about the possibility of Elrond/Glorfindel either, as there aren't even any direct dialogue scenes between my two beloved characters (someone correct me if I am mistaken). I'm pleased that you like my story thus far, and I continue to hope that it will gain enough of a plot to satisfy everyone. Thank you for your review!

Isys: Can you believe that Peter Jackson had the nerve to not use my beloved Glorfindel in FotR AND give Arwen his horse? Why should Arwen get to ride Asfaloth? I do not dislike her character, but when it comes to the novels I find her quite useless, and in the movies quite weak. I am pleased you have enjoyed my story thus far, hopefully I will not disappoint with future chapter. And yes, I have managed to struggle my way through The Silmarillion, as well as Unfinished Tales (which adds a little more detail to several of The Silmarillion tales). Narmondor is rather similar to Elrond, isn't he? *blinks* How odd that he turned out that way, I'm not sure if it was intentional or not. And Moroco does come off as a trifle suspicious and untrustworthy, I wonder if I'll ever know exactly why he seems like such a dark character. *smiles* Thank you for your review!

Chapter Two

Séremela hummed softly to herself deep in her throat as she bent forward to feed another branch to the flickering fire before her, leaning back again as she watched the red flames flare up with a renewed vitality. She glanced about her casually, noting that the campfires of the other elves of her company had at that time dwindled into mere smoldering piles of charred wood. She must have been the only elf who was still awake with Ithil so high in the bright night sky.

As she reclined slightly back upon the cool rock boulder against which she was resting, her eyes sought out Eärendil and the familiar star patterns at which she had gazed up at so many times before. The stars of Varda had always been a comfort to her during her troubled or thoughtful periods; her father had shown them to her when she was a very young elfling, pointing them out one by one and whispering their great names to her in the dark of the night. She had never forgotten them.

Then her thoughts were pulled from the starry sky as her acute elven hearing informed her of a small movement. Her pointed ears pricked forward, listening carefully as her sharp eyes scanned their campsite for the source of the sound. She had great faith in the abilities of the elven sentries that had been appointed by her father as their night time guards, both were well seasoned warriors still in their prime, but even great warriors could make mistakes that would cost the lives of many. It was possible that there was an enemy nearby that none of them had yet heard, and Séremela must be the one to alert the camp if that were so.

Yet after straining her hearing toward the nearby woods she could detect no sign of an enemy ambush, naught but the gentle rustle of the forest leaves in a light breeze. Or might it not be the advancement of some unknown enemy that had made the sound she had heard, but the stirring of one within their own camp instead?

She allowed her gaze to be pulled to a slight figure lying wrapped in several blankets as close as possible to the campfire. Her elf, Séremela sighed. She had been waiting for him to open his eyes for so long; many were beginning to wonder if the strange elf would ever wake, as it had been the better part of three days since Séremela's discovery of him. Though Erlómiel had insisted that they should not abandon hope, privately she warned Séremela that his prolonged period of sleep could still mean that his soul, which fought against the pull of Mandos, might never be successful in escaping.

Narmondor had not been pleased when presented with the situation, but after much pleading on the part of his daughter and the healer he had allowed that a crude litter be constructed for the injured elf that their pack pony might pull him by. Séremela had walked at his side like as an ever-faithful guard to his person.

Erlómiel and Séremela together tended to the strange elf as best they could, cooling his fevered brow with damp rags when his skin became hot to the touch and doing everything possible to warm his body, though the night was merely pleasantly cool and elves do not feel the elemental assault of weather under normal circumstances; Séremela began to despair of his recovery, for elves to her knowledge seldom if ever took ill. On this night Séremela had agreed to sit up and tend the campfire, and to care for the elf should he awaken in the night; she and Erlómiel had been taking turns doing so for the last several days. And it seemed that he was waking.

Séremela rose from her spot and moved swiftly and silently to kneel by his side, placing her hand gently upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. She could feel his body trembling beneath her touch, and was completely unprepared when the elf opened his shocking azure colored eyes and stared up at her, with fear and confusion prominent in his gaze. It took a moment for Séremela to speak, so lost was she in the depths of his ice, which seemed to speak of a being as ancient as Arda itself; only in the presence of Lord Elrond and some of the higher elves of his house had Séremela felt such a great age.

"Relax, mellon-nîn, you are quite safe here," she soothed softly, trying not to wake the remainder of her camp, for her father would be most displeased if she did.

Still the blue eyes were panicked. "Where –?" A voice, scratch with disuse, and yet holding a gentle, musical quality asked her. The blonde elf twisted and made as though to sit up, but Séremela pressed him firmly back down.

"Safe," she repeated, to be certain that he understood her. "You are with a company of elves traveling back to our home in Imladris."

"Im-ladris?" he questioned the confusion mounting in his gaze. He pronounced the name slowly, drawing out its sound on his tongue as though tasting it curiously.

"'Tis the house of Lord Elrond Half-Elven. Surely you have heard of it?" Séremela replied casually.

The elf frowned and shook his golden head slowly, and Séremela, catching the bemused look on his face, smiled reassuringly. "Never mind such things now," she instructed gently. "You have obviously gone through quite a trial to end up on these shores in such a state."

"Have I?" the elf spoke distantly now, as though he were only half hearing her words.

"Indeed," she agreed lightly. "For we discovered your body washed up upon the beach and at first thought that you were dead and your soul departed to the Halls of Mandos." The strange elf shuddered violently at her words and she looked him over in concern.

"Are you cold, mellon-nîn?" she asked. "Erlómiel, our healer, feared that might be the case, with your having been through such a horrible storm and coming out of it soaked to the bone. We did our best to clean you up when we found you, for you were absolutely covered in sand. New clothes shall be found for you in the morning, and we might do a little more to fix your appearance.

Through her small speech the strange elf said nothing, merely nodding his head absently, Séremela guessed that his thoughts were many miles away from her, but she continued on regardless. "You were out on the sea in a ship, mellon-nîn, were you not? There were ship debris scattered all around you, though that is all that we have guessed of you. Are you one of Círdan's people of the Grey Havens?" she questioned curiously.

"Círdan…" the elf murmured. "A name…familiar…"

Séremela began to grow alarmed as she noted his misery and panic rise. She began to suspect that there was something very wrong with him that she was yet unaware of, and resolved to find out what it was. "What is your name, mellon-nîn?" she asked steadily, partially to calm him and partially to calm herself. "Mine is Séremela, daughter of Narmondor."

"Name?" the elf repeated, lifting his head, and Séremela almost gasped upon looking at his vacant expression. "Do not know -- " he began to tremble.

Séremela's heart sank into her stomach in despair. She had heard of cases of this occurring occasionally, an illness of the mind where one forgot all or many of the things one had once known. Sometimes it left an elf as helpless as a newborn child, though they might be far beyond their majority. Her poor elf could not remember his name? His home?

She reached out to him and stroked his golden hair comfortingly. "Despair not, mellon-nîn," she told him in a whisper. "I shall take care of you now, and you shall be as a little brother to me, though I am quite certain that you are many thousands of years older than I. But be not afraid."

Slowly her elf relaxed into her touch and Séremela's heart was moved with pity for him. "So, what should your name be, hmm?" she purred soothingly, not wishing to alarm him any farther, but needing something to call him by. "Essëlaundur, perhaps? How's that, gwador?" She continued to stroke his long hair and murmur sweet but calming words of nonsense into his ear.

"Essëlaundur it shall be then," she decided when he said nothing in response, assuming that he did not mind. "I shall not allow anything bad to happen to you again, I promise. You shall come to Imladris with me, Ada cannot deny you this, and you might stay as long as you wish with us. As long as it takes you to recover your memories. And if that does not happen and you wish never to leave then you shall always have a home with me."

"Home," Essëlaundur mumbled, his eyes beginning to glaze over in the elven version of rest.

"That's right, home," she agreed fiercely.

"No…home anymore," he slurred his words slightly. "Gone."

"Hush, you should rest now, gwador. Rest," Séremela commanded.

"Muinthel…Sermë, thank you," he breathed softly before finally surrendering to sleep.

Séremela released him from her warm embrace and drew back to gaze upon his now peacefully slumbering form and tears came unbidden to her eyes. "Muinthel," she repeated in wonder, feeling at once honored and confused. Would Essëlaundur regret calling her as such in the morning, if he even remembered? How could he have such trust in her when he had spoken with her hardly at all?

"I think that you will recover yet, Essëlaundur," she whispered to him. "You have lived, so you must have great strength in you. I feel that the Valar have sent you to me so that I might protect you whilst you regain your memories."

She smiled. "Rest well."

Brief Notes:

1. Essëlaundur is another Quenya name that I have put together that, hopefully, means "no name". A bit cruel of Séremela to call him such, but I assure you it will be remedied later, though not, I think, by her. *smiles knowingly*

2. Mellon-nîn is probably a familiar elvish word for any LotR reader, but for those anyone who might be confused it means "friend".

3. The Sindarin word gwador might also be familiar, and it's meaning is very close to brother, but actually more of a "sworn brother" or "[male] aquaintance".

4. Muinthel is elvish for "sister", which I think (as always, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) is used more often by blood relations, and I used it here to show how Essëlaundur [Glorfindel] takes Séremela's words to heart and her promise that she'll watch over him as a brother. At least, that was what I was aiming for…

G A Mercy: *is frowning and scratching out sentences on her paper* Drat, this is not turning out quite the way I would like it to, you know. *begins marking up her paper thoroughly unsatisfied* I didn't like this chapter at all, and I don't know that I'm going to like many until I finally get Glorfindel to Imladris.

Glorfindel: *appears to be a bit distracted himself* Mercy, could you not – a little assistance, please?

G A Mercy: What could you possibly doing that is more important than what I am attempting, mellon? *grimaces and continues to ignore Glorfindel*

Glorfindel: Mercy! Your kittens are wrecking havoc on your office furnishings. *attempts to control Elrond and Glorfie kitties courtesy of tenshiamanda the LotR kitty keeper* Mercy!

Mercy: *blinks* …What?!

*loud ripping noise is heard*

Glorfindel: *sighs in defeat* Never mind. It is too late; your curtains have been thoroughly demolished.

Mercy: *looks quite unconcerned* That is the least of my problems at the moment, mellon. This is an imaginary office, imagine up new curtains if you so desire. And while you are at it, conjure me a little more inspiration, this story needs to move a little faster.

Glorfindel: *raises eyebrow* Oh, of course. Right away, arwenamin [my Lady] mutters unpleasantly about overbearing authoresses*

Mercy: If it were not too much trouble, would you leave a review before you leave? I apologize for the wait between updates, but life has a tendency of interfering at times and as I near the end of another school year I find myself positively loaded down with work.

Glorfindel: Yes, a review or two would be refreshing. Namárie. Tenn' enomentielva. [Goodbye. Until we meet again]