-Note- You know, I don't think I can write a chapter of this without some orange and spice tea next to me. Does this mean that orange and spice tea is my muse? /ponders/ Anyway, I'm going to say here that Glorfindel has crossed the Grinding Ice. Tolkien didn't tell us if he actually did it, but in this story, he did. :P
Thank you for all the birthday wishes! :D
-Disclaimer- Please see chapter 1.
An Adagio
When he visited her later that week, Mrs. Rosenthal was already on the tail end of the cold. They drank their tea, just the two of them, enjoying the peace and quiet. Ruth was not there, and when they met by chance in the lobby, she asked no more questions. Glorfindel suspected Mrs. Rosenthal had shushed her- he could imagine the old woman doing just that.
Glorfindel decided that even if he told Mrs. Rosenthal the truth about himself, she wouldn't care much. She was old and wise, and she was his friend. Some things, she had once told him, are just ridiculously unimportant.
(l)
He returned to the beach a week later. There had been a thaw, and temperatures had finally breached the freezing mark. The snow had melted, leaving behind and unpleasant sort of slush-and-sand mixture. Alyaran seemed pleased with it, and proceeded to roll in it.
He resigned himself to the prospect of a dog bath, turned away from the dirty animal. He was caught completely at unawares to see that he was being followed- from a lengthy distance, but he was certainly being trailed.
"Hello?" he called. The person stopped. He couldn't see much past a thick cloak and scarf. He realized it was a child.
"Where is your mother?" he asked, approaching the stranger.
The child- a boy- took off his hood. Was Glorfindel supposed to recognize him?
"She's in there," said the boy. He pointed a gloved finger in the direction of the sandwich shop. Glorfindel saw a woman sitting in a window booth, watching them.
"Don't you remember me?" asked the boy.
Glorfindel hesitated.
"You saved me."
"Oh!" said Glorfindel, wondering why he had not thought of that. "How are you?"
"Fine."
The boy was staring at him. His mouth was open. Glorfindel fought the urge to tell him that he'd catch a fly in it if he kept it open much longer.
"Are you an angel?" His voice was still high, having not yet broken.
"An angel?" Glorfindel repeated incredulously. "A…an…no, I'm not. Why…?"
"I thought…I thought you glowed."
Glorfindel winced inwardly. "No, it's a trick of the water and sun."
"It was cloudy."
"You were seeing something, child."
"Yes, sir." Disappointment was foremost in the boy's tone, and maybe a little intimidation.
Glorfindel stepped closer, kneeled before him. He set a hand on the child's shoulder.
"Child," he said, "Not all good deeds happen because of magic. Sometimes, they just happen. No flashes of light, no magic, no angels. Just people."
Glorfindel frowned. He was lying- caught by surprise and needing to play hero, he probably had cast aside something of his mild pretext. And at the same time, he spoke the truth. For all their faults, Men were capable of good- there was no need for magic beyond kindness.
"So you're not-"
"No," he lied, "I am just like you."
Alyaran pulled at the leash. Glorfindel grinned apologetically to the boy. "My dog says it's time to go. Take care of yourself, lad."
"You too."
Glorfindel nodded, walked past the boy.
He had put a reasonable distance between them when he heard the boy call something out to him. Glorfindel turned. The boy repeated.
"Thank you!"
(l)
It was cold again. The month of March was like this; teetering back and forth between blessed warmth and freezing cold.
He did not care for this month.
His symphony ticket in his jacket pocket, he got into his car, put the keys in the ignition. He jerked the key forward.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Some sort of whine from the engine.
He slipped his gloves off and tried it again.
Whiiiiiiine.
He sighed. "Have it your way," he said to his car. Not surprisingly, it did not respond. He got out, locked it, walked out of the parking garage, headed for the subway.
He had always been rather taken with the idea of a subway. For some reason, he thought being whisked off in an underground car was an exciting adventure; he could remember the first subway cars, and a time when the general rule of "No eye contact" did not apply. It made him feel old.
The subway was cold and dank. Trains whisked by, rattling and blowing his hair back in their wind. It was fairly crowded; people coming home late from work or dinner. Above the noise, he heard a saxophone from the street above, it's music floating down through the stairwell. He heard the jingle of coins in plastic cups.
The letters on the schedule board flipped down; two minutes until his train. He fingered the subway pass in his pocket, stepped through the turnstile. Lights embedded into the floor began to blink. He heard the train's approach, felt it through the cement floor. With a rush of air, it appeared, grinding to a halt with a screech of brakes.
He put the pass back into his pocket, stepped to the train, past an outcropping of wall. He looked beyond it; a gaunt man, sitting against it, with a cup in his outstretched hand. He looked away, then back to him. The man was watching him intently. His mold-colored gloves were cut off at the fingers, his long, black duster was patched and frayed. His blue eyes were sharp and clear, dark hair flowed long from under a brown cap.
They watched each other for a moment. Glorfindel, transfixed and taken aback, was frozen. Then, the stranger nodded. Glorfindel fumbled in his pocket, withdrew a dollar bill, placed it gently into the cup. There was a traveling lyre- no, Glorfindel corrected himself, a harp, by the stranger's side.
"You'll miss your train," said the stranger. He spoke musically, his accent soft and lilting. Glorfindel blinked quickly, tipped his own cap, and made it through the doors as they closed. He wanted to speak to the stranger, to learn more, but he respected the other's choice and silence.
He looked back at the man as he found a seat by the window, but the other had already looked away. Then, the subway car jolted forward, the station fell behind, the man disappeared.
He arrived ten minutes into the program. He found his seat- second level, first row. The hall was large and old, with paintings across the sloping ceiling of chubby angels, flowers, women, children.
Some sort of piano concerto was playing. He had heard it before, when he had been traipsing around Vienna with the twins and Lindir.
He relaxed. The music was slow this evening, and it ended with a relatively short piece, by Barber. Adagio for Strings. It had something of a hallowed feel for him, simple and beautiful. The sort of thing that could take his breath away, if he wasn't careful. He could see the overlook in Thranduil's haven in his mind's eye.
Ruth sat in half of the cello section farther away from the conductor. Newly hired, he supposed she would be sitting there for a few months at least.
The program ended, and he waited for the crowd to leave before he did. The hall was nearly empty when he left, the voices of a few musicians and concertgoers echoing from the carved walls. He picked up his cloak at the coat check booth, headed back to the subway, shreds of Barber's Adagio creeping about in his mind. His breath froze in the air.
He caught the subway, stepped off at his stop. He passed the empty wall against which the stranger had leaned, strode through the dark streets, rode the elevator to his apartment. He warmed up a freezer dinner, and when he had finished, he went to bed.
He dreamed that night, to music. As if a symphony was playing in his head. He dreamt of snow and ice, and a sea billowing before the gale. Then the sea turned to a white sail, and through the clouds, he saw the sun setting in the west.
(l)
Adagio for Strings was composed by the 20th century composer Samuel Barber. If you haven't heard it, you've missed out!
Thanks for reading! Review Responses:
Kazbels: Thanks! Glorfindel makes a terrific hero, and he ought to be old hat at it by now!
Avalon Estel: Alas, no Dunadan. But I am very flattered that my story is worthy of tailing! NaNoWriMo (sorry I forgot to explain this in last chapter's responses) is National Novel Writing Month. Between November 1st and November 30th, participants try to write a 50,000 word novel. You can find out more about it at www. nanowrimo .org (take the spaces out, first). Thanks for reviewing "Old Song!"
Crystal113: Hmm…I'm sure the police would be a bit boggled. He'd have to make up some sort of pitiful story…I'm glad it didn't happen! :) Thanks for bugging Lady Lunas to add "A Friday" to her C2! :D
Starlit Jewel: Thanks! A (somewhat late) Merry Christmas to you, too! :P
Joou Himeko Dah: Ruth and Glorfindel? Mmm…it could happen, but I'm not much of a romantic, so chances are slim. Sorry!
Shadowlessphantom: I agree! There is a dire need of more Glorfindel stories! Hey, without him, we'd be short a ringbearer (and I will happily disregard Arwen in the movie!).
Lady Lunas: Thanks, and thank you for reviewing "Old Song"! About the C2 community, I don't mind at all. And congratulations, novelist! Hooray! My name is Andante there- I think I've seen you around the LotR thread.
Noldo: It's wonderful to hear from you, and thanks for reviewing "Old Song". Jealous of my weather? I'm jealous of yours! 17? That's in the 60's for Fahrenheit! That's amaizing! And warm! As I posted the last chapter, it was a full -3 Fahrenheit outside. I'd email you a picture, but it's all starting to melt and turn into slush. Maybe next time…