Triwathon ran through the forest, not caring where he stepped, what dangers he might meet. He dodged around burning underbrush, leapt smouldering piles of leaves, following after the dragons almost oblivious to anything except the shadows in the sky. Somewhere behind him, following more circumspectly, Arveldir and Parvon and the Galadhrim followed as best as they could with an eye to the sky lest the Commander's heedless rush bring the attention of the dragon downs on him, as well.

But of their care Triwathon was ignorant.

He watched in dismay as the lead dragon dropped Glorfindel, in horror as a wyrmling caught him badly and thought he heard a scream. He did not allow it to slow his pace. It felt as if he was running forever, and part of him could not understand why all was still dark; surely, dawn should have come long ago?

In reality, it was less than an hour when the smell of blood assailed him and he dropped to a walk, peering through the branches and seeing, amidst the ruin of dead dragons, the body of his once so-beloved friend. His heart fractured, shattered and splintered apart as he never thought it could.

Approaching, and finding Glorfindel not dead, was joyous despite the injuries he could see, and without thought he knelt to his dear friend and cradled him, gently patting his face.

'…Glorfindel? Laurefindil? Wake up, please!'

Something patted lightly at his face.

'Glorfindel, iphant-nin?'

'Triwathon? Is that you, Commander?'

Glorfindel made himself concentrate. Now that Lord Námo had retreated, it was difficult to see properly again, but he from the voice, he was almost certain it was his former lover who had spoken. Whoever it was lifted his upper body, cradled him close in strong, shaking arms and kissed his forehead before looking down at him. The touch was familiar, affectionate and kind. And there was a face. Upside down: Triwathon's face was upside down in his field of view, his hair dangling and tangled, braids unravelling, his face tear-smeared. As Glorfindel tried to focus, the hold on him shifted, and Triwathon's face appeared the right way up again.

But just as tear-streaked.

'You did it, Laurefindil, you killed the dragon! The dragonets are all slain, the fires are dying out, we are all right… we will be all right…' Triwathon lifted his head so that Fin could only see the underside of his chin. 'Anyone? A healer here! A help here, hurry!'

Glorfindel moved his least damaged hand and Triwathon grasped it.

'Oh, my dear iphant, look at the state of you! What happened?'

'…killed the damn thing, what does it look like happened…? Asfaloth kicked it in the head, stopped it doing too much harm… look out for him, will you?'

'I'll search for him myself, once we have you taken care of.'

'Thank you, penneth.'

There didn't seem to be much to say other than to try to prepare Triwathon for his death, and if he mentioned it, then the danger was Triwathon would realise there was something seriously wrong and probably that moving the dragon would cause more serious damage… and Fin really, really didn't want to live now, not with all this and Triwathon talking and talking about how cold you are, Laurefindil, you have been missed, it's not been the same, and clutching him as if he still loved him…

'Commander? Are you there?'

'Parvon, yes! Bring help!'

'I am here,' Arveldir's familiar voice followed. 'Where are you?'

'Follow the smell of dead dragon,' Námo muttered in words that Glorfindel heard in his head. It made him want to giggle and he did smile.

'Hurry! Glorfindel is badly hurt!'

Arveldir and Parvon pushed through the trees from different quarters. Parvon gasped in surprise and horror while Arveldir hurried to drop to his knees at Glorfindel's side.

'Oh, my friend, my dear old friend… are you in much pain?'

'Not really,' Fin said. 'I was, but it passed…'

More voices, more elves… Galadhrim, Fin thought, little, twittery voices, somehow. He was starting to feel really tired now, to want to be gone.

'We need to get this thing off him,' Triwathon said. 'Come, someone, help.'

'Should we not wait for a healer?' Arveldir suggested. His eyes sought out an area of shadow that wasn't really a shadow; he swallowed, recognising Námo, guessing at what was to come. 'Is there not a risk…?'

'Arveldir,' Fin interrupted. 'Get this damn dragon off me. And tell Mel, Asfaloth… his, now…' He was vaguely aware of orders being given, of the Galadhrim clustering. Suddenly a weight lifted from his lower body and he felt the rush of blood with something close to relief. He took a breath and looked up into Triwathon's face, remembering how shy the Commander had been when first they'd met, how he'd grown in confidence and lived through so many dangers to come to this. And even though Glorfindel now was torn with guilt for not remaining celibate until he could be reunited with Ecthelion, still, his affair with the young Commander had been borne from need rather than lust. Even so, it had been wonderful; warmly affectionate, hotly passionate, endlessly healing… 'Triwathon, you've been amazing; you've done so much…'

'Oh, my dear, dear Honey-Beer, I… come, you cannot die, you cannot, I made towels for you again, they are back in my rooms, blue towels with golden flowers, just like I always send, and… Laurefindil, you cannot die like this, I need to talk to you, to tell you something, I… You said, a lot to catch up on…'

Hands reached, tried to staunch the bleeding. Voices rose and fell, distant, making no sense any more. Behind Triwathon's head, Námo was waiting. He beckoned and opened his coat, indicating an inside pocket. Glorfindel felt cool, weightless now the heaviness of his blood was draining away. He smiled, and kept smiling, seeing beyond Triwathon to the peace that waited for him. He went to take another breath…

…and didn't. Was standing with Námo's hand on his shoulder watching the response to his death. Parvon saw it first, he thought, and was there, kneeling at Triwathon's side when the Commander realised. Triwathon responded next, threw his head back and wailed, a huge, primal outpouring of grief that would have startled Glorfindel, had he not just been separated from his body and therefore not prone to such excesses of feeling; whatever the Silvan had been about to stay remained locked in his heart. The anguish of his grief alerted Arveldir, whose mouth compressed in a grim line for a moment before he looked directly at Námo and bowed, his hand over his heart.

Glorfindel waved – or rather, his fëa did, and Námo chuckled, looking down on the Balrog-Slayer with affection.

'Ah, but he can't see you, my friend, only me. And I am not about to stop and chat to him. Now, is there anything you want to do here or can we get on?'

'Not here, no. Poor Triwathon, he looks terribly upset…'

'Well, he was in love with you not so long ago; I should think that has an effect, you know. But he'll get over it. There is an irony, if you think about it…'

'Is there?'

'Perhaps you do not know… I offered him the same choice I offered you – didn't gloss over the pain waiting for him – and he chose to live. So that he could see you again. Bless these Silvans, they are odd how they process emotions at times…'

'I hope he doesn't think I… oh, if he finds out I could have lived and didn't…'

'Oh, well, it's not something he's likely to ever know really, is it? I don't see myself telling him, anyway. So. You mentioned something you wanted to do…?'

'My friend Melpomaen in Rivendell. I said farewell, but… I'd like to see him again, make sure he's all right. Kiss him goodbye, sort of thing.'

'You sound wistful, Balrog-Slayer. Melpomaen… I don't think I've had to cross paths with him yet.'

'He's nice. Really kind-hearted and gentle. He's in love with our minstrel Lindir, who's in love with a human woman who…'

'I'll stop you there, it's already far too complicated. Rivendell… hmm… I could do with having a word or two with someone myself… Yes, all right. Come on, then.'

'I don't quite know what you want, Lord…'

'Of course, you were really out of it last time, you won't remember… and it only looks as if I'm putting you in my pocket. It helps me remember how many passengers I have on board.'

Namo made a swirling gesture with one elegant, pointed finger, and Glorfindel found himself spinning. As he twisted round and round, he felt as if his fëa was condensing, compressing down while all around him grew… but as he diminished, so he could see tiny sparkles of light, fragments of gold flickering around and over him. A sense of space grew over him, making the forest around fade away into darkness.

Warm and oddly comfortable, enjoying the dance of the golden particles, Glorfindel's fëa slept.

Arveldir found tears streaming down his face. Across from him, Parvon, too, wept for the passing of the Balrog-slayer, the Hero of Gondolin. Triwathon clutched Glorfindel tightly, rocking him and sobbing as if his heart was broken. The Galadhrim looked at each other, moved by the death but bewildered by all these tears.

Well. Someone had to take charge, and Glorfindel had been part of Arveldir's adoptive household, after all.

'Glorfindel, my old friend,' he said, looking at the dead warrior but his mind focussed on the dark shadow between the trees. 'After all you have done for us… we will never be done honouring you for your service. Be well, my friend, until we meet again. I know the Elvenking would thank you for your sacrifice. As for me, I thank you for your many kindnesses, for all those times you stood at my husband's side when I could not be there, for your friendship. I will remember you.'

Rising to his feet, he bowed to his dead friend and then turned towards the Galadhrim.

'Thank you for your help,' he said. 'I think what we now need is to find a way of bearing Lord Glorfindel's remains in honour to the New Palace. Word must be passed, too, that the dragons are all dead and the trails are safe once more. Come with me; I will show you the way.'

'I do not understand.' Lumormen came forward from amongst the Galadhrim. 'Death is dreadful, of course, for any of us. But this seems… not to diminish Lord Glorfindel's sacrifice, but we will all be reunited, in Valinor, why such deep mourning? When we sail, there will be many reunions with those who have been in Lord Námo's care…'

Arveldir sighed and shook his head sadly.

'We, the Silvans of the Greenwood, of Eryn Lasgalen, we do not sail. For Triwathon, this is the last time he will see his friend, unless he, too, dies.'

Lumormen paused for a moment, trying to comprehend the depth of grief this concept brought.

'I see. Then you have my sympathy, Lord. Now, you wished our aid?'

'Follow me.'

Leading the way from the glade, Arveldir paused to send out his identifier call, hoping that there would be someone who would come; this was altogether too much, he wanted Erestor and where was he…?

Presently, just before they reached the main trail to the New Palace, he heard an answer to his call and from an opening amongst the tree roots a cluster of dishevelled Silvans emerged, one of them with an infant in his arms.

'We need to beg pardon,' he said. 'This was someone's resting place and we entered to save our children. And ourselves.'

Arveldir nodded. Silvans traditionally used such tree-caves to lay to rest their dead, and it was considered improper to enter thoughtlessly; symbols scratched in the bark of the tree made it plain where there had been a burial and who was interred, so there was no reason to accidentally stray.

'You have elflings with you,' Arveldir said. 'I do not think the occupant of the sanctuary would begrudge you their space, not to keep safe your children. But the Night of the Names approaches; you may apologise then, if you wish. Now come, the danger is past. Return to the New Palace, and if you would help, pass the word that all the dragons are slain, and that I, Arveldir attest to it. And if you will, take these Galadhrim with you, show them the way; they are on an errand for me.' He nodded to the Galadhrim. 'Someone will come back with you. For now, say nothing of why you need the equipment.'

He laid his hand on the trunk of the tree, murmuring a few words of thanks for its sanctuary on behalf of those who had found shelter there; for himself, he did not think the dead would mind company…

The dead… Glorfindel, lost…! Ai, if only he had realised the extent and placing of the Hero of Gondolin's injuries, that moving the dragon would compromise his safety…

Arveldir sat down with a thud against the tree. Glorfindel had known; he must have done; he had survived enough battles, been injured often enough, and Námo, waiting in the shelter of the forest shadows… well, Fin had to have understood what would happen, and certainly he would have been a long time healing… and then, how long would he have felt obliged to stay in Middle Earth? Until Arwen aged and died? Until her brothers had finished grieving her? Would the Seneschal of Imladris have ever been finished with his duties to the House of Eärendil, otherwise?

It was sad, though, grievously sad. Glorfindel would be missed, not just as the seneschal but as a true and loyal friend… Ai! Lindir would feel this loss particularly, for Fin had supported the minstrel through a difficult time in his life… but Melpomaen, perhaps, would be most affected; his subtle arrangement with Glorfindel had been noted, and their privacy respected… it did not seem to have been an overwhelmingly intense affair, perhaps just a meeting of lonely hearts… even so, Melpomaen had a tender heart and Arveldir resolved to keep a proper eye on him when they returned to Imladris.

When they returned? How soon was that likely to be, with the New Palace in disarray and the outlying villages in ruin? The news must go back to Imladris as quickly as possible, but it was not something you could trust to just a messenger… and yet who was there to send? Who could be spared without splitting fëa-mate from fëa-mate, fracturing already fragile people more? Rusdir and Elrohir, too cruel to part them… as for himself, chances were Parvon would need his help and that left Erestor, but to send his husband away to bear the burden of sharing such awful tidings was impossible…

Finally the thought he had been continually trying to ignore rose up again like a roaring dragon in his fëa: where was Erestor? He had not seen him since the confusion in the clearing when the flames parted them…

Arveldir laid back his head and sighed.

All he had to do was reach out with his fëa and seek his husband, and he would find him, their bond was that strong. But there was the fear that he might not find him, than Námo had taken more than just Glorfindel away with him…

'Better to know, than to not,' he said aloud, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to think of Erestor, of the bond they shared…

…yes! He did not know where, or what, but there was the touch of his mate's mind; Erestor was irritated about something, trying not to show it… the mood broke abruptly, and relief flooded into Arveldir's mind; relief from Erestor sensing his concern…

Erestor was safe. It was all Arveldir needed to know.