Dawn had broken over the forest as they brought Glorfindel in through the garrison gates, hunters and guards lining the courtyard and corridors, standing silent as the bier went past with Triwathon and Parvon walking at its side. A murmur followed as those standing by recognised the golden hair, realised who had died in their forests that morning.

Rather than lay Glorfindel beside the other fallen Silvans, Parvon had sent ahead requesting a separate room be made available in the garrison, and Captain Narunir had seen it done; a chamber on the outer edge of the barracks, intended as a briefing room but presently unoccupied, had been readied to receive the Balrog-slayer's remains. A long table and chairs, a pitcher and ewer, cloths and bindings lay ready for proper preparation of the body, for, of course, everyone would want to pay their respects.

Glorfindel was placed reverentially on the table, the Galadhrim who had carried him bowing gracefully as they retreated. Outside, it seemed the entire garrison was gathered, waiting to hear the story behind this sad arrival.

Parvon addressed them.

'We need a few moments, and then we will ask for volunteers to sit with the fallen while we attend to pressing business. We thank you for the honour you offer Glorfindel, Seneschal of Rivendell, Balrog-Slayer and now Dragon-Slayer, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.'

Inclining his head to them, he shut the door in their faces and went to where Triwathon was standing beside his dead friend. He was crying again, silently, tears making silver runnels down his face.

Parvon knew better than to tell him not to weep. Instead, he put his arm around Triwathon's shoulders for a moment in a gentle, non-intrusive squeeze.

'I am sorry for your pain, Triwathon,' he said. 'So brave and honourable an ellon, so good a friend… I could not help liking him.'

'Parvon, he… oh… what will we do now?'

'We will tidy him a little. Just a little, for there is not time to properly wash and dress him, not yet. But we will make him look more comfortable. And then we will do what we must for the palace while the guards pay their respects. Would you permit me to help?'

Triwathon nodded.

'He would be honoured, I am sure. Oh, Parvon…!'

The advisor took cloths and a bowl of water to the side of Glorfindel's table, began to wash the blood from his face and hands.

'It is difficult to shake the sense that something bigger than Glorfindel has ended today; he was so much a part of this world for so long and now… ' Parvon sighed. We Silvans, we never thought what we would do when all the other elves sailed, or died, but now I begin to see how terribly, terribly lonely we will be, even in our forest.'

Triwathon untangled Glorfindel's golden hair from its untidy bun and began to comb it through with his fingers.

'To me, it seems he was the Third Age… I know, they say that of other elves, and I know he was here in the Second Age, but for me, he is the one… I loved him, Parvon, and now he is dead, and…'

'He loved you, and he will not be dead forever. We know this. True, unless we sail, we are unlikely to meet again, but that is our choice, our Silvan choice.'

'I do not think I will ever sail. Not… not even for Glorfindel.'

Parvon nodded. It would have been easy to point out that Glorfindel has his fëa-mate waiting in Valinor and Triwathon might not exactly be welcome if a reunion were ever to come to pass, but he was not entirely sure that the Commander's feelings for the Balrog-Slayer had worked themselves out yet, and it would have been unkind.

'He would not expect you to go against your beliefs and wishes just for him. There, he looks more at ease now. Later, there will be time to properly prepare him, dress him in the garments he used to favour, bind or cover his injuries. But for now, the guard will wish to pay their respects…'

'Yes, they know what death looks like. They will honour him the more for seeing him as he lies in his injuries.'

He wiped his hands absently and went to the door.

'Volunteers, please, two to stand watch on the door while the guard remember him, and two to sit with Glorfindel who killed the last of the dragons for us. Yes, thank you. We will be back later to tend him, once the palace is secured. If you need me, send to the Palace Office; if I am not there, someone there will be able to locate me.'

The Commander set off through the garrison, his back rigid, his pace swift, locked in iron control. At his side, Parvon moved with equal speed and solemnity, giving dignity to Triwathon's silent grief, the two making their way into the corridors and passages of the New Palace proper. A sudden ringing caused Triwathon to halt and shake his head.

'They are calling breakfast? It cannot be!'

'What, we cannot hold breakfast because of this disaster?'

'No, simply the hour must be wrong; surely it is far later… I do not understand how it cannot be later…'

'I know. So much has happened; there has not been time for everything, has there? Will you go to your quarters and eat there? I am going to the King's Office, of course, if you want to be on hand, we can ask for food there…'

'Yes, that will be best… but I do not think I could eat…'

'You should try. Take some water and lembas, if nothing more. Our people will need you strong, Commander.'

Arveldir greeted them when they arrived at the King's Office.

'Although this is your place, Parvon, forgive me. I understand Faerveren is busy organising accommodations for those elves who have come in from the damaged villages; he said he would have food sent in for us. Erestor has been listing those elves we know to be safe, but there are too many gaps. Commander, will you not sit?'

Triwathon nodded and sank into the nearest chair, rubbing his face with his hands.

'Thank you, that's what we need, to be able to account for everyone,' Parvon said. 'There will be many elves misplaced, if nothing more… I do not suppose anyone knows how the healers are coping…?'

'Healer Maereth tended to me when I came in,' Erestor said. 'She and her team were pressed for space, but were keeping up with the number of casualties,' Erestor paused. 'She was very kind.'

'Yes, Mae is one of the best,' Triwathon said. 'So, we will need…'

'We will need to consider whose responsibilities lie where, Commander,' Parvon said. 'The Palace Office will deal with matters pertaining to civilians, the garrison to those of security. Respectfully, do not try to take charge of everything, we are not at war, we are – now – clearing up after a series of natural disasters. I would say, largely, your work is done, mellon-nin, at least for the moment. Come through to the inner office, you too, Erestor, Arveldir. Somewhere there is an emergency bottle…'

Erestor reached down behind the desk and retrieved the bottle of spirits.

'We have had several emergencies already, Parvon, as you see.'

'Yes, indeed. Well, go through; I would appreciate a full account, if you can, of how things have been here.'

The morning passed in a stuttering of events as more refugees came in and needed to see the healers, or rooms finding for them, their names put on the lists that now were being copied and posted at every entrance and crossing of corridors. There were more important things to do, perhaps, but those who had been on difficult tasks found a little peace in the simplicity of copying names for half an hour, and could then return to organising the palace somewhat refreshed.

Triwathon returned to his office in the garrison where he read documents, issued orders, listened to reports, and generally tried to maintain morale amongst his command. Having him there seemed to steady the rest of the company, so that the guards stood straighter, braced their shoulders back, believed they could weather the present storm. He tried not to dwell on the fact that a few doors away, Glorfindel was lying in state, cold and dead. For him, it was over.

Indeed, it was over for everyone, except for the cleaning up.

Except for the cleaning up. And the burials. Triwathon sighed. Not just Glorfindel, not only Rusdir's sister, but others, too. Seven now lay at rest in the Quiet Room near the healers' chambers, Canadion and Triwathon had reported two bodies in the forest, others told of elves attacked, or burned… that it could have been worse was no comfort to those who had lost husbands, wives, parents, lovers, that none of his guard had died during the rescue operations was a relief; it meant he did not need to feel guilty, his orders had not sent any to their death.

With a sigh he turned to the task of formally committing the events of the night to a document for carriage to the Old Palace, trying to be objective, impassive, to keep the horror from the words, making a point of mentioning those who had volunteered their services, praising the courage of his troops and, finally, mentioning the part played by Glorfindel of Imladris in eradicating the dragons.

There was more he could say, but much would be covered by the Palace Office; this was meant to be a tactical report on the actions of his troops.

A knock on his door, and his second was there.

'Commander? Word has come that all the fires are out, and teams of volunteers are bringing home any remaining fallen.'

'Thank you. Take over for me here; I'm going to speak with the King's Office again. We will need to arrange a message to the Old Palace…'

'Oh, the messenger came in this morning; he's around somewhere. I will have that sent to the Palace Office for him, shall I, save you the task?'

Triwathon paused to consider. Parvon's words about whose responsibilities lay where had rankled a little; he had only been trying to offer the support of the garrison, not attempt to take the New Palace under his orders, and so perhaps he would do well to keep away from the Palace Office for a little longer…

'Do so. My thanks.'

Faerveren, back on duty in the outer office, was glad there was a desk between himself and Girithon, for the messenger was no better behaved than he had been on his first visit.

'I take it you are here to collect the messages for the Old Palace?'

'In fact, I was here to collect you for the afternoon… I have found the perfect place…'

'Girithon, I must insist that you confine yourself to matters of work; I have no interest and I am, in fact, busy… now, these are to go immediately, and you will need to return to the garrison, for I am fairly sure that Commander Triwathon has a missive to add…'

'Now, don't be like that! It's been a long ride…'

'I am sure it has, from the length of time it has taken you.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

Too late Faerveren remembered he had yet to confirm his suspicions with another member of the Palace Office; now was not the time for accusations without proof. He pushed out from behind his desk and stalked to the main office door, holding it open.

'Good day, Girithon! You will probably find the Commander in his office.'

Erestor called out from the inner study.

'Is all well, Faerveren?'

'Yes, just that messenger again! Honestly, I do not know why we employ him…'

'We do so in order to keep track of him,' Arveldir said, leaving the inner office. 'He has made a nuisance of himself more than once and short of imprisoning him, or exiling him, this was the best alternative, I seem to remember. Make sure you officially report his behaviour to Parvon when he returns; you will not been seen as complaining, it is important that such as he do not get away with their unpleasant words and suggestions.'

'Or you could just tell your honour-uncle Thiriston,' Erestor suggested. 'I am sure he would be delighted to point out to Girithon that such ways of speaking are very ill-mannered.'

Faerveren grinned suddenly.

'You know, I think I might just do that,' he said. 'If it were not for the other matter…'

'There is another matter?' Arveldir asked swiftly.

'Yes; I need to lay it before Master Parvon before anything can be done…'

'Lay what before me, Master Faerveren? Is all well?'

Parvon had entered the outer office and when the junior scribe turned, he was surprised by the relief in in Faerveren's eyes.

'In fact, not really, there are… well, I will present you the evidence and you may draw your own conclusions…'

'Before we go into that,' Erestor called through, 'I feel it my duty to point out that earlier today I witnessed the messenger, Girithon, making inappropriate and unwelcome advances towards your scribe…'

'Thank you,' Faerveren said. 'But that is less important than this matter…'

'I should dearly like to know what this matter is, Faerveren,' Parvon said, trying to be patient for his junior had been under rather a lot of pressure and deserved some forbearance, 'if it can be worse than Girithon…'

'If I hand to you the missives brought, perhaps Master Erestor would tell you my concerns more objectively than I…?'

'Gladly,' Erestor called through. 'In fact, I think Master Faerveren has a strong point…'

For all Triwathon had said he would be available, the Commander was not to be found. Not in the Palace Office, nor his own office. Servants said he was not in his quarters, nor had he been heard of in the healers' rooms or the adjacent Quiet Room laid aside for the Silvan dead. He had last been seen a little while after the daymeal near the outer doors, and some speculated he had gone into the forest to look for the sites where the dragons had carried the elves their prey, but none of the door wardens could confirm having seen him.

But the fact was that Triwathon had needed to be with Glorfindel, and so he turned his back on work and retreated to the room where he lay in state. He nodded to the guards on duty outside – Thiriston and Canadion had been taking a turn – with thanks. Something about his attitude made Thiriston take the liberty of patting his shoulder.

'Won't mention we've seen you for an hour or so,' he said. 'You look like you need a bit of time.'

Triwathon nodded, moved by the unexpected sympathy.

Alone with Glorfindel, he took a seat beside him and dropped his head into his hands. This was not supposed to have happened, it wasn't right, wasn't fair! Glorfindel had already died horribly once; that it should happen again, and to save him, his Silvans… it was too much… and then, although they had spoken of their affair being over – and it was, it had been, it was time… even so, the feelings Triwathon had harboured for the golden-haired hero were still there, only just beginning to fade…

He sat in misery for what felt like hours before something, some warrior instinct alerted him and he looked up, wiping his eyes. To be found like this by anyone other than Parvon would be unbecoming…

A knock at the door and it opened to show an ellon in messenger garb.

'Do I intrude?' he said. 'Girithon, on my way with messages for the Old Palace, Commander. I was told you might have something for me?'

'All messages to the Old Palace are sent to the Palace Office for collection, Girithon, including my own.'

'Of course.' Girithon glanced into the corridor behind him and shut himself in the chamber with Triwathon. 'You look sad, Commander. I'm sorry to see it and I'm sure your dear friend would be sorry also.'

'…what?' Triwathon managed.

'I always admired the Balrog-Slayer, of course,' the messenger said. 'I'm older than you, well, older than many, truth to tell, and so I've heard his stories forever. Not just about Old Gondolin, but the Last Alliance… he knew how to walk through death, that one.'

'What do you want?' Triwathon asked.

Girithon approached, reached out with certainty and pulled him to his feet, shock making Triwathon unable to resist, to form a proper protest.

'It's more a case of what you want, Triwathon… I know how it is, times like this, people die, others live, and we have to mark it, to make it real, show ourselves we're not dead yet. To be frank, Commander, we need to lose ourselves in the animal side of our natures, to prove we're still here, we need to connect, to fuck and be fucked, as the humans say… you look shocked, penneth, I'm sure you've heard the words before. They're the only ones fitting, really, for the raw power of what you need. I know the look in your eye, I know the need for more than just the release…'

Girithon placed his hands on Triwathon's shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. Triwathon gulped. How could this ellon know, how could he guess that what Triwathon wanted more than anything was the chance to lose himself, to be lost in physical sensation? It was what he had done after his best friend had died, sought solace with another, and it had worked, at first, and then Glorfindel had rescued him from his despair and self-loathing and now Glorfindel, too, was dead and who was there now…?

'…It has to be hard, and fast, and brutal, because death is brutal, and life is brutal, and afterwards you won't be able to look me in the eye, but that's all right, it won't matter, you will know, and I will know that I pulled you back from the brink, that you feel this death was your fault and you need to feel it every way you can…'

No. No, this wasn't right, that wasn't how it was meant to be, but somehow Girithon had his hands around Triwathon's neck, around his throat, was holding tight and leaning in as if he was about to kiss him and… no, not with Glorfindel here, it would be wrong, it wasn't what he wanted anyway, but Girithon was so strong and the hands closing over the blood vessels on either side of his neck and Triwathon walking, being pushed backwards, everything going faint and dizzy and through it all the rough, mannish words, Girithon talking of fuck and fucking and something was wrong because in spite of everything his loins were quickening and if he didn't stop this he would be hard and desperate and it disgusted him that his body would betray him so, and there was only Girithon but the ellon was repulsive even as he was compelling and the hands around his throat squeezing and releasing just enough to keep him conscious and…

Click.