Triwathon's gasp on seeing the tree beneath which Glorfindel was to lie had, he hoped, gone unnoticed by the rest of the company in general and his friends in particular. But as soon as he had seen it, taken in its graceful form, he had experienced a sudden flash of memory, the image of Parvon, wrapped in a towel and drying his hair; the same lithe line, somehow, in torso and uplifted arm as could be seen in the trunk of the tree and the lift of its branches.

The image was a distraction, perhaps a useful one, for it enabled him to get through the formal speeches for his friend the Balrog-slayer without being overcome by emotion.

It was hard, though, to leave him there, his friend who had liked honey beer, who had helped him so much with his career, building his confidence, knowing when to step away and let him take the promotion that had seen him take charge of the New Palace Garrison; he owed him so much.

And he wasn't able even to say his friend's name now, lest it disturb his peace.

Tomorrow, though. The Night of the Names, then he could talk about him, name him. If he could find anyone prepared to put up with him talking about his most recent loss.

There was someone, of course, who would know, understand, be willing to share the observances with him.

Parvon.

Yet Parvon had done so much already, was it fair to ask even more? He would give it, willingly, Triwathon knew; that was the thing with knowing someone was in love with you, though, you knew they would do anything you asked and not expect any return, but it was selfish and unkind to take advantage of them.

But so very, very easy to turn to them in crisis…

He tried not to; he hoped he managed not to stray across the line from friendship into needy expectation… but he was going to have to talk to someone…

That was tomorrow, however; tonight was the Yule Eve Feast and he would be expected to be there, with Parvon, flanking the king's place and trying to lead the populace in an evening of celebration.

But really, what did any of them have to celebrate?

A small, sharp sound in his vicinity caused him to bring his senses back to his surroundings. Slightly behind and off to one side, sheltered by the undergrowth from general observation, Arveldir had halted the horse on which Erestor sat and was talking to his husband softly; it was from Erestor that the sound had come, a repressed expression of pain, Triwathon thought, for the Noldo's eyes were rough with it, his expression tight and his face an unbecoming grey. At once he went across.

'How may I help?' he asked, and swallowed as he saw a stain of bright, pale red spreading across the sheepskin pad beneath Erestor's knee.

'I am fine.' Erestor bit down on the words, shaking his head. 'It is nothing, do not pay any attention to me.'

'Triwathon,' Arvledir said quietly, 'if you could get one of the healers to come out…'

'I am fine!' Erestor repeated, almost snapping at his husband.

'Of course you are, Master Erestor,' Triwathon said. 'I have said the same of myself, as they were trying to pull a spear from my side, I seem to recall… but your husband is anxious, and so, for his peace of mind, I will stay here with you while he does as he thinks fit – thus I will not get the blame.'

This made Erestor attempt a smile, and Arveldir took his husband's hand for a brief moment before inserting himself into the forest.

'I am sorry,' Erestor said after a little time had passed. 'I am being ungracious when you, and Arveldir, are simply trying to help. But I do not want help, I want to suffer, I do not believe anyone has the right to feel well today, not with Gl… your pardon, not with our friend lying there dead… I should not have ridden, I know, I should have permitted myself to be wheeled like cargo, or stayed in the palace, but I wanted to say farewell properly.'

Elrohir parted the undergrowth and slid through.

'Is everything all right?'

'Yes, Elrohir, we're fine here,' Erestor said.

'But I saw Arveldir running, so there must be something wrong, he's too aware of his dignity to be seen pelting through the forest for nothing…' Elrohir paused and paled as he saw the mess of pink staining on the sheepskin pad. 'You're bleeding. Or seeping, at least, your wounds have opened with the strain of the ride… oh, Erestor! Through the bandages and your clothes, too! You must be in so much pain…!'

'It is nothing. Others have had worse.'

'Yes, but that's not the point!' Elrohir shook his head. 'Let me see if I can help…'

'How, exactly?' Erestor asked. 'Arveldir has gone to fetch a healer and, I fear, an elf-barrow so I doubt there is anything I can do except wait…'

'I can bear you company and let Commander Triwathon get on with his work, at least,' Elrohir said. 'But I'd been reading some of Adar's old scrolls, you know, at home, hoping to find a way to help Daerada. And Mel showed me a thing or two about pain, so I can make you more comfortable, perhaps.'

'Really, Elrohir? You, who formerly resisted every attempt your father made to investigate whether or not you had any of his gift for healing, now you announce you have the talent?' Erestor lifted his eyes and glanced at Triwathon, who had shown no sign of wishing to take Elrohir up on his offer. 'Besides, I do not think the Commander is particularly busy with his duties at present.'

'Well, to be frank I didn't want people to see me just as a mirror of my father,' Elrohir said. 'And there was all that fighting I had to do, it gets in the way of healing sometimes, they say. So… I deferred, in case I wasn't any good when it mattered. Look, I won't do anything that will harm you, honestly, Erestor, all I need to do is just put my hand on your arm and sort of chant a little bit. And I don't think you need the chanting really, it's mostly to impress non-elves…'

'Oh, very well, then!' Erestor said with a scowl that was due more to his extreme discomfort than from any impatience with Elrohir. 'I suppose it won't do any real harm.'

So, looking so nervous and shy that it distracted Erestor from his pain even to the point of him wanting to laugh, Elrohir carefully placed his hands on Erestor's arm. Frowning in concentration, his mouth moved silently and he repositioned his fingers lightly once or twice.

'There, that should do it,' he said with a self-effacing shrug of the shoulders. 'I hope, anyway. Of course, if it works too well you'll be telling the healer you don't need them…'

'I wouldn't go quite so far,' Erestor said. 'But, yes, the discomfort seems less. In fact, I see no reason to wait when we could be moving, with due care, towards the New Palace; it would save Arveldir and the healer a walk, at least.'

'Then I'll go ahead and see if I can find him on the way,' Elrohir said. 'That's if you don't mind acting as escort, Commander Triwathon? I am not quite sure the horse knows the way for herself.'

'Are you truly in less discomfort?' Triwathon asked Erestor once Elrohir had left. 'For if not, we can wait here…'

'In fact, to my surprise, yes, he has helped. A pity, almost; to have such talents and come to them late… Better than not coming to them at all, I suppose.'

'Presumably there is not much need for healers in Imladris these days?' Triwathon asked, gently guiding the horse back to the trail. 'And you have… Melpomaen, is that right? My friend the seneschal, his special friend, I think I heard he is a healer?'

'He is, yes, and very talented. We have a number of human settlements around us; they are increasing rapidly, in fact, and often we are politely approached for help. Melpomaen has made several studies of human aliments and frailties, and they like him for his attempts to understand their ways.'

'He sounds to be a very talented elf,' Triwathon said with a hint of wistfulness in his voice. 'Perfect, one might say.'

'One might, but he would deny it most fiercely. And whom amongst us is perfect? Even our beloved old friend, he had his faults.'

'I suppose so…'

Not quite believing it himself, Triwathon let the matter go, trying to put aside the unwelcome, uneasy feeling that he wasn't quite as happy as he ought to be, that his dear Balrog-slayer had found someone to ease the loneliness in his final decades. He was glad there seemed no need to continue a conversation of any kind; Erestor was still in some discomfort, although trying not to show it.

They had almost reached the New Palace when Elrohir and Arveldir met them.

'Thank you, Commander, for escorting my husband,' he said. 'You, also, Elrohir, I am grateful. But Erestor and I will manage from here.'

It wasn't so much thanks as a dismissal with dire overtones, so Triwathon smiled and bowed and moved away.

'I hope you will feel better shortly, Master Erestor,' he said, politely formal. 'If you will excuse me, I must seek out Master Parvon in any case; now this sad event is over, we have a Yule Eve Feast to plan.'

He bowed and headed towards the entrance gates, to find Parvon waiting for him nearby.

'I heard my name mentioned,' he said. 'Will you come to the Palace Office to discuss the Yule Eve arrangements, or would you prefer a more private place?'

'My office, perhaps?' the commander suggested, leading the way smartly towards the garrison quarters. 'We will not disturb Master Faerveren then.'

'Master Faerveren, who will be heavily involved with the Yule Eve festivities himself? That same Master Faerveren? You do not intend to include him in our discussion?' Parvon asked.

'He may be busy filing, or something,' Triwathon said, holding open the door to his office for Parvon to pass inside. 'I am sure you can disseminate any decisions we come to.'

'Well, I can, of course…' Parvon took the seat offered him, waited for Triwathon to close the door and settle in his chair. 'Or you could come to the point; what is it you really want to talk about? Obviously, you have more on your mind than your supper…'

'In fact, yes… the tree…'

'Ah. Commander, I have told you, the one who offered it does not wish for recognition; do not ask me who…'

'I won't,' Triwathon said swiftly. 'Because I don't need to now. When I saw it, I knew.'

Parvon fell into an uncomfortable silence. He wanted to respond with a swift, acid remark, the sort of thing Arveldir could summon up without a blink, but he found himself at a loss.

'What I want to know,' the commander went on, 'is why the secrecy? Why didn't you just tell me?'

A heavy sigh as Parvon gathered his thoughts.

'Because I was doing it for Glorfindel, not for you. Well, no, I was doing it for you, really, so you could see he had somewhere special to rest. But I didn't want you think I was doing it for you, or so you'd be grateful, or think better of me, or… or… you see why?'

'Thank you. But I am grateful, it's a beautiful tree in a lovely setting. Parvon – I don't think you could do anything to make me think better of you – I already do.' Triwathon reached across the desk and laid his hand over Parvon's. 'You are my true, honest, reliable friend and I've lived with the awareness of your feelings for long enough to know you won't try to impose them on me by anything you do.'

'Hmm.' Parvon smiled, dipping his head and retrieving his hand as casually as he could, emotion catching him. 'Now it's I who am grateful. Tonight, then. You'll be at the top table, of course?'

'Of course. I suppose you want me to make a speech?'

'Yes. If you talk about how safe we are now, and about courage, I'll talk about moving forward with hope and new beginnings.'

'Yes, that sounds as if it will work. How are we for supplies? Do you need me to send any of my hunters out to supplement the stores?'

'No, I think we will manage. It's a time of year when they all tend to come in from the villages, anyway – we were well-stocked, ahead of the dragons… perhaps we'll have a light day or two in the coming weeks, but a lot will depend on the word from the Old Palace…'

'True. With luck, the bird will be there now. Or shortly, at least.'

'Of course, it was sent off before I killed…' He faltered. 'Before I…'

'Before the accidental death of the messenger,' Triwathon said.

'What if Thranduil doesn't see it like that when he finds out? What if he thinks we held back that piece of news? It will make me look even more guilty, and…'

'Accidental,' Triwathon repeated. 'You're not worried, surely? Not with Arveldir reporting the witness of none other than the Lord Námo himself?'

'I am, a little. Of course I am, it is a terrible thing to have done. Even though I would do it again if I had to. But…'

'Put it aside,' Triwathon said. 'I know that is easier to say than to do. I remember the first time I killed someone, I… had not wanted to. But it was my duty. And at least I had the training to prepare me for the emotional shock. If… if it troubles your heart, you could talk to Healer Maereth. Or to Arveldir; he has been forced to kill when he had not wished to, he will understand.'

'I do not want understanding,' Parvon said. 'I want to be free of the way it keeps coming back to me, the memory of the moment. When I least expect it, when I am doing nothing that ought to remind me. I can be talking to someone and there in my mind's eye I see again how he fell against the wall and was so still…'

'These things pass,' Triwathon said. 'They can take time to do so, but… they will pass.'

'No doubt,' Parvon said. 'But I am not entirely sure they should.'