About an hour before Parvon intended to check arrangements in the dining hall for the Yule Eve Feast, a messenger brought him a polite note from Arveldir requesting a few moments, if he could spare them.

Handing over care of the office to the long-suffering, but ever-helpful Faerveren, he made his way to his friend and former mentor's suite.

'How is Erestor?' was his first question when Arveldir opened the door.

'Parvon, thank you for coming. Please, step in. Erestor is sleeping. ' Arveldir closed the door and tried to smile. 'Which you must realise is not usual. Healer Maereth sedated him, in fact; his wounds had reopened, and there is no healing spidersilk left.'

'I see. I am sorry to hear he has been in pain. I hope you are not too concerned?'

'Naturally, I am anxious; he is my fëa-mate. But I am assured he will be better when he wakes, and I now learn I can even call on Elrohir to help, if I am really desperate…' Arveldir shook his head. 'I hope it will not come to that. Not that I doubt Elrohir's willingness, but I would rather see his ability tested on another person's spouse rather than my own… However, you must be busy. I will come to the point. Erestor and I will not be dining in the hall tonight. I do not wish to leave him and, even with the assistive wheeled chair, it will be uncomfortable for him.'

'I quite understand, of course. I will arrange for you to be served in your rooms.'

Arveldir inclined his head.

'I am grateful. And thinking ahead… I have sent a note inviting Triwathon to share the private observances with Erestor and me tomorrow night.'

Parvon heard the words almost as if from down a long tunnel. He gulped, tried to compose himself.

… but how could he, how could Arveldir do this to him? The one night of the year when Triwathon came to him, needed him, Parvon, and nobody else would do, the only occasion when Parvon knew he really, really mattered to the commander… all year he lived on the memory, the hope of the previous and next Night of the Names and now…

'What?' he managed.

'Parvon? Is anything amiss?'

'Of course,' Parvon said, trying to recover his usual manner. 'If you think… It is well to do so, I am sure. I… I suppose, all these years with only Erestor to share with, or perhaps occasionally Rusdir, it must be something you have missed, sharing the Night of the Names with a fellow-Silvan… although if…'

'It is not that,' Arveldir said hastily, aware that somehow he had mis-stepped. 'My observances at Imladris have always been most fulfilling. I meant simply, knowing of your feelings for the commander, recognising it could be difficult for you to hear him talk of his friend the Balrog-slayer; after all, he will wish to reminisce, to grieve, perhaps – I was in the hopes it would spare you the distress…'

'I see.' Parvon took a deep breath, slowly, in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to balance his emotions. 'In which case, it is very kind of you. But it is – it has been – it is what we do, Triwathon and I, Lord Arveldir; after the public observances, it is known that the commander and the chief advisor share the honour-meal between privately together. Even when the king is in residence. I wonder if, when it is known that Triwathon comes to your table instead, it might disturb the mood of the populace at a difficult time. Besides which, I have heard Triwathon so often speak of his regard for Glorfindel that one more night would make no difference to me. However…'

'Parvon!' Arveldir interrupted, aghast. 'You … you spoke his name! You named the Seneschal of Imladris! We gave him full Silvan rites!'

'We did.' Parvon bowed his head for a moment, but looked back up, unabashed. 'But he is not Silvan, and no matter how long his remains blur into the forest, no matter how much he becomes one with the trees, he will not become Silvan; he will always be too much himself for that. Besides which, it is my understanding that there is a hiatus for the fëa while Lord Námo enables its transition from shade to denizen of the Halls of Waiting; he will not be aware yet that he is talked of out of season. In any case, you cannot tell me that the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin would not be happy to hear himself spoken of; he will not know the circumstances are not in direct praise of him, even if he is aware of my use of his name.'

'You may well be right in that,' Arveldir said. 'But I think Commander Triwathon might be distressed to hear you put it so.'

'I will bear that in mind, of course.' Parvon did not mention that he had already used Glorfindel's name in Triwathon's presence, that the commander had not seemed to notice. 'What time would you like to begin your observances tomorrow? I will need to ensure that we are done with the public ritual in time for the commander to join you. And, of course, I will need to make alternative arrangements for my own commemorations…'

Arveldir almost winced.

'Ai, Parvon, forgive me!' he said. 'I had been thinking so much of sparing you from hearing Triwathon's grief at his friend's death that I had not stopped to consider that you have your own names to bring forth. It is too thoughtless of me…'

'No, do not worry; it would be easily arranged. Healer Maereth keeps a room and is always available for those who have no other to share with. Besides which, Faerveren may like to join me; he will see it as a mark of attention which is well deserved, so hard has he worked, and…' Parvon paused, as Erestor's voice from the next room called Arveldir's name softly, giving him a chance to stop talking what he felt was rapidly becoming gibberish. 'Your husband is awake – you will want to attend him.'

'Parvon, if this is not what you wish…'

Parvon smiled, shaking his head. 'No, Arveldir, it was kindly done, and Triwathon will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. Perhaps you could tell me tomorrow morning what time you decide to host your meal? Please give Erestor my best wishes. Good evening.'

Erestor called again, and as Arveldir turned to answer, Parvon made his escape.

He hastened to his own quarters, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to cry without really knowing what had distressed him so – Arveldir's misplaced kind intentions, or the knowledge that this Night of the Names would, indeed, be hard for Parvon, almost as hard to hear Triwathon's grief as it would be for the commander to speak it. Or perhaps it was simply the enormity of everything that had happened in such a short space of time that now made Parvon shake and tremble and feel utterly miserable.

Whatever it was, he locked the door, hid himself away beneath the washing cascade which he hoped would drown out any sound he might make (or which might come from outside such as a knock on his door) and attempted to purge his emotional excesses beneath the streaming water.

As the hot needles hit and splashed on his skin, he began to find clarity.

Previously, he realised, he had coped with Triwathon talking about Glorfindel, knowing the emotions between them, knowing, also, that Glorfindel was only ever going to go back to his Ecthelion; Parvon had been able to accept Triwathon not seeing himself as a possible lover, not while the commander's eyes were full of the Balrog-slayer – Parvon was just not good enough to compare, he knew that, had always known it. But now the Seneschal of Imladris was dead, really, really gone from Triwathon's life, and Parvon had to face the fact that he still wasn't going to be good enough, and that… that was what hurt. It didn't matter that Glorfindel's name would no longer be discussed, or referenced, or would be deliberately avoided; it was just one fewer thing about which Triwathon would be able to unburden himself to Parvon, one reason fewer for them to talk together… and without Glorfindel as a foil against which to pitch himself, Parvon was certain, deep down in his fëa, that he would never measure up in Triwathon's eyes. Arveldir's invitation to Triwathon had just taken away one of those precious occasions which at least gave Parvon a chance to at least be an understanding, needed friend to Triwathon.

The water washed, rinsed, removed another layer of self-defence and Parvon shook his head in denial, defiance… Ai! But he hated himself for longing for the commander's approval. On one level, there was a part of him that still recalled his outrage when he had first realised his fëa wanted Triwathon, then nowhere near as respectable a person as he was now… and at times like this, that younger, outraged Parvon would rise up from some part of him with a reminder that perhaps Parvon deserved better than a poacher's assistant, that maybe he should just accept he would never find complete romantic happiness; there were, after all, people whose fëa-mates were unavailable and they found some comfort in the affection of those who were almost a perfect match, such as the relationship between Triwathon and Glorfindel had been… or perhaps Parvon should just jump on a ship and sail to the Undying Lands, even if he was Silvan and supposed to disdain such things as the Promise…

He turned resolutely under the stippling rain, ignoring what might have been a knock on the door. It was just his imagination, and were it not, then whatever the problem might be, it would keep. For it seemed to him that nobody ever came seeking him unless there was a problem he might solve, a difficulty about which he might advise. True, it was his job, but sometimes it felt almost like a burden…

The streams from the washing cascade ran cold; not even the improved plumbing of the New Palace was a match for Parvon's mood. Even so, it was less shocking to him than the thought of leaving Erin Lasgalen. He stayed where he was beneath the chill slivers of water; after all, he was an elf; what was a little cold to him, who had endured so much more over the years?

Triwathon found a frown trying to settle on his face and determined not to let it; people had been through enough without the added anxiety of wondering what the Commander might be worried about. Besides, it was a personal worry, not anything the community of elves ought to worry about.

Parvon had disappeared.

The commander had knocked on his door, sought him in all the usual places, looked in the unusual places also, but to no avail. Nor was Faerveren in the office, which he found locked and shut and empty… he sighed. Stuffed inside the inner pocket of his tunic was a note from Arveldir, a most unexpected message, and it was about this that he particularly wished to consult his friend before sending any reply… and, precisely because he had yet to reply, he shied away from knocking on Arveldir's door in search of Parvon, telling himself that, apart from anything else, it would be unkind to disturb his old friend…

Finally, needing to share his concerns with someone, he went in search of Faerveren who really seemed to be the only person left who might know what was going on…

Faerveren moved frantically around the dining hall, trying to do both his jobs and Parvon's for, surprisingly, the Chief Advisor had not arrived back when expected and so he had begun the task of ensuring all was ready by himself.

'Have you seen Parvon?' Commander Triwathon came into the hall, apparently in a hurry. 'I was expecting to find him in the Palace Office, but the door is secured...'

'Not recently. He went to speak with Lord Arveldir. He did not expect it would take long, so when he did not return I thought best to begin here. Of course, I sent there to enquire, but he had left some time previously, I was told.'

'I see. I was really hoping to speak with him ahead of the meal this evening, a matter of… well. Not to worry, but I am concerned; you must admit, it is not like him to absent himself at moments such as this…'

'I am a little surprised, myself, of course by his absence... I wonder if he might be with Healer Maereth? I think there was a suggestion that it might be good for her to report tonight on the wellbeing of those in her care; perhaps he went to seek her there to discuss it?'

'That is a good thought; I will go and see. And, Faerveren, it is not my place, I know, but… the hall looks very fine. You have worked hard.'