Glorfindel sighed and stirred, blinking to clear back his inner eyelids. It felt different, somehow… no matter…

Automatically he felt beside him to see if Melpomaen had stayed the night…or had he stayed in Mel's bed…?

Oh. Suddenly it all came back, why his eyelids felt different, why he felt strange… and he realised he wasn't going to be finding sweet, kind Mel in his bed ever again.

A sigh escaped him.

'Come now, Glorfindel, no regrets, I hope?'

'Lord Námo… I… didn't know where I was for a moment. No, no regrets… oh. Well, pretty sure I will have when I see Thel again… where is he? When can I…?'

'Hush, little soul!' Lord Námo's voice was gently amused, patient. 'Soon enough. Your fëa is still raw and unprocessed, not yet entirely severed from your physical existance; you must to pass through your healing sleep, first. But…' Lord Námo sighed. 'Tonight is the Night of the Names and, of course, all these Silvans… but unprocessed fëar are too close to the living world to pass into the main chambers of the Halls… so they watch from here.'

'Watch…?'

'Well, listen, rather. Glorfindel, are you really awake? I was trying to explain; it is the Night of the Names, surely you remember, it is special for Silvans?'

'Oh… oh, yes, of course! Been to a few… might be interesting to see it from the other side, but…'

'You were honoured. Full Silvan rites, remember?'

'I… yes, I do. They stuffed me into a tree, didn't they? Nice tree, but…'

'You were gently laid to rest in an earth-cave formed by the roots of a very lovely beech tree, one that was set aside for Parvon's use. He wanted you to have it.'

'That's nice, considering.'

'Well, he has never blamed you. Now come, hush a little. Pay attention.'

Gradually Fin noticed the other fëar around him, pale, wan shapes with indistinct features and strange, unclear regions distorting their forms, some looking brighter, more robust and others more unpleasant than others. He wondered if he looked like that, and glanced down at himself to see a strange mass where his legs used to be. He turned his gaze on Lord Námo, suddenly anxious.

'Really, Glorfindel! You will upset everyone if you continue thinking along those lines! No, you are fine, this is what happens. The hröar are disintegrating outside, and the fëar have not yet been restored by sleep. So there is a certain amount of… blurring. Perhaps not a bad thing, the injuries some of you poor souls suffered. Now. Listen, and look.'

Listen, and look.

Fin wasn't sure what he was looking at, not really. They seemed to be in some kind of gallery, and far below a stir of movement, shapes in the darkness, began to form and reform. A murmur, as unclear as the shapes and forms, and one of the Silvan fëar leaned forward as if to catch the sound.

One after another did the same, and then Glorfindel heard his own name, loud and clear, almost inside his head… Triwathon's voice, saying his name, and others answering, replying, remembering, and… ah, was that Elrohir? He survived, then… wait. Of course Roh had survived, Fin would have known if he hadn't… not used to this being dead again lark yet…

More voices, and more, overlapping, as if several people were talking all at once about him… somehow it soothed him and pained him; the grief was raw in some tones; Erestor, ah, poor Erestor, that he was so unhappy… but he had his Arveldir to take care of him, he shouldn't…

…big, gruff voice, a lighter one answering, these two sounding sad and proud at the same time…

'Thiriston and his Canadion,' Lord Námo said. 'Nearly had them both in here before now, you know, the big chap more than once. Resourceful, those two. And brave, really…'

'It's good of them, they're a nice pair… what, more?'

Everyone in the garrison, it seemed, wanted to remember Glorfindel. So caught up was he in their recollections that it was only after a while, after the background voices remembering the Silvans had all but finished, that he realised that apart from the first, formal remembrances, he had not heard Triwathon's voice.

Again he turned to Lord Námo, saw the fine, handsome face frown in distraction.

'Busy at the moment… it is so hard to do this at a distance… no, I will not welcome another fëa from that forest tonight… ah. There, that might… What now, little soul?'

'Forgive me, you've been very patient, Lord, but… my friend Triwathon…?'

'Have you not heard your name enough tonight?'

'Not that, it's… is he all right?'

'Ah, I see the problem…' Lord Námo reached out and picked up one of the tarnished and less-pleasant looking fëar up by what would have been the scruff of its neck, had it been properly shaped. He gave it a little shake. 'Stop that! How dare you do such a thing, and here, too! Shame on you… I don't think I will ever be able to let you out of here, do you know that? Honestly, I thought you might have one redeeming feature, but to try something like that…' The fëa was compressed down and removed from sight, and Lord Námo turned back to Glorfindel. 'There. I expect he will be now.'

Not entirely sure this was the answer he'd hoped for, Glorfindel turned his attention back to the dark void whence issued the voices of those participating in the Observances. Suddenly he heard his name, not announced formally, but spoken with anguish and loss and it almost took away his breath… then Parvon, speaking calmly and clearly, and, oh, yes, he remembered how the advisor had looked and kept looking when Fin and Triwathon had been laughing and talking together, as if he was starving… poor fellow. He had Triwathon all to himself now, but he probably wasn't good company right at the moment…

An upsurge, a tide of grief and loss rose in his heart, and Fin wondered why now, why, when he was dead, was he still feeling the same emotional ties he had while he was alive.

'It is because you are between places, so to speak. Your fëa is free of its hröa, but not yet established here. So your fëa's connections are stronger, unencumbered by flesh, thus for a brief time, those you have lost can influence your feelings. Which is what yon Girithon was attempting… honestly, I despair, I do not think I have a pit dark enough and deep enough for him…'

'So… could I influence Triwathon…?'

'Did you not just hear? Deep, dark pit…'

'No, not like… not for anything bad, I just think he needs a bit of support… Affection, sort of thing.'

Since Lord Námo didn't seem to be about to scrag him by the neck, Glorfindel allowed himself to think his way towards Triwathon. He sent out his grateful affection, his loving kindness, and then projected a sense of Triwathon looking towards Parvon and seeing him, really seeing his fëa, his heart, his loyal steadfastness… Fin had no idea if that was what Triwathon would be looking for in a sweetheart, but it was what was there, and he was doing neither Parvon nor Triwathon a disservice by doing so. He hoped it would help… but was afraid it might not.

'You cannot make them love one another,' Námo said kindly. 'But that you are willing for them to try… it says much for your fëa, little soul. Time to come with me, I think.'

'What? Already? Where have the others all gone…?'

'To their recovery beds, happy in the knowledge they are loved and remembered… well, when I say "happy…" you know what I mean.'

'I think so. The emotions and all, it's upsetting when someone's sad about you.'

'Yes, you could say so. But by their next Night of the Names, their grief will have abated somewhat and they, and I include you amongst them – and you will be less connected to the physical world. Now, Glorfindel. This way.'

Lord Námo led – or seemed to lead - the way through the darkness to where a patch of brighter shadow punctuated the monochrome gloom. As they approached, the darkness fell away and a chamber formed, not dissimilar to Glorfindel's rooms in Imladris from his early days there. The bed looked a replica, in fact, the wall hangings a fair copy, and the window in the right place.

'There is no view, I am afraid,' Lord Námo said. 'But when you awake, you will not want to be looking out of the window; you will not wake alone.'

With that threat, or promise, in his mind, Glorfindel found himself settling into the bed and allowing himself to surrender to the healing darkness.