Lord Ecthelion of the Fountains, most-beloved lover and forever fëa-mate of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower (and currently domiciled in the Halls of Waiting) stretched out his long legs and reclined back in the winged armchair at the fireside, allowing his head to fall to the side as he surveyed the idly playing flames in the hearth. At his side, a small table held a board and pieces; a game, half-played, waiting for his opponent.

As was Ecthelion...

His majesty the Elvenking, Oropher of Greenwood the Great, was late, as much as there was such a concept here in the Mandos. In fact, time passed somehow, but one was so shut away that one was unaware of it, unless a new arrival were to speak of their previous existence in such a way as to demonstrate the passing of the years.

Ecthelion preferred not to note the passage of time, but had been unable to escape the fact that, while he had died in the First Age, outside the Halls and across the Sundering Seas, the Fourth Age, the Age of Men, had begun. Elves had died, spent their time of penance, and emerged into the light of Valinor, cleansed in fëa and restored in their remade bodies to live anew in bliss and joy.

And still Glorfindel, his beloved golden sunlight, was not arrived; no doubt he was playing the hero somewhere, he had always seemed unable to refuse to help people...

Thel himself could have exited the Halls long since, and spent the time preparing a home for them both, readying a new life somewhere. There was a New Gondolin, Lord Námo had told him, and fair Tirion still shone with its gleaming towers. Perhaps Glorfindel would like to return to the place of his birth… or he might rather live by the sea, which Ecthelion himself would find rather pleasant. But the prospect of leaving, by himself, had been rather daunting, and Findel would surely be along soon, would he not…?

So time had slid by like a slow river running fast beneath, and Lord Námo had become a sort of friend, pausing to pass the time of day, so to speak, introducing him to various elves from around the Halls. This was how he had made King Oropher's acquaintance, an introduction from Námo.

'I am sure you will get along well together,' the Doomsman of the Valar had said. 'You have mutual elves in common, oddly enough.' And, privately, he had added, 'Oropher needs his mind taking off things. You could do that, and might benefit yourself, if you can turn his thoughts away from his guilt.'

'For what does he carry so much remorse?' Ecthelion had asked.

'You'll see,' Námo had told him.

To begin, Lord Oropher had been remote, sarcastic, bitter and unpleasant. It was only once Ecthelion had mentioned Glorfindel as his friend that Oropher had unbent a little.

'I thought you to be yet another tiresome Noldo,' he said. 'But if you know Glorfindel… he was the best of them, really.'

'I concur, Lord Glorfindel is the best of all elves, my lord! He is part Vanyar, you understand.'

'Makes a difference, sure enough.'

'But do tell me, my lord; how do you know my friend? And what was it happened to you, to bring such grief upon your fëa?'

'My elves were slaughtered in front of me, all because that Noldo fool Gil-Galad wouldn't listen to a decent plan! Your Glorfindel, he saw it, but couldn't work it. Came to help, he tried, give him that… brave fellow. Still cut down, though.'

'My lord? Glorfindel, cut down?'

'No, fool! Keep up, do! Me, I was cut down. One of my own tried to come to me, he got battered for it. Glorfindel, his knights, they came fast, not fast enough. Still, some of my elves got out. Oh, my beautiful, beautiful Silvans, their joy in battle, their courage, their blood on the ground, running onto their beautiful hair, their deaths on my hands. My hands. My fault, really. And Gil's.'

'Now, my lord, the latter I can believe, although I know him not… but if you died trying to protect your elves, surely you ought not bear such a burden of guilt?'

'Can't help it. But you cheer me, somehow.'

So had begun an odd sort of friendship. They met not often at first, but gradually Oropher began to seek out Ecthelion in the library, to throw himself down into the seat opposite and sigh and speak of this Silvan or that he'd met in the Halls, how the elf had said there was nothing to forgive, it was not Oropher's fault… but still the Elvenking could not bring himself to believe it. His wife faded, and was in the Halls, and left them again to new life, without Oropher seeing her, for he denied he had the right to sully her with his presence, after he had let her, and her Silvan elves, so badly down.

It was sad, and Ecthelion felt great pity for the king, but what could he do, other than try to cheer him? In time, he introduced the game board, and there were occasions when Oropher's spirits lifted enough for him to break out of his gloom and talk of Glorfindel's exploits for the House of Elrond.

'Only a half-elf,' he said. 'But good blood on the other side.'

'Indeed, if he is the son of Eärendil… I knew him when he was a small, spoiled brat of a child, always whining for me to make pipes for him… still. Glorfindel saved him, and so he must have some worth… I hear he opened the way to Valinor once more, and the Valar came to Middle Earth to fight the darkness?'

'They certainly did that. They drowned half the world in so doing, of course; when he came back, your Glorfindel was devastated to learn Gondolin was no more… but that's another tale…'

So it had begun. Now, though, Oropher was late, even reckoning by Mandos Time…

Finally he arrived, his air brisker than usual, his attitude less morose than he generally could be.

'You seen him yet, Ecthelion?'

'I am sorry, my lord… to whom do you refer?'

'That Glorfindel of yours. Saw some new arrivals, Silvans, poor things, there were dragons. And that Glorfindel caught up in it. Seems he killed most of 'em, saved the day, died in some poor fellow's arms, and then was brought here with my Silvans. Lady I spoke to, said they gave him full Silvan rites, best tree in the forest to sleep under…'

'My… my lord? Do you tell me Glorfindel is… is here? Dead, and here?'

'What I'm told.' Oropher shrugged and sat down to the game board. 'You didn't know? Sorry about it. Well, your move…'

But Ecthelion had already moved – out of his chair, the library, and off down the corridors calling for Lord Námo with the same voice that had struck terror into the enemy at the Fall of Gondolin, and utterly disrupting the pace of the Halls of Waiting in the process.

The Doomsman of the Valar heard the commotion echoing around his usually silent and peaceful corridors, and he sighed. A confrontation with Ecthelion was the last thing he wished; he had been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to bring him to Glorfindel's bedside, but as yet, it had not arisen and now his hand would be forced, Ecthelion, already unhappy, would become more so, and all because Oropher had been unaccountably talkative…

He beckoned and one of his many assistants materialised before him.

'My lord requires…?'

'News of Glorfindel. Has the change happened yet?'

'Not yet, my lord. It is our opinion that there are some who still grieve him overmuch, or who do not yet realise and so speak his name freely, thus holding him in this condition.'

'Hmm. Well, no matter. You may go.'

He flicked his fingers and considered for a moment how to deal with this upwelling crisis. Really, there was no precedent, and the only course of action that he could see required an absence from his Halls… perhaps it were better to get this over with…

When Ecthelion hammered on his door, shouting for him to explain himself, he was ready, but held off for a moment…

'Námo! Lord Námo, let me in! I demand an explanation!' Ecthelion punctuated his shouts with the pounding of his fists and his voice shook the very walls themselves. 'Let me in! I demand you speak to me!'

Yes, surely Ecthelion's voice was just as loud as legend had it… Name flicked his fingers and the door clicked open. Ecthelion strode in, his fëa exhibiting the red and purple tones of anger and distress.

'Why did you not tell me Glorfindel was here?'

Námo drew himself up to twice his usual height. The intersections of his joints, usually flickering white light, now showed black flames like moonlight on obsidian, and his eyes glowed orange and red.

'Do you forget to whom you speak, child?' he asked, voice dripping venom.

'I beg your pardon.' Ecthelion bowed. 'I meant, of course, why did you not tell me Glorfindel was here my lord Námo?'

In spite of himself, Námo laughed.

'Oh, penneth, there is no fear in you at all, is there? Come, be calm, sit with me. Although I owe you nothing, I shall explain, for I do not like to see you distressed and my Halls are unused to such verbal violence.'

He diminished to his usual stature and gestured to chairs. Ecthelion, exhausted by the outburst and the effort of raging through the corridors, fell into one and dropped his head into his hands.

'I… had thought he would come to the gates for me one day, and he would be there, smiling and golden and… and instead, he has died again? Dragons, Lord Oropher said, my beloved was slain by dragons? How…'

'I was with him to ensure he felt no pain at the last. He was amongst friends, and died a hero. Again. I truly believe he would have come to you sooner, but there was always one more task, one more person to see safe, another thing to do first… but here he is.'

'How… how long, my lord?'

'Not too long. Longer than a short time. He is… the reason I did not tell you is that until he has progressed into his healing phase, there was no point; you would only demand to see him, and it would distress you. Better to wait until he was recovering, and then I would have come to you straight away, my friend. I am not as cruel as you think me, you see.'

'But, it is Glorfindel! It has been quite literally, ages since I saw him…'

'Would you not rather see him when he is recovering? Sit with him as he wakes, and be there, the first he sees?'

'I would… but I would begin at once…! I do not care how long…'

'Ecthelion, it would break your heart…!'

'My heart is already broken, lord. I need to see him, however ill he looks, I… I have missed him…'

Lord Námo looked down at Ecthelion and sighed. His dead guests could not generally express emotions physically, they might smile, or laugh, or go through the sounds of weeping, but real tears were all but impossible. Be that as it may, a ghostly tear pearled its way down Ecthelion's face…

'I suppose if I refuse, you will search the Halls until you find him, even if I have him impossibly well hidden… but be aware, little soul, he died in violence and its marks are on him still.'

'Then I shall be also aware that, as you told me, he was in no pain at the last and so he is in no pain still. But, my lord, I need to be with him.'

'Come, then.'

It was not so much that Námo led the way through the corridors as that once he made towards the door, the surrounding environment slurred and deformed, to settle again into the appearance of similar passages. But there was a door, and Námo halted outside of it, Ecthelion reaching towards the handle.

'You cannot stay with him,' Námo said with a gentleness at odds with his previous manifestation. 'You may see him, look at him, talk to him. But then you must come away. You understand I can pull you away if you do not follow my wishes in this?'

Ecthelion nodded.

'Very good. In return, I will give you my solemn oath that I will tell you if there is any change in his state of being.'

'I am grateful, my lord.'

'I wonder if you will think so presently.' Námo lifted a hand and the door swung inwards. He led the way in and stood to the side of the bed. 'Come, then. Come and see your hero once again.'

Ecthelion surged into the room, came to a halt beside the bed and dropped to his knees. His hands reached out, failed to make contact, for fëar had not enough substance to connect with each other. He covered his face and wept, as Námo had feared he would.

Presently, the Lord of the Halls broke into the sounds of sorrow.

'Penneth, had I known that all you wanted to do was weep at his bedside, I would not have allowed you here. He may, perchance, be able to hear you.'

Ecthelion sniffed, and drew back, trying to calm himself. His shoulders jumped as his breath hitched and he wiped at his face with his hands as he properly took in the sight of his love, lying on his back, arms at his sides beneath a light covering.

'I was trying not to look,' he said in halting, puzzled words. 'My Glorfindel here, and I was afraid to see him in his battle-honours… that is why I hid my face in my grief for the pity of it. But… but see, his hair is still golden… ah, did you try, this time, to tie your glorious hair back, my beloved? So many marks on you, my shining one, it must have been a mighty battle…'

'First, he was lifted into the air.' Námo approached now, gently retracted the covers with due regard for Glorfindel's modesty. 'You may see the talon marks on his ribs.'

'Yes, I… ah, 'twas a big beast?'

'Very large. A dam, feeding her brood. He slayed her last child and then she flamed…' Námo gestured to the raw burns on Glorfindel's shoulder, arm and face, where his hair had been scorched away. 'With the unexpected help of his horse, he managed to kill the beast, but he was wounded… in its death throes, the creature landed across his body, staunching the blood.'

'I see the marks on him, oh, my golden one…! And he was alone, through this?'

'Hardly. His horse stayed with him. And I was there.'

'Thank you, my lord, for taking the pain from him. But Lord Oropher said he was not alone…?'

'His friends found him. Some from Imladris, some Galadhrim, some from the Greenwood; he made friends amongst the Silvans long ago. In fact, it was their eagerness to help that contributed to his death; the dragon's head had been keeping his wound from bleeding, but they did not see and when they moved it off him… I think it is better this way, he would have been a long time healing.'

'My lord, it seems to me from what you say, he has not begun healing yet.'

'You understand, then, why I sought to protect you from the knowledge and the sight of him?'

A sad smile fought for a place on Ecthelion's lips. 'Yet my love is still beautiful to me. Oh, I have missed you, most beloved Glorfindel!'

'Come away now, and you can return again.'

'How soon, my lord?'

Námo shrugged.

'Presently. Not very long. But I have work to do first. Come, come away. Lord Oropher is impatient to finish the game.'

Ecthelion sighed. 'And thus I spend my time, waiting for a moment with my love once more.' He paused to bring his lips as close to Glorfindel's forehead as he could. 'Sleep well, most dear Glorfindel! I shall return!' Turning away with reluctance, he nodded to the Doomsman of the Valar. 'Very well, Lord Námo. I gave my word, and so, lead on.'

Arveldir drew in a sharp breath as he sat up in bed, instantly awake even as he blinked clear his inner eyelids. Seeing the figure standing just inside the doorway, he spread his arms to protect the sleeping figure of his husband beside him.

'You cannot have him!' he said softly. 'Not unless you take me too, but please, spare my Erestor…'

'Oh, Arveldir, when did you become so dramatic?' Námo asked with amusement in his voice. 'I am not come to take anyone, you are quite unnecessarily anxious. No, I merely have come with a request.'

'I see.' Arveldir swung his legs out of bed to sit facing his preternatural visitor. 'I do not wish to disturb my husband; it has been a difficult few days.'

'Glorfindel is caught between sleep and healing; he needs release.'

'I am sorry to hear that. He died most bravely.'

'It seems the Silvan ritual may be hampering his progression. There is a gemstone which needs memories speaking to it? And there are some still speaking his name?'

'My lord, we arrived with the news but three days since! Melpomaen and Lindir still arrive at table with red eyes and tearstained faces; while the house is trying, my friends are still grieving.'

'Then perhaps they need to see where he rests, and come to terms with their loss. They will meet him again, of course; these elves are not Silvans who choose not to sail.'

'That does not stop them having loved him, my lord, and missing him. The intention is to return the stone and visit his resting place, once the winter is past. But that would mean a delay of many weeks… if our rescuer's healing is dependent upon it, the stone must go back sooner.'

Námo nodded. 'I think it is how Silvans release the worst of their grief, is it not, talking out their memories to the gemstones? Yes, let it return as soon as possible.'

'I will not leave Imladris again so soon,' Arveldir said. 'Erestor's wound reopened on the journey back, and I will neither leave him nor make him endure the discomfort again. But Elladan could go, to represent the House of Elrond, and with him Melpomaen and Lindir.'

'I thought it would be nice if Celeborn went, too. He knows the way… that is, assuming he still has his wits?'

'We were surprised to find him much recovered. It was the one bright spot in our days of darkness.'

'I will pay him a little visit while I am here, then. Let them hasten, Arveldir. If they leave tomorrow, they can be there in a week.'

'I hardly think so; even on horseback it will take twice that.'

'No, they must travel in haste. I will speak to the weather and tell it to be kind. Well, it was nice to see you again, Arveldir. Goodnight now.'

Námo faded from the room, leaving Arveldir to collect his frayed nerves. He turned in towards his husband and curled around his back, breathing in the sleepy, warm scent of him. He held him close, closer, closest, and did not let go through the rest of the night.