The Silent Halls of Mandos were vast and lofty spaces, full of waiting fëar, each with their own personal processes of healing, remorse, and restoration to undergo. Yet there was space for all and more besides; one had to actively seek another fëa, if one wanted company. There were public places; Lord Námo's library was a case in point, and the space where the Silvans gathered for their Night of the Names, to listen out to see who was remembering them. Namo also provided familiar spaces; forest glades or elegant, fountain-filled courtyards which he privately thought of as 'habitats', there to make time pass more comfortably for the souls in his care.

The Halls ran with draughts and eddies of air currents drifting and carrying themselves through the corridors and chambers, halls and stairways. Lord Námo read them as another might read a map, or a book; he could spend hours, in his high-backed chair, reading the draughts, collecting news of his halls from the lowest levels of pit and dungeon to the high towers with views across the sky where those unwilling to leave but not held by conscience were permitted to dwell.

Alert as he was to every nuance of air, to every sigh and whisper, Lord Námo did not need the presence of one of his many assistants on the threshold to inform him that somewhere there had been an alteration.

'Yes,' he said, rising with dark elegance from his seat. 'There is a change.'

Waving a hand for the assistant to accompany him, or not, he swept from the room and followed the difference in atmosphere like a scent trail until he stopped outside a door.

'Good. Finally!' he said, and entered the room.

A large stone chamber, a bed centrally placed. A window, or the illusion of one, with soft moonlight drifting in. Time in the Halls of Waiting ran other than outside, and in Valinor beyond Mandos, the sun was riding high, but here, in this chamber, moonlight prevailed.

In the bed, a golden-haired elf lay, apparently sleeping, eyes open to the vaulted ceiling, seeing nothing. A silken sheet covered him to the waist, his arms and chest exposed showing a horror story of injuries, ancient scars and recent wounds still weltering, but there were signs that the burns were healing, the wounds beginning to knit, the past smoothing itself out into acceptance and lessons learned.

Lord Námo approached, nodding. Whatever had been holding Glorfindel back, he had been released and had finally begun his long, slow journey back to wholeness.

'And now I wonder whether I should have done better not to offer you the choice, Glorfindel,' he murmured. 'So many people have mourned you so bitterly… but then, you see, I did rather miss you myself… and undoubtedly you would have become entangled in more battles, it seems to be a habit with you… perhaps it is better this way. Well, I had better find your lover, I suppose, and tell him you are healing before he discovers the news for himself; he made such a noise last time that the dust still has not settled after him…'

Ecthelion was in the library, long legs stretched out to the fire, Lord Oropher in a chair opposite, holding forth on the virtues of a simple life amongst the trees.

'More natural,' he was saying. 'Keeping them closer to what they were, what they wanted to be. Of course, nobody can leave a good thing alone, and however private we kept ourselves, evil sought us nevertheless… my beautiful Silvans, how they suffered! I do not know whether they will ever forgive me!'

'My lord, they come to you daily and tell you: there is nothing to forgive. I know you bear guilt, but it really is not your fault, you know.'

'It should be said, that but for Gil-Galad, wouldn't have lost so many…'

Knowing of old that once Oropher got started on Gil-Galad's faults, real or imagined, there would be no stopping him, Námo stepped forward from the threshold.

'Ecthelion. With me, please. You can return to your lovely chat later.'

'My lord Námo?'

'This way.'

Námo led off, Ecthelion hurrying after him.

'What is it, my lord? Is it Glorfindel, is my golden one stirring? Why did you not tell me…?'

'Hush, Ecthelion!' Namo said sternly. 'I have come to you – personally – rather than allowing you to linger in suspense until there is more news. For some news there is, but not, as you hope, that he stirs yet. But… he is beginning to restore himself. Now come, while we talk in the corridors you are wasting time you which you could be squandering instead at his bedside.'

'Forgive me, Lord Námo, but I have missed him, and longed to speak with him again.'

'Well, that is not going to happen today. Although you will be able to speak to him… and here we are.'

Námo opened the door and stood back for Ecthelion to precede him; as expected, the Lord of the Fountains entered in a rush, dashing across to the bedside and trying in vain to take Glorfindel's hand. After a few abortive attempts, he turned to face the Lord of the Halls of Waiting, impossible tears on his cheeks. His voice, when he spoke, although low and soft, trembled with emotion and effort.

'It is hard, my lord, to be in a place where I can interact with objects – chairs support me, the floor is tangible beneath my feet, I can lift chess pieces to game against Lord Oropher; I can even sip the semblance of fine wine, if I wish – and yet the one thing I need and want – to touch my beloved and comfort him in his healing – is denied me! For pity, Lord Námo… it is unfair!'

'Perhaps so. Yet that is how things are, here; the environment wraps itself about you and your fellow-fëar, supporting you as close to your recollections of life as is possible. But both you and Glorfindel are still unembodied; you are ghosts, wisps of yourselves, neither of you have physical form. Connection is only possible with great focus and concentration, in great need and with my assistance…'

'Then, my lord, consider how many games of chess I have played with Lord Oropher to distract his grief so that you did not have to endure his remorse, and have pity…!'

'Sit, Ecthelion. Sit by your beloved and look at him, properly, really look!'

Ecthelion breathed out a sigh and did as he was bid, pulling the chair close and examining his golden beloved with the most intense gaze he could muster, filling himself with the sight of him.

'It is hard to see these injuries on him. Burning, again, and wounds like to swords but… ragged. Yes, one can see the work of dragons here. My poor beloved golden one! He is healing, though, as you said, he has begun to come back to us.'

'To you. But when he does… are you prepared for what he might have to tell?'

'Yes.' Ecthelion placed his hand as close to Glorfindel's as he could, so that it almost looked as if they were touching. 'No. But, lord, I love him. I love all that makes him Glorfindel. I will hear all his stories, painful or joyous, full of death or full of danger… or full of love, if love found him. Almost I hope it did, for to be so long gone in the world and to be Glorfindel, and unloved… would be unbearable!'

'Keep that in mind, Ecthelion. But have you really, really looked at him yet?'

'The new injuries are…'

'What of the old, penneth?'

'The…?' Ecthelion's eyes ranged Glorfindel's form once more, this time looking beyond the recent injuries and taking in his old scars and burns, the ones with which Glorfindel been sent forth into his second life. 'They are fading!'

'Yes. It would seem that somewhere along his life's track, he met with someone or found something to help him release the old hurts along with the new. Of course, he will not awake soon, Ecthelion, and you cannot stay by his side constantly…'

'Then, my lord, allow me to sit here until told to leave, and then let me be told when I may come back, for I want to be here with him for every possible moment.'

'Of course you do, penneth.' Námo's voice softened. 'Sit in vigil, then. But bear this in mind: the damage you see here is not the work of one day, of one dragon attack. Bring a book next time.'