The following morning Parvon collected the fabric flowers from the Palace Office and met Triw at the garrison doors, where they were waved through by the guard.

'How do you wish to proceed, Triwathon?' Parvon asked, once they were out of sight of the gates. 'Should we follow our plan and go to the… the site, first, or would you rather visit first the earth-cave?'

'I don't know!' A sigh. 'Perhaps… yes, where he fell, first. It will be strange, going back… I haven't been since the Imladris elves came… it had snowed, a little, disguising… things. The… the telling of the tale, that was… difficult…'

'It must have been awful for you. But then, to go later to the earth-cave, that will help, perhaps?'

'It should, and… well. Yes, challenging. But, after all…' He reached over to take Parvon's hand. 'After all, you are with me now, as you were with me when he… when the dragons came.'

Nodding acknowledgment, Parvon led the way deeper into the forest. The air was brittle and frost glistened and glimmered on the paths and edged the last leaves with a limning of crystals. Their breath plumed ahead of them, bringing the memory of dragons closer to mind than ever.

There was no need to stop and consider the way, even though it was almost a year since Parvon had walked this particular track through the woods. At least, he noted, the air smelled of woodland, of pine and leaf mould rather than ash and acrid smoke.

'You do not need to do this, Triw, you know that?'

'Yes.'

Triwathon's voice was terse, clipped, shutting down after the word, demanding an end to the topic. Parvon was careful to exhale at a regular pace, deliberately not sighing.

'That's all right, then. At least the air is better than when I last was here. I'm sorry, Triw, this must be nigh impossible for you, and I need to be more support to you than just stating the obvious.'

'I… no, it is difficult, I'll admit. But… but I want to go back, now, to revisit the memories I have, to make sure they're… they're real, if that makes sense… And… and it would be much harder, if you weren't here. Parvon, you're always going to be here, aren't you?'

'I will be as much support for you as I may, I will always be where you need me to be. I will always love you and always, always need you.' Parvon held out his hand. 'Not far now, I think.'

Entwining his fingers with Parvon's, Triw led off, hurrying them through the forest so that the thin branches whipped and danced around them, heedless himself of the flurry caused by his passage until Parvon tugged him to a halt.

'We don't want to go straight through the trees, love; there is a trail.'

'I… sorry, love, I just… want this done.'

'I know.' He'd be glad to get it over with himself, for that matter; watching his beloved Triw going through this rush of emotion, the pain and the anguish and the desperation in him was all but overwhelming… 'Not far now.'

Triw gestured to the trail.

'You lead, then.'

Parvon eased through the trees, noted a small stream crossing their path, angled away; it was there that he'd sent Triw to wash his hands after Glorfindel's death; poor Triw had been covered with his dead friend's blood, reeking of it, reeling from its horror. It hadn't helped, much. A few yards on, he circled round, passing a large, earth-heaped mound which he suspected were the remains of the dragon dam and her dragonet, both of which died at Glorfindel's hand.

'Are we…?

'Yes, Triw. I stood here, paused, for you had outpaced us all and when I arrived I saw, first, the slain dragon, and then you, cradling your friend – our friend. The dragonet alone was huge, its dam massive, larger in death, it seemed to me… Others arrived behind me; the Galadhrim… Arveldir, trying to arrange and organise things, to make things as easy for you as he could, I think, he could see how badly hurt our friend was… I joined you, I think. Arveldir… you did not see, for you were behind the Balrog-slayer, his head on your lap… Arveldir was staring at a point behind you both, a shadow that seemed darker than the rest of the forest… he told me later he could see Lord Námo there…'

'I was here, right here.' Triwathon dropped to his knees, as heedless of the cold, melting frost beneath him as he had been unaware of the wet and dirt and blood as he cradled Glorfindel. 'I could not believe… he couldn't come all this way just to… just to die in my arms, could he? But it seemed so.'

'It was heart-breaking to see, to watch one who had given so much finally surrender his life. To watch your grief, Triw, it tore at me… but it was not the moment for me to do anything other than support all those gathered, not only you. In fact, I doubt you would have welcomed particular attention.'

'If I say I hardly knew you were present, you will not take offence? Not until we were alone, and then you were simply… as you ever had been, supportive.'

Parvon shook his head, a small, soft smile on his face.

'No, love, not offended; that is so much of what I do, blend into the background to let others do what they must without intruding.'

'At the time, I did not realise, but after… then I knew how good a friend you had been that day. And now, I see it even more clearly, and… I am grateful, Parvon, so very grateful, and I will not weep for him again, not now, not here… I am done with that! Let us fulfil our task and be gone from here!'

Nodding silently, Parvon drew forth a pouch from inside his robes, opened the neck and shook out the contents, allowing them to fall where they would; a scatter of silk and crystal celandines mingled with miniature daffodils, all crafted with equal care.

'Should we place them a little more deliberately?' Triw asked, his voice doubtful.

'If you'd rather, then of course; I was simply trying to hasten us away from here. But perhaps you are right; it is an uneven spread.'

Triw was still kneeling on the cold ground, and now leaned across to the floral tributes, moving some further apart, others closer together. It seemed to Parvon that almost his husband had recreated Glorfindel's golden hair in silk; certainly there was more of a determined shape there, now, an outline of head and shoulders. But Triw seemed dissatisfied, and with a scowl and a grumble, waved his hands through his work and dispersed the flowers once more before rising to his feet and resolutely looking away into the forest.

'No, you were right,' he said. 'Disordered is best. Else it looks too much like a body was there. Come, let's go; it's some way to the earth-cave from here, and we are expected back for the day-meal.'

In the sombre calm of the Halls of Waiting there was somehow an air of anticipation on the wafted air currents; Lord Námo marked it with a curious lift of his head and gave his full attention to the disrupted dust motes that brought him the tidings. Far away, across the Sundering Seas, in what many erroneously considered a minor forest kingdom, preparations were once more underway for the Silvan ritual of the Night of the Names. It lacked a day or two or three of the date proper, but still, by some strange connection back to their living kin, the Silvan souls in his care were even now starting to grow restless, anticipatory, many without knowing why…

And, of course, this year it would be significant for more than just his Silvan guests…

With one particular non-Silvan in mind, he extended his will and presently, blinking as if he had been somewhere else and his translation to Námo's office was a surprise, Ecthelion stood before him.

'You sent for me, my lord? That is, I recall being with Glorfindel in one of the gardens, I assume I was summoned…'

'You could say so, Ecthelion. Sit. Talk with me.'

Since a chair was suddenly behind him, and since refusal was not usually an option with Námo, Ecthelion bowed his head in acquiescence and seated himself. Námo, playing the perfect host, poured the semblance of wine into crystal goblets, and pushed one across his desk towards Ecthelion before lounging at ease in his seat.

'The gardens, you say.' Námo twirled the stem of his goblet before sipping. 'You began with the fern grotto, I think?'

'We did, indeed. But it was rather dank, if I might say, and a little gloom-filled. Glorfindel seemed to like it, however, and we returned there several times. We talked, occasionally.' Ecthelion lifted his wine cup, inhaled the aroma of the fragrant liquid, but set the wine down untasted. 'He was rather more communicative once we discovered the path to the woodlands; one could almost say, enthusiastic.'

'Ah, yes. You moved on to the pine forest, I presume?'

'We did, my lord. Although not as dank as the fern grotto, it, too, was dark.' Ecthelion looked askance at his host, but held his question back; never before had he discussed gardens with Lord Námo, possibly because he had not realised there were any such pleasure grounds, and it seemed an odd topic to raise suddenly. 'From thence, in time, we found the mixed woodland; I suppose it is easier to model the weather with evergreens such as the pines and yew we had previously encountered; they are largely the same whatever the season…'

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he shook his head.

'Yes, Ecthelion?'

'Your gardens, my lord. Are they a metaphor?'

'Most things here are, penneth.'

'I supposed they must be. However… no, it must be deliberate…'

'And where were you today, with Glorfindel? The glasshouses, where one is ill-advised to throw stones? Or the rockery, where the cascades tumbling into their lakes suggest troubled waters?'

Ecthelion laughed.

'Ah, my lord! I do not fear the glasshouses; why do you think I was content to remain here, away from the world of warm, living companionship? No, indeed! I rather think we were in the apothecary's garden!'

Námo grinned with too many teeth and a glint of darkness.

'Well on the road to recovery, then! And no… not so much as metaphor, more of a reflection. You've been discussing things, of course. Talking Glorfindel's memories through.'

'Yes.' Ecthelion clipped the word out. Of course they had talked, or rather, once he had made a beginning, Glorfindel had talked, and talked, and talked… Triwathon, and Melpomaen, and friends-who-had-not-been-lovers but had been almost like family, those for whom Findel had felt a duty to protect and nurture, to teach and guide… and he, ah, Thel had listened, and tried to understand and accept… (not forgive, there was not anything to forgive…) The loyalty, yes, he knew what that was like, the bonds to one's king, one's lord, one's friends… (oh, but this Triwathon…! He would have been just too, too perfect for Glorfindel to resist…! And then Melpomaen, who sounded as if Ecthelion would have liked him himself…) 'Yes, my lord. There was much to discuss, my dear friend has been away so long… the world sounds greatly changed… but Glorfindel… he is not.'

'Are you sure about that?'

'He has seen more, suffered more, loved more, lived more… he has found healing for some of his scars, but the elf I loved, he is still there, and so I love him still. I do not pretend to imagine life will be simple for us, when we are ready to leave, but…' Ecthelion shrugged. 'I do not think it would have been simple anyway.'

Now Námo threw his head back and laughed.

'Ai, you are right there, Ecthelion! But do not fear, when the time is right, to go forth boldly, love him with all your heart as you have ever done, and know he loves you…'

'My lord, I have never doubted it.'

'Good.' Suddenly Námo shifted in his seat, sitting upright and folding his hands on the desk before him, leaning forwards. 'The reason you are here, Ecthelion… there's something happening, soon.'

'Yes? Are we leaving? I thought my beloved would need a little longer, it has only been a few weeks…'

'Your time perception is a little off, penneth. It's been almost a year since he died again.'

'Indeed? Of course, you kept him to yourself for a while, I recall…'

'Not precisely.' Námo made a dismissive gesture with his fingertips. 'You have been wandering in my gardens for longer than you realise… However. Your Glorfindel was honoured by his Silvan friends with their full rituals for the deceased; they hold it wrong to speak the name of the dead except on particular occasions. Soon, it will be one of those occasions, the Night of the Names, and so living Silvans everywhere will be remembering their dead and, no doubt, some will be remembering Glorfindel. There is a place I create where they may gather for the Night, when I permit them to hear more clearly the voices of those who remember them; they find it a comfort. Glorfindel will be called, too, to the ritual gathering, and you may accompany him.'

Something in Námo's manner suggested Ecthelion did not have a choice. He rose from his seat.

'I am grateful, my lord, for your company, for the wine and for the invitation. If there is nothing more, I would like to seek my beloved now.'

'Yes, Ecthelion, I think that's a good idea. Where did you leave him?'

'The rose arbour, just on the edge of the apothecary's garden.' Ecthelion smiled, and bowed to his host. 'It is very romantic.'

'And not in one of the flowerbeds?' Námo grinned with all his teeth. 'You do surprise me.'

Ecthelion blinked at a sudden gesture from the Lord of the Silent Halls, one which sent splinters of light flying out of the Vala's aura, and when he stopped blinking, he was once more in the gardens.

'But… this is not where…'

Lord Námo was at his shoulder, and spoke softly into his ear.

'You were not in the herbalist's grounds for Glorfindel's constitution, Ecthelion; do not think I am unaware that he has not been the only one to suffer. You know where I am if you need me again; run along now, and I will see you – both – presently.'

'My lord…'

But Námo was gone, and there was Glorfindel, unaware that Thel had been away from his side, possibly unaware that he had himself been translated from one bank of roses to another. He was lying on the greensward apparently utterly engrossed in something, the sunlight glinting off his hair, burnishing him to a glorious golden gleam.

Everything in Ecthelion's fëa softened and he hurried over and dropped to the ground beside his beautiful, glowing forever-love.

'Whatever are you doing, my golden one?'

Glorfindel looked up with a grin.

'Daisy chains!' he said, laughing. 'There were scores of them, all asking to be plucked to make a decoration for that most decorative of elves, my darling Thel! Here, see if it fits?'

'Really, now!' Ecthelion scolded, but the laughter bubbled out of him as Glorfindel placed a crown of intertwined flowers on his head like a circlet. 'The poor little flowers, could you not leave them in peace?'

'Well, they are Námo's illusory flowers, and they whispered to me that if I left them here, one or other of his illusory animals would just come along and browse them all away, so I thought they were much better gracing your brow, love, lovely Thel. Goats! Maybe it would have been goats! You know, I adore goats!'

'For how long? That is, I do not recall you adoring goats in Gondolin?'

'No? Rivendell, perhaps. Or maybe Lindon… No, can't remember now… Greenwood the Great…? Oh, no, that was donkeys… must have been Rivendell, I'm sure of it. That's it! Long haired ones, we used to brush them out, and Arwen had some poor soul of a housekeeper or maid or such spin the fibres into thread so she could crochet with it…'

Ecthelion laughed so hard that his informal coronet slipped down over one eye. He removed it with care, smiling, and stroked the sweet, white petals and lifted it to his lips to kiss, before bestowing the garland on his beloved's brow.

'I had not thought before, my Glorfindel,' he said. 'But your hands wove this, and you placed it on my brow. We cannot touch, or kiss, but this garland, which you made, which you touched, I can, in turn, touch, and gift it back to you, with my love, and my kiss upon one of its flowers. We meet there, my love, in a daisy flower.'

Glorfindel grinned, lifted off the daisy chain, and brought the flower Thel had kissed up to his own lips.

'Love that you're still my romantic Ecthelion,' he said. 'So… when we leave here… can we keep some goats?'

He smiled happily and rolled onto his back, stretching out in the sunlight. Something about him; his ease, his grin, his comfort touched Ecthelion deep inside, and he found himself smiling back; for the first time since his beloved golden one had awoken, Thel thought, he looked happy and relaxed and suddenly elves such as Triwathon and Melpomaen mattered not one jot; had there been a dozen, a score of former lovers, in that instant Ecthelion would not have cared, because Glorfindel – his Glorfindel – was smiling, just for him, smiling and fluttering his eyelashes.

'Goats?' he prompted. 'Thel?'

'If it pleases you, beloved, of course we may keep goats. We shall have to take thought for our own accommodations first, and then ensure good housing for them, of course. It is something to look forward to, is it not?'

'Wonderful, Thel! We can name them after our friends… Turgon, Oropher, Námo… And think of the milk!'

'I'd rather not,' Ecthelion said. 'At least, not unless you intend giving nanny goats masculine names, that is?'

Glorfindel laughed, rolling onto his stomach.

'Well, we can talk about names later,' he said. 'Meanwhile, Thel… shall we go for a walk?'

He bounded to his feet, holding his hands out to Ecthelion automatically. Thel rose to his feet, reaching out, but knowing contact was impossible; a second later, he saw Glorfindel's smile drop as he, too, realised.

'Oh, Thel, I wish…!'

'Soon, beloved, soon. I am sure Lord Námo will be glad to be rid of us, pesky guests as we are, cluttering up his library and his gardens as we do!'

'I can't wait, Thel, I really can't… but look time's passing…' Glorfindel gestured around him at the sunshine, the flowers. 'It's already almost summer!'

Ecthelion thought of his own surprise when Námo had told him how much time had passed…

'Don't you think our host might… pick the weather he wants us to experience, within his bounds?' he suggested. 'After all, we know on some level that we're not really out of doors, and so…'

'Ai! Oh, Thel, that's all too complicated for a sunny afternoon! Come on, I think there's a stream over that bridge; paddling might be nice, don't you think, hot day like this?'

Ecthelion gave up his attempt at preparing Glorfindel for the reality of the passing of time, and agreed that, yes, perhaps to look for the stream would be pleasant.

'That's my Thel! Oh, I have missed you!'

'And I you. But here we are, together once more.'

Together once more…

Lord Námo, unseen by his two guests, nodded thoughtfully as they made their way towards Glorfindel's stream. Yes, it did appear that these two were weathering their own particular storm with some hope for their future together; Ecthelion was endlessly patient, and Glorfindel hopelessly loving, so between the two of them, they would find their way. Of course, there was this Silvan night looming… better by far to have warned Ecthelion of its importance, and to ensure he was present… one could never be quite sure what the wood-elves might say… but, well, his friends would be here for some time yet; no matter how whole their sense of self, or how healed their fëar may be, there were the small, everyday things to consider… Eating, for instance. For all Námo provided the semblance of food, and wine, Ecthelion today had pretty much ignored the fine vintage his host had conjured up for him… Clothing, they would need to remember that dressing was not automatic, they would need to learn buttons and lacings and suchlike once more…

It would come. And, once they were ready, and he was sure they could take care of each other, he would try to make sure there was someone to meet them who would keep a weather eye on them for a few weeks; it shouldn't be too difficult…

But that was for future consideration. Right now, he had a suitable arena to create for his Silvan population.

The beech tree, when Parvon and Triw reached the grove in which it stood, looked much as Parvon remembered it from the interment of Glorfindel's remains. Reaching its branches to the sky, striving for height, its slight trunk glistening, its habit neat, tidy. Even the remains of its autumn leaf-fall were ordered around the crown of the mound on which it stood.

In his heart, he saw it in summer, though, in full, soft leaf, or autumn, the leaves taking on a tawny hue. But that had been when it had been his tree, his chosen place should mischance befall him. Now, it was Glorfindel's, and no doubt its habit would change, growing tall and broad, golden and shining in due course…

A tightening of Triw's fingers in his brought him back to the present; the cold winter morning and the stark skeleton of the tree's structure. Glorfindel would not even be that, now, a skeleton, for elves were made of lighter stuff than other creatures and their bodies swiftly blew away on the wind, carrying the thought of them through the forest… but perhaps there, too, Glorfindel would prove more solid, more… more stubborn…

'How can I help, love?' he asked, turning away from his latent bitterness, for Triwathon's face was tracked with silent tears. 'We don't have to do this…'

'It was here,' Triw said, pulling Parvon to the right a few yards. 'Exactly here, this is where I stood when it happened. I was looking at the tree while Mel and Lindir… they had made up a personal ritual for themselves, a way to loosen their bond to… him, I think. They were saying something about, I loved him, I miss him, I release him… they were looking to me to carry it on… and I suddenly saw… I saw the tree, it was you, you, and I blurted it out, I love him, I miss him, I… and they thought I meant… and I told them, no, not him, but you, Parvon! And the love I had always known was lacking in my heart, suddenly, it was there, overwhelming, overpowering, and I… just…' He broke off, chest heaving, shoulders shaking. 'You, Parvon. You.'

He took a step back, dropping his grip on Parvon to hide behind his hands, covering the raw emotion on his face. Parvon hastened to him, held him close; he might not be able to see what Triw was feeling, but, ah, he could feel it…

'You wouldn't weep for him, there where he fell, love…'

'Not… I am not weeping for him now. For all the time I wasted… all the… the pain you had because I…'

'I'm not in pain now,' Parvon said soft into his ear. 'We're together, married, now. Time spent living, growing, being in the world, that is not wasted. We have all of our lives, all the time we need ahead of us.'

The shaking and shuddering of Triwathon's body subsided. Parvon stroked his shoulders, pulled closer, drew Triw's hands away and stroked his face gently dry with his fingers.

'I felt that surge of love,' he said. 'But I had… a vision, a dream an… an insight. I saw Melpomaen smiling, his face so near yours, and he kissed you; fool that I was! I thought you had discovered him in your heart… and so my plans changed almost in the instant yours did. So if you wasted time, as you believe, what of myself? For to my shame, I lost faith, at last, and turned away, seeking only to free you. That decision of my own wasted time, if you like, and brought much misery and sorrow in its wake. So, come. Smile, if you can, forgive me, if you can, for my misreading of the moment.'

Triw nodded, pulled back, wiped his face, for a moment looking more like to a lost elfling than a seasoned commander of the guard. The thought made Parvon turn away, hiding his expression which was too near to a smile for the solemnity of the moment.

'We… we have more of those flowers to place?' Triwathon gestured towards the mound beneath the beech tree. 'Parvon?'

'Here, love, here.' Parvon found the pack of silk flowers, separated daffodils from celandine. 'Shall we scatter these across the mound, or ring the base with celandine, keeping the daffodils for the edges?'

'Mingle them?' Triw recovered himself, got on with the task. 'Just let them fall here, not like… this is a proper memorial, not where he died. Let them fall.'

Parvon nodded and passed Triw a handful of fabric blooms. He strode towards the mound and threw the carefully-wrought flowers from him almost violently. Parvon, rather more circumspect, walked round the base of the mound, spreading the little yellow scraps lightly as he went. Pausing at the entrance to the earth-cave proper, he paused to bow before moving on. Triw came to a stilted halt beside him.

'He's not there, Parvon; he's gone, there's nothing left of him…'

'His sacrifice, his courage, his friendship.' Parvon spoke gently, for Triw's voice had been growing sharp, anxious. 'These live on in our minds, in the memories of elves and of the forest, Triw.'

'…and I can't see this tree, can't think of him without thinking of you… that's good, I think? Strange, but…'

'But this is what happens when one gifts one's own earth-cave to another.' Parvon sighed. 'As long as it doesn't hurt you, love.'

'For once I was thinking of your pain.' Triwathon shook his head. 'Are we done? Can we go, are we not expected back?'

'Soon, yes. If you're ready, love, we can go back now.'

Triwathon took Parvon's hand firmly in his own.

'Can we run?' he said.

Parvon smiled and nodded.

'Of course we can.'