Chapter Six

He assumed that the subdued air in the dining hall was due to him, the whispers that flew about as they ate primarily consisted of his name. From her shyness, Isowen was not used to eating at the high table, or else not used to the attention she received.

He had not spoken to Erestor, seated on the other side of Elrond. Desperately he wanted to. The last face he had seen, the last person he had looked for. It was not Idril or Tuor he had charged the balrog for, it had been the young elf he had dragged away from Ecthelion's body. The change was too great, however. Stealing glances as Elrond moved Glorfindel could see how the young face had changed. Cheekbones had become more pronounced and sculpted, his whole bearing shifting from a young son of a small House to a wise lord with a quiet confidence, no matter how shaken and unsettled Erestor might have been at his appearance. In a new world where the presence of nearly two hundred elves crowded his senses, Glorfindel could make room for a new observation. Erestor had a beauty he did not remember and the need to speak to him was bordering on painful.

Isowen said little, repeating how glad she was he was back and vaguely glossing over her life since the Fall. Círdan had explained the end of what he called the First Age and the events, he just wanted to know where his sister and Erestor slotted into the story.

"All these years and you never said who you were," Galdor murmured as they finished the gratin. Both Isowen and Erestor had kept their origins to themselves, only a handful of people knew them as survivors of Gondolin. A silent grief shared between the two of them, as well as a hidden pride or so it seemed.

As they stood to leave the table, Glorfindel tried to turn to catch Erestor but he had slipped around the other side and was halfway towards the door.

"He is probably thinking of Ecthelion," Isowen murmured. "Or Edwengwend. I have my brother returned, he longs for his sister." Even Glorfindel could see the similarities and the hole each had filled for the other. The way Isowen spoke of Erestor, the gaps the Fall had left in their lives. She had become his sister, fitting the shoes left by Edwengwend and he had taken Glorfindel's place as brother and protector. There was at once a relieved feeling that neither had been left alone, smothering the knife that cut through his insides at having not been a part of it. Smiling, she led him out into the large Hall she had called the Hall of Fire on his earlier tour. Glorfindel kept them away from the large hearths that lined one wall, preferring to stand near the tall graceful windows instead of the flames.

Isowen repeatedly opened her mouth, almost voicing a question before turning away again to watch the musicians set up their instruments. On her third or fourth attempt he met her eye.

"What happened to the others?" she blurted, her eyes wide and suddenly she was his little sister again not this strange woman who could have once been her. "It- forgive me, I should not ask."

"Do not apologise," he said gently. "I do not know what became of them. I awoke as if from a dream that took a night to pass, which was in truth an Age. I was not permitted to see the lands beyond the Halls, nor meet with those there." He could speculate, of course as he had done since his father's death. They had been cursed when they had gone into exile, doomed to remain long without their bodies in Mandos. With nothing to compare to, Glorfindel did not know if he had been kept a shorter time than most. He remembered Námo's voice echoing through the hall of judgement, perhaps not granting him forgiveness but at least clemency for the exile. He did not presume more than that.

"I cannot tell if you are changed, or if my memory deceives me," Isowen whispered. Glorfindel suspected it would be both. The crowd, not large by Gondolin's standards, seemed to press in around them. The sound of music was new, conversations buzzed in the air and everywhere there were a thousand things to see. A dull ache had formed in the back of his head, the overload of sensations his body had not experienced before veering towards overwhelming. It was a new body, he had known that since he first walked through the Halls of Mandos with Vairë. He could remember how to wield it and how to process his senses, but it was still new to him. "You are not obliged to remain here," added Isowen. "Come, you have not yet seen the waterfall in the moonlight." So he was shown out of the Hall of Fire and into the gardens. As Isowen led him through the flowerbeds he remembered the tiny seed that Yavanna had gifted to him. He had kept it with him, in the pocket of whichever tunic he wore, almost as a charm.

"Is there a fountain here?" he asked her suddenly.

"A fountain? There are several. Why- oh. None have a reminder of Ecthelion. There is naught here of Gondolin." He did not tell her he thought that was wrong. The very presence of Imladris was reminiscent of Gondolin, the grandson of Turgon as its Lord with Ecthelion's cousin by his side. He had passed relief and paintings of the great deeds of the elves in Middle Earth, he did not doubt that somewhere there would be a mention of Gondolin.

"This," he explained, taking the seed out. "With fountain water it will grow. Perhaps you shall keep it in bloom as you did the last flower of Valinor." She had picked the last flower from the Guarded Realm and carried it over the Helcaraxë, planting it eventually in Gondolin. Isowen laughed, a strained little sound.

"I have not seen this seed before. Where did you come by it? It is no plant from Lindon that I know."

"It was given to me." Her eyes widened slightly and she handed the seed back.

"Then keep it, for I do not think it has aught to do with me."

They wandered among the trees, admiring the majesty of the waterfall that was their wall and gates before Glorfindel pleaded fatigue and she showed him to the chambers set aside for him. Imladris was a maze, the House itself had no clear paths he could remember although Isowen assured him he would in time. With a kiss to her forehead he bid her goodnight.

He went first to the window, finding that below it was a latch to open the wooden partition and it became a sort of door out to the gardens for it was on the ground floor. Two doors led off the first room that was occupied by a table and bookshelves, which were bare, save for two cursory volumes. He gazed for a moment at the walls, painted with a red flowered vine that flowed onto the wooden beams and doors, the first of which led to a bedroom that had no window for it lay further in the house. The second and the room, in which he felt he ought to tread first, contained a sunken wooden tub and taps. It was grand when placed alongside the room in the Ship House Círdan had allotted him, yet Glorfindel was aware that it would be but a guest room in the Homely House and that more splendid chambers lay above him. It sufficed and he did not want for anything more. The grandeur of Gondolin would have reminded him of his lost home had he found it in Imladris.

It was only once he lay in bed, clean and having found a fresh tunic in the wardrobe that was only slightly too small on the arms, that he realised why he was glad he had been given that room over any other. On the ceiling, painted in a careful hand, were the Tengwar runes of a poem. He could read it without having to move his head. It was short, he guessed that the artist had chosen one verse from a longer lay to transfer to the ceiling.

Not all that glitters is pure gold,

Those lost at night will return,

They who weary are not weak or old,

He who knows naught else shall still yearn.

Glorfindel had read it half a hundred times before his exhaustion overcame him. On the road with Galdor he had not let himself sleep for long, always more afraid of the nightmares than the fear contained within them. In the silence, for after the ship the waterfall seemed distant, he fell into his dreams more deeply than he would have wanted to.

He fell through the fire again, twisting in his sleep to escape it. Around him the flames tore at his flesh, searing it and he was blinded by the fire and heat. The noise was thunderous in his ears, inside his head rather than an external source. Behind it the rushing sound of air travelling past them. The first collision with the side of the abyss, snapping his leg back under him. The darkness screamed in pain. They hit the rocks again, the fire cushioned him in pain but he did not hit solid rock. Then the final lengthy fall, down and down until the plight had stretched out for a lifetime.

He let out a startled yell as his back hit the ground, leaping up only to fall against it again. Panting he forced his eyes open and stared at the bed looming up next to him. The floor was cold and hard beneath him, his back sore from where he had landed on it. Around him the sheets were caught up in his legs and two long red lines covered each of his arms where he had scratched at the imaginary fire. Unsteadily, Glorfindel pulled himself up, shaking as he righted the covers. He wiped his tears away with an angry hand. His breathing took longer to rectify, it refused to come evenly, preferring instead of carry on its erratic bursts that stopped him from seeing clearly. His exhaustion had not lessened, the nightmare had made it worse. Refusing to let himself be drawn back into its webs, he pulled on the breeches he had left out and crossed to the front room where he unlocked the window door. Out in the gardens the waterfall's ever present gently thunder soothed him until he found himself sitting peacefully by the side of one of the many tiny streams that crisscrossed the valley floor. There, with one hand dipped absently in the water, he finally fell into a doze that although was not sleep, was more restful than nothing.