Epilogue continues here

Maglor's mouth twisted into a grim smile. 'As many as two?' He met Glorfindel's eye and said finally, as though he had given it much thought over the centuries, 'My son is better off not knowing I am here.' He lingered over the first two words as if he spoke them very rarely, and a world of emptiness seemed to open to Glorfindel such was the yearning in his voice. 'It would divide Imladris if I came there.'

Glorfindel's chest was sore, it hurt to breathe and yet he had to speak for he knew how this would break Elrond's heart to know his father would not come. 'Do you know how hard that will be for Elrond to hear this? He has lost his twin, his wife and now he faces the loss of his daughter.'

'It grieves me to hear that.' Maglor looked away. 'But for his sake then, you must swear not to speak of this. He cannot know that I was here.'

Glorfindel clutched his sleeve as if to stop him from fleeing before he had tried again. 'His sons have not yet made their Choice.'

Maglor glanced over to where Elrohir sat in shocked and stunned silence. 'The Choice of Luthien?' He gave a bitter snort for they had been led to despair by Luthien in many ways. 'So favoured by the Valar.'

'Some would not see it as favour,' Glorfindel reprimanded gently. He breathed slowly, feeling the ache of his wound; he felt thin, stretched…as if his spirit has been pulled from his body and had not completely returned. As if he were watching himself from the side. 'And even if I give you my word that I will not speak of you, do you think these men will forget they have seen you?' He gestured weakly towards the other warriors.

'Then I must trust you to do what you need to keep my child's heart safe.'

But it was too late for that, thought Glorfindel. 'I cannot swear to keep this from him. Even as I cannot keep from him the news of your brother.' Sudden pain lanced through him, like an icy spear had pierced him and frozen his blood, though the morgul blade had not bitten deep and was gone. He placed his own hand against the linen dressing. It was spotted with blood. He wondered if he would have dissipated like Maedhros in the mirror had Angmar not fled. His face was numb and his tongue thick in his mouth, he found himself saying, 'For I have seen him,' he said, partly dreaming.

Maglor had to lean right down to catch the words. He frowned and his lips parted in disbelief. 'What do you mean, you have seen my brother?'' His silver-grey eyes were narrow with something like rage, and something like despair. 'Why do you torment me? They have all gone.'

'No.' Glorfindel's fingers plucked at his sleeve. His head swam in a miasma of aching and cold, but he had to tell Maglor. It was important, he knew and he owed Maglor this at least. 'Celebrimbor left something…There is a Mirror…' Glorfindel paused, trying to resolve his thoughts into coherence. But at that moment, there was a clatter of hooves; Tindómion rode in...And Maglor fled.

Glorfindel gingerly set down his mug and because his hands still trembled, he almost missed the table, and the mug tipped over…liquid spilled across his fingers, dripped onto the table…

…The table. A stain spread upon the thick, rich rug beneath his feet.

He was in an armchair now in front of a crackling, cheery fire. He blinked and looked over at the man sitting opposite….Not Maglor. Maglor does not have amber eyes that are narrow and long and like a wolf.

He felt himself being settled and a blanket drawn up around his shoulders. There was the sound of the cup being righted and the tea mopped up. A creak of leather as someone settled into the chair opposite him. Then blessed quiet.

He was dreaming. Drifting, he knew, in webbed shadows, in the dark place cut out by the morgul blade. A place of doubt and uncertainty.

I am not as I seem, he thought with a measure of disgust, for he had once been as fair and true as any knight of Old. As Fingon. In Gondolin he had scorned the intrigue and politicking. Now was he not worse? A dissembler.

'What in Morgoth's name are you wittering on about, Glorfindel?' Erestor's voice was above him and irritable. 'What do you mean you have forgot your purpose? What purpose?'

And all the strange thoughts scattered like cobwebs in the wind. Glorfindel let his head fall back against the pillow and breathed in deeply. Athelas. And camomile. Lavender as well.

'Forgive me old friend,' said Glorfindel thickly. 'It has been hard to find my way out of these dreams…'

'Of course,' Erestor said crossly, without a trace of sympathy. 'You have been resting all this way back from Amon Sûl, lazing in a litter like some great lady while your foot soldiers walked, or like Saeldir would rather limp back on his crutch rather than deprive you of a horse to carry your litter. And I have been waiting very patiently for you to wake up.'

Glorfindel, as always, simply waited while Erestor had his rant. He watched the firelight upon the wall instead, noticing how the red tinge flickered over the plaster, long fingers of shadows reached across the ceiling…

He was only aware that he had fallen into some dark reverie when Erestor revived him again, holding a goblet to his lips and cupping his head so he might sip the miruvor. The sweetness of the cordial flooded his mouth and his head cleared.

He knew he was not recovered. Not yet. But the lingering vestiges of Angmar's wicked knife would not quite yield and he felt strangely insubstantial, wraith-like. Valar, had he come that close?

'Yes.' Erestor said, 'You silly old fool, we almost lost you.' His voice though, was fond, concerned. He reached out and stroked Glorfindel's hair back from his face. 'I have become quite fond of you for a stuck up Gondolodhrim.'

The word was shockingly made up and grammatically incorrect but Glorfindel lacked the energy for verbal sparring and besides, it was kindly meant. He blinked slowly and let his head roll to one side so that he could see Erestor more easily. His eyes, of course, were not really amber, but such a light brown as to appear so. They were long and narrow like a wolf's though, thought Glorfindel and he took pleasure on smiling thinly, showing white teeth. He must practice, he thought.

He did so now. And then he sat back in the comfortable chair that had been pulled up alongside Glorfindel's. He reached for a delicate glass goblet and guzzled the rest of the wine so that only dregs lay at the bottom. Then he leaned back in the chair and stared thoughtfully into the fire, a log shifted and crumbled into glowing cinders and ash, and the firelight glowed warmly on Erestor's skin.

There has been a change,' he said slowly, not looking away from the fire. 'First Rhawion is….killed. Now they attempt to kill you. And before that Angmar tried to kill Frodo…Something is different. Not just the discovery of the Ring.'

Glorfindel could not speak. How close he had come, not just to death for he did not fear death, but to Shadow; Rhawion had been devoured…not just killed. His fëa had been consumed by the Nazgûl. And Glorfindel did not know truly what that meant.

'Well Gandalf and company are far away from here now,' Erestor continued, as if he were almost unaware of Glorfindel's regard. 'Your ruse worked- enough anyway, to give them a chance at least….The Nazgûl will be searching now but let us hope and trust that Mithrandir leads them on secret paths, unseen, unheard. And that they are not caught.'

Glorfindel let his head roll slightly to one side so he could see out of the windows. Even in the deep of winter, the heavy drapes were not pulled and he could see the mountains gleaming in the moonlight, cold and snow-covered. The snows had fallen heavily over the mountains so the passes must be blocked, he thought. Only Caradhras might yet be clear.

They both fell silent and all was quiet for a very long time. The orange glow from the fire was on his cheek and gleamed on the empty goblet dangling from Erestor's long fingers. Glorfindel stared into the glowing embers. The candles had burned low and the wax dribbled in solid, fat columns over the burnished pewter candlestick. His eyelids dropped again.

Until Erestor asked, 'So he was there?'

Glorfindel sighed. So much for the promise wrung from him. 'You sound as if you already know,' he observed drily. Evasively.

'It is all the men can talk of.'

'Ah.'

'Is that all you have to say? Tindómion came to see me. He was upset with all of you, but most particularly Elrohir.'

Glorfindel wished he were strong enough to be up and about and not so easily cornered.

'They say he spoke to you long and in secret.' Erestor persisted, he sounded like he was straining to hold in his emotion. 'I would know what he said…And why he does not come to his foster son, who needs him and who has not seen him for many long years.' The last words were carefully enunciated.

Erestor pushed himself to his feet and strode to the window, leaned one hand on the window jamb looking out over the snow. Glorfindel looked at the straight back and long black hair that was pulled back so severely from his face.

'If Maglor were to come here,' Glorfindel began, his voice sounding too quiet, alien to him, 'he would tear the House apart.' He knew now that Maglor had been right. It would do no good his coming here, no matter the comfort to Elrond.

Outside the window, snow had begun to fall, huge silent snowflakes drifting heavily.

'He cannot come here,' Glorfindel said again softly. 'You know that.'

'Where has he gone?'

Glorfindel was quiet for a long time. Had he dared disturb the settled order of things by telling Maglor of the Mirror? Had he truly dared to set those feet upon the stairs to the Óromardë?

'I do not know…' he said hesitantly. 'But.. I told him Celebrimbor had left a mirror…And I told him I had seen his brother.'

Glorfindel remembered the utter loneliness of those notes drifting in the Dark, the unbearable anguish of separation and thought what a cruel fate Námo had decreed for the first-born son of Fëanor, who had in truth done more to fight Morgoth than any other who had ever lived.

'I think he will go there,' he said. I hope he will go there, he thought. 'If he knows about Phellanthir. If not, he will start at Ost-in-Edhil but there is nothing there. He will work out where to go next.'

'Each alone for countless years, one wandering the Earth, the other wandering in the Night. Fighting the Shadow, fighting the Dark… I hope they find each other,' Erestor's voice was quiet. He turned and poured deep red wine into the goblet in his hand goblet. He did not pour a second for Glorfindel. His eyes were closed as he drank deeply. Anyone else would seek to shut out the pain but Glorfindel knew his companion too well. He would revel in it, embrace it, wallow in it so he felt every twinge, every little prick. It was not in him to ignore it when he could punish himself for his beloved lords, seek in some small way to share their anguish with his own.

'Ah, old friend.' Glorfindel sighed. And could not find the words.

So they sat silently, and outside the snow fell upon the secret Valley, covered the perfect lawns and rose gardens, fell upon the paths and the road that wound to the Ford of the Bruinen. It fell more heavily in the Mountains and the Wilds where now a small company began the long march through the foothills of Caradhras. Whilst in the ruins of Phellanthir, a footstep echoed through the empty halls and climbed the long, shallow staircase that led upwards into the gloomy desolation of the Óromardë. Shadows slid aside for this one, and the Nazgûl did not dare set foot again in that place. In the wreckage of the Óromardë, a warrior stood as if he had stepped straight from the First Age, and pressed his hand against the coated Glass. A single note sounded, like a deep bronze bell in the absolute silence and far, far off in the darkness silver-blue lights glimmered like a shoal of tiny fish.

The End